Two days after Julian Crestwood’s belongings had been subtly desecrated, his meticulously bound treatises were found scattered amidst the incinerator’s hungry maw. Acrid smoke, a scent of burnt parchment and futile ambition, drifted from Ashworth’s central yard. It permeated the crisp autumn air, a silent testament to a recent, brutal social skirmish.
Discernment of the orchestrator required little effort. After a few recitations in the Hall’s Grand Lecture Theatre, a smirk, sharp and triumphant, flickered across Cassian Alaric’s aristocratic features, directed towards no one in particular, yet understood by all. Servants whispered in the kitchens, then students in the dormitories, that Cassian had been openly boasting in the common rooms about his 'expeditious disposal' of Julian’s academic tools. A brutal efficiency.
“How… resourceful,” Lysander mused, his gaze resting upon a small, singed corner of a page trapped by the wind against a polished stone gargoyle. It was a fragment of a botanical illustration, now curled and blackened, hinting at the quiet, academic pursuits Julian favored. That crumpled scrap, a fragile, enduring symbol, represented the ongoing struggle between Lord Valerius Crestwood’s aggressive maneuvering and Julian’s faltering position.
Julian, unaware of the deeper currents swirling around him, had already lost to Valerius two days prior. The books were merely a postscript, a declaration of conquest.
The motive clarified itself with chilling precision. At first, Lysander had dismissed the incidents as mere displays of petty cruelty, common enough within Ashworth’s walls. But a subtle shift, an almost imperceptible tremor in Julian’s usually placid demeanor, began to betray him. Even those within Julian’s own inner circle, now thinning like winter foliage, noted his increasingly erratic behavior. His animosity towards Lord Valerius, his own cousin and heir presumptive, transcended mere family discord. Lysander had witnessed their last public altercation, a veiled but vicious parley, and understood. Yet, as the tide of opinion turned irrevocably against Julian, Lysander felt no compulsion to intercede, no flicker of guilt to explain.
Lysander was not so naive as to deliberately sabotage his own carefully constructed edifice. He understood precisely how his intervention would be perceived. It might garner him a fleeting reputation for kindness, even loyalty. But within the labyrinthine corridors of Ashworth, where every interaction was a calculated gambit, even such a noble impulse would invite scrutiny.
“Why?” The unspoken question, a venomous whisper, haunted him.
That thought, more than any physical threat, terrified him.
He rested his forehead against the cool, smooth surface of his lacquered desk, closing his eyes. A brief respite, a moment of profound silence. If left undisturbed, he might have drifted into the quiet oblivion of sleep, wishing, for a fleeting moment, that upon opening his eyes, the world would conform to his carefully orchestrated desires.
Instead, a sharp rap against his crown jolted him awake. He sat upright, a faint sting lingering, and observed Sebastian Thorne, his cousin, rubbing his own brow with an exaggerated grimace.
“Confound it, that smarts.” Sebastian’s voice, a gravelly murmur, broke the morning’s fragile peace.
“Why are you indulging in sloth so early, Lysander?”
“Mind your own affairs. What is that you wield?” Lysander gestured with a precise movement of his chin.
Sebastian grinned, unrepentant, lifting a battered, ornate quill he’d tucked beneath his arm. Its once-lustrous feather was now frayed, its silver nib dulled. “Oh, this? Acquired it en route. Found it languishing in the Archives’ discard bin. A rather grand, if forgotten, implement.”
Lysander’s lips thinned, a minor ripple of irritation disturbing his placid composure. Sebastian possessed an uncanny knack for unearthing the most peculiar detritus.
Though the impact had been negligible, Lysander traced a finger over his scalp, a phantom worry that his impeccably parted hair might have suffered. Sebastian, meanwhile, swiveled a vacant chair with a casual kick, then sank into it with practiced ease before it could topple. Naturally, he remained upright. His satchel landed with a thump on the desk, serving as an immediate pillow as he flopped forward, a picture of indolent repose.
