A curious mercy of potent alchemical balms, or perhaps a temporary reprieve from a weary realm, greeted Callum upon waking. His swollen cheek, though still faintly bruised with a faint purplish tint, had subsided considerably.
It was an injury one might dismiss as a clumsy stumble, a minor academic mishap. Manageable. A sliver of fragile relief settled in his chest, a fleeting warmth against the chill that had settled deep within him.
Venturing into the sprawling, ancient halls of the Eldorian Arcane Academy, Callum expected the usual murmur of arcane cantrips and rustle of parchment. Instead, a heavy, almost suffocating quiet permeated the air.
The usual vibrant energy felt muted, burdened. The reason, he knew, was Kaelen Vance, a name that now felt like a curse on his tongue.
Instinctively, Callum scanned the assembly of scholars. His gaze found Alaric Fallow, slipping in moments before the morning lecture commenced, narrowly avoiding a formal reprimand.
Callum’s breath caught.
He had idly, fleetingly, entertained a dark thought yesterday—that Alaric, too, might suffer Kaelen’s wrath. Seeing Alaric now, a guttural wave of self-loathing washed over Callum. Alaric's lower lip was split, a jagged crimson line, and one eye was swollen almost shut, a grotesque, puffy orb.
His face, pale and perpetually anxious, was a canvas of fresh brutality. Callum felt an acidic shame curl in his stomach. Such base, childish thoughts were beneath him, yet they had surfaced. He despised himself for it.
“By the Mother Goddess…” he murmured, the words catching in his throat.
Alaric, timid and small, entered the lecture hall with a nervous, almost broken shuffle. His eyes darted across the faces of his peers, a hunted animal’s gaze. Then, as if tethered by an unseen thread, his eyes met Callum’s.
For a long, agonizing moment, Alaric stared, a flicker of something unreadable in his bruised gaze. Then, a startled grimace contorted his features. He averted his eyes abruptly, shrinking into his seat, deliberately avoiding any further contact.
“…What in Eldoria’s name?” Callum whispered, the peculiar reaction unsettling him.
He instinctively glanced around, and the reason became piercingly clear. Kaelen Vance, seated with his usual arrogant ease, was glaring at Callum. His eyes, the color of storm clouds before a tempest, promised retribution.
“Damn it all to the Aetherial Wastes,” Callum thought, a profound regret echoing through his mind. He should have stayed home, buried himself in some obscure grimoire, pretended illness.
After that chilling exchange, Alaric Fallow, who had once sought Callum’s counsel on archaic inscriptions, now avoided him entirely during the brief breaks between lectures. At the midday repast, Alaric vanished, presumably with Kaelen, to some undisclosed corner of the Academy grounds.
Left alone, Callum found himself at a quiet table with Lysander Vane. A part of him, a foolish, desperate part, yearned to seek out Kaelen and Alaric, to understand, to intervene. Yet, his feet remained rooted.
He hated to admit it, but he was too afraid. Too afraid of the brutal truths he might witness. Surely, Kaelen would not inflict further harm… Would he? It was not Callum’s place, not his concern, yet the image of Alaric’s battered face haunted him, a specter of guilt.
Lysander, oblivious or deliberately unconcerned with the storm brewing within Callum, kept up his usual stream of lighthearted banter.
“You see? I warned you. The tension in the Grand Assembly Hall was thick enough to carve. I nearly choked on my own apprehension.”
“Yesterday, consuming those sugar-plums, you appeared entirely at ease.”
“Give me some credit, Thorne. I mastered the art of polite composure, a true performance.”
Lysander winked, a smirk playing on his lips, then chuckled at his own jest.
“Indeed, sugar-plums are meant for… delicate consumption.”
Annoyed, Callum nudged Lysander’s calf beneath the table with his foot. Lysander rubbed his chin, a fleeting, almost sheepish expression crossing his face. No, that couldn’t be right. Lysander was never sheepish.
—
Life possessed an unpredictable, almost cruel irony. From their initial, rather jarring acquaintance, Callum had harbored no intention of cultivating any closeness with Lysander Vane. He had, in truth, found Lysander’s perpetual levity irritating, even disingenuous. Yet, here they were.
Lysander, with his carefree demeanor and flippant remarks, possessed an uncanny ability to prevent Callum from sinking too deeply into the crushing weight of his own thoughts.
In the past, those very qualities had seemed trivial, even shallow. Now, Callum found himself relying on that unexpected levity, a delicate anchor against the tempest of his mind. Had Kaelen and he remained close, had the threads of their friendship not frayed so violently, Callum might never have realized how profoundly he needed Lysander’s presence.
Following that harrowing day, Kaelen Vance began to distance himself from their usual coterie of scholars. At times, he would vanish with Alaric Fallow in tow. Other times, he would gather a few other students, and a ripple of unease would spread as they reluctantly followed.
Whispers began to circulate, hushed and morbid. There were even moments when some of the scholars flat-out refused Kaelen’s summons, their expressions etched with a palpable discomfort.
