A pale, nascent light crept through the narrow window of Elian’s suite, painting the opposite wall in bruised hues of lavender and grey. He stirred, the phantom ache on his cheek a dull pulse beneath his skin. Yesterday’s wound, a testament to Kaelen’s brutal swiftness, had receded, leaving behind a subtle puffiness and a sallow, greenish mar. It was no longer a declaration, merely a whisper of violence – something easily dismissed as an unfortunate stumble, perhaps into a jutting corner in his hurried transit between classes. A quiet gratitude settled in Elian’s chest. Manageable. He could face the Academy today. He dressed with his usual meticulous care, the crisp linen of his scholar’s tunic a stark contrast to the churning unease within. Yet, as he stepped into the hallowed halls of Aethelgard, a heavier atmosphere than anticipated pressed down upon him. It was a tangible weight, a collective holding of breath, radiating from the very heart of the main lecture hall. Kaelen’s shadow stretched long, even without his presence. Elian’s gaze instinctively sought out Lysander. The younger noble often arrived precisely on the precipice of tardiness, a nervous habit that always drew the Head Scholar’s chiding glance. Today was no exception. Lysander slipped in, just as the bell’s final, echoing clang faded. Elian’s eyes widened, a breath catching in his throat. He had, in a fit of desperate, childish anger yesterday, half-wished Kaelen would feel a fraction of the pain he’d inflicted. Seeing Lysander now, a suffocating shame choked him. Lysander’s face was a wreck. A deep, purplish bruise bloomed over his left eye, mirroring the swell Elian’s own cheek had borne. His lower lip was split, a thin, dried line of crimson marring its delicate curve. The sight twisted Elian’s gut, a bitter, unwelcome remorse. He was disgusted by his own fleeting, vengeful thoughts. “By the Mother’s grace…” Elian murmured, the words barely audible. Lysander shuffled toward his usual seat, his eyes darting like trapped birds. Their gazes met across the hushed classroom. Lysander froze, a startled grimace contorting his features. He averted his eyes sharply, his shoulders hunching, and stumbled into his chair without another glance toward Elian. Lysander’s strange reaction left a metallic taste in Elian’s mouth. He glanced around, and the reason became piercingly clear. Kaelen’s glare, sharp as a dagger, was fixed on him, a silent, deadly promise in his eyes. “Damn it all,” Elian breathed. He should have feigned illness, remained in his suite, far from this oppressive miasma. Regret, cold and sharp, flooded his senses. --- During the short break between Arcane Theory and Imperial History, Lysander, who had once eagerly sought Elian’s company, now moved with a determined evasiveness. He disappeared from the common room with a speed that suggested desperation, Elian’s eyes following his retreating form until it vanished, presumably in Kaelen’s wake. Elian found himself lingering near a window, the vibrant autumn sky outside a mocking contrast to the leaden weight in his chest. He felt an itch, a strange, persistent compulsion to find them, to confront the escalating tension. But a deeper, colder fear held him fast. He was afraid of what he might witness. Lunch arrived, a meagre affair of dry bread and weak tea in the scholars’ refectory. Lysander, though still visibly shaken, settled beside Elian. He spoke in a nervous, rapid patter, his voice a little too loud, his gestures a little too broad, as if attempting to conjure a normalcy that no longer existed. “Can you believe the drivel Head Scholar Orrin spouted about the Seven Ancient Dynasties? Almost choked on my own nerves,” Lysander chattered, picking at a loose thread on his tunic. Elian watched him, a faint frown creasing his brow. “You seemed quite composed yesterday, considering.” “Ah, well. A show for the masses, Elian. A performance.” Lysander offered a shaky, forced grin. “Must keep up appearances, mustn’t we?” Lysander’s forced levity, his desperate attempts to distract from the storm brewing, was an odd anchor. In another lifetime, Elian might have dismissed it as shallow, even irritating. But now, it was a fragile shield, deflecting some of the suffocating weight. It was a