Master Thorne was no more. Not a physical demise, no, the court physicians had ensured his corporeal form would linger. But the esteemed Master Thorne, that formidable presence in the Grand Atelier, had been utterly consumed within the very stone confines of Veritas. His name, once whispered with reverence, now carried the dry, brittle sound of discarded parchment. Chaos had gripped the Atelier. Though now scoured clean by hundreds of agitated boot prints and the settling dust of disruption, only hours ago, the great marble staircase had borne the scuff marks of frantic ascent. When the piercing blast of the Court’s high-noon horn had split the air, sharp enough to flay the senses, every apprentice, every visiting scholar, every minor patron had surged to the arched windows. They clustered there, a grotesque frieze, their eyes vacant as stripped canvas, straining towards the inner courtyard. The din within the Atelier had swollen, shouts from the adjacent scriptorium drifting through the open casements. “What in the name of the Virtues is happening?” “You haven’t heard? Fool, it’s a denouncement in the Great Hall!” “A denouncement! Who?” “That scoundrel, Master Thorne, and Lord Valerius.” “By the Mother Goddess, how did I miss it?” We were young artists and courtiers, poised on the precipice of our careers. We shed the fragile idealism of youth, felt a boundless shame for past naivete, yet reveled in crude, visceral displays of power. This reaction was entirely natural. “Does anyone know an attendant from the Hall? Weren’t those two… allied? How did it come to this?” “Have you not heard the whispers about Master Thorne?” Our small study chamber held a curious mix: some thrilled to be at the epicenter of such scandal, others feigning humble acceptance of a peer’s fall, still more savoring the distinct pleasure of being on the perceived winning side. Below, in the courtyard, a closed litter awaited, its velvet curtains drawn. For the next half-hour, the most urgent gossip was the identity of the one whose disgrace necessitated such a discreet departure. We all knew how swiftly rumors could spread within the five-tiered, secluded world of the Grand Atelier. So, who had truly triumphed? Those who gleaned the truth of the incident spared no thought for the disgraced master, spirited away under the silent watch of the court guard. Instead, they took a perverse delight in the fulfillment of a small, strangely earnest wish cultivated since the start of the season. Lord Valerius. Such public disputes often yielded ambiguous victors. One-on-one confrontations, especially. Yet, every nuance of today’s denouncement had conspired in Lord Valerius’s favor. The murmurs, carefully sown beforehand, only cemented Master Thorne’s ruin. Along the grimy passages of this artists’ bastion, the words slithered: “It turns out Master Thorne dabbled in… unholy patronage.” “What? Wasn’t he renowned for his exquisite portraiture?” “By the Saints! That was all a pretense! Apparently, he sought more than artistic inspiration. They say all the apprentices he ‘mentored’ ended up… compromised. It’s monstrous. And he’s from a venerated lineage, isn’t he? If you possess the lineage, there’s no depravity you can’t indulge, damn him. He could simply frequent the lesser dens of Veritas, or worse.” “Gods above. I never saw Master Thorne like that; turns out he was a total hedonist.” “Hah. To be born with such a name. Even a debauched master can visit illicit houses. But aren’t the taverns in the River Quarter cheaper? We’re bound for the River Festival, aren’t we? Think we can slip away during free time? Care to join?” The conversation drifted, leaving Master Thorne behind, replaced by talk of tawdry River Quarter establishments. Yet, in that brief exchange, Master Thorne’s honor was shredded a dozen times over, ultimately murdered. This act of murder multiplied with every tongue in the Atelier. After his fall to Lord Valerius, Master Thorne became a mere rag, as if everyone had been waiting for his unraveling. The study chamber weighed calm against fervor. Eyes flicked back and forth like a metronome between the red-marked passages in their texts. The floor at the back, where a spilled jar of carmine had once been, still bore a faint, dark stain. It must have dried, but one felt as if pressing it would yield fresh blood. It was unexpected, the reaction of our timid Magister Elara, who seemed poised to weep at the sight of any discord. The next period was a silent study. The chamber had buzzed with the hot topic, but the chatter instantly cooled when Elara swept in. As she entered, she dropped a stack of scrolls, shattering a small clay inkpot, and let out a high-pitched cry that seemed to tear at the very air. “What is wrong with you all! You, you, you ruffians! Do