Roric Croft’s hand, clenched into a loose fist, hovered barely an inch from Owen Rhys’s chest. A challenge, unspoken, yet palpable in the tense air of the common room. Before Roric could commit, a swift, almost imperceptible flick of Caius Valerius’s wrist caught Roric’s forearm, deflecting it, turning the intended shove into a clumsy lurch. Just like that, Roric’s posturing dissolved. His face, momentarily contorted in bravado, sagged into a petulant grimace, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat like a rook’s frustrated caw. Julian Vance and Gareth Stone, who had been observing with a mix of anticipation and disdain, burst into snickers. Roric whirled on them, a sharp retort already forming on his lips, before aiming a playful but firm punch at Gareth’s arm. Such petty skirmishes, so frequent in these initial weeks, seemed to ripple through the ancient stone halls of Aethelgard. Soon after, the three of them—Roric, Julian, and Gareth—exited the room, their laughter echoing briefly down the corridor. Gareth, ever the most affable, paused at the archway, offering a casual nod in Elias’s direction. Elias, with little reason to refuse such a fleeting acknowledgement, returned a slight dip of his chin. Then, sinking deeper into the aged leather of his armchair, he retrieved his worn copy of Livy. His fingers had just closed around the cool, polished metal of his pen when, before even scanning the first line, Elias lifted his gaze. His eyes drifted over the stark, unyielding grey of the academy’s inner courtyard, framed by the leaded glass. The autumn light, already wan and hesitant, struggled to penetrate the perennial mist that clung to the remote moors. A profound, almost melancholic quietude settled. He lowered his head, refocusing on the crisp pages. Elias was on the third declension, his pen tapping a rhythmic counterpoint against the vellum-smooth paper, when his head instinctively rose again. Outside the window, a lone rowan tree, its berries a defiant splash of scarlet, already yielded to the encroaching chill. Its leaves, a spectrum of faded ochre and rust, shivered in a breath of wind. A scent, sharp and earthy, drifted from the damp grounds, a testament to the season's slow decay. Above it all, the sky was a startling, almost violent blue, incongruous with the world beneath. “A seminary for young ladies would be a far less vexing charge,” the Headmaster, a man whose tenure spanned several decades and countless generations of volatile youths, often lamented during the early terms. “It resembles nothing so much as a wilderness of burgeoning ambition. A true untamed jungle. Young gentlemen, by their very nature, must first establish their precedence. By the vernal equinox, some semblance of order may descend. But until then? It is merely a succession of contests, of grandstanding, of testing the very foundations of authority, each vying to clamber higher. Good heavens, the very thought taxes my faculties. And to face this spectacle anew with each incoming cohort of freshmen… Let me see… what year of the astrological cycle were they born under, again?” His palm would unfurl, and with a deliberative slowness, he would trace the lines of his knuckles, muttering the ancient designations. “*Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio…* Yes, that would mean—” Elias found himself mirroring the motion, extending his own slender hand, counting the joints on his fingers, a futile attempt to grasp the elusive pattern. He surrendered the endeavor, flipping his hand over, counting instead the raised bones on its delicate back. The distinct prominence of the third metacarpal, a subtle protrusion beneath the skin, caught his attention. One, then thirty-one. Two, then twenty-eight. Three, thirty-one… A calendar of silent, relentless progression. He never would have anticipated, back in the verdant ease of late spring, that October’s turning would feel so akin to the unsettled turbulence of the spring term once more. “Young gentlemen are naught but unreasoning creatures. Impulsive, emotional, prone to the wildest caprices.” Elias fixed his gaze upon the knuckle of his middle finger, a small, bony knot, and absently tapped the polished desk, a phantom melody against the wood. The reedy cadence of Professor Alistair Finch’s voice, raspy from a perpetual cold, droned on, punctuated by the faint scratch of chalk against the slate board. His eyes flickered to the empty chair towards the front of the classroom, a vacant space within the regimented rows. For