Two days later, the quiet order of Elian’s private study suite was subtly disturbed. Not by the usual rustle of parchment or the low hum of his thought-crystal, but by a small, precisely folded note tucked beneath a stack of scrolls on his desk. His fingers, accustomed to deciphering ancient script, smoothed the crisp vellum.
“*Elian – Could you meet me in the Maintenance Vaults before Fencing Drills today? Urgent.*”
Curiosity, a rare indulgence, pricked at him. A meeting in the vaults? A clandestine request, perhaps a whispered plea for academic assistance. He briefly entertained the thought of a personal confession, then dismissed it with a faint, almost imperceptible scoff. This was the Imperial Academy of Aethelgard, not a haven for sentimentality. And besides, his own standing within its rigid hierarchy rarely invited such intimate overtures. The notion felt preposterous, alien.
He forgot the note until the final bell for the fourth period, a shrill chime that heralded the start of Fencing Drills. With a sigh, he exchanged his scholar’s tunic for the padded jerkin of a swordsman, the familiar weight of the foil a distant comfort. A flicker of intrigue remained, a vague hum beneath his skin. He decided to spare a few moments.
The Maintenance Vaults lay beneath the Great Hall, a labyrinth of dim passages and forgotten mechanisms. The air grew cooler, thick with the scent of aged stone and disused oil. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light that pierced the grimy ventilation shafts.
And there, amidst forgotten crates and a tangle of defunct conduit, stood Lysander of House Lyra. His slight frame seemed dwarfed by the cavernous space, his dark hair plastered neatly against his forehead. He picked at a loose thread on his tunic, eyes darting around like a trapped bird.
“Lysander?” Elian’s voice, though quiet, echoed unnaturally in the confined space. Lysander’s head snapped up, his small features tightening with a mixture of relief and renewed apprehension. He offered a tentative wave, a faint, almost sickly smile gracing his lips—the same anxious smile he’d worn when first admitted to the Academy, a symbol of his perpetual unease.
That smile, even then, had scraped at Elian’s nerves. Now, it grated.
“What is it? Why here? Why now?” A cool edge entered Elian’s tone, born of an impatience he couldn’t quite suppress. He wanted to conclude this quickly, before any prying eyes might spot them together. The Vane name, though ancient, was barely tolerated; any association with Lysander, a known academic struggler, could be twisted into something detrimental. Elian had learned long ago to offer assistance only in public, only in the precise measure required for moral uprightness, never an iota more.
Lysander, oblivious to the sharp glint in Elian’s eyes, continued to fret. He worried at his lower lip, his gaze flitting from Elian’s face to the shadowed corners of the vault. A battle waged within his meek demeanor: indecision against a fragile resolve. He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. Again. Again.
A slow burn ignited in Elian’s chest. He’d never found Lysander’s timidity endearing. Quite the opposite. Every nervous gesture, every aborted utterance, intensified his irritation. A small, involuntary sigh escaped him. Perhaps he was overly sensitive today, his mind a knotted skein of Kaelen’s recent volatility and his own persistent, unbidden yearning.
“Look, I apologize, but Fencing Drills will commence. Can you simply state your purpose?” Elian’s voice, though measured, carried an undeniable strain. His head throbbed, a dull ache behind his temples. The remnants of yesterday’s confrontation with Kaelen still clung to him like an ill-fitting cloak. He felt a desperate urge to lash out, to find some outlet for the suffocating anxiety that had taken root in his gut.
Perhaps it wasn’t Lysander’s fault. Perhaps it was the gnawing frustration, the constant tightrope walk of his existence. His stomach churned, a familiar protest against the relentless pressure.
Lost in the tangled maze of his thoughts, Elian watched Lysander finally steel himself. A small, trembling voice, barely more than a whisper, broke the heavy silence.
“Uh, Elian… I… you see, I…”
“Yes?” Elian responded, his patience thinning. His hand rose, rubbing at the back of his neck, a tell-tale sign of his growing disquiet. The thought of physically extracting the words from Lysander’s stammering mouth flickered, cold and dark.
Then, with a sudden, jarring clang, the heavy vault door swung inward. Both Elian and Lysander spun, their gazes locking onto the figure framed in the dim light. Kaelen. His chest heaved, his hair slightly dishevelled. He wasn't looking at Elian. His eyes were fixed, burning, on Lysander.
Kaelen’s ragged breaths filled the silence, a testament to his hurried search. A suffocating dread seized Elian, a cold hand clenching around his heart. He imagined Kaelen scouring the Academy grounds, a frantic hunt for Lysander. Elian’s hand, still at his neck, fell uselessly to his side.
Kaelen took a long, deliberate breath, then strode into the vault. His eyes flickered between them, a swift, dangerous assessment, before settling on Elian. His fists clenched, then slowly relaxed, a silent threat.
