A stillness, heavy and prolonged, had settled between us like dust on an unloved canvas. For a full week, the Grand Atelier felt segmented. Aelius, the gilded lion of the Veritas court, held court with his coterie, their laughter echoing from the main study halls. I, Lysander, feigned indifference, a thin veneer over a burning curiosity. My days unfolded beside Milo and a scattering of minor apprentices, keeping up the pretense that Aelius’s orbit held no gravitational pull on my own. Most vexing was this newfound distance. It severed the casual flow of murmurs about Aelius’s movements. Now, scraps of information reached me only through Milo’s peripheral vision. When the hunger for news grew too sharp, I sought Milo out. The bitter irony gnawed at me: my pride, a stubborn knot in my gut, kept me from direct inquiry, yet my need drove me to such indirect measures. Found Milo by the grand astronomical clock in the observation tower, meticulously cleaning the brass gears. “Him?” Milo asked, his hands never faltering, his gaze fixed on a tiny cogwheel. “Aelius? Ventured out again, it seems.” The casualness of his reply struck me dumb. “Damnable brute.” The words escaped, a hiss. Understood, then, the raw intensity of Aelius’s emotions. He was a force of nature, primal instinct made manifest, a beast cloaked in fine silks. “No doubt another dalliance in the shadowed salons,” I mused, picturing the city’s more illicit corners. “Not this time,” Milo corrected, twisting a small, ornate key. “A pre-arranged meeting. With a merchant’s daughter, no less. Lady Seraphina. Apparently, they departed together the instant their eyes met. Utterly without preamble.” Silence stretched. Milo continued, “Both of them so… unburdened.” His voice held no admiration, only a detached mockery. A sliver of relief, cool and unexpected, wound its way through me. Milo’s disdain for Aelius’s casual conquests, however cynical, felt like a balm. I leaned against his workbench, lightly tapping his shoulder. He glanced up, then shifted, offering space on the polished wood. A silent acknowledgement of my silent gratitude. Only Milo dared voice criticism of Aelius’s morally unkempt affairs. For that alone, he earned my tolerance. “Disgustingly unconcerned,” I murmured. “Aye. While I, for one, bear the full weight of concern.” His tone, almost boastful, drew a dry laugh from me. “Isn’t that precisely your station? An apprentice of the Atelier, not some libertine.” “No prescribed station, only what one cultivates. Human reason, you see, is a peculiar garden,” he replied, a smirk playing on his lips, his eyes still on the clock’s intricate workings. “Is that why your own garden remains uncultivated?” I teased, my gaze sweeping his lean form. Milo paused, finally turning from the clock. He regarded me with a wry smile, tapping the hand I still rested on his shoulder. “I shall register a formal complaint with Master Renatus for harassment.” “Harassment? How so?” “If the recipient experiences discomfort, then it is so.” “Milo, you are quite mad.” “Pervert.” My boot-clad foot, dangling from the bench, swung idly. I nudged Milo’s leg with my heel. He feigned a dramatic stumble, then offered a casual, one-fingered salute. His raised hand revealed a small, silver devotional charm, always circling his wrist. I kicked his leg again, a lighter tap. “That trinket suits you ill.” “Why ever not?” he asked, a sudden seriousness in his voice. Why the sudden gravity? “It simply… clashes with your nature.” “Clashes? Am I not the picture of devout piety?” “Not in the least. It appears a mere fashion accessory.” “…It is not.” Should have known, perhaps, when I first learned his full name: Milo Peregrine. But I’d always thought of it as a truncated, pragmatic appellation. Milo, it turned out, was of a lineage steeped in ancient spiritual devotion. Even more shocking, he claimed profound faith. Yet I found it hard to reconcile with his pragmatic cynicism; he couldn’t recite even a simple canticle without stumbling. --- Another week passed, marked by my deliberate avoidance of Aelius. Whenever our paths crossed in the sprawling halls, my glance would brush him, then dart away. Still, the courage to address him directly eluded me. Perhaps I simply refused to be the