A raw, unpleasant truth, sharpened by the chill of Ashworth Hall, had settled between Lysander and Alaric. Since the hushed scandal in the ancient sparring chamber, Alaric Ashworth’s cool disdain had shed its subtle veil. No longer did a deferential nod accompany their passing in the grand corridors. His once-practiced, filial deference had evaporated, leaving behind a brittle antagonism.
Beside Alaric now, Theron Vance occupied the seat of honor, a silent sentinel mirroring Alaric’s every shift. Theron, a figure of unremarkable lineage yet sudden prominence, had become an unwelcome fixture. Lysander, though masterful at concealing the tremors of his spirit, could not escape the visceral sting. He was no pathetic weakling, not one to feign indifference while shame gnawed at his core.
Conversation, once a delicate dance, now felt impossible. A leaden melancholy pressed down, occasionally pierced by a spark of petty vengeance. Yet, he endured.
Alaric, that petulant scion, now nursed a childish resentment, an envy that bristled in the air between them. The reason for his pique remained clear: Theron Vance.
Lysander hated Theron, an illogical, consuming animosity. Theron had never been his to claim, yet he felt robbed. Not only had Theron stolen Alaric’s attention, he had poisoned Alaric’s regard for Lysander. A vicious twist of circumstance, a venomous, unasked-for betrayal.
Intentions mattered little when feelings ran wild. To Lysander, blaming Theron offered a scapegoat, a target for the unbearable ache. He clung to the notion, a small, desperate solace.
Still, his intellect demanded rational thought. He knew Theron was merely a vessel for Alaric’s whims, a convenient prop. This understanding prevented any overt display of hostility. He never let his resentment breach the polished surface of his demeanor.
Partly, the thought of revealing such base jealousy repulsed him. It felt undignified. Further, to lash out at Theron would only diminish him, paint him as a common fool. Alaric would likely scorn him further. Worse, whispers would spread through the gilded halls, branding him with labels far more insidious than mere jealousy: 'unseemly,' 'unbalanced,' 'unfit.' The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine. The academy’s social currency was too precious to gamble.
“This… is insufferable,” he murmured, the words barely a breath.
A thought, unbidden, surfaced: Caspian Blackwood. The most irritating, yet inexplicably constant, presence in his recent life. What would Caspian say, if he knew the depths of Lysander’s current turmoil? Probably some cutting remark, delivered with that practiced, sardonic grin:
‘Turns out Thorne’s just a grasping, bitter rival, then, isn’t he?’
Lysander’s fingers tightened on the leather-bound volume in his lap. The image of Caspian’s disdainful gaze was a horrifying prospect, almost enough to make him gag. No one, absolutely no one, could ever know.
Allegiances at Ashworth Hall were as fleeting as moonlight on water. When Alaric’s and Lysander’s estrangement became an open secret, the polite overtures from Alaric’s peripheral circle naturally faded. Amusingly, Gareth, a once-eclipsed member of Alaric’s cohort, began seeking Lysander out for aimless conversation.
“Lysander, Caspian was looking for you earlier.” Gareth’s voice was a reedy murmur.
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“No idea. Just mentioned it.”
Silence stretched, heavy and awkward.
Always something like this – pointless snippets, devoid of true substance. It seemed the academy had officially reassigned Lysander to Caspian’s fringe, a curious pairing indeed.
Of course, the threads to Alaric’s original group weren’t entirely severed. Occasionally, during fencing practice or a chance encounter in the dawn-lit library, a stiff greeting might be exchanged. Mostly, this was limited to Gareth.
“Thorne. Morning.” Gareth’s tone held a forced cheer.
“...Morning.”
Lysander recalled one such strained interaction. Gareth had lowered his voice conspiratorially.
‘Alaric’s been rather… peculiar lately. The way he treats Vance… almost unsettling, wouldn’t you agree?’
Lysander’s expression must have betrayed something unpleasant, for Gareth took it as agreement. He elaborated on Alaric’s possessiveness, how he’d insist Theron sit beside him, his grip on Theron’s arm almost an anchor.
Lysander’s jaw clenched. His teeth ground together. He forced out a response, cold and flat.
‘Matters of such sordid inclination hold no interest for me.’
That shut Gareth down, instantly. Gareth, Lysander mused, was likely seeking a quiet exit from Alaric’s orbit, attempting to ingratiate himself with Caspian’s burgeoning, if unconventional, faction. His whispered observations were merely a clumsy overture.
