A glacial week unfolded. Lysander Thorne meticulously curated his detachment. He spent his hours among his own carefully chosen circle, a deliberate display of indifference. Cassian Thorne, it seemed, no longer occupied his thoughts. Or so the performance suggested.
Lysander’s feigned aloofness masked a constant, gnawing curiosity. Information about Cassian had become a scarce commodity. He could no longer glean snippets from the casual periphery of Cassian’s own retinue. These days, news arrived only through Silas Vance, often relayed with an air of amused disinterest.
Pride remained a stubborn sentinel. It bristled at the thought of overt inquiry. Yet, a relentless need to know pulsed beneath Lysander’s composed exterior. He found himself subtly angling conversations, a delicate manipulation of social threads, whenever Silas was near.
Silas, oblivious or feigning it, would tap idly on the crystal display of his datapad. He’d offer a careless shrug, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Cassian? Ah, he’s gone out again.” Each answer landed like a small, blunt stone.
“Always out, it seems,” Lysander murmured, a carefully neutral observation. He pictured Cassian at some illicit club, cloaked in the academy’s shadow. Ashworth had its dark corners, after all.
“Not a club this time,” Silas corrected, twisting his torso to better focus on his game. A complex strategy sim, no doubt. “A blind introduction. Lady Isolde arranged it. You know, the one who’s been hounding him for weeks.”
Lysander held his breath.
“Apparently, they departed together. Immediately. A rather swift engagement, I’d say.” Silas paused, a knowing glint in his eye. “She seemed quite amenable to the arrangement. Almost eager.”
Silence stretched. Lysander processed the information, a peculiar lightness surfacing in his chest. Silas's tone, though casual, dripped with a familiar disdain.
“Disgustingly… unburdened by decorum,” Lysander observed, a faint curl to his lip.
He moved to Silas’s desk, perching lightly on the polished oak. A hand settled on Silas’s shoulder, a brief, almost imperceptible squeeze. Silas shifted, creating a space beside him. A quiet acknowledgment.
Only Silas seemed to articulate the inherent vulgarity of Cassian’s romantic inclinations. For this alone, Lysander found his company tolerable, even welcome.
“Unburdened is certainly one way to put it,” Silas agreed, fingers flying across the datapad. “I, myself, prefer a modicum of restraint.”
“A commendable, if unexciting, trait for an Ashworth student,” Lysander countered, allowing a hint of amusement to color his voice.
Silas chuckled. “Excitement is overrated. Prudence has its own rewards.” He finally lifted his gaze, a wry smile fixed on Lysander. “Hence my continued singleness, perhaps?”
“A plausible theory,” Lysander conceded, a faint smile touching his own lips.
Silas switched off the datapad. He turned fully to Lysander, an incredulous expression on his face. He tapped Lysander’s hand still resting on his shoulder. “This borders on harassment, you know.”
“Harassment?” Lysander feigned innocence. “I’m merely engaging in academic discourse.”
“If the recipient feels discomfort, it crosses the line,” Silas declared, a mock-serious tone.
Lysander scoffed. “Silas, you are quite absurd.”
“And you, Lysander, are insufferable.”
Lysander’s polished loafer slipped from his foot, dangling precariously. He nudged Silas’s leg with his sock-clad foot. Silas exaggerated a stumble, then subtly raised a hand, middle finger extended. A thin silver rosary, a constant fixture, glinted at his wrist.
“That rosary seems an odd fit for you, Silas,” Lysander remarked, nudging him again.
Silas’s expression grew serious. “Odd? I find it rather suitable.”
“It simply doesn’t… resonate with your usual presentation.”
“Doesn’t resonate? But I strive for devout piety. Surely you perceive my earnestness?”
Lysander suppressed a sigh. “It presents more as an accessory, I’m afraid.”
“It is not, Lysander.” A definite edge entered Silas’s voice.
Lysander recalled the initial surprise. Silas Vance, the sardonic, perpetually unimpressed, was a descendant of a staunchly Catholic lineage. A devout adherent himself, or so he claimed. Yet, he fumbled through even the simplest benediction. It remained a curious contradiction.
---
Lysander maintained his deliberate distance from Cassian for another seven days. Their paths sometimes intersected in the ornate halls, or across the polished surface of the common study. A fleeting glance, quickly diverted.
He lacked the temerity to initiate contact. A visceral aversion to revealing vulnerability held him captive. A foolish axiom, perhaps: the one who cared more, lost more. Still, it governed his actions.
