A week crawled by, each day a measured step toward a precipice Alaric felt acutely. The unspoken chasm between himself and Lord Seraphin widened with every passing lecture, every shared meal in the Great Hall, every silent corridor. Alaric maintained his composure, a meticulously woven defense against the Academy’s subtle cruelties. He immersed himself in his studies, feigning an indifference that was anything but genuine. Seraphin, true to form, seemed to have forgotten the entire incident, or perhaps simply deemed it beneath his notice.
Yet, Alaric’s mind, a relentless engine of inquiry, could not forget. A consuming curiosity, a low thrum beneath his pride, demanded information. He found himself subtly gravitating toward Lord Valerius, who, with his customary disdain for most social proprieties, often knew the hidden currents of the Academy’s elite.
Valerius, perched on a window seat in the common room, idly polished a heavy signet ring bearing a griffin rampant, its ancient silver dulled by centuries. He glanced up as Alaric approached, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Seeking solace from the silence, Thorne? Or merely a less tedious topic of conversation than the lamentable state of Veridian poetry?"
"Neither, Valerius. My mind merely wanders from the arcana of arcane script. I find the current social machinations… a more accessible puzzle." Alaric selected a tome from a nearby shelf, feigning interest in its dusty spine.
Valerius snorted, returning to his ring. "Seraphin, no doubt. He drifts between distractions like a moth to a newly lit lantern. Today, I hear it is the Lordess Isolde of House Tremaine. A most insipid creature, all simpering glances and forced blushes. He's quite smitten, or so his current retinue claims."
Alaric's grip tightened imperceptibly on the book. Isolde. He knew the type: all delicate airs and impeccable lineage. Seraphin's proclivity for superficial charm was hardly surprising. "A temporary fascination, then," Alaric murmured, his voice carefully neutral.
"Indeed. Though I understand he escorted her to a clandestine gathering of the Sapphire Coterie in the Lower District last night. A rather gauche display, even for him. One might almost call it… primitive." Valerius’s words were laced with a familiar, acidic derision that, to Alaric, was a curious balm. He might find most of Valerius’s world intolerable, but this shared intellectual sneer, this joint critique of Seraphin's uncouth excess, was a fragile anchor.
He pushed away from the bookshelf, feeling a fleeting lightness. "Disgustingly cool, their casual disregard for decorum," Alaric observed, echoing a thought that had been his own.
Valerius chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "Oh, I assure you, Thorne, there is nothing cool about it. Merely an absence of taste. And taste, unlike lineage, cannot be inherited." He surveyed his polished signet ring, a glint of genuine satisfaction in his eyes. "I, however, endeavor to remain thoroughly uncool. A student, after all, should concern himself with matters of the mind, not the fleeting affections of vapid gentry."
"And that is why you find yourself perpetually unattached, I presume?" Alaric quipped, a rare flash of humor in his voice.
Valerius finally looked up, fixing Alaric with an incredulous stare. "Thorne, I believe I shall file a formal complaint of harassment with the Proctors. This conversation has become an affront to my sensibilities."
"Harassment? By the spirits, Valerius, your wit grows duller by the day."
"If the recipient feels discomfort, it is harassment. And I feel quite uncomfortable with your implications regarding my romantic prospects." Valerius shrugged, a calculated nonchalance. "Perhaps you merely envy my single-minded dedication to scholarly pursuits."
Alaric laughed, a genuine sound that surprised even himself. He leaned against the stone window frame, the cool mountain air a welcome contrast to the heated thoughts within. He spent the next few days in a practiced dance of avoidance, a subtle deflection whenever Seraphin’s path intersected his. In the lecture halls, he chose seats deliberately out of Seraphin’s line of sight. During meals, he lingered with Valerius, creating a small, unapproachable island.
This measured distance was a shield. He didn’t want to confront Seraphin directly, didn’t want to offer him another target, another weakness to exploit. The thought that whoever showed more feeling, more vulnerability, was the one who lost, gnawed at him. It was a pathetic, juvenile notion for a scholar of his supposed caliber, yet it clung to him with the tenacity of a burr.
Yet, his carefully constructed detachment fractured whenever he saw Lysander. The scholarship student bore the fresh marks of Seraphin’s continued attention: a swollen lip, a faint discoloration around one eye, a barely perceptible limp that suggested a hidden bruise. Each new injury was a stark reminder of Seraphin’s beastly nature, a grotesque seal on a document Alaric desperately wished to ignore.
