The Enforcer's hand clamped around Lysander's upper arm. The grip was impersonal, bruising, the leather of the glove rough against the thin linen of his nightshirt. Cold dread, sharper than the hangover's ache, flooded Lysander's veins. He instinctively tried to pull back. "This is a mistake! That isn't mine! Silas—"
"The Maestro has been informed," the lead Enforcer cut him off, his voice flat. "He expressed profound disappointment. Cooperate, or it goes harder for you." The second Enforcer moved to flank him, a silent, menacing presence.
Disappointment. Not surprise. The word struck Lysander like a physical blow. Silas knew. Silas had orchestrated this. Kael's warning on the overlook – "What Silas fears, he crushes" – wasn't a prediction. It was an announcement.
They didn't allow him to dress. He was marched barefoot, in only his nightshirt, through the hushed, opulent corridors of the Conservatory's west wing. Faces appeared briefly at doorways – fellow musicians, servants – their expressions a mixture of shock, pity, and swift aversion. Whispers hissed like steam escaping a valve. "Thorne… opium… disgrace… like his parents…" The gilded cage wasn't just locked; it was spitting him out, naked and branded.
They exited not through the grand front entrance, but a heavy, unadorned service door near the kitchens. The cold bite of the cobblestones shocked his bare feet. Dawn light, weak and gray, filtered through the mist, illuminating a grim spectacle. A covered municipal carriage waited, its black paint dull, the city crest stark on its side. More Enforcers stood impassively nearby. But it was the raised wooden platform in the small service courtyard that froze the blood in Lysander's veins. A whipping post.
Panic, raw and animalistic, surged. "No! You can't—" His protest was cut short as a fist drove into his solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping, the world graying at the edges, his knees hitting the unforgiving stone. Rough hands hauled him upright and dragged him towards the platform. The scent of old wood, damp earth, and something metallic – fear, or perhaps blood – filled his nostrils.
"Lysander Thorne," a new voice boomed, official and devoid of mercy. A Magistrate's clerk stood near the platform, holding a scroll. "By decree of the City Magistrate, acting on evidence presented by the Aurelian Conservatory, you are sentenced to public flogging. Twelve lashes. For possession of illicit substances and conduct unbecoming, bringing scandal upon a revered institution."
Evidence presented by the Conservatory. The final confirmation. Silas hadn't just disavowed him; he'd fed him to the wolves. Lysander's gaze swept the small crowd that had gathered – mostly servants, a few early-rising students kept at bay by Enforcers. He searched frantically for a familiar face, for Kael, for anyone who might intervene. He saw only averted eyes and grim fascination.
He was shoved face-first against the rough wood of the post. His arms were wrenched behind him, his wrists bound tightly with coarse rope that bit into his skin. The thin linen of his nightshirt offered no protection. The morning air felt like ice against his exposed back. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against the splintered wood. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. Shame warred with terror, both eclipsed by a white-hot rage that burned through the laudanum haze and the physical pain. Silas. Silas had done this. Silas had murdered his parents, and now he was destroying him.
A hush fell over the courtyard, broken only by the caw of a distant crow. Then, the sound he dreaded: the sharp, whistling crack of leather cutting air.
The first lash landed.
It was beyond pain. It was annihilation. A line of pure, incandescent fire seared across his shoulder blades. His body arched against the bindings, a choked scream tearing from his throat, raw and guttural. The world dissolved into a red haze of agony. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Only feel the fire spreading, consuming.
Crack.
The second lash overlapped the first. He tasted blood where he'd bitten his tongue. Spots danced before his closed eyes. The rope cut deeper into his wrists. The crowd's murmurs sounded like they came from underwater.
Crack.
Three. Each blow was a separate universe of suffering. He lost count. Time fragmented into the space between impacts, each one a fresh descent into hell. He heard his own ragged sobs, animal sounds of pure torment. He heard the Enforcer's measured breathing behind him, the only calm thing in the maelstrom. He heard the Clerk's voice, cold and precise, counting off the strokes somewhere in the distance.
Crack.
He thought of the piano. Of the perfect, dead notes he'd played at the Orpheum. Of the forbidden dissonance he'd struck backstage. This was the cost of that single moment of rebellion. This was Silas's composition written on his flesh.
Crack.
He thought of his mother's violin, its wild cry silenced. His father's hands, broken. Was this their legacy? Degradation and pain? A wave of despair threatened to drown him, colder than the mist.
Crack.
The blows fell relentlessly. Eight. Nine. The pain wasn't localized anymore; it was his entire being. He hung from the ropes, strength gone, only the rough wood against his face and the brutal rhythm of the lash holding him upright. His back felt flayed open, raw meat exposed to the indifferent dawn.
Crack.
Ten. Eleven. He was beyond screaming now. Whimpers escaped his lips with each exhalation. The world was a smear of gray light and agony. He smelled his own blood, sharp and coppery.
Crack.
Twelve.
The final blow landed with terrible finality. The whistling crack echoed, then faded into a ringing silence. Lysander sagged against the post, utterly spent, trembling violently. The fire on his back was a living thing, consuming him from the inside out.
The bindings were loosened. His arms fell uselessly to his sides, numb and heavy. Hands grabbed him again, not gently. He was hauled upright. The movement sent fresh waves of agony crashing through him. He cried out, a broken sound.
He was half-dragged, half-carried towards the black carriage. As they passed the Magistrate's clerk, the man didn't even look up from his scroll. "Disposal authorized. The Crescent Dump. Immediately."
Disposal. The word echoed in the hollow space the pain had carved inside him. He wasn't a person. He was refuse. Trash to be discarded in the slums.
They threw him into the back of the carriage. He landed hard on the wooden floor, his wounded back scraping against the unforgiving surface. A fresh scream tore from his throat, strangled and desperate. The door slammed shut, plunging him into near-darkness. The smell of stale sweat and old leather filled the cramped space.
The carriage lurched into motion. Each jolt over the cobblestones sent shards of agony radiating from his back through his entire body. He curled in on himself, fetal, trying to escape the pain, but there was no escape. Blood seeped through the thin linen of his nightshirt, warm and sticky. He shivered uncontrollably, shock setting in.
Through a haze of pain and despair, the carriage's rhythm became a grotesque parody of music. The clatter of hooves, the groan of axles, the jolting percussion of the wheels on stone – a brutal, dissonant symphony composed by Silas Vaincre. Conducted by Enforcers. Played out on his broken body.
He thought of the wild fiddle from the Crescent he'd heard the night before. Its raw, untamed cry. Now he understood its language. It spoke of pain. Of survival. Of existence scraped raw against the stones. He was entering its domain now. Not as an observer leaning on a railing, but as a broken thing thrown onto its mercy. The gilded cage was gone. All that remained was the flayed ruin of Lysander Thorne, discarded in the rattling dark, heading towards the gutters of Veridia. The first, brutal movement of his uncle's symphony of destruction was complete. What came next was silence, or oblivion. He didn't know which he feared more. The carriage rolled on, carrying its broken cargo deeper into the city's wounded heart.