Elias Thorne cultivated a meticulous inner landscape. Years under the exacting scrutiny of his family had sculpted him, chiseling away any outward sign of fragility. Vulnerability, in the hallowed halls of Aethelgard, was a death knell; he despised it more than anything, a visceral revulsion that had hardened into an impenetrable shell. This intricate defense mechanism allowed him to navigate even the most turbulent emotional currents with an almost chilling composure.
Observant prefects and detached tutors often labeled him 'unremarkable,' a quiet scholar devoid of passion. Yet, it wasn't an absence of feeling, but rather an exquisite containment. Every slight, every cutting remark, every flicker of rage or shame, had been systematically absorbed and cemented into the protective layers he wore. Nothing, truly nothing, seemed capable of piercing that glacial façade.
This held true for Julian Vane, too.
His self-possession proved his passport into Julian's orbit, a precarious but vital social perch he had painstakingly constructed within the academy's rigid hierarchy. Maintaining that position, one that afforded a certain quiet respectability, was paramount.
“Thorne.”
“Vane?”
“That tone, Thorne. An affront to the ears.”
“Perhaps a reflection of the visage it addresses?”
“Amusing.” Julian’s laugh was a dismissive bark, a sound that rarely softened. To call him ugly would be like accusing a gargoyle of poor posture; the insult would only sting if he valued refinement. He simply laughed, a low, guttural rumble.
“You know no young ladies, Thorne? With your meticulous notes, I assumed you’d attract some attention.” Julian idly prodded a scone on his plate, his gaze sweeping the ornate common room.
“What manner of young ladies?” Elias asked, a faint tremor in his voice, though he fought to keep it steady.
“Suitable ones.”
“And your definition of suitable, Vane?”
“Don’t play the fool, damn it.”
Silas Blackwood, sprawled across a nearby armchair, bounced a small, polished wooden sphere in his palm, offering no input. Julian rarely waited for answers anyway; his eyes had already settled on a hunched figure at the farthest end of the room, near the perpetually smoldering hearth.
“...A delicate countenance, perhaps, with an amenable disposition.”
Julian, a scion of one of Aethelgard’s oldest families, possessed an arrogant disregard for propriety. He was impulsive, crude, and thoughtless. Since his early years, his whims had dictated the currents of their social pond, a primal force that made him a constant threat. His predations, unrestrained by any sense of subtlety, grew more brazen with each passing week.
By the waning days of the August term, young Alaric Finch had been entirely ostracized. Yet, even Alaric’s complete isolation seemed insufficient to sate Julian’s peculiar appetites.
While Julian’s clique and others of similar ilk operated within the academy's grey areas, their methods often diverged. Julian’s immediate coterie—fellow scions like Thorne and Lysander—would linger, awaiting their patron’s signal. Meanwhile, other boys from the East Wing, those whose families lacked the ancient lineage of the Vanes, would bolt from the classroom the moment the refectory bell chimed, desperate to escape Julian’s shadow.
In his first year, Elias had been a fixture within Julian's core group. But by the second, things had shifted. It began with a casual, flippant remark from Lysander: “Thorne, you dine with Vane, don’t you? Good heavens, you’re an interminable eater.” Without his input, without a formal decree, Elias found himself subtly, silently, excluded.
Most galling was Julian’s indifference. His presence, or lack thereof, meant precisely nothing to Vane. Damn it. Elias, attempting a quiet inquiry, turned to Julian.
“Am I truly such a slow eater?”
“Of course, you are. You sit there, chewing like a cow in a pasture, while the rest of us finish luncheon in five minutes flat. We have a life to lead.”
“Indeed,” Lysander chimed in, “we’re perpetually late for our afternoon skirmishes because of your dawdling.”
“...Ah.” A cold knot tightened in Elias’s stomach.
“We’ve a wager with the lads from the next form today, so perhaps you should dine with Blackwood.”
“...”
His pride, a brittle thing, prevented any plea to remain. Besides, the chronic indigestion that had plagued him through his first year was undoubtedly a consequence of gulping down his meals to match their frantic pace. And, honestly, the very thought of clinging to Julian’s coat-tails, like some parasitic barnacle, repulsed him. So, he offered no protest, no desperate argument.
Just like that, he was out. His own will, his own preferences, had been rendered utterly irrelevant.
Attempting an air of indifference, Elias found his gaze snagging on Silas Blackwood, the only other soul left in the hushed common room. Silas, still lounging, caught his eye. “When do you plan to take your meal?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly mild.
“...”
