Lysander possessed a control over himself that few understood. His early life, a meticulously arranged sequence of lessons and observations, had etched a deep discipline into his very bones. Vulnerability, the exposed nerve of the soul, was a concept he abhorred. Consequently, even amidst the most turbulent social currents, he could maintain a remarkable composure, a stillness that often bordered on the unnerving. His peers often dismissed him as dull, a man devoid of passion. It was never a lack of feeling; every emotional tremor he’d endured had merely contributed to the thickening of an invisible shell. Over time, it grew so formidable that little could genuinely penetrate its surface, certainly not the casual cruelty of the Atelier’s social dance. This unyielding trait, a testament to his learned detachment, was the reason he could remain within the orbit of figures like Aethelred. Lysander held a respectable, if quiet, position within the Grand Atelier’s hierarchy, a scholar of exceptional promise. He valued this equilibrium, a precarious perch he had painstakingly built for himself. “Lysander, you’re still dawdling over that…” Aethelred’s voice, a casual whipcrack, carried across the Refectory’s polished stone floor. The midday sun, splintered by the high arched windows, picked out dust motes dancing in the air, mirroring the restless energy of the artists within. Darian, lounging with a careless grace beside Aethelred, offered a sardonic grin. “What’s the matter, Aethelred? Lost your appetite for grand pronouncements?” “My appetite is fine, Darian. Unlike your wit, which seems to have shrunk to the size of a pigeon’s heart.” Aethelred’s laugh was a sharp bark, devoid of true mirth. He barely spared Darian a glance, his eyes, restless and predatory, already scanning the crowded hall. Darian merely flicked a stray crumb from his impeccable doublet. “Perhaps I merely choose my targets more wisely. Unlike some, I don’t aim at those already cowering.” Their banter, a familiar, toxic ballet, unfolded daily. It was a language of veiled insults and performative dominance, each word a brushstroke in the canvas of their social theatre. Aethelred, a slave to his own volatile temperament and the fleeting whims of public adoration, rarely bothered with subtlety. His cruelty, unrefined and often impulsive, had been a constant presence since their shared apprenticeship. By this particular day, the end of the summer season and the eve of the Vernal Exhibition, the timid Elara had been almost completely isolated. Yet, even this wasn't enough to sate Aethelred’s hunger for dominion. The hierarchies within the Atelier were fluid, yet rigidly defined. Aethelred’s immediate coterie—bold, ambitious apprentices like Cassian and Seraphina—would linger after the morning critiques, awaiting his nod for their next shared meal. Others, lesser talents from the West Wing, scattered like startled sparrows the moment the Refectory doors opened. In his first year, Lysander had been part of Aethelred’s inner circle. But by the second, that changed. It began subtly, a casual remark from Cassian, “Lysander still analyzing the texture of his broth? We’ll be late for the sketch-off.” Without a direct dismissal, Lysander found himself quietly excluded. The humiliation, a quiet burn, was profound. Aethelred had not cared. His presence or absence made no discernible difference to the master’s favored apprentice. Lysander remembered the tightness in his chest, the tremor in his hands as he’d once dared to ask, voice barely a whisper, “Am I truly that… deliberate in my pace?” “Of course,” Cassian had replied, already turning away. “You pore over every detail like a librarian with a worm-eaten manuscript. The rest of us finish our preliminary studies in a flash.” “Indeed,” Seraphina added, her eyes sharp. “We’re always delayed for our collaborative commissions because of your… thoroughness.” A small, deflating sound escaped Lysander’s lips. “Oh.” “We have a patron meeting today for the Veritas Cathedral altarpiece. Perhaps you should join Darian for the midday repast.” Lysander’s pride, a fragile thing, had forbidden him from pleading. Besides, the constant rush, the frantic pace to match Aethelred’s careless speed, had left him with a perpetual knot of unease in his gut, a subtle indigestion that lingered like bad pigment. The thought of clinging to Aethelred, like a speck of dust clinging to a masterwork, repulsed him. So, he hadn’t protested. He hadn’t pleaded. And just like that, he was out. His own will, his own desires, had mattered little. Feigning indifference, Lysander found his gaze meeting Darian’s. Darian, alone at a smaller table, idly flicked a piece of bread crust across the polished surface. He looked up, a faint smirk playing on his lips, and asked, his tone deceptively casual, “When do you usually take your meal?” Lysander hesitated. “…” “I typically venture forth in about ten minutes,” Darian continued, unfazed. “Yes,” Lysander managed, a sudden lightness in his chest. “That works for me as well.” In truth, he had never eaten at such a late hour. But survival, an instinct as old as art itself, demanded adaptation. If he wished to remain associated with anyone of Darian’s respectable (if