A certain disquiet had settled into the rhythm of my days at Aethelgard. It began as a whisper, a flicker of curiosity, observing Lord Kaelen Thorne and Seraphin Alar. Their departures from the Great Hall after the evening lectures became a quiet ritual I couldn't unsee. Kaelen, always magnificent, would stride ahead. Seraphin, a fragile moth to Kaelen's flame, invariably followed, his gaze fixed on Kaelen’s retreating back. A man grown, trailing another like a shadowed afterthought—the image clung to my mind. A chill pricked my skin. This curiosity felt like a key, poised over a lock I knew should remain untouched. A forbidden chamber, holding not merely despair, but a cruel, insidious hope that promised to eclipse any despondency. Still, my hand trembled. “This is madness,” a quiet voice within cautioned. My thoughts blurred, frayed at the edges. But even acknowledging the folly, I found myself drawn to Seraphin's shadow, following Kaelen that afternoon. I didn’t get far. Moving with the guarded stealth of a field mouse, careful Kaelen wouldn’t sense my presence, I watched Seraphin. His eyes, wide and luminous, were fixed on Kaelen’s departing form. Faded frescoes on crumbling stone, rusted iron gates of forgotten courtyards, dusty overpasses connecting the academy’s oldest sections—a tableau of neglected grandeur surrounded them. Two figures in this decaying splendor: Kaelen leading, Seraphin trailing. And I, observing from the periphery. Everything about the scene felt pathetic, a hollow echo. I turned back. Later, confined within the gloom of my chamber, seated at my study desk, a grim satisfaction settled over me. My decision felt right. Curiosity had gnawed, but had I pressed on, what wretched truth might I have unearthed? Ignorance, sometimes, was a kinder companion. I wasn't so foolish as to pry open a forbidden casket for a trifling urge. Seraphin’s quiet obsession with Kaelen deepened, a shadow growing longer. Kaelen, in turn, seemed to harbor a subtle dread—or perhaps outright disdain. Yes, disdain. He despised Seraphin. And rightly so. How else could one feel toward someone who had, during his initial transfer, relentlessly targeted him with calculated cruelties? A sliver of cold gratification tightened in my chest. I had not intervened, not in those early days. Perhaps, then, my inaction was a mercy. Interlacing my fingers behind my head, I gazed at the lofty ceiling. The intricate carvings of my ancestral crest, barely visible in the dim light, reminded me of my own fortunate birth. I was born to comfort, cherished as the sole heir, never denied a whim. “Damn it all.” Once, I believed no ambition lay beyond my grasp. Until I encountered Lord Kaelen Thorne. That man had etched into my soul the stark reality: life does not always bend to one's will. And Kaelen, I was certain, was now learning that same bitter lesson. Ah, the world possessed a merciless cruelty. At least I had learned to master myself, to bury my true feelings beneath layers of stoicism. Kaelen, however, remained a raw wound, utterly consumed by his emotions. He saw nothing of the desperate hunger mirrored in his own eyes as he watched Seraphin. That sudden, aberrant fervor must have unsettled him. I understood his turmoil. I had experienced it, too. But where I endured, Kaelen fractured. Instead of courting Seraphin, he chose a path that bred only hatred. For me, this suited my purpose just fine. “Please, remain clueless,” I murmured into the silence. Or better yet, let Seraphin grow weary and simply depart. I harbored no wish for Kaelen to turn his affections toward me. This kind of love, precisely, was my greatest fear. I desired only one thing: for a day to arrive when I no longer loved Kaelen, and for Kaelen to find love elsewhere. That was all. But the world, of course, does not operate on such simple desires. To compound matters, Kaelen engineered a seat change, moving to sit directly beside Seraphin. Of all places, he chose the seat before the Head Scholar’s lectern, a terrible position given his imposing height. He effectively blocked the viewing slates. Seraphin’s original seatmate, a quiet scion from a minor house, offered Lord Gareth Blackwood and me an awkward greeting, his expression a mingling of embarrassment and discomfort. “Hail, lords.” Gareth and I exchanged a fleeting glance, offering