Two days later, Callum discovered a small, tightly folded vellum scrap tucked within the arcane scroll locker, nestled between his personal codices and a worn primer on runic syntax.
“Could you convene in the Ancient Script Antechamber before Arcane Praxis today?”
Callum paused, a fleeting thought—a confession, perhaps—hovering in his mind. The notion was swiftly dismissed. This was the Eldorian Academy, a bastion of noble houses and scholarly pursuits, where such overtures were either grand, calculated affairs or whispered indiscretions, never a furtive note. The academy was an all-male institution for those of their status. He banished the triviality, the brief, illogical flicker of adolescent romanticism that had no place within these venerable walls. His duties, his studies, and the burgeoning anxieties surrounding Elias consumed his every waking thought. He promptly forgot the missive until the chimes signaling the fourth period, Arcane Praxis, began to resonate.
Having donned his simpler work robes, more suited for the practical enchantments and physical components of praxis, Callum made his way towards the antechamber. A mild curiosity stirred within him, a faint ripple against the usual torrent of his preoccupations, regarding the sender’s identity. He presumed it nothing consequential, merely some minor academic query or a request for assistance with a particularly stubborn inscription.
Yet, the figure awaiting him within the shadowed antechamber proved unexpected. A timid form, Alaric Fallow, stood hunched amidst the dusty shelves, his pale hair perpetually disheveled, his gaze darting about like a trapped sparrow. Alaric, a scholar of lesser means, often found himself adrift in the academy’s unforgiving currents, and Callum, on occasion, had extended a calculated hand of assistance, just enough to uphold a veneer of moral rectitude without incurring too much personal entanglement.
“Alaric?” Callum’s voice, a soft, questioning murmur, cut through the quiet. Alaric’s small head, which had been bent low, teeth gnawing at a fingernail, snapped upwards. A fleeting, awkward smile, the same strained expression he’d worn upon his transfer to the academy, flickered across his face. It did little to soothe Callum’s already frayed nerves; in fact, a faint furrow appeared between his brows.
“What is it you require? And so suddenly?” Callum asked, his patience already wearing thin.
Alaric’s plump fingers twisted together, a nervous habit. “Ah, I… I have something I wish to impart…”
“Speak it, then.” Callum’s desire to depart was immediate, an urgent need to escape the potentially compromising solitude of the antechamber. He harbored no wish to be ensnared in the academy’s insidious rumor mill, especially not with someone as unremarkable as Alaric. His carefully cultivated image, poised precariously between his humble origins and his intellectual prowess, was too fragile to risk.
Oblivious to Callum’s internal plea, Alaric continued to chew his thumb, his gaze skittering across the ancient tomes that lined the walls. A conflicted expression played upon his features—indecision warring with a nascent resolve. Each time he seemed on the verge of articulation, his mouth clamped shut once more.
Callum remained silent, his irritation a simmering ember. He had never harbored particular affection for Alaric, and the boy’s protracted hesitation only served to deepen his existing antipathy. Alaric’s small, perpetually quivering mouth, an action some might have found endearing, was to Callum an intolerable display of weakness. He recognized the unfairness of his reaction, the undue sensitivity that had become a constant companion of late.
“Forgive my bluntness, but Arcane Praxis is soon to commence. Could you not simply articulate your purpose?” Callum pressed, a brittle edge to his tone.
His internal landscape was a disordered morass today, a labyrinth of frustration and disquiet. Perhaps his vexation was not truly directed at Alaric, but merely seeking an outlet, any outlet. The peculiar malaise within his stomach had worsened, a physical manifestation of his deepening stress.
Lost in the tangled threads of his own thoughts, Callum observed Alaric finally gather himself. A small, stammering voice emerged.
“Uh, Callum… I… you see, I…”
“Yes?” Callum responded, a half-hearted gesture as he rubbed the back of his neck. The interval before praxis was rapidly diminishing, and he wished Alaric would simply deliver his message. A perverse impulse to forcibly open Alaric’s mouth and extract the words himself flickered and died.
Then, abruptly, the heavy oak door of the antechamber swung inward. Both Callum and Alaric turned in unison, their gazes meeting that of Kaelen Vance, who stood gasping for breath. No, Kaelen’s eyes were not on Callum. They were fixed, burning, upon Alaric Fallow.
“Hmph, hmph…” Kaelen’s ragged breathing spoke volumes. He had been running. A suffocating tightness constricted Callum’s chest as he imagined Kaelen’s frantic search across the academy grounds.
Kaelen released a long, shuddering exhale, then strode purposefully into the antechamber. Unconsciously, Callum’s hand, which had been rubbing his neck, dropped. Kaelen’s gaze flickered between Alaric and Callum, his expression a fearsome mask.
“Why are you here with him?” The question hung in the air, its target ambiguous. Kaelen’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
Beneath Callum’s outwardly composed facade, his very core felt pummeled, raw. After an agonizing pause, Kaelen’s eyes settled upon Callum. The intensity of that stare, the accusations simmering within them, was unbearable.
“What in the Void, Kaelen?” Callum managed, his voice barely a whisper.