bizarre truth: he found himself relying on Lysander’s nervous energy to keep his own anxieties from spiralling. --- Days bled into a week. Kaelen began to detach himself from the usual noble cliques, his presence a dark, orbiting star around which Lysander, a reluctant moon, was drawn. Sometimes Kaelen would vanish with Lysander for hours, only for them to return with Lysander’s face a fresh canvas of bruises. Other times, Kaelen would gather a few eager, sycophantic young lords, their whispers and uneasy glances hinting at the darker purpose of their excursions. Elian even witnessed Baronet Thorne, usually a boisterous youth, scaling a garden wall with a furtive glance over his shoulder, clearly avoiding Kaelen’s summons. Elian caught up to Thorne later, in the shaded arcade of the western wing. Thorne, dusting off his robes, offered a weak smile. “Just… avoiding some unpleasantness, Vane.” He shifted, his gaze flickering. “Kaelen’s been… ordering the others. To strike Lysander. A single blow each, he says. For discipline.” Elian’s face tightened, a cold dread seizing him. “He forces them?” Thorne winced. “Aye. Or implies… severe repercussions. I’ve been absent from those gatherings, for obvious reasons.” He quickly added, “Lord Valerius and I are off to the Grand Library, no misunderstanding, Elian.” With that, Thorne hurried away, leaving Elian rooted to the spot, a bitter taste in his mouth. During a late afternoon break, Elian and Lysander found themselves in a quiet courtyard, sharing frosted pastries from the academy kitchens – sweet, candied indulgence that did little to soothe the growing knot of unease in Elian’s gut. The air was crisp, the sky a vast, indifferent blue, a stark contrast to the turmoil within Elian. Lysander, munching on his own treat, eyed Elian’s half-eaten pastry with a childish eagerness. “Good, isn’t it?” “Want a bite?” Elian offered, half-teasing, bringing the sticky pastry close. Without hesitation, Lysander grinned, took a large, deliberate bite. “Hey! Did you just…?” Elian feigned indignation. “You offered.” Lysander shrugged, a faint, almost genuine smile touching his lips. It was a fleeting moment of fragile peace, a stolen beat in a discordant rhythm. Elian wondered, in the silent spaces between Lysander’s nervous chatter, where Kaelen was, what fresh torment he was devising. He tried not to think of Kaelen, to banish him from his mind, but the harder he tried, the more Kaelen’s image asserted itself, sharp and inescapable. How long, he wondered, would it take to dismantle a devotion so deeply ingrained? The effort felt insurmountable, like navigating an endless, barren desert, not merely sad, but terrifying in its desolation. Sometimes, when the weight of it all became too heavy, Elian would turn to Lysander, his seemingly trivial presence a strange relief. “Lysander,” Elian asked suddenly, his voice low, “do you believe flowers might bloom in a barren desert?” The question, raw and unbidden, embarrassed him as soon as it left his lips. He scratched at his arm, averting his gaze. But Lysander, surprisingly, did not mock. “They will,” Lysander said, his voice softer than usual. “They must. Life is brutal enough.” Hearing such raw sincerity from Lysander, who usually cloaked his fears in flippancy, struck Elian with a strange clarity. Perhaps his own desperate hope was no less futile. How long would it take to abandon these meaningless affections? “Aye,” Elian agreed, a sigh escaping him. “Life is brutal.” Kaelen. That arrogant, destructive fool. Why did he seem so intent on breaking every loyalty, every shred of goodwill offered? Kaelen, who now came and went from the Academy as he pleased, often with Lysander, a silent, perpetually anxious shadow, by his side. A simmering resentment began to spread through the student body, a quiet disquiet at Kaelen’s unchecked cruelty. --- One afternoon, Elian saw Kaelen dragging Lysander by the wrist down a deserted corridor. Lysander stumbled, his face pale, eyes red-rimmed. Elian stopped. His blood ran cold, but his feet were rooted. He met Kaelen’s eyes, then glanced at Lysander’s tear-streaked face. “Your father inquires after your attendance.” It was a lie, a calculated gamble. Kaelen held his father, Lord Valerius, in contempt, rarely