A curious twitch began in Alaric’s stomach, a week after Lysander’s return. He found himself idly wondering how Seraphin, now freed from the task of escorting Lysander, navigated the Academy halls with his sudden quarry. It was a petty, unwelcome curiosity, a raw nerve exposed in the quiet of his mind.
From observation, Seraphin moved with an unnerving purpose. Lysander, meanwhile, seemed to float in his wake, a moth drawn to a flame he simultaneously feared. The image, even from a distance, settled like ash in Alaric’s throat: a fully-grown lordling trailing another as if tethered by an invisible, desperate thread. The thought of this strange dynamic was a whisper of ill omen, a forbidden door he felt compelled to nudge open.
Yet, a deeper instinct recoiled. This was a dangerous path, a crucible of emotions he knew he should not touch. To peer too closely into such a nascent obsession felt like tampering with a volatile alchemical compound. It promised not just despair, but a warped hope that surpassed it, a shimmering, cruel delusion. Still, the compulsion to see, to understand, was a venom in his veins.
“My mind is a labyrinth tonight,” Alaric murmured, his fingers tracing the worn leather binding of an arcane text. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Regardless, the next afternoon, he found himself diverging from his usual path, a subtle detour meant to intercept Seraphin and Lysander after their joint lecture in Ancient Veridian Lore.
He did not follow for long.
Moving with a scholar’s silent tread, careful not to draw attention, Alaric saw Lysander pause, his gaze fixed on Seraphin’s retreating back. The austere grey stone of the Academy’s lesser courtyards, the moss-laced gargoyles, the faint, metallic tang of rainfall from a distant mountain peak—all formed a tableau of understated decay. Two figures in this scene: Seraphin in the lead, Lysander following, and Alaric, a shadow among the ancient walls.
It felt small. Devoid of dignity. He turned back before they noticed him.
Later, in his dimly lit study, the weighty silence of his chambers pressed in. Alaric found a grim satisfaction in his retreat. Curiosity was one thing. Indulgence, quite another. To what depths might he have descended, had he pursued them? It was better this way. Better not to know the full extent of Seraphin’s strange fixation. Pandora’s Box remained closed, the lid firmly shut by a hand more wary than foolish.
Seraphin’s obsession with Lysander grew, a discernible hum beneath the Academy’s polite veneer. Lysander, for his part, still carried a palpable unease, a flicker of apprehension in his eyes whenever Seraphin drew near. Dislike, perhaps. Or outright dread.
No, it was more than dread. It was the stark rejection of a soul that had endured too much. How could Lysander feel anything but a profound aversion towards one who had, until recently, made him a target of such unsettling attention? A flicker of grim satisfaction sparked within Alaric. He had not intervened sooner, had not tried to stem the tide of Seraphin’s initial, aggressive curiosity. Perhaps, in its own way, that was for the best.
Alaric interlaced his fingers behind his head, leaning back in his chair. Above him, the polished wooden beams of his study, intricately carved with the Thorne family crest, seemed to mock him with their permanence. His life was one of inherited privilege, a solitary existence cushioned by wealth, never truly wanting for material comfort.
“Damn it all,” he breathed, the words lost in the vastness of the room.
He had once believed his intellect, his diligence, could overcome any obstacle. Until he found himself entangled in the invisible web of Seraphin’s orbit. Seraphin, with his cruel magnetism, had shown Alaric the brutal truth: life, and love, rarely bent to one’s will. And now, Seraphin, in his own way, was learning that same bitter lesson.
The world, Alaric mused, possessed a merciless cruelty. He, at least, had learned to master his countenance, to bury his desires beneath layers of scholarly detachment. Seraphin, however, was a storm of raw emotion, his gaze on Lysander a stark, unsettling testament to his burgeoning fixation. That sudden, abnormal intensity must have been a profoundly disorienting experience for him.
Alaric understood. He had walked that path, felt that same jarring shift within his own breast. But where Alaric had retreated, disciplined himself into a quiet resignation, Seraphin surged forward. Instead of cultivating Lysander’s favor, he acted in ways that only intensified Lysander’s aversion. For Alaric, this played out perfectly.
“Remain ignorant,” he murmured into the stillness, a silent prayer.
Or better yet, let Lysander’s aversion grow insurmountable, driving him away from the Academy entirely. Alaric harbored no illusions of Seraphin turning his attention to him. Indeed, the very idea of such a tumultuous devotion terrified him.