He watched Lysander from a distance, a knot of unease tightening in his gut. Lysander, for his part, seemed to actively avoid Alaric now, perhaps sensing that proximity to him had only invited further wrath. When Alaric’s gaze inevitably drifted towards Lysander’s face, etched with fresh bruises, the boy would quickly turn his head, shielding the indignities.
Another four days passed, heavy with the Academy’s hushed tension. One quiet morning, Alaric found himself alone in a study alcove, burying his face in his hands. He wished to disengage, to simply vanish from the unsettling tableau. The gulf between him and Seraphin, born of a singular defiance, now felt like an unbridgeable chasm, threatening to swallow him whole. Lysander’s bruises, now a daily sight, intensified his reluctance to encounter either of them.
Then, as if fate had granted him a reprieve, Lysander simply stopped appearing. His absence was noted by the proctors as ‘illness,’ but the hesitancy in Professor Arkwright’s voice, the averted gaze of the other students, spoke of a less palatable truth: truancy. A dark, shameful part of Alaric almost cheered.
In Lysander’s absence, Seraphin grew restless. Alaric heard whispers from Valerius’s casual associates: Seraphin fidgeted constantly in lectures, snapped irritably at his companions, even once shoved a junior lord against a wall for a perceived slight. A strange sense of superiority bloomed in Alaric’s chest. He convinced himself that with Lysander gone, Seraphin, bored and lacking a target, would eventually, inevitably, turn back to him. He waited, a calculating patience masking a desperate hope.
Days bled into a second week. Valerius, observing Seraphin across the dining hall one evening, remarked offhandedly, “Seraphin seems uncharacteristically subdued.” Alaric’s heart gave a heavy thud, a discordant beat against the usual rhythm of his composure. He wanted to turn his head immediately, to scan Seraphin’s face for confirmation, but his pride held him captive. A coward in matters of the heart, he could only imagine, based on Valerius's casual observation.
Nothing shifted. The day concluded. Alaric slung his satchel over his shoulder, ready to retreat to his chambers, when Valerius’s voice cut through the fading light. “You quarrelled with Seraphin, didn’t you?”
Alaric spun around, a jolt of surprise. “Indeed.”
“Still haven’t reconciled since that little… performance in the dining hall?” Valerius raised a brow, a knowing glint in his eyes.
Alaric averted his gaze. “It has lingered longer than I anticipated.”
“Remarkable,” Valerius drawled, hands shoved into his pockets. “I thought Seraphin’s attention span was shorter than a pixie’s memory.”
Alaric muttered an excuse, a carefully constructed truth. “To be frank, Seraphin overstepped. Such crude displays of dominance… I find them repellent. It’s simply… unsettling.”
“What, precisely, is unsettling?”
“His treatment of Lysander. They are both… males of the Academy. The manner in which Seraphin treated the boy was… unseemly. A predatory fixation, rather than simple bullying. It felt… improper. I wished it to cease.” Alaric felt a heat rising in his neck, a peculiar discomfort.
Valerius’s reply was steeped in sarcasm. “Truly, Thorne, you are a paragon of virtue. The Saints themselves would welcome you with open arms.”
Annoyed by the malicious tone, Alaric glared. Valerius merely smirked, his eyes unblinking. Alaric felt as if some hidden part of him had been laid bare, his face burning. He spun on his heel, dismissing Valerius’s mocking grin, and strode from the common room.
As he hastened down a deserted hallway, intent on reaching the sanctuary of his private chambers, a hand suddenly gripped his shoulder. Assuming it was Valerius, continuing his taunts, Alaric spun, irritation bubbling, and tugged his arm free. It wasn’t Valerius. Professor Arkwright stood there, his usually placid face etched with an uncharacteristic gravity. Alaric quickly adjusted his expression.
“Forgive me, Alaric. Did I startle you?” Professor Arkwright’s voice was hushed.
“Oh, no, Professor. Merely surprised. I was… lost in thought.”
“I see. I am truly sorry, but… might I trouble you for a moment of your time?”
“Of course, Professor.” Arkwright’s earnestness compelled a nod.
“Today, Lord Seraphin requested Lysander’s family address,” the professor began, his gaze carefully neutral. “He wishes to… ascertain his well-being.”
Alaric’s mind reeled. Seraphin. Lysander. It was clear Professor Arkwright, as Lysander’s primary tutor, could not be entirely oblivious to the bullying. Yet, he lacked the authority or perhaps the courage to confront a Lord of Seraphin’s standing directly. His approach to Alaric, however, spoke volumes of his underlying concern.
“I am not accusing Lord Seraphin of ill intent, Alaric, but…”
“No, Professor, I understand. I find his… curiosity… entirely explicable,” Alaric interjected, his voice steadier than he felt.
