The Grand Atelier, a vast expanse of polished oak and forgotten dreams, hummed with a quiet tension. Here, amidst the scent of linseed oil and turpentine, some thirty souls toiled, each a beast in their own right. Each artist, apprentice, or scholar, had navigated this labyrinth for mere weeks, their existence stretched taut like the strings of a rebec, threatening to snap under the weight of expectation. Survival was a precarious dance, a daily balancing act. This unspoken performance had been Lysander’s routine since he was a mere thirteen, learning the intricate choreography of forming alliances, and it seemed to be everyone else’s too.
His arm, cramped from hours hunched over a canvas, prickled with returning circulation as he flexed his fingers. Lysander pressed a hand to his stomach, a familiar knot of apprehension tightening within him. He released a shallow breath, his gaze sweeping over the bowed heads of his peers. Patches of charcoal dust on tunics, the soft curve of napes, all bent to their silent tasks. At the Maestro’s podium, old Valerius, his spectacles perched on his nose, rustled through a day-old gazette, ignoring the industrious silence.
“Awaken, you who slumber,” Valerius declared, without looking up, turning another page. His voice, dry as parchment, cut through the air. It was already the fifth hour of the session. Lysander, having painstakingly rendered the fifteenth individual leaf on his botanical study, laid his graphite stick down. His eyes drifted, caught on two empty easels in the far corner. Expectedly, neither Lord Julian nor Master Alaric had arrived. Likely, they would not grace the Atelier tomorrow either, unless Julian, in one of his mercurial whims, decided to reappear, or some new drama unfolded between the two—a drama Lysander could only guess at.
He lowered his gaze to the intricate botanical studies before him, the delicate veins of a winter rose filling his vision. There had been a time, not so long ago, when Lysander believed he understood Lord Julian better than anyone else in Veritas. He had nurtured that conviction, even when comparing himself to Maestro Cassian, whose proximity to Julian was undeniable. This quiet pride, he now realized, had been the fragile shield that allowed him to witness Julian and Cassian’s easy camaraderie. A secret triumph, he’d told himself, holding the true key to Julian’s enigmatic spirit. Lysander propped his chin on his hand, a wave of self-loathing washing over him. The fact that such a thought could fester in his mind disgusted him.
What would they say if his true thoughts, these insidious desires, were known? The answer was obvious. He would be cast down, pushed to the very bottom of the social pyramid that was Veritas, relegated to its widest, most despised plane. The thought sent a chill through him, a terror colder than any winter draft. Such a treacherous desire, a yearning unique to a cunning scholar of his ilk, had to remain buried, so deep that not even its object could ever perceive it. He must hide it so well that he himself forgot its existence.
But Lord Julian did not hide. Everyone in the Atelier, and indeed, the Court, knew of his desires.
Lysander lifted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping the room. All were still hunched over their work, oblivious. He pressed his lips together, then looked straight ahead. Lying forlornly between two rows of easels, near a spill of discarded pigments, was a torn sketch, its charcoal lines smudged, a faint footprint marring its surface. He quickly buried his head back into his work, as if caught staring.
Then, he turned his neck, subtly shifting his focus to the back row. There, Maestro Cassian, a master of chiaroscuro and cutting remarks, was slumped in his chair, his face partially obscured by a forearm. He appeared to have fallen asleep mid-stroke, a delicate, sorrowful cast to his features, almost like a figure carved for a tomb. Lysander found himself staring, drawn to the subtle tension around Cassian’s eyes. His gaze drifted to Cassian’s wrist. The Maestro, already a tall, imposing figure, seemed to have grown even more since the season began. The doublet that had once fit him perfectly now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one, a simple, dark leather bracelet, intricately braided, stood out—a heavy, unmistakable symbol of his austere aesthetic, an integral part of Cassian’s identity.
Before knowing him, Lysander had assumed Cassian, with his severe bearing, resided in the aristocratic quarter, much like Lord Julian. Yet, despite his intimidating aura, Cassian did not look particularly wealthy. His eyes, often shadowed by his heavy lids, held a faded intensity, lending him a perpetually haunted look. The way his thin sclera showed beneath his pupils added to his sharp, almost gaunt appearance. Cassian exuded a grim intimidation, a stark contrast to the refined elegance associated with true wealth. Instead, his face seemed marked by a profound sense of deprivation, radiating a melancholic heaviness. Combined with his large, raw-boned frame—he was undoubtedly the tallest master in the Atelier—it made him doubly imposing.
Fortunately, unlike the often-jarring features of some other masters, Cassian possessed a classically handsome symmetry. Without that, Lysander mused, people might actively avoid him. Even so, Cassian’s face remained unsettling, intimidating, and charged with a nervous energy that belied his slumped posture. His personality, however, couldn’t have been more different from his forbidding appearance.
It wasn’t merely indifference; it was as if he actively expunged events from his memory, whether by design or sheer disinterest. He carried an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that ironically added to his mystique. Most notably, Cassian cared little for coin. He never paid attention to how much others spent or requested. If the mood struck him, he’d casually toss a purse to an apprentice nearby without a second thought, as if the concept of currency held no meaning. Sometimes he lent funds and forgot entirely. There were even tales of apprentices returning borrowed money only for Cassian to ask, puzzled, why they were offering it to him. Still, he didn’t lend to just anyone. He’d indulge random requests on a whim but coldly refuse those truly desperate.