He wished for one thing: a day when the sting of Seraphin’s indifference no longer pierced him. A day when Seraphin found peace, and love, elsewhere. It was a fragile hope, easily shattered. The world, as he knew, rarely granted such gentle mercies.
Another subtle shift began. Seraphin, who had once held court among the more boisterous noble circles, regaling them with tales of his conquests among the city’s courtesans, now seemed to curtail his exploits. Or so it appeared. Valerius, whose ears were always attuned to the Academy’s subtle currents of gossip, reported that Seraphin hadn’t entirely abandoned his old habits. Yet, the brazen boasts had ceased, the lingering scent of indulgence no longer clung to him like a second skin. For Alaric, this was a small, uncomfortable relief. He no longer had to endure the echoes of Seraphin’s dissolute life.
“Still avoiding the tavern, Seraphin? Have you sworn off the *vinea* and the *venere*?” Lord Kaelen, a preening, opportunistic student from the House of Ashworth, swayed suggestively, miming a crude gesture before Seraphin. Seraphin’s face tightened, a mask of cold fury. He glanced sharply towards where Lysander was quietly sketching in the corner, then snapped.
“Kaelen, I warned you against such coarse displays!”
“Oh, now we’re shy, are we?” Kaelen’s sneer widened.
“Mention it again, Ashworth, and you’ll regret the day you drew breath.”
“Come now, Seraphin—”
“Be silent!”
“...As you wish.”
The others in the circle, mostly younger noble scions, visibly deflated. Seraphin, with his commanding presence and sophisticated airs, had once been the very embodiment of forbidden pleasure, a fascinating subject for high-born boys brimming with untested ambition. Now, he seemed to have abandoned his role as their libertine guide.
The students in Seraphin’s former circle were not novices to courtly intrigue, or the darker corners of pleasure; they had all fumbled through clumsy experiences. Compared to their more naive peers, they were easily swayed by a charismatic leader. With Seraphin no longer sharing his exploits, their attention drifted, settling on Valerius. But Valerius merely bared his teeth in an expression of pure disdain.
“You pathetic sycophants.”
“Ah, there he goes again, Valerius with his holier-than-thou pronouncements.”
“He’s just an ascetic, a puritan. What a tiresome bore.”
A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the common room. Most of the young lords had, at some point, explored the Academy’s more illicit pleasures. Yet, Valerius, for reasons unknown, remained untouched by such diversions. While they often teased him for his apparent lack of interest, no one ever truly disrespected him. He was Valerius, after all, heir to the formidable House of Greycastle. At the same time, Valerius possessed a blithe, almost indifferent air, which made his scathing remarks seem less personal, more a general observation. People often found this either captivating or strangely approachable, despite his sharp tongue.
“Still scowling, Greycastle? You’ll curdle the milk in the Refectory.”
“Indeed, his face could shatter granite.”
“Do you have a death wish, you overgrown whelps?”
Valerius grimaced, and the group burst into laughter, though Alaric found little humor in it. Some younger students in the back, who might have been Valerius’s friends—or perhaps merely his lessers—joined in with their forced mirth, adding to the clamor. Amidst them, Alaric sat, staring blankly at his clasped hands, lost in the quiet eddies of his own thoughts.
He had no memory of ever being stirred by a woman’s presence. This, he surmised, made him a child of the moon, drawn to his own kind, right from birth. He had felt a flicker of arousal when observing certain artistic depictions, the intensity of the moment, the raw power of emotion, rather than the subjects themselves. But a longing for a woman’s form while in private? That had never once stirred within him.
He had, on a rare occasion, been dragged by Seraphin to one of the city’s more exclusive salons, but he’d barely made it past the antechamber, lacking the appropriate credentials. Instead, he had waited outside, immersed in a forgotten tome, until Seraphin re-emerged. The city’s more infamous establishments, the brothels? The very thought of them was abhorrent. He often wondered what compelled others to visit such places.
Because of this, the other students sometimes playfully referred to him as “The Ascetic Thorne,” though in truth, his abstinence was less a choice and more an intrinsic aspect of his being.
A quiet sigh escaped him.
The others were too preoccupied with Valerius’s latest retort to notice. Seizing the momentary distraction, Alaric allowed his gaze to drift to Seraphin, who sat in unusual silence. Seraphin’s eyes were fixed, as always, on the back of Lysander’s head, where Lysander meticulously copied notes from an ancient scroll.
And, as always, Alaric regretted it. Why did he look? Why did he allow this corrosive curiosity? To break the spell, he addressed Valerius with a meaningless question.
“So, Greycastle, are you truly determined to remain untainted until the day you take a bride?”
