Callum possessed a profound, almost rigid self-discipline. His upbringing, far from the gilded cages of the noble houses, had instilled in him a meticulous regulation of thought and deed. Vulnerability, to him, was a luxury he could ill afford, a weakness in the unforgiving scrutiny of Eldorian society. He had learned, through years of quiet observation and constant striving, to present an impenetrable front.
This trait often led others to dismiss him as detached, unfeeling. It was not that emotions failed to stir within him; rather, each jolt of anger, each sting of humiliation, had been meticulously folded into the layers of a protective shell. Over time, that shell had hardened, rendering him seemingly immune to provocations that might shatter lesser men.
Even Lyraeus’s capricious cruelties rarely breached his carefully constructed defenses.
His composure served a singular purpose: to preserve his standing within the Academy’s complex social strata. He was not a scion of wealth or power, but his intellect, his talent for deciphering ancient lore, had carved him a respectable, if tenuous, position. He guarded it fiercely, for it was all he truly possessed.
“Callum.” Lyraeus’s voice cut through the murmur of the refectory. It was not a question, merely an acknowledgment, dismissive as always.
Callum merely inclined his head. His gaze remained fixed on the intricate carving of a griffin on the wall, a deliberate act of feigned disinterest.
“Still poring over those crumbling parchments?” Faelan Vane, Lyraeus’s shadow and occasional foil, drawled from across the table. His long fingers spun a silver coin, catching the light.
Lyraeus ignored Faelan, his eyes scanning the tables with an unnervingly predatory intensity. “Find anything worthy of… inscription, Callum?” The word ‘inscription’ was laced with a sneer, a subtle dig at Callum’s scholarly pursuits.
Callum felt a familiar tightening in his chest. “The subtleties of runic resonance are often overlooked, My Lord. A delicate art.” He kept his tone even, devoid of any challenge. He refused to give Lyraeus the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Subtleties,” Faelan echoed, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Lyraeus prefers… more direct applications of power, wouldn’t you say?”
Lyraeus finally focused on Faelan, a glint in his eye. “Are you implying I lack finesse, Faelan?”
Faelan merely chuckled, catching the spinning coin mid-air. “Only that your appetites run more towards the tangible. The… desirable.” He let his gaze drift across the refectory, lingering on a table where several young noblewomen sat, their laughter like bells.
Lyraeus’s own eyes followed, a flicker of something base in their depths. He was a creature of raw impulse, his every desire writ large. His casual torment of Elara, Callum knew, stemmed from a similar, unchecked urge. It lacked the subtlety of true cruelty, instead favoring blunt, unthinking dominance.
By this point in the term, Elara was utterly ostracized. Yet, even her complete isolation was not enough to sate Lyraeus’s dark amusement.
Lyraeus’s inner circle – Torvin, Bryn, and Kael – usually lingered after lessons, waiting for his command. Other students from the West Wing, like Seraph, Joric, and Ren, scattered like startled grifflings the moment the bell for the midday meal tolled. Callum had once been part of Lyraeus’s immediate group.
That had changed during his second year. Bryn, with his perpetually sneering mouth, had made a flippant remark: “Callum eats with Faelan now, doesn’t he? Gods, you’re so slow at finishing.” Without a word from Callum, he was quietly, irrevocably excluded.
The most galling part? Lyraeus had not cared. His presence, or lack thereof, made no difference to Lyraeus. That indifferent dismissal had chafed at Callum’s pride more than any direct insult.
“Am I truly so slow in my consumption?” Callum had asked Lyraeus quietly later that day, his voice barely audible above the rustle of turning pages in the Collegium library.
Lyraeus glanced up from a tome on heraldry, a bored expression on his face. “Of course. You sit there, chewing like a cow with its cud, while the rest of us are finished in five minutes flat.”
“We’re always late to arcane drills because of you,” Bryn had added, ever eager to reinforce Lyraeus’s words.
Callum’s jaw tightened. “Oh.” The word felt hollow, inadequate.
“There’s a practice duel with the North Spires acolytes today,” Lyraeus continued, returning to his book. “Best eat with Faelan for now.”
A bitter taste flooded Callum’s mouth. His pride warred with a pragmatic understanding of the situation. He knew, too, that the indigestion he’d suffered throughout his first year was likely due to rushing his meals to keep pace with Lyraeus’s hurried retinue. The thought of clinging to Lyraeus, like barnacles to a ship, was itself repugnant. So, he had not pleaded, nor protested.
Just like that, he was out. His own will, his own desires, held no weight.
