Lysander Blackwood’s existence had been meticulously sculpted by a lifelong regimen of academic rigor and quiet expectations. He cultivated an inner landscape of unyielding composure, a fortress against the raw, unfettered emotions he witnessed in others. To expose vulnerability was to invite scrutiny, a prospect he found more abhorrent than any insult or physical discomfort. Consequently, even when the ambient magical energies around him swirled with disquiet, he could project an almost unnerving stillness.
He often heard whispers describing him as a cold intellect, a mind devoid of passion or fury. This was a grave misreading. Every emotional tremor, every slight, every gnawing fear had merely been transmuted, hardening into the obsidian shell that encased his spirit. Over the cycles of the Lyceum, few things could truly pierce that hardened surface.
This resolute self-control had, paradoxically, secured his precarious position within Valerius Thorne’s volatile orbit. Lysander was a scholar of exceptional promise, though he rarely advertised it, and held a respectable, if overshadowed, standing amongst the Lyceum’s junior mages. He clung to this position, a construct painstakingly built upon meticulous study and the careful suppression of his own desires.
“Lysander. A word.”
“Yes, Valerius?”
“That tone, scholar. It grates.”
“Forgive me. My apologies if my cadence offends your discerning ear.”
A sharp, humorless chuckle escaped Valerius. Caius Vesper, sprawled nearby on a velvet-draped divan, tossed a polished obsidian scrying orb between his hands, a faint shimmer of captured light flickering across its surface.
“Caius, do you ever encounter individuals not utterly bereft of wit? Beyond the usual dim-witted noble brats, that is.”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘wit,’ Thorne.” Caius’s voice held a dry, rasping quality, like parchment rubbed over stone. “If you mean those capable of crafting a passable incantation, perhaps. If you mean those who can discern a genuine magical artifact from a common geode, less so.”
“Don’t play coy, Vesper. You understand my meaning.”
Caius merely offered a languid shrug, the scrying orb continuing its slow, rhythmic arc. Valerius’s gaze, however, drifted, settling with predatory intensity on a hunched form sketching in a distant corner of the scriptorium.
Valerius Thorne was a whirlwind of crude power, impulsive and unburdened by thought. His magical impulses, fueled by a privileged bloodline, were often channeled into acts of dominance and casual cruelty. Lysander knew this intimately. Valerius’s harassment, devoid of any nuanced restraint, grew only more blatant as the semester wore on.
By this afternoon, as the golden light of the waning autumn filtered through the arched windows, Kaelen Varr had been thoroughly isolated. Yet, even Kaelen’s utter solitude seemed insufficient to satisfy Valerius.
The hierarchies within Valerius’s loose assembly of acolytes were subtle, but potent. His immediate coterie—Lucien, Gareth, and Seraphina—would always linger after a lecture, awaiting his dismissal. Others, those from the lesser bloodlines or with middling aptitudes, would bolt from the lecture hall the instant the bell tolled for the midday meal.
In his first year, Lysander had been part of Valerius’s inner circle. But the dynamic had shifted by his second year. Lucien, with an offhand remark, had sealed Lysander’s fate: “Lysander always eats with Vesper, doesn’t he? Gods, you’re so… deliberate in your rituals.” Without a direct decree, Lysander had found himself subtly excluded.
The sting of humiliation was sharp, yet beneath it, a strange sense of relief bloomed. Lysander’s first year had been plagued by a gnawing anxiety, a perpetual fear of missteps in the hurried, competitive pace of Valerius’s group. He’d often fumbled minor enchantments or misread ritualistic timings, striving to keep up. Still, the thought of clinging to Valerius like a clinging vine, dependent on his whims, disgusted even Lysander.
He had not pleaded. He had not protested.
Projecting an air of detached indifference, Lysander had met Caius’s gaze across the refectory. Caius, lounging on a stone bench, idly spinning his scrying orb, had merely raised an eyebrow.
“When do you attend the Refectory?” Caius had asked, his voice flat.
“My schedule is… flexible.”
“I typically break my fast in ten cycles. Or so.”
“That… aligns with my own timing.” Lysander had lied, his stomach clenching. He had never eaten at that hour. But survival instincts, honed over years of navigating the Lyceum’s treacherous social currents, had asserted themselves. If he wished to maintain even Caius’s tacit acceptance, he had to adapt.
The first meal he’d shared with Caius alone, Lysander had left half his plate untouched, feigning a lack of appetite. Caius had merely observed, a faint, irritating smirk playing on his lips.
“Are you still particular, Blackwood? At eighteen cycles? Like a fledgling scholar?”
“It’s of no concern to you, Vesper.” Lysander had retorted, a flush rising on his neck. His irritation was palpable, yet he could not fault Caius. Caius, though a junior scholar, possessed an inherent gravitas that Valerius, for all his bluster, tacitly respected.
