A chill lingered in the air of the Grand Hall, a phantom echo of the Arcane Repository’s cold stone and the scent of singed parchment that still clung to Lysander’s robes. That incident, weeks past, had cleaved his life with an unseen blade. Lord Alaric Thorne, once his shadow, now avoided his gaze, eyes like obsidian chips refusing to settle on Lysander. Thorne’s new constant, Elara Vane, now occupied the seat beside him in every lecture, a quiet, almost spectral presence. Lysander pressed a hand to his stomach, a dull ache blooming there. His chest tightened. He refused to embody the abject wretch the Lyceum expected him to be. He would not cower, not openly. Yet, to feign indifference, to meet Thorne’s averted gaze with a steady, unburdened one, felt a betrayal of his own churning insides. Days dissolved into a monochrome haze of arcane texts and gnawing melancholy. Sometimes, a flicker of petty vindication sparked—a brief, bitter warmth. Invariably, it guttered out, leaving only the stale ash of endurance. Lord Thorne, notoriously volatile, now radiated a childish resentment towards Lysander. The source was clear, stark as a newly etched rune: Elara Vane. Lysander’s dislike for Elara deepened, irrational as it might be. She had not only eclipsed him in Thorne’s regard, but somehow, in her very existence, she had poisoned Thorne’s perception of him. An insidious, quiet venom. She was not his, had never been, yet her presence felt like a theft. Logic whispered that Elara was merely a leaf caught in Thorne’s tempestuous current. But sentiment, that treacherous beast, defied reason. Blaming her offered a sliver of respite from the suffocating gloom. It provided a scapegoat for his humiliation. His intellect, however, demanded rational conduct. He knew the peril of openly challenging Elara. Such an outburst would cast him as a jealous fool, a deviation from the Lyceum’s rigid decorum. Thorne’s disdain would deepen, and the whispers around the hallowed halls would brand Lysander with a far more damning mark: one of unseemly, aberrant attachment. “This… this is a nightmare.” A shiver traced his spine. The thought of being labeled, exposed, made his fingers clench into hard knots. Caius, of all people, drifted into his thoughts. A strange anchor in this tempest. Caius, with his sharp, knowing eyes and indifferent air. What cutting remark would he conjure? Probably something about Lysander’s 'unaligned sensibilities' or 'lack of proper scholarly detachment.' The imagined scorn curdled his gut. Friendships in the Lyceum, he learned, were brittle constructs. As the rift between Lysander and Lord Thorne widened, so too did the distance between Lysander and Thorne’s usual coterie. Surprisingly, Cassian, a perpetual hanger-on, had sought him out yesterday with a hesitant query. “Lysander, Caius was seeking you earlier.” Lysander’s brow furrowed. “For what purpose?” “He did not elaborate.” Another meaningless exchange, another thread drawing him closer to Caius’s orbit. Lysander was now, by silent consensus, considered part of Caius’s rather exclusive, solitary company. Some tenuous connections to Thorne’s former group remained. Formal nods in the corridors, brief, polite greetings. Most often from Cassian. “Lysander, good morn.” “...Morning, Cassian.” During one such strained encounter, Cassian had lowered his voice, a nervous energy rippling off him. “Thorne behaves… strangely. His possessiveness towards Vane… it’s rather unsettling.” Lysander must have betrayed an unpleasant flicker across his features, for Cassian seemed to take it as agreement. He continued, whispering of Thorne’s incessant demands for Elara to sit beside him, his firm grip on her arm, his refusal to release her. Lysander’s hands clenched at his sides. He ground his teeth. “I hold no interest in such… improprieties.” Cassian fell silent, chastened. Lately, Cassian had been observed lingering near Caius and his associates, perhaps seeking an exit from Thorne’s shadow. His whispered confidences to Lysander might have been an attempt to cultivate a new alliance. Today, as frequently happened, only Lysander and Caius remained in the lecture hall, apart from the others. Caius leaned against the arched stone wall, observing Lysander with an unnerving stillness. Whether he ignored Lysander