One such instance involved Barnaby Croft. Callum encountered him scaling a low wall near the Academy’s arboretum, apparently evading a particularly stern tutor. Barnaby, a usually jovial junior scholar, shared a tale with a mixture of nervous amusement and genuine disquiet.
Kaelen, he reported, had been ordering others to strike Alaric, one punch at a time, a perverse ritual of forced complicity. Callum’s face tightened in disbelief, a cold knot forming in his stomach. Barnaby, sensing Callum’s reaction, quickly added that he had been avoiding Kaelen’s presence precisely because of it.
He mentioned he was heading to the common hall with another student and asked Callum not to misunderstand his avoidance. With a hasty farewell, he departed. The casual cruelty of it chilled Callum to the bone.
At the midday repast, Lysander and Callum acquired iced sweet-cakes from a vendor in the Academy yard. The cold, sugary treat spread across Callum’s tongue, offering a momentary, fleeting solace. But beneath that transient relief, a bitter knot of unease tightened, refusing to dissipate.
Still, he held his composure, determined not to betray his inner turmoil.
“Is it satisfactory?” Lysander asked, eyeing Callum’s cake hungrily while munching on his own, brightly frosted confection.
“Care for a taste?” Callum offered, half-teasingly, bringing his cake, slightly sticky with his own saliva, close to Lysander’s mouth. Without hesitation, Lysander smirked, lifted a corner of his lip, and took a surprisingly large bite.
“Good gods! Did you truly partake?” Callum exclaimed, a mix of surprise and mild disgust in his voice.
“You extended the offer,” Lysander replied, his grin widening.
“That’s… unhygienic. And why such a prodigious bite?”
“It was merely one,” Lysander shrugged, utterly unperturbed. It was a remarkably peaceful moment, an island of calm in Callum’s storm. The crisp autumn air of Eldoria was clear and serene, a stark contrast to the chaos within him.
Where were Kaelen and Alaric now? A few desolate corners of the Academy grounds sprang to mind, but Callum did not seek them out. Perhaps he was afraid of what discoveries such a search might yield.
He tried diligently not to dwell on Kaelen Vance, to banish him from his thoughts. Yet, the harder he attempted, the more acutely he realized the immense space Kaelen still occupied within his fractured mind.
How much effort, how much agonizing time, would it demand to sever such a profound, yet now poisoned, attachment? He had no answers. It felt akin to being lost in a vast, parched desert—not merely sad or suffocating, but terrifying, unbearable.
Sometimes, Callum retreated into himself, like an ancient, sightless beast struggling to decipher footprints in the sand. When the internal tumult grew too overwhelming, he would occasionally confide in Lysander. And, well, that was the extent of it.
Suddenly, an unbidden question slipped past his lips.
“Lysander,” he began, his voice barely a whisper.
“What is it?”
“…Do you believe blossoms might ever emerge in a barren desert?”
The question felt so raw, so overtly emotional, that embarrassment flooded Callum the moment the words left him. He scratched his head awkwardly, expecting Lysander’s usual jest, but none came.
“They will,” Lysander said, his voice unusually quiet, unexpectedly earnest.
“…”
“They must. Existence is wretched enough as it stands.”
Hearing such profound words from Lysander, a person Callum had never considered capable of such sentiment, struck him with a fresh wave of despair. It merely underscored the futility of his own desperate hope. How much longer before he relinquished these meaningless, painful feelings?
“…Indeed. Existence is wretched.”
Kaelen Vance. That wretched noble. Why did he seem so intent on destroying the loyal, eager scholar Callum had been, so easily swayed by Kaelen’s presence? Kaelen, who now seemed to have abandoned all the basic tenets of academic decorum, came and went from the Academy as he pleased.
And always, by his side, was the ever-present, ever-trembling Alaric Fallow.
As the situation grew increasingly suspicious, the student body buzzed with a low thrum of unease and morbid fascination. It became painfully clear: Kaelen’s cruelties were escalating. And with it, a creeping fog of resentment towards him slowly spread throughout the Academy.
None of it felt right. None of it sat well with Callum.
So, when Callum saw Kaelen dragging Alaric by the wrist down a quiet, secluded hallway, he stopped dead in his tracks. His gaze flickered between Kaelen’s rigid back and Alaric’s tear-streaked face before he finally spoke.
“Your father, Lord Thorne, has expressed concern for your recent… eccentricities,” Callum stated, the lie forming effortlessly. It was neither an apology nor an attempt at flattery—a desperate fabrication, the full extent of his remaining pride. Kaelen, being estranged from his own father, would likely not discern the falsehood. And even if he did, Callum could always argue that, at this rate, Kaelen’s father would soon have ample cause for worry.
He always ensured his words contained an escape route.
“If punishment is to be exacted, let it fall upon your shoulders alone. What transgressions has Alaric committed?”
