A curious ache settled in Callum Thorne’s chest. He found himself idly wondering about Lyraeus and Elara. After Elara’s brief, alarming disappearance and subsequent return to the Academy, Lyraeus’s intensity had sharpened. He no longer pursued others with his usual casual, predatory grace. His recent, direct confrontation with Callum had left a residue of illicit hope. Yet, a part of Callum still yearned to understand the silent currents flowing between Lyraeus and Elara, a foolish, simple curiosity. He watched Elara after a grueling lecture on Eldorian wards. Her slender figure moved through the hallowed halls, head bowed, as if burdened by unseen pressures. Lyraeus was not immediately at her side, which only heightened Callum’s impulse. Driven by an unbidden desire, Callum followed. He kept to the shadows of lesser-trodden paths, the overgrown courtyards where rosebushes choked ancient statues, and the crumbling archways of the forgotten novices’ wing. Dust motes danced in the slivers of afternoon light filtering through the sagging trellises. He spotted Lyraeus then, a stark silhouette against a weathered stone wall. Lyraeus stood utterly still, observing Elara as she paused by a moss-covered fountain, her fingers trailing in the cool water. The intensity of his gaze was a physical thing, a tether between them. Lyraeus was not walking *with* her, but rather haunting her movements. The scene felt sordid. Flaking paint on a chipped fresco depicting ancient heroes, the rust-stained grates of defunct runic conduits, the faint, cloying scent of decaying leaves. All these signs of neglect in the Academy’s forgotten corners made the raw, desperate observation feel base. Two figures: Elara, fragile and oblivious, and Lyraeus, a lurking shadow. And Callum, a pathetic third, watching them from a distance. A wave of self-disgust washed over him. His intellect, his carefully constructed walls of detachment, crumbled under the weight of this petty surveillance. He turned, retreating swiftly, his steps echoing too loudly in the quiet neglect. --- Later, in the quiet sanctuary of his chamber, amidst his meticulously organized scrolls and arcane instruments, Callum felt a bitter satisfaction in his retreat. His chambers, a stark contrast to the grander suites of the more powerful noble houses, were still a haven of order. He had closed the small, ornate box before its true contents could be revealed. Knowing was a dangerous thing. A small box that held not only despair, but the cruel hope that surpassed it. And yet, one still couldn’t resist. He had resisted. He laid back, his hands clasped behind his head. The faint glow of a summoned lumenstone cast soft light across the ceiling, illuminating the intricate carvings of Eldorian constellations. He had been born into a lineage of respected, if not powerful, scholars, his family’s wealth measured in ancient texts and hidden lore rather than vast estates. He had always believed his mind could conquer any obstacle, forge any path. Then he had fallen for Lyraeus. That beautiful, infuriating noble had shown him the brutal truth: life, and love, did not always bend to intellect or will. Callum was learning this bitter lesson. He could almost taste the similar bitterness brewing in Lyraeus. Ah, the world could be mercilessly cruel. Callum had, at least, learned to master his countenance, to bury the sharp edges of his emotions. Lyraeus, however, was a storm unbridled, his intense focus on Elara almost palpable. That abnormal, sudden shift in his desires must have been unsettling. Callum understood. He had felt that same unsettling jolt, the unwelcome surge of forbidden feeling. But where Callum had endured, Lyraeus seemed incapable. Instead of seeking to win Elara’s affections with his usual charm, he approached her with an almost aggressive possessiveness. For Callum, this worked out rather well. “Please, remain oblivious,” he murmured to the empty room. Or better yet, let Elara grow weary and depart. He didn’t wish for Lyraeus to turn his attention to him. That kind of devotion, so fervent and destructive, genuinely terrified him. His only desire was a day when Lyraeus no longer occupied his thoughts. And for Lyraeus to find affection elsewhere. That was all. But, of course, the grand designs of the cosmos rarely aligned with such simple wishes. --- A new shift came. Lyraeus, once known for his frequent trysts and boastful escapades amongst the younger initiates, began to curtail his activities. He didn’t cease entirely, gossip suggested, but the boisterous tales of conquest and the lingering scent of revelry no longer clung to him in the lecture halls. For Callum, that was a small mercy. He no longer had to endure the echoes of Lyraeus’s exploits. Seraphina, a boisterous acolyte often found trailing Lyraeus, swayed her hips suggestively in the common room, mimicking Lyraeus’s past flirtations. Her hands hovered near her waist, a crude gesture. Lyraeus’s face tightened. He shot a quick, wary glance at Elara, who was quietly studying nearby. “Seraphina, I told you to cease that vulgar display!” “Why the sudden modesty, Lyraeus?” she challenged, a smirk twisting her lips. “Bring that up again, Seraphina, and you’ll regret it.” “Lyraeus—” “I said, silence!” “...Fine, fine,” she mumbled, clearly disappointed. Lyraeus, with his striking presence and mature demeanor, had been a thrilling subject for the younger students, brimming with unspent energy. The other acolytes in Lyraeus’s usual circle had all stumbled through their own awkward forays into forbidden territory. Compared to the truly innocent, they were more easily swayed. With Lyraeus’s silence, their attention drifted to Faelan. Faelan, perched on the armrest of an ancient chair, simply bared his teeth in disgust. “Filthy curs.” “Ah, Faelan’s at it again!” one of them scoffed. “He’s a fervent fanatic. Such a waste of potential.” Laughter rippled through the common room, loud and fleeting. Most of the acolytes had ventured into forbidden territory at least once, but Faelan, for some reason, hadn’t. While they playfully called him “the Chaste,” no one truly disrespected him. He was Faelan, after all. He possessed a lighthearted, almost careless air, making his sharp words seem less cutting, his actions more casual. Many found it charming, a welcome contrast to his imposing appearance. “Scholar