In their first year, Lysander and Valerius had been almost inseparable. By the second, their shared moments had dwindled, a shift largely orchestrated by Caius. Yet, Lysander had no right to complain. Caius, by virtue of his own peculiar blend of intellectual prowess and disdain for social posturing, outranked Lysander in Valerius’s estimation.
Caius and Valerius’s circles overlapped significantly, primarily comprising students whose bloodlines were ancient but whose scholarly diligence was often… relaxed. They were the sort who would forge excuses for absence from Arcane Theory, or vanish from Elemental Practicum, exploiting the weary indifference of the elder instructors.
Valerius, ever mindful of his powerful lineage and its scrutiny, usually remained in class. As for Caius, whose reputation was equally infamous, Lysander had once dared to ask why he bothered to adhere to the Lyceum’s schedule.
“Do you presume me to be so contemptible?” Caius had asked, his voice low.
“No, but your… associates often are.”
“Associates? What preposterous notion is that? They are not my associates. They are dregs.”
“What?”
“A scholar’s duty is to attend the lessons. To absorb the ancient knowledge, yes?”
“That is true.”
“Do not equate me with their ilk. It offends me.”
“Forgive my presumption.”
“I sought no apology.”
The declaration, coming from Caius Vesper, had been profoundly absurd, yet entirely characteristic. This was the same individual whose proclaimed “dregs” vanished from the Lyceum’s halls at least once a week.
Regardless, Lysander had spent the majority of his second year with Valerius and Caius. He had come to view their unusual companionship as a confined, almost sacred space, impermeable to outside intrusion. It would have been perfect, perhaps, without Caius’s constant, grating presence. But, surprisingly, they had forged a workable truce. Lysander did not like Caius, yet he was not so intolerable as to provoke outright flight. Caius was merely… vexing.
But Kaelen Varr’s presence threatened to unravel even that fragile equilibrium.
This afternoon felt subtly altered from the usual rhythms of the Lyceum.
“Damn them. Lucien and Gareth, those utter imbeciles,” Valerius snarled, clutching his head as the fourth period of lectures drew to a close.
At the sound of his voice, Lysander immediately turned, a tremor of anticipation, unwelcome yet undeniable, stirring within him. “They absented themselves again?”
“Feckless curs.”
“A pity. With whom shall you take your midday meal?”
A tiny, desperate spark of hope ignited within Lysander’s chest. His fingers, resting on the back of his chair, trembled almost imperceptibly. Valerius let out a heavy sigh and cast a sidelong glance at Caius, who remained splayed on the divan.
“I shall join your meal today, Vesper.”
“No one issued an invitation, Thorne,” Caius replied, his tone flat and unyielding.
“Continue that insolence, and I shall ensure you eat nothing at all.”
“By the Mother, today’s pronouncements are making me yearn to demonstrate a basic Elemental Disjunction upon your face, Valerius.”
“Go ahead, try it, you insipid fool.”
“Bold words for one who would otherwise break bread in solitude.”
Lysander could no longer remain silent. He interjected, his voice carefully modulated, yet a thread of desperation ran beneath it. “Come, let us all share the meal. We cannot leave Valerius to dine alone.”
His overt desperation must have been glaring. Valerius smirked, a triumphant gleam in his eyes, and glanced at Caius with a sly, knowing grin.
“You see, Vesper? I cultivate most dedicated companions.”
“…”
“What do you surmise, Caius? Lysander proves quite… useful, does he not?”
Caius scowled, then with a sudden flick of his wrist, swept Valerius’s ornate writing quill case from the divan, sending it clattering onto the flagstones. Whether Caius found Lysander agreeable was irrelevant. What truly mattered was that Valerius would now join them for the midday meal.
It had been a considerable time since they had all dined together. Lysander felt a surge of elation, so profound that he even compelled himself to consume some of the bland, dried root vegetables he typically abhorred.
But Valerius’s attention was not on his meal. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the Grand Refectory like a predator seeking its quarry. Lysander, too engrossed in the sudden, dizzying proximity of Valerius, failed to notice Caius subtly pilfering a candied apricot from his own plate. Then, without a whisper of warning, Valerius’s fork clattered against his tray, and his free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing by.
Lysander looked up. It was Kaelen Varr.
“Sit here,” Valerius commanded, inclining his head toward the empty space beside him. “You possess no other companionship anyway.”
Kaelen’s face flushed a deep crimson. His gaze flickered wildly, landing briefly on Lysander, before he bit his lip and slowly, hesitantly, lowered himself onto the cold stone bench Valerius had indicated.