you take me for a fool? Why do you live your lives in such disarray? Cease this! Cease this, I command you! Why do you make such noise during silent study! Is this a time for idle chatter? You will be Masters yourselves next season! Masters! Please, heed my words and cease this discord! Do you know I bear responsibility for all your actions! I never should have accepted a post in an all-male Atelier. I did not wish to come to such a place. I feel my mind fraying. If you live like this, your lives will be naught but refuse, do you not see that? Are you not ashamed before your patrons? And how many times must I tell you to maintain silence during study!” Most sensible individuals, upon witnessing such a timid figure erupt, would fall silent. But this was an all-male Atelier, teeming with every variety of deficient human. Some defied common sense, some had not outgrown their pathetic early manhood, and some, despite their studies, were so dull-witted they committed idiotic acts. Our chamber was precisely that. “Eh, eh—Magister’s cross. Cross! Don’t be cross!” “It’s amusing when the Magister loses her temper.” A voice from the very back by the hall’s entrance spoke, and the apprentice two seats ahead of Lysander whispered softly. “You rogue! What? Do you think I am a jest?! You, step forth. Come to the front!” “Magister—. Why this severity?” “I said, step forth, you rogue!” Elara hurled the register book. It arced between the heavy oak desks, struck the corner of a drafting table in the third row, then clattered to the floor. The heavy tome, losing its momentum, made a sickening thud. “My apologies. I shall not do it again. Please, forgive me. Agreed?” Young Master Finnian, a minor noble’s son, kept smirking, showing no remorse. It was always some mediocre punk, neither popular nor an outcast, who pulled such stunts. The sloppy ones acted out. They flaunted, pretending to be formidable. But only they failed to see this bluff was the clumsiest, most pathetic in Veritas. “Step forth. Or must I come to you?” “Ah, Magister! Is that not too much! Truly!” “Silence!” “Be quiet, the Magister told you to step forth.” Lysander could endure it no longer. Unable to bear the escalating farce, he spoke. The chamber’s eyes turned to him, but he did not care, taking in that pathetic scene. Honestly, it was so ridiculous he nearly scoffed. He quite enjoyed situations like this. He was not skilled in brawls, nor did he feign a rebellious swagger, yet the reason he held a moderately respected position in this intellectual jungle was precisely because he fed on such types. He observed, he understood, and sometimes, he nudged the scales. “Young Lysander. Why this sudden gravity?” Signor Cassian, the apprentice two seats ahead, muttered, his smirk faltering. “You are the one who fails to read the mood.” Lysander’s voice, though quiet, cut through the tension. Of course, this had not happened overnight. During the initial period of hierarchy-setting, there had been some resistance to his quiet authority, but now it was as settled as a spiral of silence in a hermitage. “Yes. Cease your noise and step forth. Ah, truly, can you not discern the gravity? Do you not see the seriousness of this moment?” “If you are truly sorry, then step forth. Because of your antics, we are all being chastised. You insufferable rogue.” “Ah, what’s his predicament? Truly. What is his deal?” Lysander heard Signor Cassian muttering under his breath until the end. The confident look he’d worn while teasing the Magister gradually faded, like a dying ember. Under the pressure of the entire chamber, he finally rose and went to the front. Look at him now, like a cornered rat. Lysander secretly allowed a twisted smile to touch his lips. Master Thorne had fallen. And nothing could have pleased him more. Perhaps it stemmed from the fact that Master Thorne had once publicly dismissed Lysander’s unusual talent, crushing his youthful hopes with a careless wave of his hand. No, he was sure of it. He felt a profound sense of vindication. Honestly, he was a little surprised at himself. And he felt that electrifying thrill as a sliver of power, of influence, returned to him. “Into the outer corridor, directly!” Magister Elara’s voice, though firm, trembled slightly. “....” After banishing the noisy fool, Magister Elara placed one hand on the podium and silently held back her anger for a while. Perhaps she had gathered her thoughts, for it was fortunate in many ways that her tone calmed considerably. Then, she announced she would call each apprentice, one by one, to ask about what truly transpired. “I promise I shall keep your confidence. So please, tell me the truth. Do not make me disappointed in you. Please, I am begging you.” She seemed determined to hear an unbiased account, but as a sheltered