a moment, he imagined a phantom impression on the desk’s surface—one side depressed, the other subtly elevated, as though a head had rested there just moments ago. His fingers stilled. Elias turned his head, his peripheral vision catching a familiar form. Caius Valerius sat slumped over his workbook, his handsome face half-buried in the pages. His eyes, usually sharp and discerning, appeared half-closed, heavy with an intellectual fatigue. Caius would fix his gaze upon a complex equation, as if intending to consume it whole, only to abruptly collapse forward again, pressing his forehead against the dense pages. Elias observed the way Caius’s nose became momentarily flattened between the heavy paper and his brow, a silent testament to his struggle. Then, Elias turned away. “…Had a moment of unwelcome repose?” A disorienting haze seemed to cling to his mind. He placed a small asterisk beside the troublesome third problem, moving on to the fourth. --- Mid-day sustenance in the great refectory consisted of a rather bland mutton stew and a cup of lukewarm buttermilk. Caius Valerius, having drained his buttermilk with a swift gulp, turned to Elias with an unexpected inquiry. “Precisely, you rank second in our cohort, do you not?” “Indeed.” Elias replied, his voice carefully neutral. “And within the entire academy?” Caius pressed, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his eyes. “Also second.” “By the Saints,” Caius breathed, a low whistle escaping his lips. “Why the sudden interest?” Elias asked, attempting to deflect. “Does that imply our cohort’s highest-ranked student holds the supreme position across the entire academy?” “Was this truly unknown to you? My proximity to Miss Eleanor Ashworth has always precluded me from reaching the top echelon within the cohort.” “That young lady, she dedicates herself with an almost fanatical fervor, does she not?” “Her private tutors typically dismiss her well past midnight.” “By Jove, that is an arduous regimen.” “She applies herself diligently.” Elias offered, already feeling the conversation fraying at the edges. He had no desire to pursue the topic further, so he scooped a generous portion of stew onto his spoon and directed it towards his mouth. Fortunately, Caius did not press. He merely nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Ah—.” The abrupt cessation of conversation felt awkward, hanging heavy between them. Elias, disliking such lacunae, blurted out, almost without conscious thought: “And what of your own standing, Caius?” “……….” Caius’s spoon, laden with stew, halted mid-air. Elias found his gaze drawn to the delicate precision with which Caius gripped the utensil. Such impeccable table manners; if there was one undeniable mark of refinement Caius possessed, it was this—the proper handling of cutlery. “Within the cohort…” Caius began, a slight hesitancy in his tone. “Yes?” Elias prompted. “Ninth.” “…Ninth?” “Why do you regard me with such an expression?” Elias quickly averted his gaze from Caius’s hands. Was this a jest? Or a genuine declaration? He was so taken aback that the question almost escaped him aloud, but he managed to stifle it at the last moment. A narrow escape, indeed. To inadvertently slight Caius would invite his volatile temper, a storm Elias preferred to avoid. He hesitated, his mind racing through the possible responses. Would Caius prefer effusive praise? Or perhaps a display of indifference, as though such a rank was perfectly expected? His analytical faculties, perpetually geared towards self-preservation, swiftly weighed the social ramifications. Caius, it seemed, held little genuine affection for his usual companions. Therefore, the latter approach, cool detachment, promised greater safety. “Hmm. You perform with greater aptitude than I might have surmised.” “What? Surmised? How profoundly dim-witted did you take me to be, Thorne?” Caius retorted, a flash of defensiveness in his eyes. “I did not deem you unintelligent, it is merely… I understood you found the classical languages a particular challenge?” “The Classics are my sole impediment. My *only* impediment.” Caius emphasized with a sudden vehemence. “Yet you forgo private instruction outside the academy’s curriculum.” “The absence of a private tutor does not signify an inability to apply oneself, by the blessed Saints, did you truly imagine me an utter dolt?” “No, no, not in the slightest.” Elias quickly gestured with his hands, a placating motion. “It is, in fact, quite commendable, considering you achieve such results