Later that day, as was becoming customary, only Caspian and Lysander remained in the classroom after the final bell. Caspian, ever languid, leaned against the ancient oak wainscoting, his gaze fixed on Lysander. Whether he ignored Lysander or merely assessed him, Lysander couldn’t discern. Annoyed, Lysander turned his head, adopting a matching silence.
“Thorne.” Caspian’s voice cut through the quiet.
“What now, Blackwood?”
“Let’s acquire some of that veridian cordial after our studies. The last batch was quite palatable.”
Caspian ignored Lysander’s attempt at reciprocated disdain. He idly tossed a polished obsidian sphere across the room. It arced, bounced erratically off a mahogany desk, threatening to strike a startled underclassman, but no one dared address him. Caspian cultivated an air of dangerous indifference, a selfish disregard for the academy’s decorum. Lysander, watching the sphere’s erratic trajectory, finally broke his silence. His irritation, fueled by Caspian’s shameless behavior, sharpened his tone.
“You refer to the cordial you consumed entirely yourself? You procured it solely for your own enjoyment.”
“Well, not precisely. I merely favor the hue.”
“So, my preferences were entirely disregarded?”
“How was I to intuit your desires? You articulated none.”
The obsidian sphere, by then, had rolled to a stop near a junior acolyte. Caspian extended a hand, a silent command. The acolyte hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the sphere, placing it gingerly into Caspian’s open palm. Caspian twirled it nonchalantly, then dismissed the retreating student.
“A token of gratitude, you lesser being.”
An insufferable personality. ‘Lesser being,’ ‘peasant,’ ‘drone.’ Every utterance grated on Lysander’s nerves. It defied logic that Caspian, this obnoxious scion, now frequented Lysander’s company instead of Alaric’s. He dined with Lysander, shared studies with Lysander, attended lessons beside Lysander. True, Alaric was conspicuously absent, but Caspian could easily summon him, if he truly desired.
The thought, an insistent whisper, spurred Lysander to a sudden question.
“Why do you no longer seek Alaric Ashworth’s company?”
Caspian, mid-motion of bouncing the obsidian sphere against the wall, froze. He turned, his gaze a peculiar blend of puzzlement and something unreadable.
“You had a disagreement with him,” Caspian stated, a flat observation.
“I?” Lysander feigned confusion.
“Indeed. You and Alaric Ashworth.”
“That much I comprehend. My contention with him is my own. How does it involve you?”
“Your pronouncements are truly bizarre. It involves me because you are my associate.”
Caspian’s eyes scanned Lysander, an oddly blatant appraisal. Lysander, unsettled, averted his gaze. “You are also Alaric Ashworth’s associate, are you not?”
“Remarkable. Are you implying you are not my associate?” Caspian’s tone shifted, incredulous, as he pointed a finger at Lysander.
“No, I am. But your ties to Alaric Ashworth were equally established. Why then do you align yourself with me?”
“Because I have known you longer.”
“What utter fabrication? Our acquaintance was forged through Alaric Ashworth’s circle, was it not?”
“Thorne. What absurdity are you uttering? We were quite… familiar… during our first year.”
“When, precisely?”
“Truly, you are an infuriating individual. Back in the refectory, our gazes frequently met!”
“Ah… those particular instances.”
“So, was I the sole individual who perceived a nascent companionship? You rogue. That is precisely why, upon finding ourselves in the same curriculum, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge that? Unbelievable. My disappointment is profound.”
“Oh.”
“Truly. Beyond belief. How could you inflict such an oversight upon me?”
“Forgive me. My apologies, Blackwood. I am genuinely sorry.” Lysander mumbled the words hastily, recalling those awkward, yet strangely frequent, encounters from their first year. So *those* had been within Caspian’s definition of ‘friendship.’ He felt strangely defrauded. How could anyone interpret those hostile stares as anything but animosity? And wait, did this mean the initial invitation to join their table, the one he had always attributed to Alaric’s casual grace, had actually been orchestrated by Caspian? The revelation struck him with the force of an ungentle shove. It was deeply unsettling. Still, he preferred not to delve further into Caspian’s peculiar logic.
“Understood, then. My sincerest apologies.” Lysander nodded, feigning comprehension.
“I was profoundly vexed, moments ago.” Caspian’s gaze narrowed briefly. His thought processes remained an enigma to Lysander.
“And furthermore, Alaric Ashworth’s conduct is decidedly peculiar.”
