A curious balm, or perhaps the fickle hand of fortune, had largely mended the indignity of my cheek. Mornings often brought small mercies. A faint puffiness remained, yes, a bruised amethyst beneath the skin, yet it was the sort of mark a man might dismiss as the consequence of an errant doorframe or a clumsy stumble in the dark. Manageable. Utterly so.
Heart lighter than the morning mist, I presented myself within the ducal drawing-room. Yet, the air hung heavy there, thick as winter fog, oppressive and still. The reason, a shadow draped across every conversation: Lord Valerius.
My gaze, an arrow loosed without conscious command, sought out Lysander. He appeared moments before the Duke's morning address, slipping into the chambers with a whisper of haste, just shy of noticeable tardiness.
A sharp intake of breath snagged in my throat. I stood transfixed, a breath held too long, sight glued to his face. A fleeting, bitter thought had crossed my mind yesterday, a childish wish for shared misery. Now, witnessing his ravaged features, only a cold tide of self-reproach washed over me. His lip was split, a dark crimson line. One eye, swollen shut and discolored, rivaled the worst of my own recent injury. A suffocating weight settled in my chest. Shame, a cruel master, scorned my petty, vengeful imaginings.
“By the heavens…” A muttered curse, barely audible.
Lysander entered the room with a hesitant shuffle, his eyes darting like trapped birds. Then, as if snared by an invisible cord, his gaze met mine. A long moment passed, suspended in the tense air, before his features seized, locking into a startled grimace. He wrenched his head away, almost violently, and practically scuttled to his assigned place, a chamberlain’s seat near the Duke’s private study entrance, pointedly avoiding my direction.
“What in the blazes…” The oddity of his reaction pricked at me.
My eyes, still searching, found their answer. Lord Valerius, positioned by the grand fireplace, fixed me with a stare so sharp it threatened to flay the skin from my bones.
“Ah, damnation.” Regret, a bitter draft, filled my mouth. I should have remained secluded within my own chambers.
After that chilling encounter, Lysander, who once pursued my company with an almost desperate eagerness, seemed to vanish during the pauses between courtly duties. He avoided my presence in the antechambers, during the brief repasts, disappearing with Lord Valerius to some unknown corner of the palace or perhaps beyond its gates.
Left to my own devices, I found myself breaking bread with Silas in the lesser dining hall. A part of me, a frantic, curious urge, yearned to seek out Valerius and Lysander. Yet, a colder, more sensible dread held me captive. I hated the admission, but I feared what I might discover.
Surely, Lord Valerius would not inflict further cruelty upon him. Not again. It was not my concern, not truly, yet the image of Lysander’s battered face gnawed at my composure.
Meanwhile, Silas, a study in careless grace, maintained his usual banter, seemingly oblivious to the tempest brewing within me.
“See? I told you the air was thick enough to carve. My nerves nearly choked me.”
“You seemed quite at ease with that candied plum yesterday.”
“Give a man some credit. I mastered the art of elegant distraction.” Silas winked, a flash of mischief, and chuckled softly.
“Candied plums are, after all, meant to be savored.”
Annoyance, a tiny spark, led me to deliver a light tap to his shin with my foot. He rubbed his chin, an oddly sheepish expression crossing his features—or so it seemed. I must have imagined it.
---
Life, in its unpredictable cruelty, rarely adheres to one’s designs. From our very first encounter, I harbored no intention of cultivating proximity to Silas. Indeed, I found his very nature grating. And yet, here we were, his lighthearted demeanor a surprising solace.
His flippant tone, his easy laughter, possessed a peculiar alchemy. They prevented me from drowning in the crushing weight of courtly anxieties, from spiraling into the darkest corners of my own mind. In times past, I had scorned these very qualities, dismissing them as the superficial trappings of an unserious mind. Now, I found myself clinging to that levity, a tether in a turbulent sea. Had Valerius and I maintained our former intimacy, I might never have realized the profound, unexpected comfort of Silas’s presence.
Following that tense morning, Lord Valerius began to drift, a rogue star from our accustomed orbit. Sometimes he vanished with Lysander, a dark shadow towing a smaller one. Other times, he drew a handful of others with him, often younger, more pliable nobles. There were even instances when some outright refused, shaking their heads, expressions etched with unease. They whispered of “sport,” of “lessons.”