without supplementary instruction.” “…Truly?” Caius’s expression softened, a note of genuine surprise in his voice. “Indeed. It speaks to considerable discipline.” For some inexplicable reason, Caius began to mash his spoon into the remnants of his stew, his movements agitated. And—was he coloring? Elias caught a glimpse of the tips of Caius’s ears, a faint blush creeping across them. Now that the thought surfaced, Alaric Finch, for all his aristocratic lineage, had ranked thirty-second. A position earned only because a handful of others had performed even more abysmally. Thirty-second out of thirty-six. A sudden, chilling realization struck Elias: he had, in recent weeks, been so consumed by a pathetic, almost obsessive infatuation with Alaric that he had paid scant attention to anything else. An utterly mortifying revelation. Meanwhile, Caius Valerius, utterly oblivious to Elias’s internal crisis, had clearly absorbed a significant boost to his self-assurance. His tone, when he spoke again, was entirely transformed—brimming with self-satisfaction. “Ah, precisely! You likely remain unaware—my command of Rhetoric is quite exceptional.” “Indeed? To what extent?” “A flawless score. I have never yielded a single mark in Rhetoric.” “ *Hhkkk!* ” Elias choked, a sudden spasm seizing his throat. The moment Caius uttered those words, Elias spat out a mouthful of buttermilk, narrowly missing Caius’s pristine white cuff. Caius scowled, instantly pulling his tray further away. “What in the blazes? What sort of uncouth reaction is that?” “I merely… found it somewhat unexpected.” Elias managed, still gasping slightly. “Is it truly so astonishing?” Caius frowned, a slight pout forming on his lips. “My Classical scores are abysmal, but that is merely an anomaly.” There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice, a raw edge. So Elias ventured a light jest in return. “Perhaps you should endeavor to peruse a book occasionally.” “What nonsense do you speak? I am, in truth, quite the devotee of literature.” “A devotee of literature? I have yet to observe you reading anything beyond your required texts.” “That is because my pursuits are conducted in the strictest privacy within my chambers.” “Why on earth would such a necessity arise?” Caius Valerius’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of stew into his mouth. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pressed his lips to the very edge of the spoon. Something about that image, so overtly sensual, unsettled Elias. He bit the inside of his cheek, a sharp sting. Caius met Elias’s gaze as he withdrew the spoon, then lowered his eyes and pressed a slow, almost lingering kiss to its polished tip. “*Erotica* remains literature, does it not?” It was a crude jest, a clear provocation. Elias felt a sudden flush creep up his neck. To conceal his embarrassment, he snatched a crumpled linen napkin from beside his tray and, with more force than necessary, flung it at Caius’s face. It struck just beneath Caius’s long, narrow eyes, falling harmlessly onto the table. One of Caius’s eyes twitched, a fleeting spark of annoyance. Not that Elias particularly cared, but just in case Caius was genuinely angered, Elias adopted a contrite expression. “Cease such unsavory theatrics. Especially within the confines of an all-male institution. It is utterly distasteful.” “Oh? You refer to *this*? You mean Alaric’s particular predilection?” Caius asked, a glint in his eyes. “I care not whose predilection it is. Simply desist.” “Is this not, pray tell, a rather prevalent diversion amongst our current company?” “……….” Elias stared at him, attempting to decipher whether Caius was entirely serious or merely continuing his calculated taunt. --- He found himself sleeping less. That, in itself, was a peculiar metric, a perverse sign that his constitution, once so fraught, had found a fragile equilibrium. Mornings, which had been a leaden drag, now possessed a strange, brittle clarity. It was a welcome, if unsettling, alteration—for in Elias’s meticulously structured mind, the gravest sins at eighteen were complacency and the debilitating lethargy of oversleeping. “Ah, confound it—” His jaw clicked painfully as he brushed his teeth. Ever since Alaric Finch had struck him weeks prior, an odd, grinding sound emanated from his jaw whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Beyond that minor irritation, this day, by all accounts, was an unexpectedly calm one. But even within this newfound, tentative peace, sudden eddies of irritation