curt nods. We had nothing to say. “Hah…” His forced chuckle died quickly, unanswered. We held no interest in his plight. Kaelen settled beside Seraphin without a word, maintaining a profound silence throughout the lecture. And I hoped—no, desperately prayed—we might remain frozen in this awkward stasis for another year and a half. That someday, this agonizing moment would dissolve into nothing more than a vague, forgotten dream. Another shift rippled through our routines. Kaelen, who had once spent his free weekends in bouts of boisterous excess, seemed to have curtailed his habits. So it appeared. From the fragments of gossip Gareth’s inner circle exchanged, the cessation wasn’t absolute. But at least the recounting of his conquests no longer echoed through the study hall, nor did the cloying scent of debauchery cling to his person. For me, this was a small mercy. I no longer had to endure the crude aroma of his escapades at close proximity. “Thorne, no more of your… ‘adventures’? Like this?” Baronet Finnian Croft swayed his hips suggestively before Kaelen, placing his hands near his crotch and miming a lewd gesture. Kaelen’s face twisted at the vulgar display. He flicked a quick glance toward Seraphin, then shouted, anger lacing his voice. “Croft! I told you not to bring that filth into public!” “Why the sudden modesty, eh?” “Mention that again, Finnian, and you’re dead.” “Thorne—” “I said silence!” “…Fine, then.” The others in Kaelen’s group were visibly disappointed. Kaelen, with his towering frame and mature aura, had once been the perfect conduit for the burgeoning curiosities of young nobles brimming with hormones. The scions in Kaelen and Gareth’s circle were no novices; they had all stumbled through clumsy experiences. Compared to the truly naive, they were more easily stirred. With Kaelen no longer sharing his exploits, their attention drifted to Gareth. But Gareth only bared his teeth, an expression of pure disgust hardening his features. “You filthy degenerates.” “Ah, there he goes! Blackwood with his usual sanctimony.” “He’s a mad puritan. Honestly, such a waste.” Laughter rippled through the room, loud and fleeting. Most of the young lords had ventured into forbidden territories at least once. But for some arcane reason, Lord Gareth Blackwood had not. While we teased him as a jest, calling him ‘unblooded,’ no one truly disrespected him. He was Gareth Blackwood, after all. He also possessed a lighthearted, almost careless attitude, which made his actions seem casual and his words easy to take. People found that either charming or approachable, often remarking that his demeanor didn’t match his intimidating visage. “Croft, stop glaring. You’ll make me soil my breeches.” “Aye, that lord has a terrifying face.” “Do you imbeciles have a death wish?” Gareth scowled, and the group burst into laughter, though nothing particularly humorous had been said. Some lords lounging at the rear of the classroom, perhaps his companions—or perhaps less than that—joined in with their feigned mirth and chatter, adding to the din. As I sat amongst them, I stared blankly at my lap, lost in thought. … If my memory served, I had never felt an unbidden arousal for a woman. I supposed that made me a devotee of men by default, from birth. Certainly, I had felt stirrings watching depictions of intimacy involving both sexes, but I had never once fantasized about a woman’s form. The former felt like the intensity of the moment, the latter, a simple absence of desire. I had once been dragged to a less reputable establishment by Kaelen, but I hadn’t even made it past the threshold. My forged identification was too poor. Instead, I waited outside until Kaelen re-emerged. Brothels? Disgusting. The thought of entering such a place turned my stomach. I often wondered why anyone would. Because of this, the others in the group jokingly called me “Aethelgard’s Ascetic,” but in truth, my abstinence was more or less compelled. A quiet sigh escaped me. The others were too engrossed in Gareth’s sardonic tales to notice. Seizing the moment, I glanced at Kaelen, who sat in silent contemplation. He was staring at the back of Seraphin Alar’s head as Seraphin dutifully studied across the room. And, as always, regret. Why had I looked? Why this ceaseless curiosity? To divert myself, I posed a pointless question to