Lysander felt a jolt, a profound sense of disorientation. Stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Valerius concern himself with Kaelen’s lack of companions? And Kaelen’s isolation was, almost entirely, a consequence of Valerius’s own relentless torment.
A bitter, coppery taste flooded Lysander’s mouth.
Unconsciously, he slammed his spoon onto his tray, the sharp clang echoing in the sudden silence of their immediate vicinity. Only Kaelen reacted, flinching visibly, his eyes darting to Lysander with a nervous apprehension. Valerius, however, remained transfixed on Kaelen.
Damn it. In that precise moment, Lysander felt the ancient, protective shell he had meticulously constructed over the long cycles of his life begin to fissure. He tried to arrest the process, to reassert control, but the cracks widened inexorably. Perhaps, he realized with a chilling dread, he was nearing a breaking point he had never truly acknowledged.
Clinging desperately to denial, Lysander snapped at Kaelen.
“Kaelen. Depart.”
“H-huh?”
“Do not heed Valerius. Simply go. It is permissible.”
“Lysander Blackwood,” Valerius purred, his voice dangerously low, a silken threat.
When Lysander told Kaelen to leave, Valerius, who had ignored the jarring clang of his spoon, finally ground his teeth, his gaze fixing upon Lysander with a searing intensity. That glare, far from deterring him, ignited a stubborn resolve within Lysander. He met Valerius’s eyes, unwavering.
“I shall intercede. You are free to go.”
“Uh, o-okay.” Kaelen’s voice was a reedy whisper.
“And Valerius, cease this foolishness.”
“Indeed, I concur,” Caius chimed in, his voice muffled by a mouthful of roasted fowl. His sudden interjection felt utterly misplaced, a jarring note in the escalating tension. He chewed and swallowed with an infuriating slowness before glancing between Lysander and Valerius, an irritating smirk playing on his lips.
“Why the intense scrutiny? You are quite spoiling my appetite.”
As ever, Caius’s unnecessary provocations grated upon Lysander’s nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter how Lysander appraised him. Ignoring Caius, Lysander turned back to Valerius.
“Leave Kaelen Varr to his own solitude.”
“Who grants you the authority to dictate my actions?” Valerius shot back, his voice rising.
“It causes discomfort for the rest of us to witness.”
Lysander did not blink, holding Valerius’s furious gaze. Valerius slammed his fist onto the stone table. The sudden impact made Kaelen, who sat awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Caius, in contrast, chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender.
“Exclude me from this dispute.”
He licked a stray droplet of water from his lip and added, “Let us decide by consensus. I am neutral. Lysander desires his departure. Valerius insists he remains.”
For the record, Caius was one of the few who called Lysander by his given name, and Lysander found it irritating every single time. That irritation, sharp and unwelcome, now tinctured his voice.
“Cease your interference. Your vote holds no weight.”
“And why not? There is another individual right there.”
Caius, entirely unfazed, smirked and gestured toward Kaelen with a casual flick of his hand.
“What? Is Kaelen not a person?”
“You are unhinged.”
“Why does he remain silent? Let him voice his own inclination.”
As if Kaelen could possibly speak in this oppressive, suffocating atmosphere. Lysander sighed at Caius’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his now-cold rice. At that moment, Valerius tapped a manicured finger on the table.
“If you depart this table now, Varr, consider yourself a dead man in this Lyceum, beginning this very moment.”
Tears began to well in Kaelen’s large, brown eyes, which glimmered as he looked at Lysander, an unspoken plea for succor. Damn it. Lysander pressed his lips together, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
“It is permissible. I shall prevent him from harming you,” Lysander said, his voice a low, desperate reassurance to Kaelen.
“Lysander Blackwood,” Valerius growled, his voice tight with barely suppressed fury.
Lysander forced himself to meet Valerius’s gaze, projecting a calmness he did not feel, but inside, he felt the overwhelming urge to shatter, to succumb to the dread. To suppress it, he gazed momentarily at the vaulted ceiling of the Refectory, its ancient carvings seeming to mock his meager defiance, before lowering his head and replying, a feigned nonchalance in his tone.
“What now, Valerius?”
“You…”
Valerius clenched his fist, glaring at Lysander with an intensity that felt like a scorching brand. Still, Lysander had to endure. His instincts screamed that he could not abandon Kaelen to Valerius’s unchecked malice.
But then, Valerius’s predatory focus shifted, settling back on Kaelen.
“I-I will go,” Kaelen stammered, his voice thin and trembling, the words barely audible.
“…”
“Th-thank you, Lysander.”
Kaelen hastily rose from the bench, his footsteps unsteady, a frantic shuffle of fear. As soon as he was gone, Valerius turned abruptly, his cold, furious gaze pinning Lysander in place.