Good Alistair Thorne, however, frequently sought Lysander out. Alistair gravitated towards Lysander’s calm, his quiet attentiveness. But new contusions appeared daily on Alistair’s face, a stark testament to Cassian’s continued, brutal possessiveness. Like an apex predator marking its territory.
Lysander’s brow would furrow at the sight. Alistair, noticing the subtle shift in Lysander’s gaze, would instinctively turn his head, attempting to conceal the fresh injuries. It was a futile gesture.
---
Four more days elapsed. One quiet morning, alone within the hushed grandeur of the East Wing study, Lysander buried his face in his hands. He wished to disengage from the unfolding drama, the painful, predictable tableau.
A chasm between Lysander and Cassian widened. What had begun as a subtle divergence now yawned into an impassable gulf. Opening his eyes felt like inviting the abyss to consume him. Alistair’s bruised eyelids, swollen and discolored, served as an ugly, incontrovertible seal on the worsening dynamic. Lysander yearned to simply avoid it all.
Then, a reprieve arrived. Alistair Thorne stopped attending Ashworth. Professor Albright, during morning roll call, announced it as an absence. A tremor in her voice, however, betrayed the true nature of his withdrawal: truancy. Lysander felt a surge of illicit relief. He almost cheered aloud.
Cassian, in contrast, grew increasingly volatile. He fiddled restlessly with his comm-device during lectures, snapped cutting remarks, even delivered a sharp, open-handed blow to one of his hangers-on for a perceived insolence.
A peculiar smugness bloomed in Lysander’s chest. A strange sense of vindication. He told himself that soon, when Alistair officially transferred, or simply vanished, Cassian’s attention would inevitably pivot back to him. He clung to this conviction, waiting.
---
Several more days bled into the next.
“Cassian seems rather subdued,” Silas remarked, a casual observation dropped between classes. Lysander’s heart gave a heavy lurch. He longed to whip his head around, to scrutinize Cassian’s face across the crowded common room. But he couldn't. Lysander’s own carefully constructed emotional walls proved impregnable. He could only listen to Silas, and construct an imagined portrait of Cassian's quiet torment.
Yet, nothing overtly shifted. Ashworth’s day concluded without incident. Lysander persuaded himself that tomorrow held new possibilities. Such entrenched dynamics rarely dissolved so swiftly. He waited.
As Lysander slung his satchel over his shoulder, Silas’s voice, uncharacteristically direct, cut through the din. “You had a falling out with Cassian, didn't you?”
Lysander turned, a reflex he immediately regretted. “Indeed.”
“Still unreconciled since that... incident in the refectory?” Silas's eyebrow arched.
A pause. Lysander averted his gaze.
“Remarkable,” Silas drawled, hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored blazer. “A protracted silence, even for Ashworth.”
Lysander muttered an artfully constructed pretense. “Truthfully, Cassian transgressed. I possess an aversion to overt displays of cruelty. It seemed... unseemly.”
“Unseemly?”
“Well, Alistair is a fellow student. A peer. Cassian’s treatment of him, the sheer brutality… it struck me as utterly barbarous. I wish he would cease.”
Silas let out a slow, deliberate whistle. “How exceptionally virtuous.”
His words, a cynical counterpoint to Lysander’s carefully chosen sentiment, seared Lysander’s face with unexpected heat. Silas’s gaze felt like an accusation, stripping away the layers of Lysander’s practiced composure. Lysander spun on his heel, abandoning the classroom without another word, Silas’s faint, mocking smirk an almost palpable presence at his back.
Lysander hurried through the grand antechamber, intent on reaching his chambers. A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He spun, irritation coiling in his gut, prepared to dismiss Silas with a sharp retort. But it wasn’t Silas. Professor Albright’s face, usually calm, was etched with concern.
Lysander quickly reined in his expression. “Professor.”
“My apologies, Lysander. Did I startle you?” Her voice was soft, apologetic.
“Not at all. Merely… momentarily surprised.”
“I see. Might I borrow a moment of your time?”
“Professor?” A subtle query in his voice.
“It’s rather urgent, I’m afraid.”
Her unusual solemnity compelled Lysander to nod.
“Today, Cassian inquired about Alistair’s residence,” Professor Albright began, her tone cautious, almost hesitant.
“Cassian Thorne?” Lysander’s voice remained even, though a cold dread began to seep through him.
Professor Albright, as a senior mentor, could not have been entirely blind to the unspoken cruelties that festered within Ashworth’s hallowed walls. Yet, she lacked the authority, or perhaps the courage, to confront such powerful scions directly. She was not, however, entirely devoid of conscience. Her approach to Lysander now, regarding Alistair, proved that much.