One such instance involved Gareth, a junior secretary. I encountered him scaling the low garden wall, a clear attempt to avoid a passing guard patrol. He confessed, a mixture of amusement and genuine disquiet in his voice, that Lord Valerius had been instructing others to strike Lysander, one blow at a time. My face must have betrayed my disbelief, for Gareth quickly added that he had been avoiding Valerius’s circle of late, precisely because of it. He then mentioned he was off to a private library with Caspian, and begged me not to misinterpret his earlier association. With a quick nod, he slipped away.
Caspian, I recalled, had been quite close to Valerius during our early days at court, but after being assigned to different ducal departments, their paths had diverged.
Later, Silas and I ventured into the palace courtyard. A vendor offered small cups of chilled sorbet. The cold sweetness spread across my tongue, a fleeting reprieve. Yet, beneath that momentary relief, a bitter knot of unease tightened its grip in my chest. Still, I held my ground, determined not to let the turmoil show.
“A good mouthful?” Silas, who savored his own brightly colored confection, eyed my cup with a playful hunger.
“Care to sample?” I half-teased, bringing my sorbet—sticky with my own saliva—close to his mouth. Without hesitation, he smirked, lifted one corner of his lip, and took a surprisingly large bite.
“Heavens! You actually took it?”
“You offered.”
“Disgusting… And why such a monstrous bite?”
“’Twas but a single taste.” Grinning, Silas shrugged a shoulder. It was a fleeting, strangely peaceful moment. In stark contrast to my internal chaos, the crisp autumn air was clear and calm.
Where were Lord Valerius and Lysander now? Several likely haunts came to mind, but I made no move to seek them out. Perhaps I truly feared what I might discover.
I tried, with a frantic urgency, not to think of Lord Valerius. But the harder I strove, the more acutely I realized the vast, echoing space he occupied within my thoughts. How long would it take to excise such a figure from my mind? What measure of effort would be demanded? I simply did not know. It felt like being adrift in a boundless, sun-scorched desert, not merely sad or suffocating, but terrifying, unbearable.
Sometimes, I retreated. Like a scholar squinting at faint, distant script, I would step back, seeking to discern meaning from the blurring landscape. When the weight became too much, I would sometimes confide in Silas. And, well, that was that.
Suddenly, an unbidden question slipped from my lips. “Silas, tell me.”
“What troubles you, Elias?”
“…Do you believe flowers can ever bloom in a barren desert?” The question, so raw and emotional, embarrassed me the instant it hung in the air. I scratched the back of my neck awkwardly, but Silas did not mock me.
“They will.”
“…”
“They must. Life, after all, is wretched enough as it is.” Hearing those words from Silas—a man I never imagined capable of such profound sentiment—struck me with a cold clarity. My desperate hope, I realized, was perhaps as futile as a mirage.
“…Yes. Life is wretched.” Lord Valerius. That worthless rogue. Why did he seem so intent on breaking the loyal, tail-wagging creature I became in his presence? Valerius, who had seemingly cast aside all the implicit understandings of our station, now came and went from the ducal functions as he pleased. And always, a silent, pathetic shadow, Lysander by his side.
As the situation grew increasingly ominous, the murmurs within the court grew louder, a blend of unease and morbid intrigue. It became undeniably clear: Lord Valerius’s cruelties were escalating. And so, too, was the silent, spreading resentment directed towards him from within our small circle of courtiers. None of it boded well.
Thus, when I saw Lord Valerius dragging Lysander by the wrist down a secluded gallery, I stopped dead in my tracks. My gaze flickered between their faces before the words, unbidden, formed on my tongue. “Your father, my lord, is quite distressed about your recent conduct.”
It was neither apology nor flattery—it was a calculated falsehood. Such was the extent of my pride, my fragile defense. But Lord Valerius held little affection for his estranged father, thus he would likely not discern the lie. And even if he did, I could always argue that, at this rate, his father would soon have ample cause for worry. I always ensured a discreet escape route.
“If blows must be struck, let them fall upon me alone. What has Lysander ever done to merit such treatment?”