“What are you doing here with him?” The question, sharp as a blade, hung in the air. Elian felt his insides clench, a knot of visceral fear and burgeoning anger. After what felt like an eternity, Kaelen’s gaze hardened, searing into Elian’s.
“What in the blazes, Kaelen?” Elian’s voice was a low growl, strained. *Please, not that look.* *Don’t look at me as if I’ve betrayed you.* *Blame Lysander, not me, your… friend.* He felt trapped, dragged into a conflict not his own, yet branded by Kaelen’s possessive fury.
Kaelen’s eyes, however, remained fixed on Elian, blazing with a terrible, consuming fire. Those weren’t eyes of passion, Elian knew. They were the eyes of a man consumed by jealousy, by a madness born of obsession. It was the face of a lover deranged, a sight Elian found both pitiable and utterly despicable. He felt a chilling recognition: this was the other side of Kaelen's vulnerability, raw and destructive.
“Why are you here with him!” Kaelen’s voice rose, cracking with venom. *You look pathetic, Kaelen,* Elian thought, glaring back. Yet, a part of him knew, with sickening certainty, that the true pity belonged to him.
Before Elian could even register the movement, Kaelen’s long strides closed the distance. The world tilted. A searing pain blossomed across Elian’s cheek, the force of the blow throwing him off balance. He stumbled, his feet tangling, and crashed to the dusty floor.
“No…” The word was a choked gasp. He lay there, dazed, his mind slowly replaying the impossible moment.
Kaelen had struck him. Kaelen had hit him. His trembling fingers rose to his cheek, a burning imprint left by Kaelen’s hand. How could he? How could Kaelen, the boy who had once pressed his lips to Elian’s hand in a desperate plea, do this?
“E-Elian!” Lysander, his face pale with terror, scrambled towards him, but Kaelen seized his arm with bruising force. “You cur! I told you not to call me that! No, don’t even utter my name, you insolent whelp!” Kaelen’s voice was a primal roar, distorted by rage. Lysander whimpered, shrinking back, tears welling in his eyes. He shouldn’t be the one crying, Elian thought, it should be me.
A tide of grief, hot and bitter, swelled within Elian, threatening to overwhelm him. Before the first tear could spill, Kaelen swore violently, a string of curses that scraped against the ancient stone, and dragged Lysander from the vault. The heavy door slammed shut, plunging Elian into a deeper gloom.
He remained on the cold, dusty floor, staring at the half-open door. A thin shaft of sunlight, oblivious to the turmoil within, sliced through the crack. Something inside Elian, a carefully constructed dam of composure, finally broke. Tears flowed, hot and relentless, tracing paths through the dust on his cheek.
He hated everything. Lysander, for his craven call. Kaelen, for his monstrous betrayal. He wished them both banished, erased from his sight. He felt a profound misery, reduced to a mere pawn, a collateral casualty in their twisted, clandestine drama.
Elian rose, his limbs stiff, and ghosted from the vaults, skipping Fencing Drills. His face, already swelling, provided a convincing excuse. A quick plea to the Praetor of Studies, citing a sudden, debilitating headache, earned him an early dismissal. His swollen cheek, though he tried to hide it, made his story believable. The Praetor, a stern but not unkind woman, merely nodded, advising him to rest.
---
Back in his private study suite within the Vane annex, Elian collapsed onto his bed. The world blurred, then faded into a heavy, dreamless sleep. When he woke, hours later, his face felt stiff, puffy, and bruised. Habitually, he reached for his personal comm-crystal. A message, three hours old, flickered on its surface, from Lord Torvin.
Torvin was Kaelen’s second, a shrewd, calculating presence in their social sphere, and a rising star in his own right. Elian rarely exchanged direct messages with him, save for the occasional academic query or relayed instruction from Kaelen. *Damn it.* He couldn’t ignore Torvin.
“*Elian. Where did you vanish to?*”
Elian clicked his tongue, a dry, bitter sound, and composed a delayed reply. “*Ah, wasn’t feeling quite myself. Sudden malaise.*” He kept his tone light, dismissive. The thought of anyone discovering Kaelen had struck him, and worse, over Lysander, filled him with a sickening shame. It was an unbearable humiliation.
“*Are you well?*” Torvin’s follow-up was oddly solicitous. A cold shiver ran down Elian’s spine. He powered down the comm-crystal, cutting off the unsettling exchange.
Happiness was a fleeting specter. Hours later, a wave of profound sadness washed over him. Even Torvin’s unexpected concern felt like a burden, an unwanted scrutiny. Other acquaintances, fellow scholars, had sent perfunctory inquiries, but none of them offered what Elian craved.
Kaelen hadn’t reached out. The thought, foolish and self-destructive, still clung to him. He was mad, truly mad, to still hold onto such a pathetic hope. Yet, he consoled himself, this was the bitter fate of those consumed by a maddening love. He lay there, an idiot, doing what he did best: closing his eyes, turning his back on reality.
