Two days had passed since Julian's easel, once a monument to his relentless ambition, lay splintered on the Grand Atelier floor. Today, a different kind of vandalism marked the courtyard. Near the brazier, where discarded sketches usually met their fiery end, a faint plume of acrid smoke curled. Julian’s rare azure pigments, his meticulous studies of anatomy, his very tools—all reduced to ash and twisted metal.
Cassian, draped languidly across a sun-drenched bench, offered a wide, unsettling smile to the Head Apprentice. Others spoke in hushed tones, their whispers like brittle leaves skittering across the cobblestones. Alaric, once Julian’s most vocal admirer, now recounted in vivid detail, near the water fountain, how Cassian had orchestrated the destruction. He described the joyous toss of a heavy sketchbook into the flames.
'Such… conviction,' Lysander thought, his gaze fixed on the scorched circle.
By the recycling bins, a weathered crate held the remnants of Julian’s struggle. Its splintered wood seemed to echo the silence of Julian’s absence. Two days prior, Julian had lost to Cassian without ever truly grasping the game.
His motive, Lysander knew, was painted in stark relief. Initially, a simple act of rivalry, but a deeper discord vibrated beneath the surface. Even Julian’s most loyal cohort had begun to notice the peculiar tension around him, the almost feverish intensity of his gaze when Lord Valerius’s name was uttered. Observing Julian’s increasingly desperate canvases, his furious, solitary brushstrokes, Lysander understood. This was not mere professional jealousy. It was a consuming fire. Yet, as the tide of opinion turned, Lysander felt no urge to intervene. No explanation formed on his lips, no guilt pricked his conscience.
He was not so foolish as to trip on his own feet within the marble labyrinth of Veritas. To defend Julian now would be to paint himself with the same brush of defiance, a stroke too bold, too dangerous. It might be seen as compassion, perhaps even loyalty. But in the intricate, shifting compositions of the Court, where every glance held a thousand interpretations, even one questioning eye would shatter the illusion.
A thought, a cold breath against his neck, sent a shiver through him. 'Why?'
Lysander lowered his head to his drafting table, pressing his cheek against the cool, smooth wood. Briefly, he wished that upon reopening his eyes, the entire complicated tableau would reset, shifting to his own preferred arrangement. Sleep, a fleeting reprieve, beckoned. Had he been left undisturbed, he might have drifted into that temporary oblivion.
Something sharp struck his crown. Lysander bolted upright, hand flying to his head. Across the Atelier, Cassian too rubbed his forehead, a mock grimace on his face.
'By the Saints, that stung,' Cassian muttered.
'Why do you slumber amidst the morning light?'
'Mind your own canvas. What is that contraption?'
'Ah, this?' Cassian’s grin was a flash of white teeth. He lifted a gnarled walking stick, an artist’s discarded tool. 'Found it by the scrap bin outside the Guild Hall. A curious find.'
Lysander’s lips thinned. Cassian always unearthed the strangest curiosities.
Its impact had been light, yet Lysander still smoothed his unruly strands, fretting over their disarray. Cassian, meanwhile, nudged aside a stool with his foot, then elegantly settled himself upon it before it could topple. He tossed his satchel onto the table, using it as a pillow before flopping forward, face down.
'You rouse me from sleep only to embrace it yourself?' Lysander grumbled.
'Merely concerned for your studies, that you might miss a crucial lecture. My own scores are already beyond salvation.'
'Preposterous.'
Lysander twisted on his stool, his irritation rising like a tide. Cassian’s every utterance seemed designed to provoke a retort. He nudged Cassian’s outstretched foot. Cassian merely smirked.
'Lamb of God, is it permissible to strike the wounded? You crude oaf.'
The playful sarcasm, the soft mockery, drew a scoff from Lysander. He kicked at the walking stick. It tilted towards Cassian, but without lifting his head, Cassian snaked out a hand, catching it with effortless grace. Still, his face remained buried in his satchel. He let out a silent chuckle, then spoke, his voice muffled.
'I’ve been meaning to ask you something.'
'What?'
'That wasn’t an accidental tumble, was it?'
A jolt, like a cold splash of water. Had it been so obvious? His cheek had not been bruised so severely.
Lysander’s hesitation lasted only a breath. He ran a hand over his jawline, adopting a veneer of nonchalance. 'A minor mishap.'
'Hah.'
Still resting his chin on his satchel, Cassian chuckled, a low, soft sound.
'Indeed?'
