Aethelgard Academy’s ancient stones seemed to absorb more than just the sun’s fleeting warmth; they drank secrets, too, and held them close. Yet, the whispers after the debacle in the antechamber storage cell had become brazen, almost a clamor. Alaric Finch, once a confidant, now regarded Elias Thorne with an open contempt that withered any pretense of former regard. It was a barren, chilling landscape that had replaced their fragile companionship.
Alaric’s customary mask of polite indifference had been shed, revealing a raw, petulant disdain. He sat now in the lecture hall, not beside Elias, but with Lysander Vale occupying the vacated space. Lysander, slender and often lost in thought, now formed a silent bulwark between Elias and the caustic gaze of Alaric.
Elias harbored no illusions about his own capacity for artifice. He could conceal his deeper fears, yes, but he could not perform the charade of unaffected dignity while his spirit festered with ignominy. Never would he allow himself to become a pitiable figure, a crumpled thing of regret. Yet, the courage to address Alaric, to mend the fractured bridge, simply eluded him. He would not debase himself further.
Days dissolved into a protracted melancholy, each hour laced with a dull, gnawing ennui. Sometimes, a vengeful spark ignited within him, a fleeting urge to retaliate against the sting of Alaric’s coldness. Always, though, it guttered and died, swallowed by his own weary endurance.
Alaric, a boy of unchecked privilege and volatile temper, seemed to burn with an envious spite. Its genesis was clear, its source unmistakable: Lysander Vale.
Elias felt a venomous loathing for Lysander, a bitter bloom he knew was irrational. Lysander had never been his to claim, yet the younger boy had not merely usurped Alaric’s attention; he had, by some insidious alchemy, turned Alaric’s affections into a weapon against Elias. A vicious, unwitting architect of Elias’s torment, that was Lysander.
Logic, Elias knew, was often a stranger to sentiment. His feelings for Lysander defied reason, a tempest of accusation that offered a desperate scapegoat for his own wretchedness. He clung to it, a flimsy shield against the encroaching despair.
Still, his choices remained rigorously rational. He understood Lysander was merely caught in the unpredictable currents of Alaric’s whim. No outward display of animosity ever marred his interactions with Lysander. That would be an indulgence he could not afford.
Partially, it was the profound shame of his jealousy, a raw nerve he dared not expose. But more pragmatically, he knew an outburst directed at Lysander would only brand him a fool. Alaric’s contempt would deepen, and the academy’s gossipy denizens would quickly label him a creature of repulsive, unnatural appetites.
A bitter sigh escaped his lips. “This is insufferable,” he murmured, the words catching in his throat like shards of glass. He hated this predicament, hated it more fiercely than Alaric’s open enmity. He would rather vanish into the moors’ endless mist than face such public humiliation.
Jasper Croft’s boisterous image flickered through his mind. Jasper, the irritant he now found himself most often beside. What cutting remark would Jasper offer if he glimpsed the roiling cesspool of Elias’s true thoughts? *‘So, Thorne’s just a foul, queer aesthete after all, eh?’*
Elias’s hands clenched, knuckles bone-white. The phantom image of Jasper’s disdain, sharp as a glinting blade, churned his stomach. He would sooner die than have his secret, his deep-seated ‘perversion’, discovered.
Friendships at Aethelgard were often as shallow as the Academy’s reflection in a still puddle. With the visible chasm between Elias and Alaric, his associations with Alaric’s inner circle naturally withered. Curiously, Finnian Price, an isolated figure often found orbiting Jasper’s group, had accosted Elias yesterday with trivialities.
“Thorne,” Finnian had mumbled, shuffling his feet. “Croft was asking for you, earlier.”
“Indeed? What for?”
“Could not say. Merely asked.”
Empty conversations, devoid of substance, became the new norm. It was clear: the academy now perceived Elias as having gravitated towards Jasper’s less refined coterie, a quiet migration from the established echelons.
The ties to Alaric’s group weren’t entirely severed, of course. Occasionally, during physical drills or a chance encounter on the cobblestone paths, polite, stiff greetings were exchanged. This mostly applied to Marcus Thorne, another distant cousin, whose gaze often lingered with a strange mixture of curiosity and unease.
“Morning, Elias,” Marcus offered one frigid morning, his breath pluming in the air.
“Morning, Marcus,” Elias returned, his voice flat.
Elias recalled Marcus muttering under his breath, after one such strained pleasantry. “Alaric’s been… peculiar, lately. The way he treats Vale… almost unsettling, wouldn’t you agree?”
Elias must have worn an expression of severe distaste, for Marcus seemed to take it as agreement. He then recounted how Alaric would force Lysander to sit beside him, clutch his arm, refusing to release him, his eyes burning with an almost possessive fire. Marcus’s voice had dropped to a conspiratorial murmur, as if discussing something truly unsavory.
Elias’s fists tightened, his teeth grinding. He forced the words past his clenched jaw. “Such… vulgarities hold no interest for me.”
The abruptness of his tone silenced Marcus instantly.