“...I’m not the only one,” he whispered into the empty air. Lysander, perhaps, shared a similar plight. The thought, strange and twisted, grotesque in its selfishness, took root. A dark, childish hope intertwined with it. While staring at the intricately carved ceiling, his comm-crystal chimed again. An unknown frequency. He frowned. Who among his peers would send an untraceable message? Torvin? It wasn’t his comm-frequency. Before he could ponder it, another message arrived, then another, relentless and infuriating.
“*Elian, are you very unwell?*”
“*I am sorry. Truly sorry. This is all my fault.*”
“*I’m sorry.*”
“*Please, forgive me.*”
Each word, each repetitive apology, made him want to scream. He hurled the comm-crystal across the room, it hitting the wall with a dull thud. How had Lysander, who supposedly owned no private comm-crystal, acquired his frequency? Then it clicked. *Oh.* Months ago, during their brief research collaboration, Elian had, in a moment of naive generosity, shared his private frequency. He cursed his own idiocy.
To vent his frustration, Elian pounded his fists against the soft mattress until his arms ached. Exhaustion finally claimed him. Just before consciousness fully receded, a final message, unread, echoed in his mind.
“*Please, do not hate me.*”
*Funny,* he thought, a phantom smile twisting his lips. *I’ve already hated you for months.*
The next morning, his face was swollen, a grotesque caricature of a steamed bun.
---
Elian skipped the day’s lectures. No matter his commitment to his studies, he possessed too much self-awareness to parade such a face through the Academy’s hallowed halls.
Madame Theron, the Vane retainer assigned to his personal suite, prepared a light lunch. She clucked her tongue, her eyes lingering on his mottled cheek. “Young Master, you must be more careful,” she chided gently. The meal itself was simple: soft broth, a few steamed vegetables. He swallowed it all, barely tasting the bland sustenance.
As he set his spoon down, reaching for a goblet of spiced water, Madame Theron returned to clear the dishes. Plate in hand, she announced, “Young Master, you have a visitor.”
“A visitor?” Elian’s heart gave a sudden, unfamiliar lurch. Before he could even identify the emotion, his mind conjured an image: Kaelen. It seemed a wild fantasy, utterly improbable, yet the possibility sparked a fragile hope. Few from the Academy ever called on him here, in the Vane annex, so far from the opulent noble residences. Only a select few even knew its location. If it were Kaelen, he must have come to apologize, finally wracked with guilt. Kaelen had never laid a hand on him before. Yes, he must be worried, distraught.
“Yes, Madame. Please, let them in.” The fantasy solidified, morphing into a certainty. He chided himself for such naive optimism, yet a small, persistent satisfaction bloomed within him. Despite everything, he still mattered. The thought, bittersweet and dangerous, warmed him.
He turned, his pace quickening, drawn by an eager, unbidden impulse towards the antechamber. But the figure waiting there was not the one his heart had yearned for.
“Well, look who it is.” Lord Torvin’s sharp features broke into a sardonic smirk, a pouch of rare Aethelgardian sweets clutched in his hand. His gaze, however, sharpened instantly upon seeing Elian’s face. The smirk vanished, replaced by an unusually serious frown.
“What in the blazes happened to your face?”
Elian’s knees almost buckled beneath him, the abrupt letdown a physical blow. How did Torvin even know where the Vane annex was located? “...I fell,” Elian mumbled, the lie feeling flimsy, inadequate.
Torvin’s frown deepened, his lips twisting in that characteristic way, a prelude to a cutting remark. “You truly are an imbecile, aren’t you?”
Elian offered no argument. He merely rubbed his swollen cheek, the dull ache mirroring the throb of humiliation in his chest. His earlier anticipation, his foolish hope, now felt like a cruel jest. He *was* an idiot. Kaelen cared nothing for him, held no such regard. And here he was, wagging his tail like some hopeful, pathetic cur.
“Here, take this.” Torvin extended a small, silvered tin. Elian accepted it, lifting the lid to reveal a medicinal salve, cool and fragrant.
“...It’s a cooling poultice.”
“Is it? Didn’t even notice,” Torvin replied, his expression unreadable.
“Figures. Why would you care?” Elian retorted, a flash of his usual bitterness.
“Damn, that’s harsh.” Torvin’s smile returned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What are you doing here, Torvin?”
“What do you think? Came to see if you’d expired. Mind if I enter?”
“Hey, wait!” Elian protested, but Torvin’s long legs had already carried him across the threshold, past the antechamber, into the main living space of the suite.
“Where’s your personal study?”
“Hey, where are you going?”
“Where else? There’s nowhere else of interest in this… modest dwelling.” Torvin’s gaze swept over the Vane annex’s slightly faded grandeur, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
Elian had no retort for that. Torvin was right. All lesser noble residences held the same, subdued air. Feeling awkward, Elian followed Torvin, who seemed intent on inspecting every corner of his home, an uninvited, unsettling presence.