Not that it came as a surprise, but after the unfortunate incident in the restricted Archives wing, Lord Caspian Valerius began to openly despise me. His polite veneer, so meticulously maintained for the higher echelons of the Academy, vanished where I was concerned. A subtle, yet palpable, hostility now clung to him like a dark stain on fine silk. Lord Rhys Atherton, once merely a distant acquaintance, now occupied the seat beside Caspian, a silent testament to the shift in alliances. His presence felt like a constant accusation, even though I knew it was not his doing. Perhaps I possessed a talent for concealing the deeper currents of my feelings, yet I found no pride in appearing unaffected by such a public slight. Maintaining a detached demeanor while my insides twisted was not my forte, nor would I ever allow myself to become a pathetic, cowering figure. Courage to approach Caspian as if nothing had changed simply eluded me. Every interaction felt tainted. Soon, a strange melancholic lethargy settled over me. Brief flares of petty vengeance would sometimes ignite within me, quickly doused by the cold water of pragmatism. I endured. What else was there to do? Caspian, that volatile scion, allowed his envy and resentment to fester with the petulance of a spoiled child. The reason was clear, a stark, undeniable truth: Rhys Atherton. Regardless of intent, I found myself hating Rhys even more. He was never truly mine to begin with, but it felt as if he hadn't merely stolen Caspian's favour, but had also cultivated his hatred for me. A vicious, almost deliberate cruelty seemed to emanate from him in my mind, an irrational thought I couldn't shake. Intent meant little in the arena of raw emotion. The human heart, a chaotic engine, rarely adhered to logic. Blaming Rhys, however unfairly, offered a fragile scapegoat, a small way to navigate the misery that now defined my days. Despite the tumult within, my choices remained rational. I understood Rhys was merely a pawn, swept along by Caspian’s tempestuous currents. For that reason, no hostile flicker ever crossed my face when our paths briefly converged. Part of it was a profound embarrassment, a refusal to expose the raw, unseemly jealousy that gnawed at me. Another part knew that any open display of anger towards Rhys would only brand me a fool, further cementing Caspian's disdain and inviting the Whispering Spire's cruelest label: *deviant*, for those who harboured unnatural inclinations. “...This is insufferable,” I muttered, the words barely a breath. I hated it, a venomous, all-consuming hatred. More than Caspian’s contempt, I hated the precariousness of my own position. At the thought, Lysander Croft's face surfaced in my mind, unbidden. Why him? Perhaps because he was the most persistent, irritating presence in my new, isolated orbit. What would he say if he knew the true nature of my despair? ‘Ah, so Thorne’s just a tainted, unseemly creature after all, eh?’ The imagined disdain in Lysander's eyes made my hands clench, nails biting into my palms. The image was so repellent it almost made me gag. No one, absolutely no one, could ever discover the true shape of my heart. Friendships at the Spire were often as shallow as mountain streams in a dry season. As Caspian and I drifted apart, his inner circle naturally followed suit, their connections fraying. Amusingly, Lord Kaelen, usually the most isolated of Lysander’s companions, sought me out yesterday with a truly pointless conversation. “Thorne, Lysander was searching for you earlier.” “Indeed? For what purpose?” “He did not specify. Merely that he was looking.” My patience wore thin. These exchanges were always like this—empty, directionless. It became apparent that I was now perceived as aligning more with Lysander’s contingent than with Caspian’s. Though not entirely. Polite greetings sometimes passed between me and Caspian’s former associates during physical drills or chance encounters in the Hall of Whispers. Lady Seraphina, in particular, maintained a thread of civility. “Thorne! Good morning.” “...Good morning, Lady Seraphina.” One such awkward exchange returned to me, Seraphina’s voice lowered as she muttered, a conspiratorial edge to her tone. “Caspian has been… peculiar lately. His interactions with Atherton, they’re almost… possessive, wouldn’t you agree?” My jaw tightened, an involuntary grimace. Seraphina seemed to interpret it as agreement, her eyes widening slightly as she recounted Caspian forcing Rhys to sit with him, gripping his arm with an unnatural intensity. I gritted my teeth, a cold knot forming in my stomach. “Lady Seraphina, I have no interest in such unseemly matters.” Her voice died in her throat, the topic abruptly dropped. Lately, Seraphina had been subtly attempting to cultivate favour with Lysander and his set, a quiet effort to extricate herself from Caspian’s increasingly