One afternoon, a strange compulsion seized Elias Renard. A whisper of curiosity, unbidden and sharp, prompted him to ponder the peculiar way Master Leto Vance and Lord Valerius Thorne navigated the ducal labyrinth after their daily lectures. A petty jealousy, perhaps, a serpent coiling in the heart.
From Elias's vantage, Lord Valerius rarely walked abreast of Master Vance. Instead, Valerius trailed a respectful distance, a shadow rather than a companion. Yet, the image gnawed at Elias: Valerius, a man of formidable stature and spirit, following Leto with an almost desperate devotion. Such an indulgence of curiosity felt like prising open a reliquary, sealed by ancient decree. Not merely despair resided within, but a cruel, intoxicating hope that surpassed it. One knew the danger, yet the urge to peer inside proved irresistible.
“...My mind strays beyond reason,” Elias murmured to himself.
Indeed, sanity felt a distant shore. But even as he acknowledged his folly, he found himself shadowing Valerius after the day’s closing.
His clandestine pursuit did not last long.
He moved with a furtive grace, careful that Valerius would not perceive his presence. From a shadowed alcove, Elias watched Valerius’s unwavering gaze fixed upon Leto’s retreating back. The chipped plaster of the servants’ passages, the rust-kissed ironwork of forgotten gates, the dust motes dancing in the dim light of a neglected archway – a tableau of the court’s less gilded corners. Two figures traversing this worn backdrop: Leto in the lead, Valerius ever behind. And Elias, a silent observer from afar.
An acute sense of futility, of stark idiocy, washed over him. He turned away.
Later, within the quiet sanctuary of his modest antechamber, the hearth’s embers casting long, dancing shadows, Elias considered his retreat. A profound satisfaction settled upon him. Curiosity, yes, had lured him. But had he pressed onward, what unspeakable truths might have been laid bare? It was better thus. Better not to know. He was no fool to shatter a sealed reliquary for the sake of idle intrigue.
Valerius’s singular fixation on Leto, Elias observed, intensified with each passing day. Leto, for his part, still regarded Valerius with an unmistakable apprehension – or perhaps, an outright antipathy.
No, it was hatred, pure and unadulterated. And rightly so. How could Leto harbor aught but aversion for one who, since his arrival in Veridia, had subjected him to a campaign of quiet harassment and subtle slights? A faint ripple of smug satisfaction stirred within Elias. He had, after all, made no attempt to intercede on Leto’s behalf in those initial, arduous weeks. Perhaps, in its own twisted way, that had been for the best.
Elias laced his fingers behind his head, his gaze drifting upwards. The grand crystal chandelier, a gift from the Duke himself, shimmered above, a constant reminder of his fortunate lineage. Born to prosperity, cherished as the sole heir, he had wanted for nothing.
“...Damn it all,” he breathed.
He had once believed himself master of his own destiny, immune to life’s cruel caprices. Until he had fallen in love with Lord Valerius Thorne. That damnable man had revealed the bitter truth: some desires remained forever beyond one’s grasp. And Elias was certain Valerius, in his own obsession, was learning the same merciless lesson.
Ah, the world possessed a particularly vicious wit.
Elias, at least, had learned the art of dissimulation, mastering the concealment of his heart’s tempest. Valerius, by contrast, remained so consumed by his turbulent emotions that he failed to perceive the raw, almost grotesque intensity of his gaze upon Leto. Such an aberrant passion must have unsettled Leto deeply.
Elias knew the sensation intimately. He had endured it. Valerius, however, lacked such fortitude. Rather than seeking to win Leto’s favor, he pursued actions that only bred resentment. For Elias, this suited his own intricate designs perfectly.
“Pray, remain in your blissful ignorance,” Elias murmured to the empty air.
Or better yet, Leto would tire of the attention and vanish from court. Elias did not, for a moment, wish for Valerius’s affections to turn his way. That sort of love, possessive and destructive, filled him with a profound terror.
He craved but one thing: a day when his heart would be free of Valerius, and Valerius, in turn, would find solace elsewhere. A simple, impossible wish. For, of course, the world rarely bowed to such desires.
