A stillness, unnerving in its depth, defined Elian Vane. His composure was less a virtue and more a heavily reinforced wall, each stone mortared by years of meticulous self-regulation. His parents, burdened by their family’s diminished status, had instilled in him a rigid discipline, a fierce aversion to exposing any vulnerability. He learned early to endure, to swallow emotional turbulence whole, lest a single tremor betray the fragile foundation of his pride. Others often found him dispassionate, even dull, mistaking his resilience for apathy. Not that anger was a foreign concept; every slight, every whispered dismissive word, every blatant disregard for his lineage, had not ignited a fire, but built another brick. Over time, that protective shell had grown so impossibly thick, few things could truly penetrate it, much less provoke a visible reaction. This unyielding control, in its own way, was a strategic asset. It allowed him to hover at the periphery of circles like Lord Kaelen Thorne’s, occupying a precarious yet respectable position within the Academy’s rigid social order. To reveal a chink was to invite further diminishment, a fate the Vane name, once illustrious, could ill afford. “Elian. You still chew like a ruminant.” A sneer, heavy with casual disdain, had been Lord Gareth’s. Not Kaelen himself, but one of his inner circle, in the second year. “We’re always late to sparring practice because of you.” Kaelen, sprawled across a cushioned bench in the common room, hadn’t even looked up from polishing his signet ring. A dismissive shrug had sealed it. Without a direct decree, without even a glance, Elian found himself subtly detached, no longer part of their immediate retinue. Pride, a stubborn, unyielding thing, had choked back any words of protest. The very thought of clinging, a supplicant fish’s excrement, sickened him. Besides, the frantic pace of meals, forcing food down to match Kaelen’s pack, had often left him with a sour stomach. Better this, perhaps. Across the common room, Seraphin Vesta, notoriously blunt and almost defiantly unimpressed by Aethelgard’s grandees, had been idly bouncing a polished river stone. He met Elian’s gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “When do you eat?” Elian, caught off guard, had merely grunted. “Usually in ten minutes,” Seraphin added, flicking the stone into the air. “That… suits me.” It was a lie. He had never eaten at that time. But survival instincts, honed by years of navigating treacherous social currents, kicked in. Adapting, even to Seraphin’s solitary orbit, was necessary. The first meal, a forced exercise in indifference, saw him pushing away half his plate, claiming a sudden lack of appetite. Seraphin, raising an eyebrow, had retorted, “What are you, seventeen and still picky?” “My preferences are not your concern.” “Honestly, you’re like a fledgling.” “Even Archons don’t eat blighted root stew with sweetened cream.” Elian had shot back, irritated. Seraphin’s presence, though often grating, was a surprisingly steady counterpoint to the Academy’s usual sycophancy. He saw the ‘friends’ of Kaelen not as companions, but as ‘trash,’ students whose academic duties were merely inconvenient formalities. “A student’s duty is to attend lectures and learn, isn’t it?” Seraphin had once stated, a rare moment of philosophical insight from him. “Indeed.” “Then don’t lump me with that refuse. It vexes me.” Though Seraphin’s companions often consisted of those who’d forge dismissal scrolls or vanish for entire afternoons, he himself remained, steadfastly attending. Elian had found a peculiar, if annoying, camaraderie in their shared estrangement. Today, the Grand Refectory hummed with the usual lunchtime cacophony. Sunlight, fractured by the lofty arched windows, dappled across the polished obsidian floors. The scent of roasted venison mingled with spiced bread and a faint, lingering aroma of arcane reagents from the morning’s lectures. “Damn it. Gareth and Isolde, those imbeciles,” Kaelen Thorne growled, clutching his head as the fourth period neared its close. His voice, though muted by the surrounding chatter, carried the distinct edge of a noble accustomed to instant obedience. Elian, seated a few paces away, turned, a subtle tremor of anticipation stirring beneath his ribs. “They’ve absconded again?” “Bloody fools.” “Unfortunate. Who will you dine with, then?” The words felt stiff, formal, belying the nascent flicker of hope blossoming in his chest. His fingers, resting on the back of his chair, twitched almost imperceptibly. Kaelen sighed, a theatrical display of exasperation, and glanced at Seraphin. “I’m joining your table today.” “Uninvited guests are generally unwelcome,” Seraphin replied, without looking up from the runes he was sketching on a scrap of parchment. “Keep that insolent mouth running, Vesta, and I’ll ensure it’s silenced.” “Gods, Kaelen, today truly tests my patience not to punch you.” “Attempt it, imbecile.” “Bold words for a lord who’d otherwise be eating alone.” Elian could no longer remain silent. “Come, let us all share a table. We cannot leave Lord Kaelen to dine in solitude.” His desperation must have been palpable, a raw edge to his carefully modulated tone. Kaelen’s lips curved into a triumphant smirk, his gaze sweeping to Seraphin. “See? I have loyal companions.” Seraphin merely scowled, sweeping Kaelen’s forgotten stylus case off the desk with a sharp movement of his arm, sending it clattering. Whether Seraphin favored Elian mattered little. What mattered was Kaelen’s presence. A