“You rouse me from my contemplation merely to court oblivion yourself?” Lysander inquired, a dry note in his tone.
“Merely safeguarding your academic laurels, cousin. Wouldn’t do for the family’s paragon to miss a lecture. My own grades are beyond redemption, so my slumber is a matter of no import.” His voice was muffled, thick with feigned nonchalance.
“Pure fabrication.”
Lysander shifted, a faint murmur of annoyance escaping him. An inexplicable urge to parley with Sebastian, to refute every one of his outlandish pronouncements, always took hold. He nudged Sebastian’s foot with his own, a barely perceptible gesture of impatience. Sebastian, without lifting his head, simply smirked.
“Tell me, is it permissible to assault one still recovering from a recent… encounter? You scoundrel.” The playful sarcasm, a thinly veiled jibe, prompted Lysander to scoff. This time, he flicked the discarded quill. It sailed towards Sebastian, who, with no more than a lazy twitch of his hand, caught it mid-flight. He remained prone, face buried in his satchel, a silent chuckle rumbling from his chest. Then, his voice, still muffled, cut through the quiet.
“I’ve been meaning to pose a query.”
“Indeed?”
“That wasn’t merely a stumble, was it?”
A sharp spike of unease pierced Lysander’s calm. Had it truly been so obvious? The subtle bruise near his temple, meticulously concealed by a clever play of light and shadow, was scarcely visible.
Lysander hesitated for a fractional moment, then smoothed an invisible crease from his sleeve, adopting a nonchalant air. “An unfortunate misstep. Nothing more.”
“Hah.” Sebastian’s low chuckle vibrated through the air, his chin still resting on his satchel.
“Is that so?” His eyes, bright and unblinking, flickered to Lysander, a finger pointing with disarming directness. Lysander, momentarily at a loss, simply echoed, “What?”
“You are a rather brazen individual.”
That smile, a slow, knowing curve of his lips, as he rested the quill against his temple, momentarily disarmed Lysander’s analytical processes.
“...Brazen in what regard?”
“I suspect your recent... discomfort... was not entirely self-inflicted.”
Lysander’s breath caught.
Sebastian’s pronouncements, often cryptic, now held an unsettling, quiet menace. His gaze remained unnervingly still, bright irises narrowing, the dark pupils fixed on Lysander with an intensity that mirrored an arrow’s tip, poised before release. This time, the aim was true. Lysander’s mind, usually a fortress of logic, went blank. Two words echoed, insistent and cold: *Impossible. He couldn’t know.* *Impossible. He couldn’t know.*
Then, Sebastian’s eyes narrowed further.
“It appeared more as if you had, shall we say, *collided* with an opposing force.”
Sebastian’s long, serpentine eyes curved upwards at the corners. Lysander’s throat constricted, parched. His breath hitched. A dry swallow. As Sebastian parted his lips again, Lysander found himself unable to blink.
“Should others discern the truth, it might prove… rather inconvenient, wouldn’t it?”
Lysander remained silent.
“I shall maintain my discretion.” Sebastian raised the quill to his lips, whispering the words, then offered a conspiratorial wink. The breath Lysander had held, a caged animal, slammed against his ribs.
Sebastian allowed no time for reaction. With an infuriating casualness, he ran a hand through his perpetually disheveled bangs, then pointed the quill at Lysander again.
“However, did you perhaps emulate my coiffure? That would be rather… unoriginal.”
Lysander was speechless. Sebastian crinkled his nose in an exaggerated display of disapproval.
“In any case, I shall now resume my profound intellectual pursuits in dreamland.” He yawned, a wide, cavernous expanse, and buried his face once more in his satchel. Staring at the back of his cousin’s head, Lysander finally managed to articulate, “I did not emulate you, nor have I altered my hair.”
“Oh, really?” Sebastian’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his bag, already half-asleep.