or merely assessed him, Lysander could not tell. He turned away, a prickle of irritation rising, and chose to ignore Caius in turn. “Lysander.” “Yes?” “After our studies, procure some of that infused elixir. The verdant brew we sampled last week was surprisingly tolerable.” Caius disregarded Lysander’s attempt at aloofness. As he spoke, he idly spun a smooth, dark divining stone between his fingers, its polished surface catching the pale light. The stone whirred, threatening to slip, yet no one dared comment. Caius, oblivious to the atmosphere, selfish in his indifference. Lysander watched the stone’s hypnotic spin, a frown deepening his features. The irritation from Caius’s brazenness sharpened his retort. “The one you consumed entirely yourself? It was purchased for your own enjoyment, was it not?” “A preference for verdant tinctures is hardly an act of selfishness.” “And my preference? It held no weight?” The stone rolled from Caius’s grasp, skittering across the flagstones. Caius extended a hand, an imperious gesture. A junior initiate, hovering nearby, hesitated, then retrieved the stone and placed it gingerly in Caius’s palm. Caius, casually rotating the stone, offered the retreating student a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Acknowledge this courtesy, initiate.” An insufferable disposition. Every pronouncement, every casual dismissal, grated on Lysander’s nerves. It defied sense that Caius, with his abrasive charm, frequented Lysander’s presence instead of Thorne’s. Caius often broke bread with him, sat beside him in lectures, even accompanied him to the ancient scriptorium. Thorne, though distant, was still within easy reach. A sudden thought surfaced. Lysander voiced it without preamble. “Why do you not align yourself with Lord Thorne these days?” Caius, mid-toss of the divining stone, froze. He turned, a perplexed expression settling on his features. “You incurred his disfavor,” Caius stated. “I?” “Indeed. You and Lord Thorne.” “I am aware. I am the one embroiled in this… estrangement. What concern is it of yours?” “You utter the most peculiar pronouncements. It is because you are my associate.” Caius scrutinized Lysander with an unnervingly blatant stare. Lysander shifted, uncomfortable, averting his gaze. “You were also aligned with Lord Thorne.” “Remarkable. Are you suggesting our association is null?” Caius’s tone bristled with incredulity, his finger pointing. “No, I am your associate. But you also numbered Thorne among yours. Why then do you choose my company?” “Because I have endured your presence for a longer duration.” “What nonsense do you speak? Our acquaintance was forged through Thorne, was it not?” “Lysander. Do you recall nothing of our first year?” “When?” “Truly, you are an insolent wretch. The refectory. Our eyes met, frequently.” “Ah… then.” “So, I alone harbored the illusion of an association? You, a deceiver. That is why, upon finding ourselves in the same arcane rotation, I sought you out first! And you deny this? Unfathomable. I am quite… disappointed.” “Oh.” “Astonishing. Truly. To what depths do your memories sink?” “Very well, I apologize. My apologies, then.” Lysander mumbled the words hastily, a vague recollection stirring of those awkward, yet undeniably frequent, encounters from their first year. So, *that* constituted Caius’s definition of ‘association.’ Lysander felt a peculiar sense of being defrauded. He had interpreted those gazes as nothing short of suspicion, if not outright hostility. Wait, could it be that the initial suggestion for shared meals had not come from Thorne, but from… Caius? The realization struck him, a cold, unsettling weight. He felt stunned. Yet, unwilling to delve deeper into this confounding history, he merely nodded, feigning comprehension. “Understood. My apologies, truly.” “My irritation was considerable.” Caius regarded him briefly, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Sometimes, Caius’s peculiar inner workings remained utterly opaque. “Furthermore,” Caius continued, “Thorne’s conduct grows increasingly… erratic.” Lysander said nothing. “That one is quite unhinged, currently. Always a touch askew, but this? This transcends the usual bounds.” Caius gripped the divining stone, lazily spinning it around his temple with an index finger. The