Even with his chosen circle, Cassian could be harsh. Lysander once overheard a story of how Elian, upon seeing Cassian’s prized ivory-inlaid easel—a piece the Maestro rarely displayed—excitedly tried to touch it without permission. Cassian, with a single, sharp word, dismissed him, sending Elian sprawling onto the floor like a startled frog. At the pinnacle of the social hierarchy, figures like Lord Julian and Maestro Cassian shared one thing: a complete lack of concern for others’ opinions. This indifference, in its own way, was what allowed them to sit at the pyramid’s peak. Why do we, Lysander wondered, with our own hands, hand over the keys to our world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how much he pondered it, he still couldn’t understand.
And yet, Maestro Cassian often spoke of adhering to the tenets of Purity, a rigid philosophical school advocating unblemished truth in art and life. He abstained from the excesses of the court, refusing strong spirits, tobacco, and illicit dalliances, never stooping to theft or extortion. Yet, the doctrine he preached was flawed; even a novice could spot the inconsistencies, particularly regarding the very human flaws Purity claimed to eradicate. They say the Purity school views any deviation from natural order as a corruption. Is that why Lord Julian’s inclinations, whispered behind velvet curtains, seemed to provoke such subtle disgust in Cassian? Lysander licked his dry lips.
He felt a strange relief that he hadn’t been caught, hadn’t been the subject of some public shaming. If he had, he would have ended up like that trampled sketch, discarded on the floor. And yet, even in that moment, a question surfaced—if Julian and he had remained close, as they were just a few months ago, would Julian have protected him? The thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories he desperately wanted to bury. He took a deep breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the stale bread from earlier were threatening to come back up. No, of course not. How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to think he would. To Julian, Lysander was nothing. Just a convenient scholar, an easily impressed audience to pass the time with. He knew this now because of the way Julian had looked at him when his work was publicly dismissed, when his reputation was slandered. Julian’s eyes had said everything. Lysander hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had been staring him in the face.
Julian, Lysander thought, sins openly. I, too, am a sinner—but I hide it. And so, Julian is punished by the fickle hand of Veritas, while I am spared. A faint, bitter laugh escaped his lips, so soft it was only audible to himself. “So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.” Perhaps Veritas, in its grand design, had a personality like Maestro Cassian’s.
His gaze shifted to the easel nearest the Maestro’s podium. It was unusual, but today, Lysander felt a pang of pity for Master Alaric. Poor soul, caught in the clutches of that gilded devil. You lacked the strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Alaric, unlike the towering artistic presence he possessed. You should have run the moment I warned you, fool. Lysander knew he was not a good person. He was selfish and self-serving, and that’s why he’d been punished. Sometimes, he even thought this: If one must fall for another of their sex, why not pick someone sly and deceitful like me? At least then life would be simpler. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering for it?
These days, he thought differently. Yes. Of course, no one could ever truly love someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise. There was a time when he thought he could have it all. Arrogant, conceited Lysander. Lysander, who thought he understood the world at eighteen. Wicked, vile Lysander. Pitiful Lysander, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone. That day, he couldn’t bring himself to finish even the sixteenth leaf. He feigned a sudden cramp as an excuse to slump over his easel, thinking to himself: Well, at least I’m not as ruined as Julian or Alaric.
Rumors about Julian and Alaric spread like wildfire throughout Veritas, whispered through drawing rooms and across market stalls. Whether they were exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to find out either. Julian’s circle had vanished from the Court, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances to worry about anything else, inadvertently fueling the rumors even further.
“Lysander, forgive me, but who amongst the apprentices was closest to Lord Julian?” Lysander overheard this as he passed by a group of courtiers on his way back to the Atelier before the evening bells. Old Maestro Valerius had asked, and a young apprentice, Gaius, had answered. “Lord Julian’s closest companion? Ah, that would be Maestro Cassian.” Pretending he hadn’t heard, Lysander walked into the room. Valerius glanced nervously between him and the empty easels, drumming his fingers against the podium. Then, as if giving up on some unspoken thought, he announced, “Let us conclude for the day.”
The moment dismissal was granted, Lysander gathered his tools. As he slung his satchel over his shoulder, Maestro Cassian tapped him lightly on the back. “Scholar Lysander. Let us convene after the evening meal.” Lysander looked at his face. He knew. He had always watched Julian and Cassian’s every move, so he knew that the person Cassian most frequently invited to such private meetings was always Lord Julian. After a brief pause, Lysander waved him off. “I cannot. I have a commission to prepare.”
“And after that?” Cassian pressed, his gaze unwavering.
“Further studies. Go, convene with one of your closer companions.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Why not?”
“Proximity to lesser talents only drags down one’s own craft.”
A short laugh escaped Lysander, surprised by the sheer bluntness of it. Right. This was why he’d been able to get along with Cassian better than expected. Their twisted values seemed to align in strange, unsettling ways.
“So, Elian, Marius—they are ‘lesser talents’? Even Gaius?”
“If you frame it thus, then yes, precisely. But you are different, Lysander.” The backhanded compliment left Lysander feeling a familiar prickle of discomfort.
“What is that supposed to mean? You are quite awful, Maestro.”
“No, I am not. I merely speak truth.”
“You are so awful.”
“Hmm. The tenets of Purity demand honesty. I am merely adhering to the principles, Scholar Lysander.” Honestly, Lysander thought, Cassian is worse than I am. At least I don’t so blatantly treat my artistic peers like discarded canvas. “That is why I am a principled man.”
“...Indeed.”
“Since I am such a principled man, may I accompany you to your studio?” Maestro Cassian blinked twice, his expression unreadable. Lysander looked at his face for a moment before nodding.
“Of course, Maestro. Why not.” As long as Cassian did not interfere with his own carefully constructed world, there was no reason to refuse. To secure one’s place in the hierarchy, one often had to make strange alliances. Lysander felt the familiar chill of a calculated decision settling over him, knowing this was a step, however small, towards his own precarious survival.