Lysander possessed an exquisite shell of self-control. Years spent navigating the meticulously sculpted expectations of his lineage had forged it, a gleaming, impenetrable surface. More than anything, he loathed the raw, unguarded display of vulnerability. His inner world might roil with anxiety, fear, or indignation, but outwardly, he maintained a composure that bordered on the unnerving. A stoic mask, meticulously carved.
Such unwavering calm often earned him dismissive labels: dispassionate, even dull. Not that the tempest of emotion never struck; rather, each jolt, each psychic wound, had merely solidified another layer of his protective armour. Over time, genuine provocation became a rarity, a nearly impossible feat.
This held true even for the volatile orbits of Alaric Vance and his circle.
Lysander’s carefully cultivated neutrality was precisely what allowed him to remain within Alaric’s sphere. His academic record was impeccable, his comportment beyond reproach – a credit to his parents and a testament to his own quiet ambition. He occupied a respectable, if not central, position within Ashworth Hall’s intricate social hierarchy. Preserving that position, a delicate edifice painstakingly constructed, was paramount.
"Lysander, a moment."
"Yes, Alaric?"
"Your tone. It grates."
"As does your perpetual scowl, one might argue."
"Amusing."
An insult, a jab at appearance, only truly stings if it finds purchase. Alaric Vance, with his robust self-regard, simply laughed off Lysander’s cool retort, a fleeting amusement.
"Lysander, do you ever actually… associate with anyone beyond these gilded halls? You have a surprising number of acquaintances."
"Associate in what capacity, Alaric?"
"Pleasant ones. Not the kind that leave you feeling as though you’ve waded through a bog."
"Specify ‘pleasant,’ if you would."
"Don’t play coy. It’s tiresome."
Cassian Beaumont, lounging beside Alaric, spun a heavy silver signet ring on his finger, offering no answers. Alaric, however, seemed to lose interest, his gaze drifting across the grand common room, settling with predatory intent on Elias Sterling, a slight figure hunched over a worn textbook at the furthest table.
"Someone with a gentle countenance, perhaps. A pliable disposition, easily charmed…"
Alaric Vance was impulse personified: crude, often violent, devoid of true foresight. His desires, raw and unbridled since the first stirrings of adolescence, required no further substantiation from Lysander. So, Alaric’s harassment, lacking the subtle artistry of Ashworth’s more refined cruelties, merely intensified into blatant, undeniable acts.
By the waning days of the summer term, Elias Sterling had become a social pariah, a ghost within these ancient walls. Yet, even this complete isolation failed to sate Alaric.
Alaric’s inner cohort—Darius, Fenris, Gideon—would linger after the chime of the final bell, awaiting his command. Meanwhile, others from the West Wing, names like Marcus Finch and Silas Thorne, would vanish at the first mention of luncheon, seeking distance. Different levels of influence, different methods of avoidance.
During his first year, Lysander had been an integral part of Alaric’s immediate circle. The second year, however, saw a subtle shift. It began with Fenris’s offhand remark: "Lysander, you’re eating with Cassian again? Gods, you finish your meal with the speed of a sloth."
Without a direct confrontation, without even his input being solicited, Lysander found himself gently, almost imperceptibly, eased out. The most galling part? Alaric’s indifference. His presence or absence held no particular weight for the group’s de facto leader. Damn it.
Lysander, affecting a casual air, risked a glance at Alaric.
"Am I truly so deliberate in my eating?"
"Of course. You sit there, dissecting each morsel like a botanist, while the rest of us are finished within five minutes flat."
"Indeed. We’re invariably late for our afternoon skirmishes because of your—culinary meditation."
"…Ah."
"We have a wager match with the East Wing today. Perhaps you should dine with Cassian."
"…"
Lysander’s pride, a fragile but unyielding thing, prevented him from arguing. Besides, the chronic indigestion he’d endured throughout his first year was, he suspected, a direct consequence of rushing his meals to keep pace. And frankly, the very notion of clinging to Alaric like a discarded husk disgusted even him. So, he neither pleaded nor protested.
Just like that, he was out. His own will, his preference, rendered irrelevant.
Trying to project an air of nonchalance, Lysander met the gaze of Cassian, the only other student remaining. Cassian, still spinning his ring on the desktop, inclined his head.
"Your luncheon plans?"
"…"
"My usual departure is in precisely ten minutes."
"That aligns with my schedule as well."
In truth, Lysander had never dined at such a late hour. But a primal instinct for survival asserted itself. To maintain a semblance of belonging, even within Cassian’s tangential orbit, required adaptation. The first time he joined Cassian alone, Lysander left half his tray untouched, citing a sudden lack of appetite. Cassian raised a sardonic eyebrow.