cynical) standing, he would adapt. The first time they ate together, Lysander found himself leaving half his meal untouched, feigning a sudden lack of appetite. Darian merely raised an eyebrow. “What are you, a scholar of eighteen seasons, still picky about your broth?” “What business is it of yours?” Lysander shot back, a petulant edge to his voice. The annoyance was immediate, sharp. “Honestly, you’re like a child, Lysander.” “Even adults don’t douse their venison with such syrupy concoctions,” Lysander retorted, glaring. What right had Darian to judge? The man was insufferable. In their first year, Aethelred and Lysander had been almost inseparable. By the second, those moments had dwindled to near nothing, and it was largely due to Darian’s influence, however indirect. Still, Lysander had no right to complain. Darian, with his sharp wit and influential family, subtly outranked him. Darian and Aethelred’s circles often overlapped, mostly with students known more for their disruptive behavior than their artistic merit. These were the types who’d forge early-dismissal chits or sneak out of mandatory lectures, exploiting the lax supervision of instructors who preferred to avert their gaze. Aethelred, ever mindful of his powerful family’s scrutiny, usually remained until the end of all sessions. As for Darian, whose reputation was equally notorious, Lysander had once asked why he bothered to adhere to the schedule. Darian’s response had stayed with him. “Do you truly think I am that pathetic, Lysander?” “No, but all your… acquaintances are like that.” “Acquaintances? What manner of nonsense is that? They are not my friends. They are dross.” “What?” “A student’s duty, Lysander, is to attend class and to learn, is it not?” “That is… true.” “Then do not lump me with dross like them. It rankles.” “Yes, my apologies.” “I was not asking for an apology.” Of course, the statement was sound, logical even. But coming from Darian, the man whose chosen companions skipped Atelier sessions at least once a week, it felt absurd. Regardless, Lysander found himself spending most of his second year in the company of Aethelred and Darian. He considered it a sacred space, a quiet refuge that no one else could intrude upon. It would have been perfect without Darian’s constant, irritating commentary, but surprisingly, they got along better than Lysander expected. He didn’t particularly like Darian, but he wasn’t so intolerable that Lysander would flee. He was merely… annoying. Yet, the very presence of Elara, her timid spirit, turned even those days into a quiet nightmare. Today, the atmosphere felt subtly different. Aethelred, slouched at his table, rubbed his temples. “Damn it. Cassian and Seraphina, those ambitious fools,” he muttered, as the fourth period neared its close. Hearing his voice, Lysander involuntarily turned, a flicker of something akin to hope igniting within him. “They… abandoned you again?” he asked, his tone laced with a fragile anticipation. “Fools,” Aethelred spat, a dark cloud on his brow. “How vexing. Who will you deign to share your meal with, then?” Lysander pressed, his fingers trembling slightly as he gripped the carved back of his chair. Aethelred let out a heavy sigh, his gaze falling upon Darian beside him. “I shall join you two today.” “Do not presume. No one extended an invitation,” Darian replied bluntly, not even looking up from polishing his ornate silver ring. “Continue to run your mouth, Darian, and I shall shut it for you.” “Veritas, today truly makes me wish to rearrange your perfect features, Aethelred.” “Try it, you insufferable dilettante.” “Brave words for a man who would otherwise sup alone.” Lysander could hold back no longer. He leaned forward, his voice a little too eager. “Come, let us all eat together. We cannot simply leave Aethelred to dine in solitude.” His desperation, he knew, must have been painfully evident. Aethelred smirked, a triumphant gleam in his eyes, and cast a sly glance at Darian. “See? I have loyal companions.” Darian merely scowled, sweeping Aethelred’s stylus case from the table with a theatrical flourish, sending it clattering to the flagstones. Whether Darian genuinely disliked Lysander or not, it mattered little. What mattered was that Aethelred would join them for their meal. It had been so long since they’d shared a table, and Lysander felt a thrill of childish excitement. He even forced himself to consume a particularly gamey terrine, a dish he usually found unpalatable. But Aethelred paid little attention to his food. His eyes, like a falcon’s, scanned the Refectory, searching for prey. Lysander, too focused on Aethelred, barely noticed Darian’s casual pilfering of side dishes from his own plate. Then, without warning, Aethelred’s ornate chopsticks clattered down, and his free hand shot out, grabbing the arm of someone passing by. Lysander looked up. It was Elara. “Sit here,” Aethelred commanded, nodding toward the empty seat beside him. His voice, though low, carried a chilling authority. “You have no one else to break bread with anyway.” Elara’s face, already pale, flushed a vivid crimson. Her eyes darted wildly, landing briefly on Lysander, a silent plea in their depths. She bit her lip, then slowly, hesitantly, sank into