Please, please, he silently pleaded. Do not look at me thus. Blame Alaric for summoning me here. Why do you fix upon me, your supposed confidant, with such bitter resentment? I was merely drawn into this unpleasantness, a passive participant.
Even as these thoughts raced through him, Kaelen’s searing eyes remained locked. Callum knew those were not the eyes of fervor or passion. They were the eyes of one consumed by a grotesque blend of rage, envy, and a nascent madness. It was the visage of a man deranged by a twisted affection—a sight Callum found both pitiful and deeply contemptible.
“Why are you here with him!” Kaelen’s voice rose, edged with desperation.
You are pathetic, Kaelen. So utterly pathetic. Callum met his gaze, a defiant glare. Yet, a chilling thought pricked at him: the truly pitiful one was not Kaelen, but himself.
Before Callum could react, Kaelen’s long strides had closed the distance between them. The moment Callum’s eyes met his up close, a jarring impact reverberated through his senses.
“...!”
The world reeled. He registered nothing, merely the sudden, violent lurch. His body toppled to the flagstone floor, and only then did his mind begin to replay the horrifying sequence of events.
“Impossible…”
Kaelen had struck him.
Kaelen Vance had dared to strike him.
Lying on the cold stone, Callum’s trembling fingers rose to his cheek. Disbelief warred with a searing pain. How could Kaelen… how could he do this to him?
“C-Callum!” Alaric, his face etched with horror, stumbled forward. But Kaelen’s voice, a raw, primal scream, sliced through the air.
“You craven fool! I told you to call him Master Thorne! No, do not even speak his name—do not address him at all, you mewling coward!”
Seeing Kaelen’s incandescent fury, Alaric’s face grew impossibly paler, his small frame shrinking back.
“I-I am sorry, truly sorry.”
“You vowed! You swore an oath! Damn it all!” Kaelen raged, his voice cracking. Alaric took another step back, tears welling in his eyes. But he was not the one who should be weeping—Callum was.
Unbidden, tears pricked at Callum’s own eyes, a shameful wellspring threatening to overflow. Mercifully, before he could fully break, Kaelen cursed with a guttural savagery and stormed out, dragging Alaric by the arm. The entire devastating encounter unfolded in a blinding flash.
Left alone, slumped on the antechamber floor, Callum stared at the half-open door. A thin shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Something within him fractured. The dam holding back his tightly controlled emotions shattered, and hot tears streamed freely down his bruised cheek.
He despised everything. Alaric, who had ensnared him in this humiliating ordeal. Kaelen, who had dared to lay a hand upon him. He wished them both to simply vanish, to be erased from his existence. He felt profoundly miserable, reduced to a mere bystander, a prop in their twisted, volatile drama.
Rising stiffly, Callum skipped Arcane Praxis. He made his way directly to the Scholar’s Office, requesting early dismissal. His swollen, reddened face provided ample evidence for his claim, and the lead master, sensing the gravity of his distress, permitted his departure without further inquiry.
---
At home, Callum collapsed onto his bed, succumbing to a profound exhaustion. He slept, a heavy, dreamless slumber. When he finally awoke, his face felt puffy and sore, the bruising a livid bloom beneath his skin. Out of habit, he reached for his scrying-slate, its polished surface cool beneath his fingers. A message from Lord Tristan Thorne, a powerful scion of a distant, wealthier branch of his own lineage, shimmered on the display. They rarely exchanged missives, but their paths intersected frequently due to Kaelen’s social circle. Damn Kaelen.
Were it any other acquaintance, Callum would have ignored the message without a second thought. But Lord Tristan was not merely anyone. He was influential, his opinions carrying considerable weight among the academy’s cliques. Callum could ill afford to slight him.
*“Thorne, when did you abscond?”*
Callum clicked his tongue, a faint sound of annoyance, and belatedly composed a reply to the missive, already three hours old.
*“Haha, I confess, I was feeling rather unwell.”*
He deliberately kept his tone light, evasive. He harbored no desire for anyone to know the truth of his current predicament. The thought of word spreading that Kaelen Vance had struck him was unutterably humiliating. And all because of Alaric Fallow, of all people.
*“Are you well now?”*
Lord Tristan, exhibiting concern? A strange disquiet settled over Callum, prompting him to abruptly deactivate his scrying-slate. Hours later, a wave of profound melancholy washed over him. Even Lord Tristan’s solicitous message felt stifling, an unwelcome pressure. Other academic peers had also reached out, their words of inquiry echoing hollowly. None of it was what he truly desired.
Among the messages, Kaelen Vance’s name was conspicuously absent. Callum must be losing his mind. Still, he sought a sliver of solace, convincing himself this was the inescapable fate of one consumed by such maddening, possessive devotion. Even knowing the bitter truth, he lay there, a fool, doing what he did best—closing his eyes, willfully turning a blind eye to the stark reality.
“...I am not the sole one.”
Perhaps Alaric and he were ensnared in similar predicaments. A strange, twisted, grotesque thought, selfish and wicked and childish, intertwined itself with his despair. As he lay on his bed, staring at the intricately carved ceiling, another message arrived. It was from an unfamiliar numeral-sequence, an unknown sender.