Another shift in the delicate ecosystem of the court: Valerius, who once reveled in the raucous nights of clandestine gaming houses and whispered assignations, had seemingly abandoned his dissolute habits. Or so it appeared. From the fragmented whispers Elias gleaned from Lysander’s circle, Valerius had not entirely forsaken his youthful indiscretions. Yet, he no longer boasted of his conquests in the Hall of Scholars, nor did the cloying scent of debauchery cling to his velvets.
For Elias, it was a small mercy. He no longer had to endure the stench of Valerius’s escapades at such close quarters.
“Valerius, my friend. No more venturing into the darker alleys? Not even for a fleeting dalliance?”
Viscount Thierry swayed his hips suggestively before Valerius, his hands hovering near his breeches, a lewd pantomime. Valerius’s face contorted in a sneer. A swift, almost imperceptible glance towards Leto’s alcove, then a furious shout.
“Thierry, you oaf! I told you to cease such vulgar displays in public!”
“Why this sudden modesty, then, eh?”
“Utter another word on the matter, and you shall regret it, Viscount.”
“Come now, Valerius—”
“I said silence!”
“...As you wish, then.”
Thierry and his cohorts exchanged looks of clear disappointment. Valerius, with his imposing frame and air of seasoned experience, had once served as a thrilling outlet for the burgeoning curiosities of young courtiers. Their own clumsy forays into forbidden pleasures had prepared them. Their attention, deprived of Valerius’s scandalous narratives, now pivoted to Lord Lysander Dubois. But Lysander merely bared his teeth in an expression of pure disdain.
“Filthy libertines.”
“Ah, there he goes! Lysander, with his pronouncements!”
“He’s merely a fanatic. A waste of such handsome features.”
Laughter rippled through the Salon, boisterous and brief.
Most of these young gentlemen had, at some point, delved into the forbidden. Yet, for reasons unknown, Lysander Dubois had not. They jested, calling him “the Chaste Lysander,” but no true disrespect colored their mockery. He was Lysander Dubois, after all. His lighthearted, almost blithe demeanor lent a casual air to his pronouncements, his words easily dismissed or embraced as charming eccentricity. Many observed he did not match his rather intimidating visage.
“Cease that glare, you brute. You’ll make me spill my wine.”
“Aye, his face could curdle milk.”
“Do you imbeciles harbor a death wish?”
Lysander scowled, and the group erupted in further mirth, though little wit fueled it. Even a few hangers-on, observing from the periphery, contributed their hollow laughter. Elias sat amidst them, his gaze blankly fixed upon his breeches, lost in his private reveries.
He could not recall a single instance where a woman had stirred him. Such a truth, he supposed, rendered him queer from birth. He had felt fleeting arousal viewing certain bawdy etchings depicting both sexes, yet he had never once fantasized about a woman’s form while seeking release. The former, he reasoned, stemmed from the intensity of the scene; the latter, a simple void of desire.
He had once been dragged by Valerius to a low-den of ill repute, but he had not even passed the threshold, lacking the necessary token for entry. Instead, he had waited outside until Valerius emerged. Houses of pleasure? Repugnant. The mere thought of such places sickened him. He often wondered at the appeal.
His peers, aware of his reticence, jokingly dubbed him “Abstinent Renard.” Yet, his abstinence stemmed from an innate truth, not a chosen path.
Elias let out a silent sigh.
The others remained oblivious, caught in the current of Lysander’s sardonic tales. Seizing the moment, Elias’s gaze drifted to Valerius, who sat in silent contemplation. Valerius, as always, stared at the back of Master Leto’s head, where Leto bent over a sheaf of scrolls.
And, as always, Elias instantly regretted it. Why did he look? Why did he allow curiosity to prick him? To wrench himself from the spiraling thoughts, he posed a question to Lysander, devoid of true import.
“So, Lysander, do you truly intend to remain celibate until the blessed day of matrimony?”
Lysander, lounging in his chair with proprietary ease, abruptly fixed his gaze upon Elias’s breeches. The stare was so insistent, so brazen, that Elias instinctively crossed his legs, a gesture of defense. What the devil was that?
“You are not my betrothed, Renard, so why the impertinence? Or are you, perhaps, offering your own services?”
Silence descended. Of course. The rogue always spun such malicious jests. The others roared with laughter, and Elias, with a swift, subtle movement, kicked Lysander in the shin.