“I generally wait about ten minutes.”
“Yes, that suits me as well.” Elias’s response was immediate, almost reflexive.
In truth, he had never eaten at such an hour. But survival instincts, honed by years of navigating Aethelgard’s treacherous social currents, asserted themselves. To remain within any circle, even Silas’s, required adaptation. That first luncheon alone with Silas, Elias left half his plate untouched, citing a sudden lack of appetite. Silas merely raised a sardonic eyebrow.
“What are you, a scholar of eighteen years, still particular about your provender?”
“What concern is it of yours?” Elias shot back, his irritation a fleeting tremor in his voice.
“Honestly, you’re like a child.”
“Even adults do not consume spiced fish cutlets with sweet cream sauce, Blackwood.” Elias glowered, the petty retort escaping before he could rein it in. What right did Silas have to comment? The impertinence rankled.
In their first year, Julian and Elias had been almost inseparable, bound by mutual heritage and a tacit understanding of power. But by the second, those moments had dwindled, largely thanks to Silas. Still, Elias held no right to complain; Silas, for all his eccentricities, outranked him, his family’s influence only slightly less formidable than the Vanes’.
Silas and Julian’s circles frequently overlapped, primarily populated by the ‘unruly,’ students whose academic standing hovered near the bottom of their form. These were the boys who’d forge early-dismissal chits or slip away from classes, exploiting the lax indifference of instructors who rarely bothered to verify their whereabouts.
Julian, ever mindful of his parents’ watchful eyes, usually remained until the final bell. As for Silas, whose reputation was almost as notorious, Elias had once, in a rare moment of curiosity, asked why he bothered to adhere to the academy’s schedule.
“Do you imagine me so utterly pathetic?”
“No, but all your associates conduct themselves in that manner.”
“Associates? What nonsense is that? They are not my associates. They are dross.”
“What?” Elias blinked, surprised by the vehemence.
“A student’s obligation is to attend lessons and acquire knowledge, is it not?”
“...That is true.”
“Then do not lump me with dross like them. It vexes me.”
“Yes, my apologies.”
“I was not soliciting an apology.”
Of course, Silas’s statement, in principle, was entirely reasonable. Yet, hearing it from a boy whose supposed friends skipped their weekly Latin translations felt utterly absurd. Regardless, Elias ended up spending most of his second year in the company of Julian Vane and Silas Blackwood. He considered it a sacred, if uneasy, arrangement that no one else could intrude upon. It would have been perfect, he often thought, without Silas. But surprisingly, they managed to coexist with more ease than anticipated. Elias certainly didn't like him, but Silas wasn't so intolerable that he’d storm off. He was simply… an irritant.
But then Alaric Finch transformed even those days into a burgeoning nightmare.
Today, however, carried a subtly different tenor.
“Damn it. Thorne and Lysander, those imbeciles,” Julian cursed, clutching his head as the fourth lesson neared its conclusion. The usual din of the common room seemed to recede, leaving Julian’s voice unnervingly clear.
Elias, hearing the frustrated growl, immediately turned, a spark of anticipation flickering within him. “They’ve absconded again?” His tone, he realized, was tinged with an eagerness he couldn’t quite suppress.
“Feckless curs.” Julian slammed a fist onto the polished oak table. The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged room.
“How inconvenient. With whom will you take luncheon, then?” Elias asked, his fingers tightening imperceptibly on the back of his chair, a hope, fragile as spun glass, beginning to form.
Julian let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his dark hair, before his gaze fell upon Silas, who sat nearby, meticulously polishing his wooden sphere.
“Blackwood. Thorne. I shall dine with you two today.”
“Do not presume. No one extended an invitation,” Silas replied, his voice flat, devoid of inflection.
“Continue that insolence, Blackwood, and I shall shut that mouth for you.” Julian’s eyes narrowed.
“Gods, Vane, today truly inspires me to deliver a solid blow to your jaw.” Silas merely chuckled, unfazed.
“Go ahead and attempt it, oaf.”
“Brave words for a solitary wretch.”
Elias couldn’t hold back any longer. He leaned forward, his voice a strained whisper, “Come, let us all dine together. We cannot leave Vane to eat alone.” The desperation, he knew, must have been etched across his features.
Julian smirked, a triumphant gleam in his eyes, glancing at Silas with a sly, predatory grin. “You see? I possess devoted companionship.”
“....” Silas merely scowled, then, with a flick of his wrist, swept Julian’s quill case from the desk, sending it clattering to the parquet floor. Whether Silas held him in favor or disdain mattered little at that moment. What mattered was that Julian Vane would join them for luncheon.