His eyes, quick as a falcon's, flicked to Lysander. He pointed a finger, a subtle accusation. Lysander, unnerved, found his voice catching.
'What do you mean?'
'You are… remarkably audacious.'
The moment Cassian smiled, leaning his walking stick against his shoulder, Lysander’s mind faltered.
What convoluted riddle was this?
'...Audacious in what sense?'
'Your fall... it seemed less like a stumble…'
'...'
Cassian’s words, usually light and teasing, now carried a quiet, unsettling weight.
His gaze, unnervingly still, fixed upon Lysander. Those bright irises, framing dark pupils, held a chilling intensity. It was like watching an arrow poised, the destination unknown, but the target unmistakably Lysander. His mind went utterly blank. Two words echoed, ceaseless, through the cavern of his skull: *Impossible. He couldn’t know. Impossible. He couldn’t know.*
Finally, Cassian’s eyes narrowed, the curve of his lips deepening into a predatory arc.
'It appeared more as if you’d run headlong into an obstacle.'
His long, serpentine eyes curved further upward. Lysander’s throat constricted, his breath catching painfully in his chest. A sharp gulp. Cassian’s lips parted. Lysander couldn’t even blink.
'Should word spread, it might prove… inconvenient, wouldn’t it?'
'...'
'My lips are sealed.'
Then, raising the hand holding the walking stick to his mouth, Cassian whispered the words, concluding with a theatrical wink. The breath Lysander had been holding slammed against his ribs, a caged animal desperate for escape.
Cassian offered no time for reaction. He ran a hand through his dark curls, then pointed at Lysander again.
'Did you, by chance, acquire a similar coiffure? A touch uninspired, if I may say.'
Lysander was speechless. Cassian wrinkled his nose in exaggerated disapproval.
'In any case, I shall now resume my studies in slumber.'
He yawned, burying his face deeper into his satchel. Lysander stared at the back of his head, finally managing to murmur, 'No, I did not mimic your style. Nor have I cut my hair.'
'Is that so?' Cassian’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his bag.
---
Fourth bell. As the last echoes of Maestro Ariston’s lecture on compositional balance faded, the quarterly commendation rolls were distributed. Cassian clutched his scroll, his face a mask of theatrical despair. His gaze scanned the scores, then a sudden, murmured prayer escaped his lips.
'Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.' He then threw his head back, a dramatic sigh escaping him. 'Ah, I am utterly damned.'
Lysander glanced at his own scroll, noted the meticulous scores, then folded it precisely, tucking it into the inner pocket of his doublet. Cassian was still sighing, a profound, mournful sound.
His head was thrown back so far, only the strong line of his throat and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple were visible. It seemed to chastise Lysander for his gaze. Fixed on that exposed vulnerability, Lysander spoke, 'That particular supplication is not for such earthly woes.'
'Who cares? A prayer remains a prayer.' Then, a sudden question, 'But tell me, is it Divine or Holy Father?'
At that moment, a peculiar truth about Cassian struck Lysander: his devotion, if one could call it that, was strangely, fundamentally pragmatic.
'Why do you ask me? It is your reverence.'
'Lysander, do not be so academic. You are so learned, I presumed you held all such knowledge.'
'I do not. I hold no formal reverence.'
Cassian, who had been leaning back with exaggerated lassitude, suddenly snapped forward. Their eyes met. Instinctively, Lysander averted his gaze, focusing on the sun-drenched window, feigning disinterest. Yet a sharp prickle, a sense of being caught in a surreptitious act, bloomed in his chest.
He stared, unseeing, at the courtyard beyond, then shifted his focus to the stiff, perfectly pressed collar of Cassian’s tunic. The crisp white linen framed his neck, but with every animated gesture, the sculpted line of his collarbone flashed into view.
'So? Will you accompany me to the Marquis’s salon this eve?'
'What? No.'
'Ah, why not? Come along. Should you attend the weekly gatherings and the solstice fêtes, they distribute small tokens. Choice pigments, rare inks, miniature busts…'
'Wait, do not tell me you attend solely for such trifles?'
'Naturally.'
Lysander finally met his gaze, his eyes landing on a charcoal stick Cassian balanced on his upper lip. Pride fought a losing battle with objective observation: Cassian possessed an undeniable, infuriating handsomeness. He truly was a smug bastard.
A charcoal stick, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted his voice into a slurred, disgruntled murmur. 'To hear you speak, it sounds as if I am pilfering. If they are offered, what transgression is there in accepting?'
