A week crawled by, each day a measured torment of avoidance and observation. Lysander Blackwood spent his hours entombed in the Lyceum's more obscure archives, the arcane symbols on ancient scrolls blurring before his eyes. His sensitivity to ambient magic, usually a subtle hum, had become a frantic tremor beneath his skin, mirroring his frayed nerves. He feigned indifference, an elaborate pretense that the formidable presence of Cassian Thorne held no sway over his thoughts.
Yet, the relentless current of his curiosity dragged him towards Alaric. It was a humiliating concession, this burning need to know, even as he loathed his own lack of resolve. Alaric, ever the detached observer, often lounged in the scriptorium's quieter corners, idly sharpening quills or tracing glyphs into his palm.
“Thorne left the Lyceum again,” Alaric noted one afternoon, his voice a low murmur that barely disturbed the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light. He didn’t glance up from inspecting a cracked arcane lens.
Lysander’s breath caught, a prickle of unease spreading through him. “A reckless magical foray, then? Some unsanctioned summoning in the outer wards?” His own voice sounded strained, a thin disguise over his true inquiry.
Alaric snorted softly. “Hardly. A more… conventional diversion this time. An arranged introduction, I heard, with a minor sorceress from the Veles family.” His fingers paused on the lens, then continued their slow rotation.
Lysander’s stomach twisted. “An introduction?” The words tasted flat, lifeless.
“Indeed,” Alaric confirmed. “For dynastic purposes, no doubt. She was quite insistent on meeting him.” He tapped the lens. “Apparently, they retired to a private chamber immediately. Utterly without preamble. As if their combined arcane auras simply demanded solitude. A mutual, immediate understanding, one might say.”
Alaric's tone, laced with his usual dry disdain, offered a bitter draught of relief. A cold, ignoble satisfaction bloomed within Lysander’s chest. He knew it was wrong, a pathetic comfort, but it was comfort nonetheless.
Lysander leaned against a towering bookshelf, the aged wood creaking faintly under his weight. “Disgustingly effortless,” he murmured, the words escaping before he could temper them.
“Precisely,” Alaric agreed, his gaze still fixed on the arcane lens. “I, for one, find such frictionless interactions rather vulgar. Give me the messy complexities of genuine intellectual struggle any day.”
Alaric’s boastful declaration, his quiet pride in his own awkwardness, elicited a faint, involuntary smile from Lysander. “Is that why you remain perpetually unattached, then? Too embroiled in intellectual struggle?” He heard the faint tremor of mockery in his own voice, a rare flicker of levity.
Alaric finally looked up, his expression a theatrical mask of incredulity. “A grievance will be filed, Blackwood. Directly with the Lyceum’s Elder Council.” He flicked a dismissive gesture at Lysander’s hand, which had subconsciously moved to rest on his shoulder.
“For what offense, precisely?” Lysander asked, his voice still low, but a hint of mirth now present.
“For causing undue discomfort,” Alaric stated, leaning back against the cool stone wall. “A clear violation of scholarly comportment.” He shifted, revealing a slender silver rosary of intricate design wrapped around his left wrist, its carved obsidian beads glinting in the dim light.
Lysander’s gaze settled on the rosary. “That particular holy relic seems… incongruous with your persona, Alaric.”
Alaric's head tilted slightly, his usual flippancy replaced by a sudden, quiet solemnity. “Incongruous? How so?”
“It simply does not align with the pragmatic, cynical scholar you cultivate,” Lysander explained, a sudden awkwardness settling between them. “It looks more like an aesthetic affectation than a genuine devotion.”
“It is not an affectation,” Alaric said, his voice softer now, almost wistful. “My lineage has served the Chantry for generations.”
It was a detail Lysander had never quite reconciled. Alaric, son of a devout house, bore the mark of faith as easily as he bore the mark of cynicism. He was a paradox, and perhaps that was why Lysander found him tolerable. Alaric was the only one who spoke with open criticism of the Lyceum’s more powerful, less restrained scions, including Cassian Thorne.
---
The following days were a study in purposeful evasion. Whenever Cassian Thorne’s imposing figure appeared in a corridor, Lysander would divert his path, his head bowed as if engrossed in a scroll. He dared not meet Cassian’s gaze, dared not risk the confrontation that might expose his own raw vulnerability. The thought of ‘losing’ in some unspoken contest of wills, of revealing the depth of his feelings, was a paralyzing fear.
Silas Vane, however, could not escape so easily. Each day, new marks appeared on his face—a bruised cheekbone, a split lip, the faint discolouration of a faded contusion beneath his eye. They were brutal, undeniable proof of Cassian’s continued, savage attentions. Lysander’s stomach would churn at the sight. When he inadvertently met Silas’s eyes, a look of grim pity on his face, Silas would quickly avert his own, a desperate shame etched onto his youthful features.