erratic shadow. Perhaps her sharing of that tidbit was merely another attempt to forge a new connection. Today, as was now customary, only Lysander and I lingered in the designated study chamber after the lectures, the last students to depart. Lysander leaned against a towering bookshelf, his gaze fixed on me. Whether he was ignoring me or merely appraising me, I couldn't discern. Annoyed, I turned my head away, offering him the same courtesy of feigned indifference. “Thorne.” “What is it, Croft?” “Let's procure some saffron-infused pastries after this. Those we had last week were rather palatable.” Lysander ignored my attempts at dismissal. As he spoke, he idly tossed a small, polished stone across the chamber. It bounced erratically off the ancient stone walls, threatening to strike a student, yet no one dared utter a complaint. He possessed a remarkable indifference to the delicate social atmosphere, utterly selfish in his lack of consideration. I watched the stone's trajectory with a frown, my irritation over his audacious behaviour sharpening my tone. “The ones you consumed entirely yourself, you mean? You purchased them for your own gratification, as I recall.” “Well, not precisely. I merely favoured the golden hue.” “And my preference held no weight in your consideration?” “How could I possibly divine your desires? You articulated none.” The stone had by then rolled beneath a scholar’s desk. Lysander extended a hand, a silent command for its return. A nearby student, a junior from a minor house, hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the stone and placed it in Lysander's outstretched palm. Lysander casually rotated it between his fingers and addressed the retreating student. “My thanks, witless drudge.” His personality was truly insufferable. ‘Drudge here, unlettered oaf there.’ Every word that escaped his lips grated on my nerves. Truthfully, it defied all sense that someone as abrasive as Lysander Croft would cling to me rather than Caspian. He consistently shared my table at meals, occupied the seat adjacent to mine in lectures, and accompanied me to various academy functions. Caspian's presence was no longer a factor, but Lysander could easily seek him out, exchange missives, or arrange private meetings if he wished. The thought materialized, unbidden, and I voiced it without much deliberation. “Why do you not frequent Lord Valerius’s company these days, Croft?” Lysander, in the midst of bouncing the polished stone against a section of exposed masonry, froze. He then turned to me, a puzzled expression clouding his features. “You had a quarrel with him,” he stated simply. “I?” “Yes. You and Valerius.” “I am well aware. I was the one involved in the dispute. Why does that concern you?” “You utter the most peculiar things, Thorne. It is because you are my companion.” Lysander’s gaze swept over me, an oddly blatant appraisal. Feeling uneasy, I averted my eyes and countered. “You were also companions with Lord Valerius, were you not?” “Remarkable. You are truly amusing. What, are you implying you are not my companion?” His tone now held an incredulous edge as he pointed a finger at me. “No, I am your companion. But you maintained a similar relationship with Lord Valerius. Why, then, do you align yourself with my position?” “Well, because I have known you for a longer duration.” “What nonsense are you speaking? We became acquaintances through Lord Valerius, did we not?” “Thorne. What *are* you saying? We were quite close in our first year!” “When, precisely?” “Honestly, you are an absolute scoundrel. Unbelievable. Back in the Grand Refectory, we often exchanged glances!” “Ah… those instances.” “So, what, was I the sole individual who perceived us as companions? You deceiver. That is precisely why, upon finding ourselves in the same lecture group, I approached you first! And you dare not acknowledge that? Unfathomable. I am truly disappointed.” “Indeed.” “Truly. I am quite astounded. How could you inflict such an indignity upon me?” “Forgive me, I apologize. I am sorry, is that sufficient?” I mumbled a hasty apology, recalling those awkward, yet strangely frequent, encounters from our first year. So *that* fell within his definition of “companionship.” I felt utterly swindled. How could anyone interpret those stares, bristling with unspoken competition and barely veiled contempt, as friendly overtures? Had the first suggestion of shared meals truly come from him, not Caspian? The realization struck me like a stone from a catapult, leaving me momentarily stunned. It was unsettling, even shocking. Still, I wished to avoid further entanglement, so I feigned comprehension and nodded. “Very well, very well. I grasp the situation. My apologies.” “I was profoundly vexed just now.” Lysander glared at me briefly. Sometimes, the workings of his mind remained an impenetrable cipher. “And