“I am not making accusations, Lysander, but…”
“I understand, Professor,” Lysander interjected smoothly. “His concern is not entirely unexpected.” A subtle falsehood, but a necessary one.
“Given your frequent kindness towards Alistair, I wondered if you might… accompany Cassian on his visit. Do you comprehend my meaning?” Her gaze was earnest, almost pleading.
Lysander felt a visceral clenching in his jaw. The implication hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Cassian’s possessive, volatile affections for Alistair, a force Lysander had observed from a detached distance, now threatened to engulf him. His fists tightened, nails biting into his palms. He couldn’t allow this.
“Perhaps,” Lysander managed, his voice carefully modulated, “I could simply obtain Alistair’s personal number instead?”
“Ah, yes, an excellent suggestion!” Professor Albright’s relief was palpable. “Let me retrieve it for you. A preliminary call might be wise.”
“Indeed. I shall speak with him. No need for further concern, Professor.”
“Very good, Lysander. I am relying on your discretion.”
“Of course.”
Lysander projected an outward calm, a mask for the frantic calculus churning beneath. Professor Albright, looking somewhat awkward, scribbled Alistair’s private comm-channel onto a discreet card, then departed the antechamber.
He *had* to intercept Cassian. He *must* prevent Cassian’s strange obsession from escalating into something irreparable. Moment Professor Albright was out of sight, Lysander produced his comm-device, dialing the number with practiced efficiency. His leg jittered imperceptibly. He clenched and unclenched his hand, waiting for the connection. Call engaged almost immediately.
“Greetings?” A hesitant, reedy voice.
“Alistair? It’s Lysander Thorne.” Lysander spoke quickly, urgency barely contained.
A sudden clatter erupted on the other end, a muffled thud followed by a rustling sound. Then, Alistair’s voice, tinged with disbelief. “L-Lysander? How… how did you acquire this number? You didn't… already possess it, did you?”
“No. Professor Albright informed me Cassian had requested your residence details. I obtained your contact from her.”
Alistair remained silent.
“I wished to caution you. Be vigilant.”
“W-what about you, Lysander? Are you safe? Even when you tried to intervene…”
“My welfare is not your concern. Prioritize your own. Should you require further absence, relay the message through this channel. I can liaise with Professor Albright on your behalf. My standing at Ashworth carries a certain weight, believe it or not.”
“…Thank you.” The words were barely audible.
“If Cassian attempts any coercion or violence, at Ashworth or elsewhere, you must inform me immediately. If direct communication proves difficult, a subtle signal—a tap on the shoulder, a fleeting glance—would suffice. Preventative measures are always preferable to restorative ones.”
“Understood.”
“Frankly, a transfer to another institution might be your wisest course.” Lysander embedded the suggestion with subtle emphasis, hoping it would take root.
Another long silence.
“Regardless, consider your options. For now, ensure you appear absent from your residence, or seek refuge elsewhere.”
“Right… understood.”
“Very well. I shall conclude the call.”
“W-wait.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you, Lysander.” Alistair’s voice, after a prolonged hesitation, was soft, trembling slightly. An uncomfortable warmth prickled at Lysander’s skin.
“T-thank you for always offering assistance…”
“It is nothing.” Lysander’s voice was clipped.
“I simply… felt compelled to express it. Thank you. I-I shall see you.”
“Indeed.”
“…Farewell.”
*Farewell?* Lysander did not deign to respond. He terminated the call, the sound of Alistair’s voice still an unsettling vibration in his ears. It left an unpleasant residue.
That night, what transpired with Alistair Thorne remained unknown to Lysander. He only knew that the following morning, Alistair returned to Ashworth Hall. Within a week, the faint, unblemished complexion of youth began to reappear on Alistair’s face. His previous habit of seeking out Lysander also ceased, his demeanor subtly, yet profoundly, altered.
Abrupt transformation of Alistair’s behavior sowed the first seeds of suspicion in Lysander’s meticulously ordered mind. As the last lingering bruises vanished from Alistair’s face, Lysander permitted himself a faint, cautious tendril of hope, however unlikely it felt.
Then, a fortnight later, Cassian Thorne materialized beside him, as if from thin air.
“Lysander.”
Lysander froze. His gaze remained fixed ahead, trained on a distant archway. But his lips felt fragile, poised to part with an involuntary gasp.
“Lysander Thorne.” Cassian’s voice, a low current, drifted closer.
Could it be? Had Cassian finally wearied of Alistair Thorne?