Four more days passed, each dragging by like a funeral procession. One quiet morning, alone in the alchemy lab, Lysander pressed his forehead against the cool stone of a workbench. He wanted to escape the awful drama unfolding around him, the suffocating power dynamics he felt so keenly.
The chasm between himself and Cassian Thorne felt wider than ever. What had begun as a mere crack had become an unbridgeable canyon of despair. Opening his eyes felt like tumbling into the abyss. The fresh bruises on Silas Vane’s swollen eye, as stark and unyielding as a magister’s seal on a decree, made him want to retreat from everything. He yearned for oblivion.
Then, a strange, dark blessing arrived. Silas Vane ceased attending his lectures. Master Elara, their instructor of ancient glyphs, spoke of an ‘unexplained absence,’ but the tremor in her voice betrayed the truth: truancy, or perhaps something more ominous. Lysander felt a jolt of vile, guilty relief.
Conversely, Cassian Thorne’s presence became even more volatile. During lecture, he would fidget with an enchanted locket, his gaze snapping irritably across the lecture hall, sometimes even delivering a sharp, magical rebuke to a lesser scion who dared to whisper out of turn. A part of Lysander felt a smug satisfaction, a strange sense of superiority. He nursed a fragile, secret hope: perhaps with Silas Vane gone, truly gone, Cassian’s focus would eventually return to him. With this dangerous thought, he waited.
A few more days drifted by, heavy with unspoken tension.
“Thorne has been unusually… subdued,” Alaric remarked one evening, observing Lysander as he carefully organized a stack of brittle scrolls. Lysander’s heart gave a violent lurch against his ribs. He wanted desperately to turn, to assess Cassian’s demeanor for himself, but his pride held him captive. A coward in the face of his own desires, he could only listen to Alaric’s words and construct an image in his mind.
Nothing shifted, however, as the day wound to a close. Lysander convinced himself there would be another opportunity tomorrow. Such powerful tides did not turn in a single day. He continued to wait, gathering his Satchel of holding as the last lecture concluded. Alaric, lingering by a worn tome, spoke again, his voice carrying a subtle implication.
“You and Thorne had a rather… public disagreement, didn’t you?”
Lysander spun around, his movements sharp and unbidden. “Indeed.”
“And the silence has persisted since that unfortunate incident in the archives?” Alaric’s brow was slightly raised.
“It has,” Lysander confirmed, his voice tight.
“Remarkable,” Alaric mused, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robes. “A protracted chill, even for you two.” Lysander avoided his gaze, searching for a suitable explanation, a palatable excuse.
“Honestly, Cassian’s actions were… excessive,” Lysander began, carefully choosing his words. “The gratuitous cruelty towards Silas. It was simply… distasteful. Unseemly, for a scholar of his standing.”
“Distasteful?” Alaric echoed, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “What precisely was distasteful?”
“His treatment of Silas Vane. Two scions of prominent houses, yet Cassian behaves with such… barbarity. It is deeply unsettling. Unacceptable.” Lysander felt his face grow warm, the heat rising from his collar.
“A paragon of moral rectitude, aren’t you, Blackwood?” Alaric’s words were a low, dry chuckle, devoid of genuine admiration. His sarcasm pricked Lysander like a thousand tiny needles. Lysander felt utterly exposed, his carefully constructed facade crumbling. His cheeks burned. He turned abruptly, walking out of the lecture hall with swift, purposeful strides, desperate to escape Alaric’s knowing gaze.
---
As Lysander hurried down a deserted corridor, intent on reaching his private study, a hand clamped unexpectedly onto his shoulder. Assuming it was Alaric, chasing after him with another veiled taunt, Lysander spun around, irritation flaring, and wrenched his arm free. It was not Alaric. Master Elara, their severe but often distant glyph-master, stood before him, her face unusually grave.
Lysander’s expression instantly smoothed into one of deference. “My apologies, Master Elara. I was… preoccupied.”
“No, Lysander, it is I who should apologize,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “But I confess, I require a moment of your time. If you would spare it.” Her gaze was imploring. Lysander, sensing the urgency, nodded mutely.
“This morning,” Master Elara began, her voice carefully modulated, “Cassian Thorne requested Silas Vane’s ancestral ward-markings.” Her gaze pierced Lysander’s.
“Cassian Thorne?” Lysander echoed, a cold dread seeping into his bones. Master Elara, as a ranking instructor, could not be entirely oblivious to the insidious bullying that permeated the Lyceum’s rigid hierarchy. Yet, she was not bold enough to directly confront a scion of the Thorne lineage. Still, she was not so heartless as to ignore it entirely. Her coming to Lysander now, confirmed this.
“I am not accusing or condemning young Thorne, but…” She trailed off, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.
“No, Master,” Lysander interjected quickly, his mind racing. “I understand. His interest is… not entirely surprising.”