Faelan, stop glaring. You’ll make me soil myself.” “Indeed, his countenance is quite formidable.” “Do you imbeciles harbor a death wish?” Faelan scowled, and the group burst into laughter, though nothing particularly humorous had been said. Some acolytes, perhaps his true friends, or less than that, joined in, adding to the clamor. Callum, seated amidst them, stared blankly at his own lap, lost in thought. He had never once felt arousal for a woman. If memory served, that simply made him queer from birth. He had felt stirring watching certain illicit texts, but never had he once fantasized about a woman’s form. The former felt like the intensity of the moment, the latter a complete absence of desire. He had once been dragged to a raucous student revel by Lyraeus, only to turn back at the threshold, disgusted by the sheer, unbridled excess. Taverns of ill repute? Unthinkable. He wondered why anyone would willingly enter such places. Because of this, the acolytes in their circle playfully called him “Abstinent Thorne,” but his abstinence was less a choice and more a predilection. A small sigh escaped his lips. The others were too engrossed in Faelan’s tales to notice. Taking advantage of the moment, Callum’s gaze drifted to Lyraeus, who sat in silence, staring intently at the back of Elara’s head as she studied across the room. And, as always, Callum regretted it. Why had he looked? Why this persistent, foolish curiosity? To distract himself, he posed a pointless question to Faelan. “Faelan, are you truly committed to celibacy until matrimony?” Faelan, lounging in his chair as if it were his personal throne, suddenly fixed his gaze directly at Callum’s lap. His stare was so unyielding that Callum instinctively crossed his legs, shielding himself. What in the blazes? “You are not my intended, so why the concern? What, are you offering?” Of course. Faelan always made such malicious jests. The others chuckled, and Callum delivered a sharp kick to Faelan’s shin. Such were his days—a repetition of the same, unending tension. --- Alone in his chamber, Callum often found himself lost in thought, contemplating countless scenarios. Inevitably, his mind sometimes drifted to forbidden fantasies. Today, he wondered what might have been, had he fallen for Faelan instead of Lyraeus. It seemed a far more agreeable predicament. Had he loved Faelan, he would not have endured the heartbreak caused by Lyraeus’s messy entanglements. Even so, heartbreak would still have been his companion. Neither Lyraeus nor Faelan would ever return his affections. But at least his heart would not ache because of Elara. That train of thought invariably led to feelings of inferiority, then anger. In the end, he simply wished to graduate quickly, to become a stranger to Lyraeus once more. --- At some point, Callum had unconsciously begun resting his hands beneath his desk whenever he sat. This habit had taken root in his early years at the Academy, and the cause was always the same—men. As his fingers fiddled with the ornate buckle on his tunic, he lost himself in thought. Should he? Or should he not? The faint, metallic click of the buckle against his nails filled the quiet room. Just as he applied pressure with his thumb to undo the fastening, a sharp rap echoed at the door. “Scholar Thorne? Are you immersed in your studies?” A junior acolyte’s voice, tentative and deferential. “...Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!” Callum nearly leaped out of his skin. Today was clearly not the day. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Blast it all. --- Lately, Lyraeus had grown increasingly vexing. Sometimes, when Elara glanced at Callum, Lyraeus would deliberately strike up a conversation with her. Elara, caught in the middle, would flick her eyes toward Callum, her lips parting as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if wary of Lyraeus’s presence, she would lower her head and answer in the faintest voice. “Y-yes, Lyraeus...” Just like that. Elara had subtly begun to seek Callum out more, often addressing him simply as “Thorne.” Aside from the Elder Scholars, almost no one called him that, so the change was noticeable. She seemed to think she was being discreet, but she wasn’t. The worst part was how Lyraeus failed to conceal his discomfort whenever Elara displayed any hint of familiarity with Callum. “Elara, cease distracting Scholar Thorne from his pursuits.” “What?” Elara looked up, startled. “Stop bothering him. Do you not comprehend?” “Oh... uh, y-yes...” When Elara stammered and avoided his gaze, Lyraeus immaturely slammed his fist against the leg of the desk beside him. Callum pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, Elara, seemingly oblivious, seemed to believe no one cared about her calling him “Thorne” anymore. She grew bolder, using it casually, as if it were normal. “Uh, Thorne... I apologize for intruding upon your studies.” Callum stiffened, staring at her in disbelief. Was she mad? Lyraeus was sitting directly beside them. Sure enough, Lyraeus pounded his fist on the desk again. Blast him. “Elara!” “...Huh?” The atmosphere soured instantly. “I told you.” Lyraeus’s anger was blatant. “I told you not to call him ‘Thorne,’ did I not?” “...W-well...” “Address him as Scholar Thorne. That is his title—Scholar Thorne.” His gaze turned sharp, almost predatory, as he looked at Callum. Callum despised that look and instinctively lowered his head. At that moment, Faelan, seated beside him, casually draped his arm over Callum’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Callum’s ear. “Lyraeus, if you continue down this path, you’ll truly condemn yourself.” “What in the blazes are you speaking of?” “I am saying you will regret it.” Faelan smirked, and Callum felt a flicker of irritation. For one reason only. “Lyraeus, you are a fool if you cannot see the consequences of your current course.” Faelan then let his hand linger on Callum's shoulder for a moment, a subtle press of support, before finally withdrawing it and returning to his own studies, leaving the tension to hang heavy in the air. Lyraeus's eyes, still burning with possessiveness, remained fixed on Callum for another long moment, before he finally stormed away, leaving Elara looking utterly shaken. Callum closed his book, the words on the page suddenly meaningless. ---

A Scholar's Folly