Lysander remained silent.
“That scion has truly lost his grasp on reality. He has always possessed a certain… eccentric bent, but this? This transcends the merely odd.” Caspian retrieved the obsidian sphere, idly spinning it around his temple with an index finger. The motion brought to mind Gareth’s hesitant confidences, the awkward attempts of other classmates to discuss Alaric’s increasingly erratic behavior. From their hushed remarks alone, one truth emerged: Alaric Ashworth’s standing was in precipitous decline.
“Unseemly.” The word, a whispered execration, the most feared and damning stigma within the rigid social order of Ashworth Hall, sent a chill through Lysander. A subtle tremor ran through him. Simultaneously, a cold relief washed over him, a dark comfort that no one knew the true nature of his own desires. Did this relief signify a self-preservation that outweighed any lingering loyalty to Alaric? He felt a blasphemous priest, guarding a dark secret before a stern deity.
“Indeed,” he murmured, the word tasting of ashes.
A strange, brittle laugh escaped him—a fragile blend of fear and derision. It was almost comical, this irony: to others, he was now Caspian Blackwood’s closest associate. Yet, he remained unchanged, a criminal branded with an unholy stigma. Only a few moons prior, he had been Alaric Ashworth’s trusted confidante. Now, he merely hid, trapped in a precarious haven he had barely managed to secure. He had merely avoided capture. Nothing more.
---
Dawn broke, an oyster-gray light bleeding into the chambers of Ashworth Hall. A message arrived, unannounced, from an unknown provenance. A chime at four in the morning. Half-asleep, Lysander almost convinced himself it was all a dream, a figment of his fevered anxieties. Even though he had assiduously avoided any contact with Alaric to shield his own fragile heart, a foolish flicker of hope ignited: could it be him? He rubbed sleep from his eyes, fumbling for his personal comm-link. His emotions were a conflicted maelstrom. A part of him wished it were merely a spurious missive, some illicit offer for forgotten texts. But the content, stark against the screen, dispelled the illusion. It was not Alaric.
*Thorne, my apologies for this untimely intrusion. Could you perhaps meet me outside your residence for a brief moment? Forgive me. I am truly sorry.*
*Just this once. Only this once.*
Alaric Ashworth would sooner abdicate his title than offer such an apology. Among his peers, only two individuals addressed him as Thorne. Of those two, only one was capable of such raw, self-abasing entreaty. How had Theron Vance even discovered his private residence? The moment his gaze registered the sender, Lysander’s face twisted into a scowl. He did not wish to see Theron. Never wished to. Theron was an unpleasant reminder, a constant barb.
Yet, despite the surge of revulsion, Lysander swung his legs from the bed. He buttoned his dressing gown, the heavy silk a cold comfort, and rose. He walked to the door of his private quarters, pausing just short of the threshold, resting his forehead against the cool, carved oak frame. A deep, shuddering sigh escaped him.
“...Damnation.”
The knot in his stomach tightened, a complicated, wretched tangle. It was the only way to articulate the feeling. He clutched at his chest, breath catching. He had always prided himself on his vast vocabulary, his academic prowess, yet no lexicon of human emotion could adequately describe this intricate, unbearable mess. It was simply… complicated.
His hatred for Theron Vance, the memory of that day’s bruised purple, the desperate, calculated distance he’d striven to maintain between them all swirled together, a bitter draught. Biting his lip, Lysander’s fingers instinctively sought the cold brass of the doorknob. He closed his eyes, then turned it with a decisive, if reluctant, twist.
In the cloistered garden, the cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding the arrival of an early autumn. To avoid the damp, manicured lawn, Lysander stepped carefully onto the cool, smoothed marble paths. The chill of dawn made him pull his dressing gown tighter. His slippered feet, exposed at the toes, carried him towards the main gates. He paused there, a soft click of his tongue, and grasped the heavy wrought-iron handle. The creaking hinge made him flinch, and he opened the gate with deliberate slowness.
Beyond, illuminated by the solitary streetlight on the asphalt lane, stood Theron Vance. He wore his school uniform, crumpled and askew, his head bowed, idly scrawling invisible patterns on the ground with the toe of his polished shoe.
“...Theron Vance.”
At Lysander’s low voice, Theron’s head snapped up with a desperate quickness.
“Thorne! Lysander!” Theron’s voice was a ragged whisper, strained with a desperate urgency.
“What is it you—