*“Callum, are you gravely ill?”*
Callum frowned. Who among his peers would presume to address him so informally? Lord Tristan? But this was not his sequence. Before he could dwell on it, another message arrived, relentless and infuriating.
*“I am sorry. Truly sorry. This is all due to my folly.”*
*“I am sorry.”*
*“Please, extend your forgiveness.”*
Whether it was three words or four, each syllable made him want to scream. He hurled his scrying-slate onto the floor in a spasm of frustration. How had that scoundrel procured his personal numeral-sequence? And how was someone who purportedly possessed no scrying-slate sending him messages at all?
Then it struck him. Ah. He had once called Alaric, hadn’t he, to convey a precise inscription detail for a shared project. A fleeting, foolish act of academic courtesy. He cursed his idiotic memory, letting out a ragged sigh of fury. To vent his anger, he pounded his fists against the padded headboard for a prolonged period, until exhaustion claimed him. Eventually, he drifted into a troubled sleep. Just before his consciousness completely faded, one last message, unread, echoed in his mind.
*“Please, do not despise me.”*
How amusing. He had despised Alaric for months already.
---
Morning dawned, and Callum’s face was swollen, distended like an over-proofed bun.
He skipped the academy. Regardless of his reputation as a model scholar, he lacked the fervent zeal to present himself in such a state. His house steward, a portly woman named Elara, prepared a light repast for him. As he ate, she could not resist offering a mild admonishment, urging him to exercise greater caution. Lunch itself was unremarkable: a bowl of soft, bland porridge and limp side dishes of seasoned greens. He swallowed it all in quick, unchewed gulps.
As he set his spoon down and reached for a chalice of water, Elara returned to clear the dishes. With the emptied bowl in one hand, she spoke.
“Master Callum, you have a visitor.”
“What?” Callum’s head snapped up.
“Shall I admit them?”
A visitor. The word sent a strange flutter through his chest. Before he could even identify the sudden, irrational surge of emotion, his mind had already begun to conjure an image of who might be standing at his door.
Could it be… Kaelen Vance?
The thought felt like a wild, desperate fantasy, yet it was not entirely beyond the realm of possibility. Few from the academy had ever called upon his modest family home. Among his acquaintances, only a handful even knew its location. If it were Kaelen, then he must have come to offer an apology, finally consumed by guilt for his unwarranted aggression. Kaelen had never struck him before, not once. Yes, Kaelen must have been worried, profoundly upset by his own outburst.
“Yes, please, admit them.”
The fantasy solidified into a fragile certainty. Even as he chastised himself for such naive hope, an inexplicable warmth spread through him, a small, pathetic sense of satisfaction. Despite everything, he was still important to Kaelen, in some indefinable way. That thought, however deluded, momentarily assuaged the ache.
He turned swiftly towards the main door, his pace quickening with a flicker of eager anticipation.
But the figure awaiting him was not the one he had envisioned.
“Yo, what troubles you, Thorne?”
Lord Tristan Thorne, his sharp features arranged in a playful smirk, greeted him, a small pouch of exotic Eldorian confections held aloft. Yet, as his eyes fell upon Callum’s bruised face, his smirk vanished. He stopped short, his expression turning unusually serious.
“By the Mother, what befell your visage?”
Callum’s knees nearly buckled from the sudden, crushing disappointment. How, by the Void, did Lord Tristan even know where he resided?
“...I merely stumbled,” Callum replied flatly, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.
Lord Tristan frowned, twisting his lips in that familiar manner he always adopted before delivering a dry, sarcastic remark.
“You truly are a clumsy idiot, are you not?”
Callum offered no argument. He merely rubbed his swollen cheek, a dull throb resonating beneath his fingers. Embarrassment surged, a hot wave engulfing him as he recalled his earlier, foolish hope. He was indeed an idiot. Kaelen Vance did not regard him as important. And here he had been, a hopeful, fawning fool, wagging his tail for scraps of attention.
“Here, accept this.”
Lord Tristan pressed a chilled, candied fruit compote into Callum’s hand. Callum accepted it, immediately lifting the lid to inspect its contents.
“...It is sun-drake fig.”
“Is it? I had not noted.”
“Figures. Why would you possess such interest?” Callum retorted, a surprising edge of bitterness in his voice.
“Damn, that is rather harsh, Thorne.”
“What, precisely, brings you to my humble abode?”
“What do you suppose? I came to ascertain your well-being. Do you mind if I enter?” Without awaiting a response, Lord Tristan’s long legs carried him across the threshold and into the house.
“Where is your private study?”
“Hold, where do you imagine you are going?” Callum called out, dismayed.
“Where else? There are no other compelling destinations within your dwelling.”
Callum found himself without a suitable retort. Tristan was correct, in his flippant way. Houses, in their fundamental structure, were all much the same. Feeling acutely awkward, Callum followed Lord Tristan, who seemed intent on an oddly thorough inspection of his home’s interior, as if cataloging its every detail.