"Eighteen years old, and still particular about your gruel?"
"What concern is that of yours?"
"Frankly, you’re behaving like an infant."
"Adults, I assure you, do not pair roasted venison with saccharine berry compote."
Lysander retorted, a petulant edge to his voice, glaring at Cassian. What right did he have to comment? The impertinence grated.
In their first year, Alaric and Lysander had been almost constant companions. By the second, those moments had diminished significantly, a consequence, in part, of Cassian’s presence. Yet, Lysander held no right to complain. Cassian, in the convoluted pecking order of Ashworth, outranked him.
Cassian’s and Alaric’s social circles often overlapped, primarily comprising the more recalcitrant students who consistently occupied the lower echelons of academic rankings. These were the types who would forge falsified permissions for early dismissal or simply vanish from lectures, exploiting the casual indifference of masters who rarely bothered to verify their whereabouts.
Alaric, ever mindful of his parents’ pervasive scrutiny, usually remained in class until the final bell. As for Cassian, whose reputation for insubordination was almost as infamous, Lysander once ventured to ask why he bothered staying.
"Do you genuinely believe me so pathetic?"
"No, but your… associates often exhibit such tendencies."
"Associates? What preposterous notion is that? They are not my friends. They are dregs."
"Pardon?"
"A student’s fundamental obligation is attendance and acquisition of knowledge, is it not?"
"…That is factually correct."
"Do not lump me with that refuse. It offends."
"My apologies."
"I was not soliciting contrition."
Objectively, it was a perfectly reasonable declaration. Yet, hearing it from Cassian Beaumont, whose so-called companions absented themselves from the hall’s rigorous schedule at least once a week, struck Lysander as profoundly absurd.
Regardless, Lysander spent the majority of his second year in a peculiar, often tense, alliance with Alaric Vance and Cassian Beaumont. He considered it a sacred, if somewhat tainted, space—a buffer against complete isolation. Without Cassian, it might have been ideal, but surprisingly, they coexisted with more ease than anticipated. Lysander did not like him, no, but Cassian was not so intolerable as to provoke outright flight. Merely… vexing.
But Elias Sterling had, today, transformed even those fraught days into a fresh nightmare.
This day, however, felt subtly different. A tremor in the established pattern.
"Damn Fenris and Darius, the unconscionable wretches," Alaric cursed, running a hand through his dark hair as the fourth period neared its close.
Hearing his voice, Lysander pivoted immediately, a flicker of anticipation, almost hope, sparking in his chest. "They’ve defaulted again?"
"Fools."
"Unfortunate. With whom will you be taking luncheon, then?"
Lysander found himself unable to suppress the tiny, desperate surge of optimism. His fingers, resting on the back of his chair, trembled almost imperceptibly. Alaric emitted a heavy sigh, turning his gaze to Cassian, who merely watched his signet ring spin.
"Today, I shall grace you both with my presence."
"Unnecessary. No invitation was extended," Cassian replied, his tone devoid of warmth.
"Continue to exercise your wit, and I shall ensure its immediate cessation."
"Gods, Alaric, today truly inspires the urge to rearrange your facial structure."
"Attempt it, imbecile."
"Brave words from one who would otherwise be dining in solitary ignominy."
Lysander, unable to restrain himself further, interjected. "Surely, we can all partake together. We cannot abandon Alaric to dine alone."
His desperation must have been glaringly evident. Alaric, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips, glanced at Cassian.
"See? I cultivate exceptional companions."
"…"
"What say you, Cassian? Lysander proves surprisingly useful, does he not?"
Cassian merely scowled, sweeping Alaric’s heavy silver inkwell from the desk, sending it clattering to the polished floorboards. Whether Cassian held any personal regard for Lysander was irrelevant. What mattered, profoundly, was Alaric’s agreement to join them for luncheon.
It had been an age since they had shared a meal. Lysander was so absurdly elated that he even forced himself to consume the braised boar, a dish he normally despised.
Alaric, however, paid no attention to his meal. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the expansive dining hall like a predator surveying its territory. Lysander, too engrossed in the scene, failed to notice Cassian deftly pilfering a selection of his untouched vegetables. Then, without warning, Alaric’s fork clattered, and his free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing their table.
Lysander looked up. It was Elias Sterling.
"Sit here," Alaric commanded, indicating the empty seat beside him. "You have no one else with whom to dine, after all."