'Can one truly call it devotion if fueled by such selfish intent?'
'That is how all such beliefs begin. No one starts with grand philosophical truths. They think, ‘Ah, the refreshments are excellent. The host must be benevolent.’ And then, little by little, this appreciation for the ‘benevolent host with delectable savories’ transforms into absolute devotion to the ideal. The genesis and the journey are inconsequential. What matters is the present belief.'
Cassian spouted utter nonsense sometimes. Even Julian, in his presence, occasionally found himself tangled in Cassian’s peculiar logic.
Sometimes, his pronouncements were pure absurdity. But at other times, they contained a twisted, compelling truth that even Lysander felt himself tempted by. This, undeniably, was the latter.
He ran a hand through his bangs, brushing them back from his forehead. They fell again, obscuring his vision. This time, he shook his head, a small, frustrated movement. His thin strands of hair swayed before him. Gathering them near his temples, the irritating tickle finally receded.
He had been so distracted of late, the meticulous trimming of his hair forgotten.
With Julian and Lord Valerius both absent, the front of the Atelier, usually a hive of intense activity, now lay starkly empty. No reason remained to cast his gaze in that direction.
Six days prior, Maestro Ariston had summoned Lysander to his private studio. He had inquired if Lysander had heard from Julian.
Lysander answered honestly, without a flicker of hesitation. 'No, Maestro. I have not.'
'You still haven’t reconciled with Julian, have you?'
Lysander offered a small, bitter smile. A precisely calibrated curve of his lips. In truth, no mirth resided within him. 'No. Julian… he was greatly displeased with me.'
'Julian was displeased with *you*?'
'Indeed.'
Rumors already circulated, a subtle current through the Atelier, so Maestro Ariston was not entirely ignorant of the implications. 'Very well, I comprehend,' he said, dismissing Lysander with a wave of his hand. Then, as he settled back into his plush chair, he muttered to himself, almost inaudibly.
Lysander caught snippets: complaints about Julian’s erratic behavior, frustrations over a sharp reprimand from Julian’s father, the Marquis.
He pretended not to hear the Maestro’s pathetic soliloquy, turning away, yet his ears remained acutely attuned. That was how he absorbed the prevailing sentiment within the Maestro’s inner sanctum.
Later, after the evening’s studies, while preparing his own sketches at home, Marquis Thorne had called. He posed the same query as Maestro Ariston: did Lysander know of Julian’s whereabouts?
Lysander delivered the same answer, cloaked in feigned regret. 'No, Marquis. Julian has not extended his hand to me since.'
'—I see…'
'I am truly despondent that I can offer no assistance.'
'—No, there is nothing for you to lament. It is quite alright.'
Lately, Marquis Thorne had called with increasing frequency. And each time, the conversation unfolded in an identical, deliberate dance.
A peculiar insistence permeated his attempts to bind Julian and Lysander together. Lysander hastened to conclude the exchange.
Honestly, he felt no actual remorse. But he offered his apologies nonetheless—to be seen favorably.
It was the same innate instinct that compelled courtiers to praise a newborn heir’s features, regardless of their truth. A social convention, a delicate form of etiquette essential for navigation within a civilized Court.
So, he did not believe the adults perceived him as a pawn.
If anything, his politeness was more akin to the intricate, carefully rehearsed pantomime of a particularly artful court jester.
Lysander always understood his place within the grand hierarchy.
And because he invested such diligent effort in being cherished, he was destined to become a truly beloved jester.
Even should he, one day, commit an error so blatant it drew a collective frown from the discerning audience, he knew he would be forgiven.
This was the elaborate groundwork he meticulously laid.
Unlike certain impetuous fools, he navigated his life with astute wisdom.
Perhaps, from the lofty perspective of the elders, his intricate calculations were merely the petty machinations of a timid mind, a desperate wriggle from entanglement.
But among his peers, his astute handling of unpredictable currents was undeniable. He was one who knew how to guide his vessel.
For proof, one need only observe Alaric.
---
Alaric, ever the keenest scent-hound for social advantage, pursued Cassian’s good graces with an almost frantic desperation. This, in turn, led him to cultivate a solicitous demeanor toward Lysander, for in the eyes of others, Lysander had already secured his position within Cassian’s orbit.
Though Alaric had once been among Julian’s most fervent champions, he now made it abundantly clear that his loyalties had swiftly, decisively shifted.