“Given your… interactions… with Lysander, I wondered if you might consider accompanying Lord Seraphin. A… moderating influence, perhaps? Do you grasp my meaning?”
Alaric found himself unable to reply immediately. His jaw clenched. The peculiar, almost possessive intensity Seraphin harbored for Lysander seemed to spread, an insidious chill creeping up Alaric’s legs, rooting him to the spot. His fists clenched, tight enough to bruise his palms. He could not stand idly by.
“Might I… instead procure Lysander’s contact information, Professor?”
“Ah, yes, of course. A sensible approach. I will retrieve it from his student record.” Arkwright seemed relieved. “Perhaps you could make initial contact, assuage his family’s concerns.”
“I will speak with him, Professor. Do not trouble yourself unduly.”
“I am counting on you, Alaric.”
“Indeed.”
Outwardly calm, Alaric’s mind was a tempest of panic. Professor Arkwright, looking somewhat awkward, scribbled Lysander’s family’s direct line onto a parchment before departing the hall. Alaric knew, with a sudden, chilling clarity, that he had to intervene. He had to stop Seraphin. He had to prevent Seraphin’s dangerous obsession from festering, from escalating.
The moment Arkwright was gone, Alaric pulled out his personal speaking charm, its intricate runes glowing faintly as he activated it. He immediately dialed Lysander’s number. His leg jittered with a nervous energy he rarely permitted himself. He clenched and unclenched his hand, the smooth polished stone of the charm cool beneath his fingers, as he waited for a connection. Surprisingly, the line connected swiftly.
“Hello?” The voice was tentative, unfamiliar.
“Lysander? It is Alaric Thorne. From the Academy.” Alaric’s words tumbled out, urgent. A sudden clattering noise echoed on the other end, as if something had fallen, followed by a rustling. A pause. Then, Lysander’s voice, now sharper, more alert.
“L-Lord Thorne? How… how did you acquire my number? Did you… already possess it?”
“No. I learned from Professor Arkwright that Lord Seraphin inquired about your family’s address today. I then requested your contact from him.”
Silence stretched between them.
“I merely wished to caution you. Be vigilant.”
“A-and you, Lord Thorne? Are you well? Even though you… attempted to intervene…” Lysander’s voice trailed off, a note of concern Alaric hadn’t expected.
“Do not concern yourself with my welfare. Focus on your own. If you require further leave from the Academy, relay the request through me. I hold some… standing with the proctors, believe it or not.”
“Thank you, Lord Thorne.”
“Should Seraphin attempt to harass you or worse, inflict further harm upon your person at the Academy, you must inform me immediately. If spoken words are difficult, a discreet tap on the shoulder will suffice. Remediation is far more arduous after the fact.”
“Understood.”
“Honestly, seeking a transfer to another institution would be your most judicious course of action.” Alaric let the suggestion hang in the air, hoping it would resonate.
“...”
“For now, either feign absence from your home or seek refuge elsewhere, far from his reach.”
“Understood, Lord Thorne.”
“Very well. I shall conclude this communication.”
“W-wait.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you, Lord Thorne.” Lysander’s voice was soft, trembling slightly, after a long hesitation. It made Alaric profoundly uncomfortable. “T-thank you for your continued… assistance.”
“It is nothing.”
“I merely… wished to express my gratitude. S-farewell, Lord Thorne.”
“Indeed.”
“...Goodbye.”
Alaric offered no reply to the redundant farewell. The sound of Lysander’s voice, imbued with that unsettling tremor, had already sent an unwelcome shiver down Alaric’s spine. He disconnected the charm.
What transpired at Lysander’s family estate that night, Alaric never learned. All he knew was that from the following day onward, Lysander returned to the Academy. Within a week, the faint, youthful pallor characteristic of his delicate skin began to re-emerge, replacing the bruised tones. Lysander also ceased his tentative approaches to Alaric, his demeanor shifting dramatically, becoming more self-contained.
This abrupt change in behavior, this sudden quietude, planted subtle seeds of suspicion in Alaric’s meticulously organized mind. And when, a fortnight later, all the visible marks of Seraphin’s cruelty finally faded from Lysander’s face, Alaric couldn’t help but feel a faint, fragile sense of hope – however irrational or unlikely it seemed.
Then, two weeks after Lysander’s return, Lord Seraphin approached Alaric out of nowhere.
“Thorne.”
Alaric kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, but his lips felt as though they might part with a silent gasp.
“Alaric.”
His heart thudded, a frantic drum against his ribs. *Could it be? Was Seraphin finally tired of Lysander?*