Feigning indifference, Callum found his gaze meeting Faelan’s. Faelan was lounging at a distant desk, idly bouncing his silver coin. He observed Callum for a moment, then spoke, his voice surprisingly neutral. “When do you typically break for luncheon?”
Callum hesitated. “Soon.” He rarely ate at any set time.
“I usually head to the refectory in about ten bell-rings,” Faelan offered. “The queues are shorter then.”
A survival instinct, honed by years of navigating treacherous social currents, kicked in. If he wished to retain any semblance of alliance, even with Faelan, he had to adapt. “Yes, that suits me as well.”
The first time Callum ate lunch with Faelan, he left half his food untouched, claiming a sudden lack of appetite. Faelan had raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
“Are you truly still so particular about your provender, at your age?” he scoffed. “Like a spoilt child.”
“What concern is it of yours?” Callum retorted, a petulant edge to his voice. The question itself grated. What right did Faelan have to dissect his habits?
“Most adults consume their fish cutlets with more than just plain broth,” Faelan remarked, a smirk playing on his lips. “Tartar sauce, perhaps.”
In their first year, Lyraeus and Callum had been almost inseparable. By their second, those shared moments had dwindled, largely due to Faelan’s growing influence over Lyraeus. Yet, Callum knew he had no right to complain. Faelan, a minor scion of House Vane, outranked him, however subtly.
Faelan and Lyraeus’s circles overlapped considerably, largely comprised of students whose noble lineages afforded them lax discipline. They were the sort to forge dismissal writs or slip out of classes, exploiting the apathy of tutors who seldom bothered to confirm their whereabouts. Lyraeus, ever mindful of his parents’ watchful eyes, typically remained in class until the final bell.
Faelan’s reputation was almost as infamous, yet he too remained. Callum had once questioned him on it.
“Do you truly believe me so lacking in wit?” Faelan had asked, a rare seriousness in his tone.
“No,” Callum admitted, “but your… associates often absent themselves.”
“Associates? What trivial nonsense. They are not my associates. They are rabble.”
Callum blinked. “What?”
“A student’s duty lies in attendance and scholarship, does it not?”
“That is true.”
“Then do not align me with such rabble. It offends.”
“My apologies.”
“I did not request an apology.” Faelan’s words, though reasonable, felt absurd coming from him, a boy whose supposed friends skipped their lessons with alarming regularity. Regardless, Callum spent most of his second year in the orbit of Lyraeus and Faelan. He considered it a sacred, if uncomfortable, space that no one else could intrude upon. It would have been perfect without Faelan’s irritating presence, but surprisingly, they had forged a truce. Callum did not like Faelan, but Faelan was not so intolerable that Callum would storm off. He was merely… vexing.
Today, however, felt distinctly different.
“Damn it. Torvin and Bryn, those feckless curs,” Lyraeus cursed, clutching his head as the fourth period neared its conclusion. Callum’s head snapped up, a flicker of anticipation in his chest. “They deserted again?” His voice, he noted, was tinged with a carefully suppressed eagerness. “Fucking idiots.” Lyraeus slammed a fist lightly on his desk. “Such a pity. Who will you break bread with, then?” Callum allowed a small, almost imperceptible tremor to run through his fingers, gripping the back of his chair.
Lyraeus let out a heavy sigh, turning his gaze to Faelan, who sat beside him. “I shall join you two today.”
“Do not. No one issued an invitation,” Faelan replied, his tone blunt, indifferent.
“Keep prattling, and I shall ensure your silence.” Lyraeus’s voice dropped to a low growl.
“Gods, today truly provokes me to violence, Lyraeus.” Faelan’s coin spun faster.
“Attempt it, then, fool.”
“Brave words for one who would otherwise dine in solitary splendor.”
Callum could hold back no longer. He interjected, his voice surprisingly firm. “Come now, let us all eat together. We cannot leave Lyraeus to dine alone.” His desperation, he knew, must have been evident in his overly formal tone. Lyraeus’s lips curled into a triumphant smirk, glancing at Faelan with a sly glint in his eyes. “See? I possess loyal companions.” Faelan merely scowled and swept Lyraeus’s stylus case from the desk, sending it clattering to the flagstones. Whether Faelan liked Callum or not was irrelevant. What mattered, in that moment, was Lyraeus’s presence at their table.