acknowledging his presence. But the implication of external concern, however fabricated, was Elian’s only shield of pride. “If blows must be exchanged, confine them to yourself. What has Lysander ever done?” Elian’s voice was steady, betraying none of the tremor in his hands. “Move, Vane.” Kaelen’s gaze locked onto Elian, cold fury in his eyes. A suffocating pressure built in Elian’s chest. He despised Kaelen in that moment, truly and utterly. Yet, pitiful Lysander, clinging to Kaelen’s side, his eyes wide and pleading, seemed on the verge of collapsing. “K-Kaelen, please,” Lysander stammered, his voice trembling. Kaelen’s focus shifted, away from Elian, solely to Lysander. “As I said,” Elian persisted, forcing the words out, “your father is concerned—” Lysander, with a fresh burst of tears, clung to Kaelen’s arm, trying to pull him back. The sight was unbearable. Elian closed his eyes, a profound weariness settling over him. A long moment passed. Then, Kaelen looked at Lysander, a complex expression crossing his face. He turned away from Elian, and with Lysander still clutching his arm, walked back toward the classroom. For the rest of that day, Kaelen remained in his seat, Lysander a silent, miserable sentinel beside him. --- The long-anticipated day of the Imperial Academy’s excursion to the Grand Reliquary finally arrived. A grand, enchanted carriage, usually reserved for the most esteemed faculty, had been commissioned for transport. A few scholars grumbled about lost study time, but most were simply thrilled to escape the Academy’s walls, if only for a day. Elian felt little of the general excitement. He expected it to be just another day, devoid of any significant meaning. He had no idea this would be the day his carefully bottled frustrations finally fractured. He moved toward the carriage, expecting, as always, to take his customary seat beside Kaelen. Their unspoken arrangement had persisted for years, even through their fractured friendship. He hadn’t even considered where Lysander might sit. In retrospect, his blind assumption was pathetic. He stepped into the opulent interior of the carriage. The cushioned benches lining the rear were already claimed by a boisterous group of younger nobles, among them Baronet Thorne, who gave Elian a hesitant wave, then pointed vaguely towards Kaelen’s usual spot. “Elian! There’s space here!” Thorne called out. “Ah, yes.” Elian nodded, a familiar comfort settling. Of course. It was his place. He approached Kaelen’s seat. It was empty. A strange mix of relief and wounded pride flared within him. His stubborn pride, the last bastion against his own humiliation, compelled him forward. He had endured Kaelen’s anger, had been struck because of Lysander, yet this seat, *their* seat, felt like a vital claim. Elian hesitated, his fingers brushing the fine upholstery of the seat. He glanced around the carriage, then quietly asked, “Kaelen… this seat…” “It is not yours,” Kaelen cut him off, his voice flat, his gaze fixed on the entrance. “Find another.” Elian followed Kaelen’s line of sight. Lysander, his posture even more hunched than usual, timidly made his way into the carriage, his eyes downcast. Elian’s heart felt like it had been shredded. He forced indifference into his voice. “Very well. As you wish.” He quickly retreated, his throat tight, and scanned the remaining seats. An empty spot beckoned near Lysander, a few rows ahead of Kaelen. Elian rushed over, sinking into the plush cushioning. “Lysander,” he said, without waiting for a reply, “sit here.” No answer. Elian looked closer. Lysander was already dozing, his head resting awkwardly against the carriage window, bouncing gently with the carriage’s subtle movements. Lysander always seemed to drift off in the mornings. Shaking his head at the ridiculous posture, Elian slipped his heavy leather-bound compendium between Lysander’s head and the window pane, offering a makeshift pillow. He leaned back into the uncomfortable, yet oddly comforting, seat. Across the aisle, a glimpse of dark, neatly coiffed hair. Kaelen. He was taller than most, easily discernible. Elian couldn’t see their faces, but he knew Lysander was there, an unwilling occupant beside his tormentor, and his former friend.

The Scarred Dawn