Lately, Marcus had begun to orbit Jasper and his associates, a satellite quietly seeking escape from Alaric’s gravitational pull. Perhaps his confidences were merely a calculated move to forge a new alliance, to secure his own position amidst the academy’s shifting loyalties.
Today, as was increasingly common, only Jasper Croft and Elias remained in the deserted study alcove. Jasper leaned against the mullioned window, a figure of indolent grace, observing Elias with a gaze Elias couldn’t quite decipher. Was it dismissive? Contemplative? Irritation pricked at Elias, and he pointedly turned his head, choosing his own brand of silent contempt.
“Thorne.” Jasper’s voice cut through the quiet, a low drawl.
“What is it, Croft?”
“Sweetmeats after lessons. Those candied plums we sampled last week were rather palatable.” Jasper ignored Elias’s deliberate snub, idly tossing a small, polished wooden sphere from hand to hand. The sphere danced erratically, threatening the fragile scrolls on the nearby desk, but no one dared challenge him.
Jasper possessed an utter disregard for the prevailing mood, an indifferent, almost selfish aura. Elias watched the wooden sphere with a frown, his composure finally fraying. His annoyance at Jasper’s brazenness sharpened his retort.
“The candied plums you consumed entirely by yourself, you mean. Did you not procure them for your own sole enjoyment?”
“Not entirely. I merely have a fondness for the green variety.”
“And my preference? Did that not factor into your considerations?”
“How was I to know your desires? You offered no pronouncement.” By then, the sphere had rolled beneath a desk. Jasper extended a languid hand, signaling for its retrieval. Finnian Price, perched nearby, hesitated, then awkwardly stooped to place it in Jasper’s palm. Jasper casually spun the sphere, addressing the retreating Finnian.
“My thanks, simpleton.”
An insufferable character, Jasper Croft. *‘Simpleton this, dullard that.’* Every utterance from his lips grated on Elias’s nerves.
It defied logic that someone as abrasive as Jasper now frequented Elias’s company, rather than Alaric’s. Jasper now shared meals, lessons, and silent vigil in the lecture halls with Elias. Alaric was often absent, yes, but a brief missive, a clandestine meeting, would have been simple enough for Jasper to arrange.
A sudden thought pricked Elias’s mind, and he voiced it without preamble. “Why do you no longer seek out Alaric Finch’s companionship these days?”
Jasper, mid-toss of the wooden sphere against the stone wall, froze. He turned, a baffled expression on his face.
“You quarreled with him,” Jasper stated, as if it were obvious.
“I?” Elias queried, genuinely surprised.
“Indeed. You and Alaric Finch.”
“I am aware. I am the party embroiled in the dispute. Yet, how does this bear upon your conduct?”
“You utter the most peculiar pronouncements. It is because you are my associate.”
Jasper’s eyes, strangely direct, swept over Elias. Unease stirred in Elias’s gut, and he averted his gaze. “You were also Alaric Finch’s associate, though, were you not?”
“Ha. You are a source of amusement, Thorne. What, do you contend that you are not my associate?” Jasper’s tone was incredulous, a finger pointing directly at Elias.
“No, I am your associate. But you shared a similar bond with Alaric Finch. Why then, do you align yourself with my faction?”
“Well, I have known you for a longer duration.”
“What outlandish notion do you espouse? Our acquaintance blossomed through Alaric Finch, did it not?”
“Thorne. What lunacy. We were rather close, even in our first year!”
“When was this?”
“Truly, you are an insolent wretch. Unbelievable. In the refectory, we exchanged glances on countless occasions!”
“Oh… those moments.”
“So, was I alone in perceiving us as associates? You charlatan. That is precisely why, upon finding ourselves in the same class, I was the one to first approach you! And you dismiss this? Unconscionable. I find myself profoundly disappointed.”
“Ah.”
“Remarkable. Simply… remarkable. How could you inflict such an indignity upon me?”
“Very well, I offer my apologies. I am sorry, do you hear?” Elias mumbled his hasty apology, the memory of those awkward, yet strangely frequent, shared gazes from their first year stirring within him.
So, those intense stares had fallen within Jasper’s definition of ‘friendship’. Elias felt swindled, utterly taken advantage of. He had always interpreted them as expressions of outright hostility, nothing more. A disconcerting thought surfaced: had the initial suggestion for shared meals not originated with Alaric Finch, but… with Jasper?
The realization landed like a weighty, leaden blow, leaving him momentarily stunned. It was disquieting, almost shocking. Yet, unwilling to delve further into this unsettling revelation, he merely pretended comprehension, offering a brief nod.
“Right, right. I grasp the meaning. My apologies.”
“I was genuinely quite vexed just now.” Jasper’s glare held a fleeting intensity. Sometimes, Elias truly failed to comprehend the labyrinthine workings of Jasper Croft’s mind.
“And furthermore, Alaric Finch’s conduct grows increasingly aberrant.”
A tense silence filled the space.
“The fellow has quite lost his wits, I think. He has always been a touch unhinged, but this? This is beyond the pale. Utterly so.” Jasper seized the wooden sphere with four fingers, idly spinning it around his temple with his index digit. The sight conjured images of Marcus Thorne and other peers who had awkwardly attempted to broach the subject of Alaric’s odd behavior with Elias.