---
“Lamb of the Sacred Flame, who purges the stains of the mortal coil.” Sebastian intoned, clutching a parchment scroll in one hand. It was his midterm report for Arcane Lore.
Fourth period. With the conclusion of the Classical Rhetoric lecture, our midterm results from the previous month had been distributed. Sebastian buried his face in the unrolled parchment, scanned the scores, and then uttered that peculiar invocation. He then threw his head back with theatrical abandon, letting out a profound sigh.
“Ah, I am thoroughly undone.”
Lysander merely glanced at his own immaculate report, confirmed his scores, then folded it precisely in half and slipped it into the inner pocket of his finely tailored satchel. Returning his gaze to Sebastian, he found his cousin still sighing dramatically.
Sebastian’s head was thrown back so far that only his prominent Adam’s apple was visible, bobbing with a heavy, almost accusatory rhythm. Fixing his gaze on the column of his cousin’s throat, Lysander remarked, “That particular supplication is not intended for such mundane predicaments.”
“Details, Lysander. A prayer is a prayer.” Sebastian then, with sudden curiosity, inquired, “Tell me, is it ‘Sacred Flame’ or ‘Celestial Spark’?”
It was then Lysander truly apprehended the peculiar nature of Sebastian’s faith—a curious mélange of irreverence and convenience.
“Why solicit my counsel? It is, ostensibly, your belief.”
“Dearest Lysander, do not be so reticent. Your intellect is so vast, I assumed you held sway over all knowledge.”
“I do not. Nor do I subscribe to any formal creed.”
Sebastian, who had been leaning back precariously, abruptly shot forward. Their eyes met for a fleeting instant. Lysander, caught off guard, instinctively averted his gaze towards the leaded panes of the window, feigning disinterest. Yet, an odd prickling sensation, as though he’d been caught in a minor transgression, tightened in his chest.
He stared absently at the outside world, then shifted his focus to the stiff, perfectly pressed collar of Sebastian’s uniform shirt. The crisp white fabric rested against his neck, but with every exaggerated movement, Sebastian’s collarbone, a stark, elegant line, flashed into view.
“So? Care to accompany me to the Chapel of Whispers this weekend?”
“Chapel of Whispers? I think not.”
“Ah, why the refusal? Come, Lysander. If one attends on the designated days, especially during the festival of the Solstice, they distribute delightful small gifts. Sugared dates, candied ginger, perhaps even warm spiced cider…”
“Hold. Are you implying you attend solely for such trifling incentives?”
“Naturally.”
Lysander finally granted Sebastian his full attention. His eyes settled on the quill Sebastian had now balanced precariously on his upper lip. He found himself, despite his innate pride, forced to acknowledge Sebastian’s rather striking appearance. A smug, insufferable rogue.
The quill, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted Sebastian’s voice into a slurred, disgruntled mumble. “The way you articulate it, Lysander, suggests I am engaging in larceny. If these gifts are freely offered, what transgression lies in accepting them?”
“Can one truly term it ‘faith’ if belief is predicated upon such self-serving motives?” Lysander countered, his tone precise.
“That is the very genesis of all conviction. Few commence with grand, immutable beliefs. They observe, ‘Ah, delightful provisions are offered here. The benefactor must be benevolent.’ And then, by imperceptible increments, their belief in that ‘benevolent dispenser of treats’ evolves into unwavering devotion. The impetus, the initial spark, is irrelevant. What matters is the present, the steadfast belief.”
Sebastian, at times, spouted utter nonsense. Even Julian Crestwood had, on occasion, been ensnared in his illogical pronouncements.
Sometimes, it was simply bluster. Yet, occasionally, it was a peculiar brand of sophistry that Lysander himself found subtly compelling. This was one such instance.
Lysander ran a hand through his bangs, attempting to brush them back from his forehead. They persistently drifted back into his eyes. He shook his head from side to side. His fine strands of hair swayed before him. He gathered them near his temples, finally alleviating the distracting tickle.