It had been so long since they had shared a meal, and Callum was so thrilled that he even forced himself to consume a portion of the griffin-foot stew he usually despised. But Lyraeus was paying little heed to his food. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the refectory like a predator searching for its chosen prey. Callum, too focused on Lyraeus, barely registered Faelan pilfering a dried plum from his tray. Then, without warning, Lyraeus’s eating knife clattered, and his free hand shot out, grasping the arm of someone passing by.
Callum looked up. It was Elara.
“Sit here,” Lyraeus commanded, nodding towards the empty seat beside him. “You have no one else to dine with, in any case.”
Elara’s face blanched. Her eyes darted around, settling briefly on Callum before she bit her lip, slowly sinking into the indicated seat. Callum was stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Lyraeus feign concern for Elara’s company? And the reason Elara possessed no companions was entirely Lyraeus’s doing. Lyraeus tolerated no one approaching her.
A bitter bile rose in Callum’s throat.
Unconsciously, his spoon clattered loudly against his tray, a jarring metallic sound. Only Elara reacted, flinching and glancing at him nervously. Lyraeus, however, remained fixated on Elara, his smirk widening. The protective shell Callum had meticulously constructed over the years began to crack, a hairline fracture appearing across its surface. He fought it, desperately, but the fissure deepened. Perhaps he was nearing a breaking point he had never acknowledged.
Clinging to a fragile denial, Callum spoke, his voice clipped and sharp. “Elara. You should leave.”
“H-huh?” Elara stammered, her gaze wide with confusion.
“Do not heed Lyraeus. Simply go. It is permissible.”
“Callum,” Lyraeus said, his voice dangerously low. Lyraeus, who had ignored the loud noise Callum made earlier, finally ground his teeth, glaring at him. That glare, raw and menacing, only hardened Callum’s resolve. He fixed his eyes stubbornly on Elara.
“I shall handle this. You may depart.”
“Uh, o-okay.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“And Lyraeus, cease this charade.”
“Indeed, I concur,” Faelan chimed in through a mouthful of spiced meat, his words barely intelligible. His sudden interjection felt utterly out of place. He chewed and swallowed deliberately slowly, then glanced between Callum and Lyraeus, a faint, irritating smirk playing on his lips. “What are you staring at? You’re spoiling my repast.”
As always, Faelan’s unnecessary provocations grated on Callum’s nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter how Callum viewed him. Ignoring Faelan, he turned back to Lyraeus. “Leave Elara be.”
“Who are you to dictate my actions?” Lyraeus shot back, his eyes narrowing to slits. Callum did not blink, holding Lyraeus’s gaze. Lyraeus slammed his fist on the table. The sudden impact made Elara, who sat awkwardly, flinch and squeeze her eyes shut. Faelan, on the other hand, chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender. “Count me out of this.” He licked a bead of water from his lips, adding, “Let us decide by majority vote. I am neutral, Callum desires her departure, and Lyraeus wishes her to remain.” Faelan was one of the few who addressed him by his given name, Callum, and he found it irritating every time. That irritation, he knew, often slipped into his tone, as it did now.
“Do not interfere. Your vote holds no weight.”
“Why not? There is another person right there.” Faelan, unfazed, smirked and pointed at Elara, motioning toward her with a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Elara not a person?”
“You are absurd.”
“Why is she silent? Let her voice her own preference.” As if Elara could possibly speak in this charged atmosphere. Callum sighed at Faelan’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his rice porridge. Just then, Lyraeus tapped his finger rhythmically on the table. “If you declare your departure, Elara, consider your fate sealed starting today.”
Tears began to well up in Elara’s large, luminous eyes. She looked at Callum, a silent plea for aid. A sharp pang went through Callum. “It is fine. I shall intervene,” he said, attempting to reassure Elara, though his own heart pounded against his ribs. “Callum,” Lyraeus growled, his voice tight with barely suppressed anger. Callum forced himself to meet Lyraeus’s gaze, pretending to be calm, but inside, he felt an overwhelming urge to collapse. To suppress it, he looked up at the refectory ceiling for a brief moment, then lowered his head, replying nonchalantly. “What is it?”
“You…” Lyraeus clenched his fist, glaring at Callum with an intensity that felt like a physical heat. Still, Callum endured it. His instincts screamed that he could not abandon Elara to Lyraeus’s mercy. But Lyraeus’s focus shifted back to Elara.
“I-I will go,” Elara stammered, her voice trembling, finally finding her voice.
Callum’s breath hitched. “…”
“Th-thank you, Callum.” Elara scrambled up, her movements unsteady, and fled the refectory. As soon as she was gone, Lyraeus turned abruptly, his gaze hardening on Callum.