first to yield. The pathetic calculus of desire – who cares more, who loses more – still held sway over my actions. Ridiculous, I knew, yet I could not break free. Silas, in contrast, often sought me out. I was, perhaps, the only one who offered him even a flicker of acknowledgement. But each passing day brought new contusions to his face, stark evidence that Aelius continued his brutal ownership, like a beast marking its territory, just beyond my sight. I frowned, my gaze involuntarily drawn to a fresh purple bloom beneath Silas’s eye. He caught my look, then quickly turned his head, concealing the injury. Four more days crawled by. One quiet morning, alone in my small studio alcove, I buried my face in my hands. The sordid drama unfolding around me felt too suffocating to confront. Distance between Aelius and me stretched, no longer a subtle gap but a chasm, bleak and impassable. To open my eyes felt like inviting the abyss to swallow me whole. Silas’s swollen eye, a livid seal upon his features, flared in my mind’s eye. It only deepened my reluctance to encounter either of them. I yearned to escape it all. Then, as if fate had granted a small, dark mercy, Silas ceased appearing at the Atelier. Master Renatus spoke of an “absence,” but the tremor in his voice betrayed the truth: desertion. A faint, almost illicit cheer rose in my throat. Meanwhile, Aelius spent his classes fidgeting with a small ivory puzzle box, snapping at his companions, even striking one for a whispered impertinence. A small, venomous pleasure bloomed in me. A sense of perverse superiority. I told myself, with conviction, that soon, with Silas officially banished or forgotten, Aelius’s gaze would return to me. Confident in this deluded hope, I waited. A few more days drifted by, indistinguishable from the last. “Aelius seems rather subdued,” Milo remarked, his tone offhand, as we sorted pigments. My heart, a startled bird, fluttered against my ribs. I longed to turn, to gauge Aelius’s expression across the vast hall, but my courage failed. When it came to matters of affection, I was a craven. All I could do was absorb Milo’s words and construct Aelius’s sorrow in my mind. But the day ended, the last bells for studies echoing through the quiet courts, and nothing shifted. “Tomorrow,” I told myself. “Things do not change so quickly.” I waited, still, as I slung my satchel over my shoulder. Milo spoke again, his voice carrying an unexpected note. “You argued with Aelius, didn’t you?” I spun around, a reflex I couldn’t control. “Yes.” “Still unreconciled since that incident in the refectory?” “…” “Ah. This estrangement has lingered longer than I anticipated,” Milo observed, shrugging, his hands tucked into his doublet. I averted my gaze, muttering an excuse. “Honestly, Aelius pushed too far. I despise witnessing such cruelty. It’s just… unsettling.” “What is?” “…Silas is a young man, yes?” “And?” “The manner in which Aelius treats him… it’s unseemly. Among men. I wish he would cease.” “Remarkable.” “…” “You are undoubtedly destined for the Elysian Fields.” Milo’s response, dripping with sarcasm, stung. Annoyed by his malicious tone, I glared. But he merely smirked, unconcerned. Seeing that knowing expression, a sudden, hot flush crept up my neck. My true motivations felt starkly exposed. I turned my back on his mocking grin, hurrying from the Atelier. As I hastened down a quiet corridor, intent on reaching my private lodgings, a hand suddenly clamped onto my shoulder. Assuming it was Milo, my irritation flared. I spun, pulling my arm free. But it was not Milo. Master Renatus stood before me, his usually placid face etched with unusual concern. Startled, I quickly composed my features. “My apologies, Lysander. Did I alarm you?” “No, Master, it is quite alright. Merely… surprised.” “Indeed. I am truly sorry, but… might I have a word?” “A word?” “Only a moment. Please.” The young Master’s gravity compelled me. I nodded. “Today, Aelius inquired after Silas’s address,” Master Renatus said, his voice cautious. “Aelius?” Clear, then, that Master Renatus, as head of our guild’s apprentices, could not be blind to the persistent cruelty. Yet he lacked the authority or nerve to confront Aelius directly. Still, he was not so heartless as to ignore it