Gareth. “So, are you truly committed to remaining celibate until you marry, Blackwood?” Gareth, lounging in his chair as though it were his personal throne, suddenly looked directly at my lap. His gaze was so piercing that I instinctively crossed my legs, shielding myself. What in the blazes? “You’re not my betrothed, Vane, so why the sudden concern? What, are you offering?” … Of course. This man always delivered malicious jests. The others laughed, and I kicked Gareth’s shin. That was the unvarying cadence of my days—over and over again, the same refrain, every single day. --- Alone in my chamber, the solitude often led me to contemplation, my thoughts drifting into the strangest fantasies. Today, I found myself wondering what it would have been like if my heart had tethered itself to Lord Gareth Blackwood instead of Lord Kaelen Thorne. It seemed a far more agreeable predicament than this one. If I had loved Gareth, I wouldn’t have had to endure the slow torment caused by Kaelen’s messy entanglements with women of all strata. Still, my heart would ache. Neither Kaelen Thorne nor Gareth Blackwood would ever love me, after all. But at least my soul wouldn’t ache because of Seraphin Alar. That train of thought inevitably spiraled into feelings of inferiority and a sharp, bitter anger. In the end, I simply wished I could graduate swiftly, to become a stranger to Lord Kaelen Thorne. --- At some point, I began unconsciously placing my hands beneath the desk whenever I sat. This habit truly began in my second year of study, and the cause was always the same—men. As I fiddled with the buckle on my breeches, my mind drifted. Should I? Or shouldn’t I? The faint metallic click of the buckle against my nails filled the quiet room. Just as I applied pressure with my thumb to undo the fastening, a soft knock sounded at the door. “Elian! Are you studying diligently?” “…Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!” My heart lurched. This was clearly not the opportune moment. Mortified, I buried my face in my arms. Damn it all. --- Lately, Lord Kaelen Thorne had begun to grate on my nerves. Sometimes, when Seraphin glanced in my direction, Kaelen would deliberately initiate a conversation with him. Seraphin, caught between us, would flick his eyes toward me, his lips parting as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if wary of Kaelen’s imposing presence, he’d lower his head and offer his answer in the faintest whisper. “Y-yes…” Just like that. Always. Seraphin subtly sought me out more often, and began calling me “Elian.” Aside from adults and close kin, almost no one addressed me by my given name, so the shift was noticeable. He seemed to believe he was being discreet, but he wasn’t. The worst part was Kaelen’s inability to conceal his discomfort whenever Seraphin did anything remotely daring. “Seraphin Alar, cease bothering Vane while he’s engaged in his studies.” “What?” “Desist. Do you not comprehend?” “Oh… uh, y-yes…” When Seraphin stammered and avoided Kaelen’s piercing gaze, Kaelen childishly slammed his fist against the leg of the desk beside him. I feigned ignorance, my eyes fixed on my parchment. Annoyingly, the oblivious Seraphin seemed to think no one cared about him using my first name anymore. He grew bolder, using it casually as if it were the most natural thing. “Uh, Elian… my apologies for disturbing your concentration.” I stiffened, staring at him in disbelief. Was he mad? Kaelen sat right there. Sure enough, Kaelen pounded his fist on the desk again. Damn it all. “Hey! Seraphin Alar!” “…Huh?” The atmosphere soured instantly. Kaelen’s anger was blatant, simmering. “I told you.” “I told you not to call him ‘Elian,’ didn’t I?” “…W-well…” “Call him Elian Vane. That is his full name—Elian Vane.” His gaze turned sharp, almost predatory, as he looked at me. I recoiled from that look, instinctively lowering my head. At that moment, Lord Gareth Blackwood, seated beside me, casually draped his arm over my shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near my ear. “Kaelen Thorne, if you continue like this, you’re truly going to ruin yourself.” “What in the blazes are you talking about?” “I’m saying you will live to regret it.” Gareth smirked, and I felt a flicker of irritation. For one reason only. “Kaelen Thorne, your obsession blinds you.”

Echoes in the Arches