Valerius, lounging in his chair as if it were a throne, slowly turned his head. His eyes fixed on Alaric’s hands, then, unsettlingly, on a point lower. His gaze was so persistent that Alaric instinctively shifted, crossing his legs slightly. What in the blazes?
“You are not my intended, Thorne. Why does it concern you? Or are you offering your services?”
Of course. Valerius always offered such cutting jests. The others chuckled. Alaric nudged Valerius’s shin with his foot, a silent admonishment.
Such were his days—a repetitive cycle of observation, introspection, and barely suppressed turmoil.
---
Alone in his chambers, Alaric often found himself adrift in thought, contemplating countless scenarios. Inevitably, his mind sometimes drifted to strange, unsettling fantasies.
Today, he wondered what might have transpired had he fallen for Valerius instead of Seraphin. It felt, in some ways, a more manageable tragedy. If his affections had settled upon Valerius, he would not endure the particular ache of Seraphin’s clumsy, often cruel, romantic entanglements.
Yet, it would still be heartbreak.
Neither Seraphin nor Valerius would ever return his affections, after all. But at least, his heart would not twist with the added agony of Lysander’s suffering.
This thought process invariably led to a familiar current of inferiority and simmering resentment. In the end, he simply yearned for the day he would graduate, and Seraphin would become nothing more than a fading memory, a name whispered in the Academy’s long corridors.
---
At some point, Alaric developed an unconscious habit of resting his hands beneath his desk whenever he sat. This began subtly in his second year at the Academy, and the cause was always the same: a profound, inescapable yearning for another man.
His fingers toyed with the silver clasp on his Academy sash, his mind lost in a silent debate. Should he? Or should he not? The faint click of metal against his nail filled the quiet room. Just as his thumb pressed against the clasp, intending to undo it, a soft knock sounded at his door.
“Alaric? Are you studying, dear?” His mother’s voice, gentle but insistent, filtered through the oak.
“Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!” He nearly leaped from his seat. Today was clearly not the day for such dangerous introspection. Mortified, he buried his face in his hands. Damn it all.
---
Lately, Seraphin’s presence had begun to grate on Alaric’s nerves with an almost physical intensity.
Sometimes, when Lysander’s gaze flickered towards Alaric—a silent plea, perhaps, or a simple recognition—Seraphin would deliberately interject, drawing Lysander into conversation. Lysander, caught between them, would twitch his eyes back to Seraphin, his lips parting as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if wary of Seraphin’s scrutiny, he would lower his head and respond in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Y-yes, Seraphin…”
Always like that.
Lysander, however, subtly sought Alaric out more frequently, a quiet desperation in his eyes. He began using a shortened form of Alaric’s name, a familiar ‘Ricc,’ a diminutive Alaric rarely heard from anyone outside his closest family. Lysander seemed to think he was being discreet, but his attempts were transparent. The worst part was Seraphin’s inability to conceal his profound discomfort whenever Lysander dared such a familiar address.
“Lysander, do not distract Thorne from his studies.”
“What?” Lysander’s brow furrowed.
“Do not bother him. Is that unclear?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes, Seraphin…”
When Lysander stammered and avoided his gaze, Seraphin, with an almost childish petulance, slammed his fist against the leg of the lectern beside him. Alaric pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, Lysander, in his anxious state, seemed to believe that his use of ‘Ricc’ had gone unnoticed, or perhaps no longer mattered. He grew bolder, using it more casually, as if it were perfectly normal.
“Uh, Ricc… I apologize for disturbing your work.”
Alaric stiffened, staring at Lysander in disbelief. Was he mad? Seraphin was sitting barely an arm’s length away.
Sure enough, Seraphin pounded his fist on the lectern again, a sharper, more deliberate sound this time. Damn him.
“Lysander!”
“…Huh?” Lysander flinched.
The air in the study hall grew instantly taut.
“I told you.” Seraphin’s anger was a palpable heat.
“I told you not to call him ‘Ricc,’ did I not?”
“…W-well…”
“His name is Alaric Thorne. Address him as such.”
Seraphin’s gaze, sharp and almost predatory, flicked to Alaric. Alaric loathed that look and instinctively lowered his head. At that moment, Valerius, seated casually beside him, draped an arm over Alaric’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Alaric’s ear.
“Seraphin, if you continue like this, you will truly ruin yourself.”
“What in the blazes are you implying, Greycastle?”
“I am saying you will come to regret it.”
Valerius smirked, and Alaric felt a familiar flicker of irritation. For one reason only.