entirely. His approach to me, about Silas, proved as much. “I offer no accusations, no blame toward Aelius, but…” “No, Master, I understand. I find it unsurprising,” I interrupted, perhaps too quickly. “Given your past attentiveness to Silas, I wondered if you might… accompany Aelius to his dwelling. Do you comprehend my meaning?” I couldn’t answer. My jaw clenched tight. The possessive currents Aelius felt for Silas began to creep toward me, a cold tide rising around my feet, holding me captive. My fists tightened into knots. I could not stand idle. “Might I… instead procure Silas’s contact?” “Ah, yes, of course. Here, let me provide it. Try to reach him first.” “Understood. I will speak with him. Do not trouble yourself unduly, Master.” “Very well. I rely upon you, Lysander.” “Yes.” Outwardly calm, my insides churned. Master Renatus produced Silas’s lodgings information from a ledger, his face still etched with awkwardness, then departed the corridor. I had to prevent Aelius from encountering Silas. Had to stop this strange obsession from metastasizing. The moment Master Renatus was gone, I pulled a small wax tablet from my satchel, scribbling a hurried message to Silas. My leg jittered with nervous energy. I clenched and unclenched my hand, then sought out a junior apprentice, known for his discretion. “Deliver this to Silas’s address, swiftly and silently. Wait for his reply.” I pressed a small coin into the boy’s hand, the metallic ring a stark contrast to the quiet urgency. He nodded, vanishing down the corridor. Minutes later, the apprentice returned, a tightly folded scrap of parchment in his hand. “He sends this, Master Lysander.” I tore it open, my eyes devouring the cramped script. “Hello?” my mind supplied, translating the initial, shaky query. “It is I, Lysander. This is Silas, yes?” His written response described a sudden clatter from his end—something falling, striking wood, then a rustling. A pause, before his words resumed. “L-Lysander? Lysander! W-why… How… how did you obtain my message? Did you… have it already?” “No. Master Renatus mentioned Aelius requested your home address today. I asked for your contact details.” “…” “I merely wished to caution you.” “W-what of you? Are you well? Even though you attempt to intervene…” “Do not concern yourself with me. Focus on your own safety. Should you require further absence from the Atelier, send word through this apprentice. I possess some influence, believe it or not.” “…Thank you.” “If Aelius attempts to harass or harm you within the Atelier, inform me at once. If direct speech is difficult, a mere tap on my shoulder will suffice. It is harder to mend what is already broken.” “Very well…” “Honestly, seeking patronage elsewhere might be your wisest course.” I slipped that in, hoping the gravity of it would register. “…” “In any case, consider it. For now, feign absence or seek shelter far from your current lodgings.” “A-alright…” “Very well, I conclude this exchange.” “W-wait.” “…?” “Thank you, Lysander.” After a long hesitation, Silas’s final words, trembling on the page, reached me. What in the name of the Court? A profound discomfort stirred within me. “T-thank you for always offering aid…” “It is nothing.” “I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. W-we shall meet again.” “Yes.” “…Farewell.” “Farewell?” I didn’t bother to write a reply to his parting words. Just the cadence of Silas’s written voice, echoing in my mind, sent a shiver down my spine, leaving me thoroughly unsettled. What befell Silas that night, I did not know. Only this: from the next dawn, he reappeared at the Atelier. Within a week, the faint, youthful glow of his skin began to return. Silas, too, ceased his sudden approaches, his demeanor shifting dramatically. The abrupt change in his behavior planted seeds of suspicion in my mind. And when the last bruises finally faded from Silas’s face, I couldn’t help but feel a faint, fragile stir of hope, however unlikely. Then, two weeks later, Aelius approached me, without warning. “Lysander.” “…” “Lysander.” “…” I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. But my lips felt on the verge of parting, a silent gasp trapped in my throat. Could it be? Was Aelius finally weary of Silas?

The Stain of Obsession