thrill, sharp and unexpected, coursed through Elian. It had been too long since Kaelen had graced their table. He even forced himself to eat the stewed bellfruit, a dish he detested, savoring the moment, the precarious re-entry into the inner sphere. Kaelen, however, paid little mind to his food. His eyes, predatory and restless, swept across the bustling Refectory, a hunter scanning for prey. Elian, too fixated on Kaelen, failed to notice Seraphin subtly pilfering a few extra spiced bread rolls from his own tray. Suddenly, Kaelen’s fork clattered against his plate. His free hand shot out, seizing the arm of a slight figure passing by their table. Lyraeus. His head was bowed, his shoulders hunched. “Sit here,” Kaelen commanded, indicating the empty seat beside him. “You have no one else to eat with, anyway.” Lyraeus’s face flushed crimson. His eyes darted wildly, briefly meeting Elian’s, before he bit his lip and slowly, reluctantly, sank into the offered chair. Elian froze. Stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Kaelen feign concern for Lyraeus’s companionship? It was Kaelen’s relentless torment that had driven Lyraeus to utter isolation. Kaelen had always abhorred anyone offering solace to Lyraeus. A bitter, metallic taste rose in Elian’s throat. Unconsciously, Elian’s spoon slammed onto his tray, a harsh, jarring clatter that cut through the background din. Only Lyraeus reacted, flinching visibly, his gaze flickering nervously toward Elian. Kaelen, however, remained transfixed, his attention solely on Lyraeus. Damn it. The protective shell, painstakingly constructed over years, began to crack. A splintered agony pierced through Elian’s composure. He fought it, a desperate internal battle, but the breach widened. Perhaps he was nearing a breaking point he hadn’t known existed. Clinging to denial, a fragile shield against the encroaching chaos, he snapped at Lyraeus. “Lyraeus. Depart.” “H-huh?” Lyraeus stammered, startled. “Heed not Lord Kaelen. Go. It is permitted.” “Elian Vane,” Kaelen’s voice dropped, a dangerous, low growl. That was the trigger. The clatter of Elian’s spoon had been ignored, but his direct defiance, his challenge to Kaelen’s authority, roused the brute. Kaelen’s eyes, narrowed to slits, fixed on Elian, burning with an intense, cold fury. The glare solidified Elian’s resolve. He met Lyraeus’s gaze, unblinking. “I will intercede. You are free to leave.” “Uh, o-okay.” “And Kaelen, desist from this charade.” “Aye, I concur,” Seraphin chimed in, his words muffled by a mouthful of spiced bread. His sudden interjection felt strangely out of place, almost deliberately so. He chewed and swallowed, slowly, deliberately, before glancing between Elian and Kaelen, an irritating smirk playing on his lips. “What are you glaring at? You’re spoiling my appetite.” Seraphin’s unnecessary provocations, as always, grated on Elian’s nerves. The man was insufferable. Ignoring him, Elian turned back to Kaelen. “Leave Lyraeus in peace.” “Who the hell are you to dictate my actions?” Kaelen shot back, his voice rising, drawing a few curious glances from nearby tables. “It is tiresome to observe.” Elian held Kaelen’s gaze, unflinching. Kaelen slammed his fist onto the table. The sudden impact made Lyraeus, perched awkwardly on his seat, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Seraphin, by contrast, merely chuckled, raising a hand in mock surrender. “Exclude me from this.” He licked a bead of water from his lips, adding, “Let’s decide by majority. I’m neutral. Elian wishes him gone. Kaelen insists he stays.” Seraphin was one of the few who dared use Elian’s given name, a constant, low thrum of irritation. It seeped into his tone now. “Cease your interference. Your vote holds no weight.” “Why not? There’s another person right there.” Seraphin, unfazed, smirked and pointed at Lyraeus, a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Lyraeus not a person?” “You are absurd.” “Why is he silent? Let him voice his own desire.” As if Lyraeus could possibly speak in this charged atmosphere. Elian sighed at Seraphin’s thoughtless antics, picking up his spoon and idly stirring his untouched venison stew. Kaelen’s finger tapped rhythmically on the table, a slow, deliberate drumbeat. “If you depart, Lyraeus, you are dead starting today.” Tears welled in Lyraeus’s large eyes, glistening as he looked at Elian, a silent plea for rescue. Damn it. Elian pressed his lips together, a hard line. “It is fine. I will stop him,” Elian said, his voice low, intended only for Lyraeus, a desperate attempt at reassurance. “Elian Vane,” Kaelen growled, his voice tight with barely contained rage. Elian forced himself to meet Kaelen’s furious gaze, feigning a calm he did not possess. The overwhelming urge to break down, to shatter this fragile façade, threatened to consume him. To suppress it, he lifted his eyes to the painted ceiling for a fleeting moment, then lowered his head, replying nonchalantly. “What?” “You…” Kaelen’s fist clenched, his glare an inferno that threatened to incinerate Elian where he sat. Still, he had to endure. His instincts screamed that he could not abandon Lyraeus to Kaelen’s cruelty. But Kaelen’s focus shifted, an unexpected pivot back to Lyraeus. “I-I’ll depart,” Lyraeus stammered, his voice trembling, barely audible. “…” “Th-thank you, Elian Vane.” Lyraeus scrambled up, fleeing the table, his footsteps unsteady and quick. As soon as his retreating form vanished amidst the students, Kaelen spun, his burning gaze snapping back to Elian.

The Cracks in the Facade