He had been so consumed by recent machinations that the simple necessity of a barber’s visit had escaped him.
With Julian Crestwood and Valerius Crestwood temporarily absent from the lecture halls – Valerius having orchestrated a convenient 'family matter' to remove Julian from Ashworth – the front of the classroom felt conspicuously empty. There was no longer any reason for Lysander to direct his gaze in that direction, to observe Julian’s subtle tells.
Six days prior, Magister Thorne, his homeroom instructor and a distant relation, had summoned Lysander to the faculty office, inquiring about Julian’s whereabouts.
Lysander answered with quiet sincerity, devoid of any discernible hesitation. “No, Magister. Julian has not communicated with me.”
“You and Julian still haven’t resolved your… difference, have you?” Magister Thorne probed, his gaze shrewd.
Lysander offered a small, carefully modulated smile, tinged with a delicate, bitter edge. A perfectly calculated expression. In truth, no genuine mirth touched him. “No, Magister. Julian… he became quite distressed with me.”
“Julian became distressed with *you*?” The Magister’s brows furrowed, a flicker of surprise.
“Indeed.”
Rumors, like tendrils of ivy, already wove through Ashworth. Magister Thorne, though perhaps not fully privy to the intricacies, was hardly oblivious to the implications of Lysander’s words. “Very well, Lysander. You may go.” He dismissed Lysander, then, settling into his chair, muttered under his breath.
Lysander, though turning away, pretended not to hear the pathetic monologue, yet still absorbed every word. Snippets of complaint about Julian, frustrated murmurs regarding a scolding from Lord Crestwood Sr. – Julian’s father – floated into his perception. He silently gauged the atmosphere within the faculty’s inner sanctum.
Later that evening, while preparing for his private lessons within his family’s Ashworth residence, Julian’s father, Lord Crestwood Sr., contacted him. The inquiry was identical to Magister Thorne’s – did he know Julian’s present location?
Lysander offered the same carefully constructed response. “No, Lord Crestwood. Julian has, regrettably, ceased all communication with me.”
— *I comprehend…* A sigh, heavy and resigned, issued from the earpiece.
“I am truly regretful I cannot be of greater assistance.” Lysander’s tone was laced with genuine-sounding remorse.
— *No, my boy, there is nothing for you to lament. It is quite alright.* The familiar dismissal.
Lately, Lord Crestwood Sr.’s calls had grown increasingly frequent, each conversation following an identical, predictable pattern. There was something oddly deliberate in his persistent attempts to forge a connection between Julian and Lysander, a subtle pressure to involve him. Lysander, sensing the trap, hastened to conclude the call.
In truth, no genuine apology was warranted. Yet, he offered it anyway – a strategic concession to be perceived favorably. It was the same ingrained instinct that compelled observers to declare an unappealing newborn ‘charming.’ A social convention. A nuanced form of etiquette that governed the polished surfaces of Ashworth’s society.
He held no illusions that adults truly perceived him as manipulated. If anything, his politeness was a crude pantomime, enacted by a court jester. Lysander understood his station precisely. And because he invested such meticulous effort into being liked, he was destined to become a celebrated jester, one whose performances garnered him a certain untouchable status.
Even if, one distant day, he committed an error so blatant it drew the collective frown of his audience, he would be afforded forgiveness. This was the intricate groundwork he meticulously laid. He was, unlike certain less discerning individuals, navigating his existence with a shrewd wisdom.
Perhaps, from the perspective of an elder, his stratagem might appear as a narrow-minded, petty trick to evade consequence. But among his peers, his efficacy was undeniable – he was the individual who knew how to manage unpredictable currents with calculated grace.
Proof of this lay in the recent behavior of Elian Vance.
Elian, once a close confidante of Julian Crestwood, now exerted considerable energy attempting to curry favor with Sebastian Thorne. And, by careful extension, with Lysander himself, given his perceived alignment with Sebastian. The shift was as stark as the winter solstice.