furthermore, Lord Valerius’s conduct is quite aberrant.” My breath hitched. “That man is utterly unhinged at present. He has always been somewhat… singular, but this? This transcends even his usual eccentricities.” He grasped the polished stone with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The sight brought to mind Lady Seraphina and the other students who had made their awkward attempts to speak to me about Caspian. From that alone, I gleaned one thing: Lord Valerius's reputation, once unassailable, was in freefall. “Deviant.” The word—the most feared and damning stigma in the rarefied world of the Whispering Spire's eighteen-year-olds—sent a chill through my core. My body trembled almost imperceptibly at the thought. Simultaneously, a wave of profound relief washed over me that my own hidden truth remained concealed. Did that relief truly mean I valued my own precarious standing more than I did Caspian’s ruin? Uneasy, I met Lysander’s eyes, feeling like a heretical scholar guarding a forbidden text from the watchful gaze of the Grand Inquisitor. “Truly,” I murmured, a strange mix of fear and derision in my voice. It was almost laughable that, to the superficial eyes of the Academy, I was Lysander’s closest companion. In truth, I was no different—a criminal branded with an unholy stigma, merely adept at concealment. Only a few months prior, I had been Caspian’s closest confidante. Yet here I was, merely hiding, having escaped a filthy trap by the narrowest of margins. I had only managed to avoid being caught. That was all. --- It was dawn, the first slivers of pale light barely piercing the high mountain peaks. A missive from an unknown number arrived unexpectedly, its chime startling in the pre-dawn quiet. A summons at four in the morning. Half-asleep, I briefly wondered if the preceding days, the isolation, the shift in dynamics, were nothing more than a fever dream. Though I had consciously avoided seeking out Caspian, shielding myself from further hurt, my heart still leapt at the impossible thought that the message might be from him. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, checking the sender with conflicted emotions. Part of me wished for a mundane missive from a merchant or a forgotten assignment reminder. But as soon as I read the content, I knew it was not Caspian. “Alaric, my deepest apologies for contacting you at this ungodly hour. Could you possibly step outside your chambers for a moment? I am truly sorry. Profoundly so.” “Just this once. Please, just this one time.” Caspian Valerius would never offer such an apology to me. Of my peers, only two ever referred to me by my given name, Alaric, with such a familiar abbreviated warmth. Of those two, only one could sound so utterly distraught. How had Rhys Atherton even procured my private contact? The moment I recognized his unique, supplicating tone, my face twisted into a scowl. I wanted no part of him—never wanted to see him. His presence was always an unpleasant complication. Yet, despite the internal rebellion, I pushed back the heavy furs of my bed, buttoned my simple daily robes, and stood. I walked to the chamber door, pausing with my forehead pressed against the cool wood, a deep sigh escaping me. “...Damnation.” The feeling was overwhelming, a tightening knot in my gut, a constriction in my chest. That was the only way to describe it. My hand clutched at the fabric over my heart. I’d always prided myself on my academic prowess, on a vast vocabulary gleaned from countless ancient texts, yet none of the words I knew could fully express this intricate, tangled mess of emotions. It was simply… complicated. The hatred I felt for Rhys, the memory of his bruised face after Caspian's fury, the desperate days I'd spent trying to create distance—all swirled together into an acrid brew. Biting my lip, I fiddled with the heavy iron door handle, then closed my eyes and turned it with a decisive twist. In the academy gardens, the cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding the arrival of deep autumn. To avoid the sodden grass, I stepped carefully onto the cool, polished flagstones leading to the inner gate. The chilly dawn air made me pull my robes tighter around me. My slipper-clad feet carried me to the heavy, iron-bound gates of my family's private residence within the academy grounds. I paused there, a soft click of my tongue, then grasped the handle. The groaning creak of the hinge made me flinch, and I pushed the gate open even more slowly, revealing what lay beyond. Beyond the gates, illuminated by the solitary brazier light flickering on the cobbled path, stood Rhys Atherton in his formal daily attire. His head was hung low, as he idly scrawled invisible shapes on the ground with the tip of his polished boot. “...Rhys Atherton.” At my voice, Rhys’s head snapped up like lightning. “Alaric, Alaric!”

A Knot of Ash