One truth emerged with chilling clarity: Alaric Finch’s reputation was plummeting, dragging his ancient name through the mire.
“Pervert.”
The word, a whispered anathema, the most feared and damning stigma in the cloistered world of Aethelgard’s eighteen-year-olds, sent a cold dread through Elias. His body trembled imperceptibly. Simultaneously, a wave of profound relief washed over him that his own secret remained inviolate. Did that relief betray a deeper self-preservation, a valuing of his own skin above even Alaric’s ruin?
Unease gnawed at him. He regarded Jasper’s face, feeling akin to a blasphemous acolyte guarding a forbidden truth before the very altar of his faith. “Truly, me,” he murmured, the words almost lost. Then, a strange laugh escaped him, a brittle sound that held both fear and a terrible self-mockery.
It was almost a darkly comic irony that, to all outward appearances, he was now Jasper Croft’s closest associate. In truth, Elias was no different – a criminal branded with an unspeakable stigma. Mere months prior, he had been Alaric Finch’s chosen confidant. Now, he found himself concealed within a sordid snare from which he had barely escaped. He had merely managed to avoid capture. That was all.
---
The hour was predawn. A message arrived, unexpected, from an unknown number. The device, tucked beneath his pillow, vibrated at an unholy four o’clock in the morning. Half-ensnared in sleep, Elias briefly wondered if the preceding days, the academy’s escalating drama, were merely a figment of a troubled dream. Despite his resolute avoidance of Alaric, a foolish, persistent hope flickered – that the message might, improbably, be from him. His heart gave a painful lurch.
He rubbed his eyes, the gritty sensation pulling him further into wakefulness, and checked the sender. A conflicting tide of emotions surged through him. A part of him, the sensible, cautious part, wished it was merely one of the ubiquitous spam messages peddling illicit loans. But the moment his gaze fell upon the concise lines, he knew with a sickening certainty it was not Alaric Finch.
*“Thorne, my apologies for this untimely intrusion. Might you step outside your residence for a brief moment? Forgive me. I am truly sorry.”*
*“Just this once. I beg you, just this singular occasion.”*
Alaric Finch, in all his haughty pride, would never humble himself to such an apology. Never.
Among his peers, only a select few dared address Elias by his surname alone, eschewing the formal ‘Mister Thorne’ reserved for more distant acquaintances. Of those few, only one bore such a plaintive, desperate tone. How had Lysander Vale, of all people, discovered his family’s private manor, nestled deep within the academy grounds’ perimeter? The mere sight of the message twisted Elias’s features into a grimace. He desired no encounter with Lysander – never had, never would. Lysander was always an uncomfortable presence, a quiet mirror to Elias’s own hidden anxieties.
Despite the immediate, fierce rejection, Elias found himself swinging his legs from the bed, buttoning a heavy wool dressing gown over his nightclothes. He rose, a puppet to some unseen, inexorable string. He reached the heavy oak door leading from his private chambers, but paused, resting his forehead against the cool, unforgiving wood. A deep, shuddering sigh escaped him.
“Confound it all,” he muttered, the words barely audible.
An oppressive weight settled in his stomach, a dense, indigestible knot. That was the only analogy that captured the feeling. He clutched at his chest, breath shallow. He had always prided himself on his academic prowess, on the expansive vocabulary gleaned from countless volumes, yet none of the intricately woven words he possessed could adequately articulate this complex, tangled skein of emotions.
It was simply… convoluted.
The bitter animosity he harbored for Lysander, the indelible memory of Lysander’s face bruised an ugly purple after that incident, and the desperate, calculated days Elias had spent meticulously constructing a chasm between them all churned within him. He bit hard on his lip, his fingers idly tracing the cold brass of the doorknob. With eyes tightly shut, he twisted it, a decisive, almost defiant turn of the wrist.
In the manor’s sprawling garden, the frigid breath of dawn clung to the air, heralding the reluctant arrival of autumn. To circumvent the dew-soaked lawn, Elias stepped with deliberate care onto the cool, smooth marble flagstones that formed a winding path. The dawn’s chill made him pull his dressing gown tighter, though the cold seeped through the thin fabric. His bare toes, peeking from the front of his worn slippers, carried him inexorably towards the wrought-iron front gate.
He paused there, a fleeting moment of hesitation, then clicked his tongue lightly, a sound of grim resignation, and grasped the cold metal handle. The ancient hinges groaned, a metallic sigh that made him flinch. He pushed the gate open, more slowly, more deliberately, than he had intended.
Beyond the gate, cast into stark relief by the solitary gaslight on the cobbled lane, stood Lysander Vale. He wore his Academy uniform, rumpled and askew. His head hung low, and he idly scuffed the toe of his polished shoe against the asphalt, inscribing invisible, meaningless patterns.
“...Lysander Vale.” Elias’s voice, a low rumble, pierced the quiet.
At the sound, Lysander’s head snapped up with startling velocity, eyes wide, luminous in the dim light.
“Thorne, Elias!” Lysander stammered, his voice choked with raw emotion. “What is it that…”