the seat Aethelred had indicated. Lysander felt a jolt, a cold shock. He was stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Aethelred care whether Elara had companions? And the reason Elara had no friends was entirely Aethelred’s doing. Aethelred detested anyone who showed Elara kindness or attention. A bitter taste rose in Lysander’s throat, metallic and sharp. Unconsciously, Lysander’s own spoon clattered against his pewter tray, the sound loud and jarring in the sudden hush around their table. But the only one who flinched, who registered the noise, was Elara. She looked at him nervously, her eyes wide. Aethelred, however, remained fixated on Elara, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Damn it. In that moment, Lysander felt the careful, protective shell he’d built over the years begin to fracture, a fine crack spreading across its surface. He tried to stop it, to reassert control, but the fissure widened. Perhaps he was nearing a breaking point he hadn’t realized existed. Desperately clinging to denial, to a futile hope of intervention, Lysander snapped at Elara, his voice a little too loud. “Elara. Just leave.” “H-huh?” Elara’s voice was a barely audible whisper. “Do not listen to Aethelred. Just go. It will be fine.” “Lysander,” Aethelred said, his voice dropping, dangerously low, a viper’s hiss. When Lysander had told Elara she could leave, Aethelred, who had ignored the loud clatter of the spoon, finally ground his teeth and glared. That glare, raw and furious, only solidified Lysander’s crumbling resolve. He fixed his eyes stubbornly on Elara. “I will handle it. You may go.” “Uh, o-okay.” Elara’s gaze still flickered between them, terror in her eyes. “And Aethelred, cease this already.” “Yes, I think so too,” Darian chimed in through a mouthful of roasted fowl, his words barely intelligible. His sudden interjection felt utterly out of place, breaking the tense silence with crude pragmatism. He chewed and swallowed deliberately, slowly, before glancing between Lysander and Aethelred, a faint, irritating smirk on his face. “What are you staring at? You’re killing my appetite, you two.” As always, Darian’s unnecessary provocations grated on Lysander’s nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter how Lysander looked at him. Ignoring him, Lysander turned back to Aethelred. “Leave Elara alone.” “Who in Veritas do you think you are, to tell me what to do?” Aethelred shot back, his face contorting in sudden fury. “It is… tiresome for the rest of us to watch.” Lysander didn’t blink as he met Aethelred’s gaze, unwavering. Aethelred slammed his fist on the polished tabletop. The sudden impact made Elara, still sitting awkwardly, flinch and squeeze her eyes shut. Darian, on the other hand, merely chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender. “Count me out of this particular patronage squabble.” He licked a drop of water from his lips, adding, “Let’s decide by majority vote. I am neutral. Lysander wishes her gone. Aethelred insists she stays.” For the record, Darian was one of the few who called him “Lysander” without his title, and Lysander found it irritating every time. That irritation, a fragile shield against the fear, slipped out now. “Stop butting in. Your vote doesn’t even count.” “Why not? There is another person right there.” Darian, unfazed, smirked and pointed at Elara, a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Elara not a person?” “You are… insane.” “Why is she quiet? Let her speak her wishes.” As if Elara could possibly utter a single word in this charged, suffocating atmosphere. Lysander sighed at Darian’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his leftover broth. That’s when Aethelred tapped his finger on the table, a soft, rhythmic thud that resonated with menace. “If you say you are leaving, Elara, your prospects in Veritas are dead starting this day.” Tears began to well up in Elara’s large eyes, glimmering as she looked at Lysander, pleading for help. Damn it. Lysander pressed his lips together, a vein throbbing in his temple. “It’s fine. I will stop him,” Lysander said, his voice strained, trying to reassure Elara, though his own heart hammered a frantic rhythm. “Lysander,” Aethelred growled, his voice tight with barely contained rage. Lysander forced himself to meet Aethelred’s glare, pretending to be calm, but he felt an overwhelming urge to collapse. To suppress it, he looked up at the Refectory’s vaulted ceiling for a fleeting moment, as if seeking solace in the painted heavens, before lowering his head and replying nonchalantly, though his voice was a mere rasp. “What?” “You…” Aethelred clenched his fist, glaring at Lysander with an intensity that felt like a searing flame. Still, Lysander had to endure it. His instincts, those fragile, desperate instincts, screamed that he could not abandon Elara to Aethelred’s cruelty. But Aethelred’s focus shifted back to Elara. “I-I’ll go,” Elara stammered, her voice trembling, finally broken. “…” “Th-thank you, Lysander.” Elara scrambled up, her movements hurried and unsteady, and fled the Refectory. As soon as she was gone, Aethelred turned abruptly, his glare, sharp and unforgiving, pinning Lysander in place.

A Crack in the Fresco's Veil