“Move,” Kaelen hissed, his voice a low growl. The moment Callum uttered Alaric’s name, Kaelen’s gaze locked onto him, sharp as a daggers. Callum’s chest felt as though it would rupture from the sheer pressure.
He hated him. Yet, pitiful, pathetic Alaric remained glued to Kaelen’s side, his eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears, looking at Callum as if on the verge of collapsing.
“Unless you yearn for another lesson, like our last encounter, remove yourself from my path.”
“K-Kaelen, please,” Alaric stammered, his voice a raw, trembling plea. Only then did Kaelen cease his threats. His attention shifted entirely to Alaric, his gaze now fixed solely on the smaller, quivering figure. All Callum could see was the rigid line of Kaelen’s back as he turned away.
“As I stated,” Callum tried again, his voice cracking, “your father will surely—.”
“…”
Alaric, on the precipice of tears, clung desperately to Kaelen, trying to pull him back, to stop him. Watching that wretched scene unfold was unbearable, an exquisite torture. Callum closed his eyes, unable to witness the raw agony.
After a prolonged moment, Kaelen looked down at Alaric, then turned slowly, leading Alaric back into the lecture hall. For the remainder of the day, Kaelen remained within its confines, much as he had weeks prior. A small, temporary victory, perhaps, but its taste was bitter as ash.
—
The long-anticipated day of the scholarly excursion had arrived. A specially chartered carriage awaited, prepared to transport them to an ancient runic exhibition in the outlying districts. A few junior scholars grumbled about the interruption to their intricate studies, but most were simply thrilled at the chance to escape the Academy walls, even for a single day.
No need for elaborate satchels of provisions; they would return shortly after. The tutors gave only a few half-hearted warnings before ushering them towards the carriage. They were not mere novices anymore; there was no giddy excitement keeping Callum awake through the night.
He viewed it as just another academic assignment—depart without a heavy burden, return unburdened. Yet, he held no inkling that this would be the very day his tightly bottled frustration, his simmering torment, would finally explode. He had anticipated its eventual eruption, but not with such brutal suddenness.
As was custom, Callum had always occupied the seat beside Kaelen Vance whenever they ventured outside the lecture halls. He was, after all, Kaelen’s closest associate. He hadn't even considered Lysander’s seating arrangements, having never shared such a journey with him.
At first, a familiar wariness pricked Callum. He feared Lysander might attempt to claim the seat closest to Kaelen. In retrospect, such a thought was pitiful. Neither Callum nor Lysander would ultimately occupy that position.
Upon reaching the expansive Academy yard, Callum found their carriage already waiting. He climbed aboard, seeking out their usual spot. The rearmost five seats were already claimed by a boisterous group of scholars, including Barnaby Croft, who waved at Callum, then hesitated, pointing towards Kaelen’s customary seat.
“Callum! There is an empty space here!”
“…Oh, yes.”
Of course. He had always been the one beside Kaelen. But today, a tremor of apprehension ran through Callum as he approached Kaelen’s usual seating area. He sighed, a faint puff of relief escaping him, upon seeing the seat beside Kaelen still vacant.
Swallowing hard, Callum felt a twinge of stubborn determination. It was his place. His pride—the singular thing he stubbornly clung to amidst the social currents of Eldoria—compelled him to sit there, even after the humiliating blow Kaelen had dealt him because of Alaric.
He nervously touched the ornate carving at the top of the seat’s backrest for a moment, glanced around the carriage, and then quietly, hesitantly, spoke.
“Kaelen… This seat…”
“It is not for you. Seek another place.” Before Callum could complete his query, Kaelen cut him off, his voice flat and cold, his gaze fixed resolutely on the carriage entrance. Following Kaelen’s line of sight, Callum saw Alaric Fallow timidly making his way towards them, head bowed.
Callum clenched his fists, the words he meant to speak dying in his throat. He swallowed the raw, bitter taste of rejection.
“…Very well. As you wish.” He tried to infuse his voice with indifference, though his heart felt as though it had been flayed, shredded into irreparable pieces.
He quickly departed the denied seat, his vision blurred, and scanned the interior of the carriage. He found an empty spot near Lysander’s group, directly in front of where Lysander was already seated. Relieved, Callum hastened over, dropping heavily into the seat. He spoke, without waiting for a response.
“Lysander, sit here with me.”
No answer came. When Callum looked closer, he realized Lysander was already lost to slumber. Lysander always seemed to doze in the early hours, and this morning was no exception. His head rested uncomfortably against the window frame, bouncing gently with every jolt of the carriage. Shaking his head at such a ridiculous posture, Callum slipped his satchel between Lysander’s head and the window, offering a small cushion. He then leaned back into the unforgiving seat, a dull ache settling deep within him.
Across the narrow aisle, he caught a glimpse of dark, aristocratic hair. It was Kaelen Vance’s—his height making him easily discernible even through the jostle of bodies. Though he could not see clearly, he knew.