would surface. The source, invariably, was Alaric Finch. Or, more precisely, the unfortunate incidents that seemed to orbit him like satellites around a turbulent star. Most of these, naturally, transpired within the academy’s hallowed grounds. “Oh, by the way. I chanced upon Alaric Finch last evening,” Owen Rhys remarked, biting into a rather dubious meat pie from the village purveyor, the kind rumored to contain unspeakable offal and questionable scraps. Roric Croft, who had been idly jabbing at Owen’s ankle with a mock-dagger hand, suddenly perked up, his interest piqued. “Holy heavens—that is precisely it! You have just jogged my memory! I was entirely on the verge of introducing this very topic. I gleaned something from the whispers through the grapevine—you are acquainted with Lysander Blackwood, are you not? That rather… *eccentric* fellow? I heard Finch is currently ensconced at his residence.” “Lysander Blackwood? That notorious scoundrel, Park Lysander?” Caius Valerius inquired, his hand rummaging through a paper bag, his tone remarkably casual. When his hand emerged, it clutched two small, foil-wrapped hard candies. For some inexplicable reason, he extended one towards Elias. “…………?” Elias stared at the offering, bewildered. “…………What is this?” He looked at Caius expectantly, but Caius merely offered a subtle nod, as if such a gesture was explanation enough. The most vocal reaction came from Roric, whose bag of confectioneries had been unceremoniously raided. “Confound it all! I procured those myself! Why in the devil’s name are you fellows plundering my sustenance, you gluttonous wretches?” “Oh, as if you have never purloined my provisions, you swine,” Owen retorted, delivering another theatrical, open-handed strike towards Roric’s throat. Roric instantly spun, seizing Owen’s lapel, and feigned a punch towards his face. Of course, no actual blow would land. Such was the peculiar lexicon of their friendship. Elias ignored their trivial squabbling, examining the small candy in his palm. Its wrapper bore a printed motif of a halved lemon, rendered in a bright, almost acidic yellow. He peeled the foil, popped the smooth confection into his mouth, and lifted his head. “What do you discern? The very taste of first love?” Caius grinned, a knowing glint in his eye. “I harbor no particular fondness for citrus,” Elias replied, his voice flat. His answer encompassed not merely the sugary offering, but also his assessment of Caius’s rather hackneyed jest. And more than anything, he found the concept of ‘first love’ utterly unamusing. That cloying, bittersweet sensation always seemed to cling to the back of his throat, extinguishing his appetite. In the end, he could not even finish the candy. He discreetly dropped it into a nearby refuse bin. “Oh, what a deplorable waste,” Caius mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands, feigning distress. Ignoring him, Elias reached into Roric’s pilfered bag, seeking an alternative. Every single one bore the ubiquitous lemon or lime motif. Lime, he decided, was the lesser of two evils. He unwrapped one, placing it into his mouth. “In any case, Lysander Blackwood, you say? It sounds entirely befitting of Finch.” “What, because they share a proclivity for… *licentious arrangements*?” Caius’s words, when they came, were remarkably sharp, almost venomous. Uncomfortable, Elias turned to regard him. Caius, seemingly oblivious to the chill he had introduced, continued to suck on his candy expressionlessly, twirling the slender white stick between his lips. Elias pulled his own from his mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong. Caius, however, seemed utterly unconcerned. He tilted his candy stick in the air like a miniature rapier, making a series of aimless jabbing motions. “He cavorts with various… *patrons*—it matters little their gender. And when he encounters someone of notable constitution, he quite conveniently dispatches them directly to Finch. It is an enduring rotation. A shared dalliance, passed between certain circles.” “So Lysander Blackwood, too, possesses such inclinations?” Roric Croft interjected abruptly. Whether he had concluded his playful altercation with Owen or had simply paused mid-skirmish to eavesdrop, Elias could not be certain. Roric rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing the unsavory intelligence he had just received. His gaze, however, remained fixed on Caius, a strange mixture of fascination and apprehension in his eyes.

Chapter 3.3: Echoes and Appetites