“Given your uncommon empathy for Silas Vane,” she continued, pressing her hands together, “I wondered if you might… mediate? Perhaps accompany Cassian. Do you comprehend the implication of my request?”
Lysander could not speak. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. The volatile energy Cassian Thorne directed at Silas Vane now felt like tendrils creeping towards Lysander himself, rooting him to the spot. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. He could not stand by and allow this to happen.
“Might I… instead procure Silas’s personal sigil-sequence?” Lysander asked, his voice strained but steady. The Lyceum’s communication charms required a direct sequence to bypass wards.
“Ah, yes, of course,” Master Elara said, her relief palpable. “A sensible approach. Let me provide it. Endeavor to establish contact first.”
“I shall,” Lysander promised, forcing a calm into his tone. “I will speak with him. Do not overly concern yourself.”
“I am counting on your discretion, Lysander.”
“Indeed, Master.”
On the surface, Lysander’s demeanor was composed, but internally, a tempest raged. Master Elara transcribed Silas Vane’s sigil-sequence from her ledger, an awkward silence hanging between them, before she departed the corridor. Lysander knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the core, he had to prevent Cassian Thorne from reaching Silas Vane. He had to stop Thorne’s strange, obsessive preoccupation from escalating into something irreparable. The moment Master Elara was out of sight, Lysander pulled his own communicator-charm from his robes, his fingers trembling as he activated it. His leg jittered uncontrollably, and he repeatedly clenched and unclenched his hand, waiting for a connection.
“Hello?” Silas’s voice, faint and reedy, answered surprisingly quickly.
“Silas? It is Lysander. Lysander Blackwood.” Lysander rushed the words out, hearing a sudden clatter on the other end, as if something had fallen, followed by a rustling sound. After a brief pause, Silas spoke again, his voice laced with confusion and fear.
“L-Lysander? How… how did you obtain my sequence? Did you… already possess it?”
“No. Master Elara informed me Cassian Thorne inquired after your ancestral ward-markings today. I requested your sigil-sequence from her.” Lysander’s voice was clipped, efficient. “I wished to caution you.”
“…”
“What of you, Lysander? Are you… safe? Even attempting to hinder him…” Silas’s concern, however genuine, was a distraction Lysander could not afford.
“Do not concern yourself with me. Focus on your own safety. Should you require further absence from the Lyceum, call this sequence. I will intercede with Master Elara. My standing is… sufficient.”
“Thank you.” Silas’s voice was barely a whisper.
“If Thorne attempts to harass you or use his sorcery against you here at the Lyceum, you must inform me immediately. If you cannot speak, a touch on the shoulder will suffice. It is always more difficult to mend what is already broken.”
“Understood.”
“Honestly, seeking placement elsewhere, a transfer to another academy, would be the wisest course.” Lysander slipped the suggestion in, hoping it would resonate.
“…”
“For now, either feign absence from your ancestral domain, or withdraw to a distant, safe location.”
“Alright…”
“I am disconnecting the charm.”
“W-wait.”
“…”
“Thank you, Lysander.” After a long, agonizing hesitation, Silas’s voice came again, soft and trembling. “T-thank you for always showing me… consideration.”
“It is nothing.” Lysander hated the raw edge of vulnerability in Silas’s voice. It unsettled him profoundly.
“I just… wished to express it. Thank you. Until next we meet.”
“Indeed.”
“Farewell.”
What ‘farewell’? Lysander did not deign to respond, disconnecting the charm with a sharp click. The tremor in Silas’s voice, his fervent gratitude, had crawled under Lysander’s skin, leaving him profoundly uncomfortable. It was too much, too raw.
What transpired at Silas Vane’s ancestral domain that night, Lysander could not know. All he registered was Silas’s unexpected return to the Lyceum the very next morning. Within a week, the faint, soft pallor characteristic of his youth began to return, pushing back the lingering shadows of bruises. Silas also ceased approaching Lysander, a new guardedness in his demeanor, a subtle shift in his aura. This abrupt change ignited a flicker of suspicion in Lysander’s mind. Yet, when all the visible marks of torment finally receded from Silas’s face, Lysander could not help but feel a faint, insidious sense of hope—however unlikely, however tainted.
Then, two weeks later, in the quiet, dusty expanse of the central library, Cassian Thorne materialized beside Lysander, his voice cutting through the hushed air like a sharp blade.
“Lysander.”
“…”
“Lysander Blackwood.”
“…”
Lysander kept his gaze fixed rigidly on the ancient text before him, but a sharp, involuntary gasp threatened to escape his lips. Could it be? Was Cassian Thorne finally finished with Silas Vane? Was he, at last, turning his formidable attention back towards Lysander? The thought was a dangerous, intoxicating poison. He waited, breath held tight in his chest.