scholar, she still did not appear to grasp the ruthless pyramid of an all-male Atelier. Once the silent study time ended and the Magister—her face still flushed—finished catching her breath and departed, Baron Renzo closed the windows and the chamber door, then delivered a stern warning to everyone. “Hear me. Watch what you speak. Make the wise judgment about who will remain here—Lord Valerius, or that disgraced wastrel.” “Master Thorne threw the first insult. You comprehend, yes?” Signor Cassian chimed in, eager to regain favor. Such admirable loyalty, was it not? --- Less than a week later, Lord Valerius returned to the Atelier. Lord Valerius re-entered, flaunting his swollen jaw, a bruise blooming blue across his cheekbone. His nose must have been grazed, for there was a small square of plasters taped to its bridge. In stark contrast to his slightly battered face, though, the energy radiating from him was more imposing, more arrogant than ever. He grinned, wide and cruel, then tapped his now perfectly reattached canine with his index finger. Lysander offered a faint, almost imperceptible nod in return. Right after the denouncement, Lord Valerius had casually risen to his own feet and walked towards the waiting litter. It was bizarre, but in a flashy, attention-grabbing way that had dominated everyone’s chatter for days. Lysander had hurried after him, his steps light. And just before Valerius climbed into the padded carriage, Lysander had extended a small, sealed vial of a rare, restorative tincture, known for its swift healing properties. “This is yours, my lord. Should a physician ask, say it was provided by a trusted apothecary. Perhaps it will ward off any lingering humors.” At that moment, Lord Valerius wiped the side of his face with his left hand and looked at Lysander. But the dark stains, already dried stiff, would not come off. Honestly, seeing half his jaw caked in crimson, dried to a rusty hue, wasn’t exactly a pleasant sight. Lysander’s focus was on how Valerius’s unusually small pupils were locked on his hand. In that gory state, he spoke, and Lysander strained to listen, caught off guard. “...I shall summon you.” His hand, crusted with dried blood, brushed Lysander’s cheek as he took the vial. It was an abrupt, unsettling gesture. “...My lord?” All Lysander could do was stand there, dumbfounded. Soon after, a missive arrived, stating that most of the integrity remained, and the Master Apothecary had managed to restore his physical equilibrium. And as soon as he returned to the Atelier, Lord Valerius took the seat next to Lysander’s private workspace. When Lysander’s original companion, a young cartographer, appeared, Valerius, without even glancing at him, pointed his thumb to another empty stool. The cartographer quietly sat elsewhere. Before Lysander realized it, that formidable man was seated beside him, tapping his shoulder twice with his index and middle fingers in quick succession. Then he suddenly said, “Here is a token.” “What? What do you mean, out of nowhere, my lord?” “Silence and open your hand.” Lysander carefully set down his finest sable brush and opened his palm. At the same moment, Valerius meticulously placed something on it. Lysander felt a rough, almost splintering sensation in the center of his hand that left him deeply unsettled. When Valerius lifted his large hand from Lysander’s, he saw one broken piece of dried obsidian pigment, its edges sharp and unforgiving, and another, a smaller, darker shard, still clinging to a fragment of vellum. Both stained with an unsettling, dark reddish-brown hue. What in the Mother’s name was this? Confused by the pigment’s strange, almost black sheen and the dark, rust-like stains clinging to the vellum, Lysander glanced at Lord Valerius. He leaned back against the high-backed chair, a cruel smirk on his lips. “I have ensured Master Thorne will paint with nothing but the cheapest ochre for the rest of his life, if he paints at all.” Heh-heh-heh. Then he twisted his shoulders, laughing like he was genuinely having fun—like a pure, unblemished child at play. “Did you witness it?” “...” “I won.” This damned man. The one showing absolutely no remorse was Lord Valerius. For a moment, Lysander nearly threw that grotesque fragment against the wall. Lord Valerius’s return caused another stir in the Atelier. After all, he was the first main character to reappear, his face not as battered as people had expected, and he showed none of the gloomy aura of a defeated man. Rumors about who won spread quickly among the junior masters and apprentices. Most of the people who truly knew what happened were in our own rank. For the novices, such high court drama was too far removed—something interesting to observe from a distance, nothing more.

A Fragment of Obsidian & Vellum