motion brought to mind Cassian and the other initiates who had awkwardly attempted to convey their observations of Thorne. One truth emerged with chilling clarity: Lord Thorne’s reputation, once unassailable, now bled prestige. “Deviant.” The word, unspoken yet palpable, carried the weight of the Lyceum’s most feared anathema—a judgment that could shatter bloodlines and arcane prospects. A tremor passed through Lysander. Simultaneously, a cold relief washed over him that his own connection to Thorne remained undiscovered. Did this relief signify a morbid self-preservation, placing his own standing above Thorne’s? Lysander’s gaze flickered to Caius, a blasphemous acolyte guarding a forbidden secret before an austere deity. “Truly, me,” he murmured, a strange laugh, part fear, part self-derision, escaping his lips. It was almost a cruel jest that to others, he was now Caius’s closest companion. In truth, he was no different, merely a criminal of the heart, branded by an invisible stigma. Only months prior, he had been Thorne’s intimate. Now, he merely hid, barely having escaped a trap of his own making. He had only avoided exposure. That was all. --- Dawn bled across the eastern sky, painting the high windows of Lysander’s chambers in bruised purples and greys. A message, from an unknown provenance, arrived at an ungodly hour. A summons at four bells past midnight. Half-awake, Lysander wondered if the preceding weeks had been nothing more than a fevered dream. Despite his deliberate distance from Thorne, a sickening lurch tightened his chest at the possibility the message could be from him. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs, and scrutinized the parchment. A part of him prayed for a missive offering illicit arcane loans. But a glance at the familiar script dismissed any notion of it being Thorne’s hand. “Lysander, forgive this intrusion at such an hour. Could you present yourself beyond your gate for a moment? My apologies. Truly, my deepest apologies.” “Only this once. Merely this one time.” Lord Thorne would never stoop to such supplication. Among Lysander’s peers, only two addressed him by his given name, and of those two, only one could sound so utterly broken. How had Elara Vane discovered his private residence? Lysander’s face twisted into a scowl. He did not wish to see her, ever. Her presence always heralded discomfort, a gnawing unease. Yet, despite his visceral refusal, he rose from his cot. His fingers fumbled with the clasps of his sleeping tunic, then he reached for a heavier cloak, shrugging it on. He moved to his chamber door, halting just shy of the threshold. He rested his forehead against the cold wood, exhaling a deep, shuddering sigh. “...Damnation.” An overwhelming knot tightened in his stomach, coiling into a painful tangle. No other words sufficed. He clutched his chest. He, who prided himself on his extensive vocabulary, who devoured ancient lexicons, found no suitable descriptors for this intricate, repulsive muddle of emotions. It was simply… convoluted. Hatred for Elara Vane, the spectral image of her face, bruised and swollen after the incident, and the desperate strategies he had employed to distance himself from Thorne—all swirled within him. He bit his lip, his fingers fidgeting with the ornate door handle. Closing his eyes, he twisted it with a decisive, bitter turn. In the Lyceum’s inner garden, the cold dew clung to the awakening air, a harbinger of the approaching chill. Lysander stepped carefully onto the cool marble flagstones, avoiding the damp grass. The pre-dawn cold made him pull his cloak tighter. His slipper-clad feet carried him through the silent grounds, past the ancient, gnarled trees, to the heavy iron gate of his private annex. He paused, a soft click of his tongue, and gripped the cold metal handle. The creak of the ancient hinge made him flinch. He pushed it open, slowly, hesitantly. Beyond the gate, illuminated by the faint glow of an arcane street lamp on the cobbled path, stood Elara Vane. Her head hung low, her simple scholar’s robes blending into the deep shadows. She traced invisible patterns on the ground with the toe of her worn boot. “...Elara Vane.” At his voice, Elara’s head snapped up, quick as a startled bird. “Lysander, Lysander!” “What is it?”

Echoes in Obsidian