“Move aside.” The moment I uttered Lysander’s name, Valerius’s gaze, sharp as a dueling blade, locked onto me. My chest felt ready to burst under the weight of his fury. I despised him. And yet, pitiful, pathetic Lysander stood glued to his side, his eyes brimming with tears, looking at me as though he might shatter at any moment.
“Unless you yearn for another lesson, like the last, step away.”
“V-Valerius, please,” Lysander stammered, his voice a reedy tremble. Only then did Valerius cease speaking. His gaze, an unwavering force, fixed solely on Lysander. I saw only the broad expanse of his back as he turned slightly away from me.
“As I said, your father is quite—”
“…” Lysander, on the verge of tears, clung to Valerius’s arm, a desperate, futile attempt to halt his progress. Witnessing that wretched tableau was unbearable. The exquisite pain of it compelled me to close my eyes.
After a moment, Lord Valerius looked once more at Lysander, then turned and walked back into the gallery, away from the exit. For the remainder of that day, he stayed within its confines—just as he had done for a few tranquil weeks, long ago.
---
The long-anticipated day of the Ducal Progress had arrived. A grand coach, rented for the occasion, awaited to transport us to some obscure exhibition of ancient cartography, miles beyond the city walls. While a few grumbled about dragging young courtiers away from their studies of statecraft, most embraced the chance to escape the palace’s familiar confines for even a single day.
There was no need for elaborate preparations, no necessity for satchels of books or quill-cases, as we would return before dusk. The chaperoning tutors offered only a few half-hearted warnings before releasing us to the courtyard. We were not schoolboys, after all. There was no giddy excitement keeping us from slumber. I considered it simply another day—depart without a burden, return unburdened. Little did I know, this very day would ignite the fuse of my bottled-up frustration, a powder keg waiting for a spark. I had expected its explosion eventually, but never with such sudden, brutal force.
As was custom, I always found myself seated beside Lord Valerius whenever we ventured beyond the court’s inner sanctum. I was, after all, his closest companion. I had not even considered Silas’s seating arrangement, having never shared a formal conveyance with him before.
At first, a familiar prickle of wariness. I feared Silas might usurp the seat closest to Lord Valerius. Reflecting on it now, such a fear was pathetic. Neither I nor Silas would claim that coveted spot.
Arriving in the courtyard, I found our magnificent coach already awaiting. I ascended the polished steps, searching for our places. The rear bench, a wide expanse for five, was already claimed by a boisterous group of younger nobles, including Gareth, who waved at me, then hesitated, pointing vaguely towards Lord Valerius’s usual seat.
“Elias! A vacant spot here!”
“…Ah, yes.” Of course. It had always been my privilege to sit beside him. Yet today, a tremor of hesitation ran through me as I approached Lord Valerius’s accustomed place. My heart eased when I saw the seat beside him, still empty. Swallowing hard, a flicker of stubborn resolve ignited within me.
It was my place. My pride—that one, obstinate anchor in my shifting world—compelled me to claim it, even after the indignity of the past days, even after being struck by Valerius on account of Lysander.
My hand hovered over the rich velvet cushion for a moment. My gaze swept the interior of the coach, then I spoke, my voice pitched low. “My lord… This seat, might I—”
“It is not yours. Find another berth.” Before I could finish, Lord Valerius cut me off, his gaze fixed on the coach’s entrance. Following his line of sight, I saw Lysander, small and timid, making his way towards us. My fists clenched, and the remaining words withered on my tongue.
“…Very well. As you wish.” I tried to sound indifferent, though my heart felt as though it had been shredded to fine ribbons.
I quickly retreated from the seat, my eyes scanning the available places. I found an empty space near Silas’s group, directly opposite him. Relief, a sudden, potent wave, washed over me. I hastened there, collapsing into the seat, and spoke before he could respond.
“Silas. Sit with me.”
No answer. Closer inspection revealed he was already lost to slumber. He always seemed to drift off in the mornings, and today was no exception. His head rested against the glass of the window, bouncing gently with every jolt of the coach. Shaking my head at his utterly ridiculous sleeping posture, I retrieved a folded silk handkerchief from my sleeve, cushioning it between his head and the window, then settled into the uncomfortable seat beside him.
Across the aisle, a glimpse of dark, rich brown hair caught my eye. Lord Valerius’s—he was taller than most of our companions, making him easy to spot. Though the angle obscured a clear view, I could discern…