Elias’s face flushed scarlet. His eyes darted nervously, settling briefly on Lysander before he bit his lip and slowly, reluctantly, took the designated seat.
Lysander felt stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Alaric exhibit any concern for Elias’s social standing? And the very reason Elias stood so utterly isolated was entirely Alaric’s doing. Alaric, notoriously, forbade anyone from showing the slightest kindness to Elias.
A bitter, metallic taste rose in Lysander’s throat.
Unconsciously, Lysander’s spoon struck his tray with a sharp, jarring clang. Only Elias reacted, flinching visibly, his gaze flickering nervously towards Lysander. Alaric, however, remained fixated on Elias.
Damn it. In that precise moment, Lysander felt the meticulously constructed protective shell he had spent years perfecting begin to fissure. He tried to halt the burgeoning cracks, but found himself powerless. Perhaps he was nearing a precipice he had long refused to acknowledge.
Clinging desperately to denial, Lysander snapped at Elias.
"Elias. Withdraw."
"H-huh?"
"Disregard Alaric. Simply go. It is permissible."
"Lysander," Alaric’s voice, dangerously low, cut through the din.
When Lysander told Elias to leave, Alaric, who had ignored the previous, much louder disruption, finally clenched his jaw, glaring at Lysander with venomous intensity. That glare, far from deterring, merely solidified Lysander’s resolve. He fixed his eyes stubbornly on Elias.
"I shall manage this. You may depart."
"Uh, o-okay."
"And Alaric, cease this charade immediately."
"Indeed, I concur," Cassian chimed in, his words muffled by a mouthful of some unidentifiable gruel. His sudden interjection felt utterly out of place, yet perfectly typical. He chewed and swallowed with deliberate slowness, glancing between Lysander and Alaric with an irritating smirk.
"What are you staring at? You’re spoiling my appetite."
As always, Cassian’s unnecessary provocations grated on Lysander’s nerves. The man was insufferable, regardless of the angle from which one viewed him. Ignoring him, Lysander turned back to Alaric.
"Leave Elias unmolested."
"Who the hell are you to dictate my actions?" Alaric shot back, his face contorted.
"It is tiresome for the rest of us to witness."
Lysander did not blink, holding Alaric’s furious gaze. Alaric slammed his fist on the table. The sudden impact made Elias, still perched awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Cassian, on the other hand, chuckled lazily, raising a hand in a gesture of mock surrender.
"Count me out of this particular gladiatorial contest."
He licked a bead of water from his lip, adding, "Let us determine this by majority. I remain neutral. Lysander desires his departure. Alaric insists he stays."
For the record, Cassian was one of the few who abbreviated Lysander to "Lys," and he found it irritating every single time. That irritation, a subtle, barely perceptible tremor, colored his voice now.
"Do not interfere. Your vote carries no weight."
"Why not? There is another individual directly beside you."
Cassian, entirely unfazed, smirked and pointed at Elias, a casual flick of his wrist towards the trembling figure.
"What? Is Elias not a person?"
"You are beyond reason."
"Why is he so silent? Allow him to articulate his own wishes."
As if Elias could possibly articulate anything in this tense, charged atmosphere. Lysander sighed at Cassian’s thoughtless antics, picking up his spoon and idly stirring his untouched rice. At that moment, Alaric tapped his finger on the polished tabletop.
"If you depart now, your life, starting today, will become a living hell."
Tears began to well in Elias’s large eyes, which glimmered as he looked at Lysander, an unspoken plea for salvation. Damn it. Lysander pressed his lips into a thin line.
"It is fine. I shall deter him," Lysander said, attempting to offer a semblance of reassurance to Elias.
"Lysander," Alaric growled, his voice taut with suppressed fury.
Lysander forced himself to meet Alaric’s gaze, projecting an impossible calm, even as he felt an overwhelming urge to collapse. To suppress it, he lifted his eyes to the ancient, vaulted ceiling for a fleeting moment, then lowered his head, replying with forced nonchalance.
"What?"
"You…"
Alaric clenched his fist, glaring at Lysander with an intensity that felt like a searing brand. Still, Lysander had to endure. His instincts screamed that leaving Elias to Alaric’s mercy was unthinkable.
But then Alaric’s focus, unnervingly, shifted back to Elias.
"I-I’ll go," Elias stammered, his voice trembling uncontrollably.
"…"
"Th-thank you, Lysander."
Elias scrambled up, nearly tripping, and fled the hall, his footsteps echoing unevenly. As soon as he was gone, Alaric turned abruptly, his cold, furious gaze settling, irrevocably, on Lysander.