A well-ordered world, Lysander had always believed, hinged on congruity. True affection, a bond that could withstand Veritas’s relentless currents, flourished only between equals. Like called to like: similar station, shared lineage, a parallel education. This was the rational path to contentment, a formula he, as a precocious child, had meticulously transcribed into his personal ledger of life’s truths. His seventeenth year, however, had scrawled an ugly, chaotic stain across that pristine page. He found himself ensnared by a peculiar, potent devotion. Perhaps it had bloomed at first sight, a seed buried deep, now unfurling with alarming speed. Yet, his scholar’s mind, disciplined by logic, dismissed it. A fleeting fascination, he told himself, a youthful folly easily brushed aside. The denial proved a brittle shield. Unruly emotions, coiled taut within him, began to constrict, tightening his throat until a silent, desperate gasp escaped. “To Argent Lane, near the Alabaster Gate,” Lysander murmured to the coachman. *** The city’s pre-dawn vista unrolled before him, a canvas of bruised purples and grays. A sudden summons, intrusive as an uninvited critic, had snatched away his fragile morning quietude. The message, a single, terse line on a crumpled vellum scrap, had appeared with the phantom whisper of the court’s unseen agents. He had sat on the edge of his bed, the chill of the marble floor seeping through his thin nightclothes, for what felt like an eternity. A muffled oath, low and bitter, then he rose. The grand estate slumbered, its myriad attendants confined to their quarters below stairs. His silent departure would go unnoticed, another shadow among many in the vast, sleeping house. Stepping into the cool, damp air of the cobbled alleyway, a distinct form caught his eye. Leaning against the high wall of the neighbouring residence, a new family having moved in last year, stood a half-finished bas-relief. Its style was bold, almost confrontational, a clear departure from the traditional forms Lysander himself admired. Beside it, a heavy sculptor’s mallet, its head scarred and worn, lay abandoned. He had never encountered the new occupants, their own walls as high and secretive as his family’s. Yet, this glimpse—the rough, ambitious lines, the untamed artistic spirit—spoke volumes. He felt a peculiar kinship with the discarded tools, both left out, exposed, vulnerable. He gazed for a moment longer before averting his eyes, then slipped into the waiting coach. *** Lysander kept his face pressed to the carriage window, the passing streetlights blurring into streaks of gold against the retreating darkness. The coach swayed with a gentle rhythm, but his stomach churned. A persistent unease had settled in his gut for the better part of a year now, a knot that refused to loosen. With a soft sigh, he tried to ease the tightness lodging in his chest. He had perfected the art of ignoring emotions that destabilized him, cultivating a composed demeanor. He maintained it now, a scholar’s detachment, as he stepped from the coach onto the damp stones of Argent Lane. His fingers trembled as he smoothed the fine linen of his tunic. A small, creased paper rested in his palm, the precise chamber number scrawled in an unfamiliar hand. He focused on the elegant calligraphy, a fragile anchor against the rising tide of his agitation. Finding the correct door within the discreet guesthouse, he paused. His fist clenched, then slowly released. Three soft knocks, barely audible, echoed in the silent corridor. “Valerius,” he whispered, his voice thin, reedy. “Open the door.” Silence answered him, heavy and absolute. Lysander stared at the ornate wood panel, a dark, fathomless void. A sharp exhale escaped his lips. He knocked again, this time with a forceful, desperate rhythm. “I said, open the damn door!” The situation repulsed him. The imagined scene within, the casual disregard, made his skin crawl. Yet, his hand remained, poised to knock again. Valerius had summoned him, and he endured this vile spectacle because Valerius was the one who had infected him with that first, debilitating illness. “How dare you call me here, after some cheap dalliance, you worthless bastard?” This was unbearable. Lysander, on the precipice of eighteen, felt the world pressing in.

The First Stain of Dawn