Such was the relentless rhythm of Elias’s days – a repeating, intricate dance, each movement echoing the last.
---
Alone in his antechamber, Elias often found his thoughts wandering, conjuring a kaleidoscope of hypothetical scenarios. Inevitably, these musings veered into strange, forbidden fantasies.
Today, he wondered what might have transpired had his heart chosen Lord Lysander Dubois instead of Valerius Thorne. It seemed a far more agreeable predicament. Had he loved Lysander, he would have been spared the lacerating pain of Valerius’s tangled affections and his desperate pursuit of Leto.
Even then, heartbreak would be his companion.
Neither Valerius Thorne nor Lysander Dubois would ever truly love him. But at least his soul would not ache for the distant, fragile presence of Master Leto Vance.
That particular train of thought always culminated in a bitter stew of inferiority and impotent anger. In the end, Elias simply wished to escape the ducal court, to sever all ties, to become a forgotten face to Lord Valerius Thorne.
---
Unconsciously, Elias had developed a peculiar habit: his hands would drift beneath the polished surface of his study desk whenever he sat. This began in his nascent youth, and the catalyst was invariably the same – other men.
He absently traced the buckle of his breeches, fingers light upon the metal. Should he? Or should he not? The faint, metallic click of the fastening against his nail filled the quiet room. Just as his thumb applied a decisive pressure to undo the clasp, a gentle rap sounded on his door.
“Renard? Are you at your studies?”
“...Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!”
His heart leaped into his throat. This, most certainly, was not the day. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damn the sudden interruption.
---
Lately, Lord Valerius Thorne’s presence had begun to fray Elias’s composure.
Sometimes, when Leto’s gaze, tentative as a butterfly’s wing, drifted towards Elias, Valerius would deliberately interject, striking up a conversation with Leto. Leto, caught in the awkward space between them, would flick his eyes to Elias, his lips parting as if to speak, only to press them shut again. Then, as if wary of Valerius’s possessive scrutiny, he would lower his head and utter a faint, barely audible response.
“Y-yes, my Lord...”
Just so.
Leto, with a subtle shift, began to seek Elias out more frequently, and, more notably, started addressing him as “Renard.” Aside from a select few of the Duke’s most trusted advisors, almost no one in court used that informal address. The change was stark. Leto, in his naivety, seemed to believe he was being discreet. He was not. The most aggravating aspect was Valerius’s inability to mask his discomfort whenever Leto displayed any such temerity.
“Master Vance, desist from disturbing Elias Renard whilst he is engaged in his studies.”
“What?”
“I said, cease your interruptions. Is that so difficult to comprehend?”
“Oh... uh, y-yes, my Lord...”
When Leto stammered and averted his gaze, Valerius, with an immature display of pique, slammed his fist against the leg of a nearby writing desk. Elias pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, the oblivious Leto seemed to believe that addressing Elias as “Renard” was no longer a contentious matter. He grew bolder, using the informal address with increasing casualness, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Uh, Renard... my apologies for disturbing your work.”
Elias stiffened, staring at Leto in utter disbelief. Had the man lost his senses? Valerius sat mere paces away.
True to form, Valerius’s fist connected with the desk once more. Damn it all.
“Ho! Master Vance!”
“...Huh?”
The air in the Hall of Scholars soured instantly.
“I warned you.”
Valerius’s anger, stark and unmasked, filled the space.
“I instructed you not to address him as ‘Renard,’ did I not?”
“...W-well...”
“His name is Elias Renard. Use it. Elias Renard.”
His gaze sharpened, predatory and cold, fixing upon Elias. Elias despised that look, instinctively lowering his head. At that precise moment, Lord Lysander Dubois, seated beside him, casually draped an arm over Elias’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured close to Elias’s ear.
“Valerius, my friend, if you persist in such childish antics, you will truly seal your own undoing.”
“What in the blazes are you prattling about?”
“I speak of regret, Valerius. Profound regret.”
Lysander smirked, and Elias felt a flicker of irritation, for one reason only. Valerius’s eyes, burning with a dangerous possessiveness, now flickered between Elias and Lysander, a silent, venomous accusation. Elias knew exactly what he saw: a rival, a threat to his carefully guarded obsession. Valerius’s jealousy, a poisonous bloom, continued to blossom, trapping them all in its fragrant, dangerous petals.