It had been so long since they had shared a meal, the simple act sending a thrill through Elias, a return to a familiar, if fraught, dynamic. He even forced himself to consume the braised pigeon, a dish he abhorred, simply for the sake of appearances.
But Julian paid little mind to his plate. His eyes, keen and restless, scanned the vast refectory like a predator sifting through a flock of lesser birds. Elias, captivated by Julian’s proximity, barely registered Silas subtly pilfering a deviled egg from his tray. Then, without warning, Julian’s utensils clattered against his plate, his free hand snaking out to grasp the arm of a passing student.
Elias looked up, his breath catching in his throat. It was Alaric Finch.
“Sit here,” Julian commanded, nodding toward the vacant seat beside him. His voice held a deceptive lowness, a veiled threat.
“You have no one else with whom to dine, in any case.”
Alaric’s face flushed a deep crimson. His eyes darted nervously, settling briefly on Elias before he bit his lip, slowly, reluctantly, lowering himself into the indicated seat.
Elias was stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when had Julian Vane concerned himself with Alaric’s social standing? And the very reason Alaric had no companions was entirely Julian’s malevolent design. Julian abhorred any closeness to Alaric, treating the boy as his own private torment.
A bitter, metallic taste rose in Elias’s throat, a sudden, searing heat.
Unconsciously, his spoon crashed onto his tray, the clang loud and jarring in the cavernous room. But the only one who reacted to the abrupt noise was Alaric, who flinched violently, his gaze snapping towards Elias, filled with a raw, nervous apprehension. Julian, however, remained fixated on Alaric, a dark amusement playing on his lips.
Damn it. At that precise moment, Elias felt the protective shell he had so painstakingly constructed over the years begin to crack, a hairline fissure spreading across the polished surface. He tried desperately to halt it, to reassert control, but the urge, primal and insistent, proved overwhelming. Perhaps, he thought, he was closer to a breaking point than he had ever realized.
Clinging desperately to denial, a desperate need to act, he snapped at Alaric, his voice surprisingly firm.
“Alaric. Leave.”
“H-huh?” Alaric stammered, his eyes wide.
“Do not heed Vane. Simply go. It is quite fine.”
“Thorne,” Julian’s voice was dangerously low, a coiled viper.
When Elias told Alaric he could leave, Julian Vane, who had entirely disregarded the loud noise Elias had made moments earlier, finally ground his teeth, his eyes boring into Elias with a fierce, possessive glare. That hostile gaze, rather than intimidating Elias, solidified his resolve. He met Julian’s stare, unblinking, unyielding.
“I shall handle this. You may go.”
“Uh, o-okay.” Alaric’s voice was barely a whisper.
“And Vane, cease this already.”
“Indeed, I concur,” Silas chimed in, his words muffled by a mouthful of roasted fowl. His sudden interjection felt utterly out of place, an inappropriate levity in the charged atmosphere. He chewed and swallowed with deliberate slowness, then glanced between Elias and Julian, an irritating smirk playing on his lips.
“What is this spectacle? You’re spoiling my appetite.”
As always, Silas’s unnecessary provocations grated on Elias’s nerves. The man was insufferable, an irksome burr no matter how he viewed him. Ignoring him, Elias turned back to Julian.
“Leave Alaric be.”
“Who in the blazes are you to dictate my actions?” Julian shot back, his face darkening.
“It is tiresome for the rest of us to witness.” Elias didn't blink, holding Julian’s furious gaze. Julian, in response, slammed his fist onto the table with a resonant thud. The sudden impact made Alaric, who sat awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Silas, conversely, chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender.
“Exclude me from this.” He licked a bead of water from his lips, then added, “Let us decide by majority. I am neutral, Thorne desires his departure, and Vane insists he remains.”
For the record, Silas was one of the few who called Elias by his surname, and the familiarity irritated him profoundly each time. That irritation, a subtle tremor, escaped in his tone now.
“Cease your meddling, Blackwood. Your vote holds no weight.”
“Why not? There is another individual right there.” Silas, unfazed, smirked and pointed at Alaric, a casual flick of his hand towards the cowering boy.
“What? Is Alaric not a person?”
“You are deranged.”
“Why does he remain silent? Let him voice his preference.” As if Alaric could possibly speak in this taut, suffocating atmosphere. Elias sighed at Silas’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his rice. That’s when Julian tapped a finger on the table, a slow, deliberate rhythm.
“If you declare your departure, Finch, you are dead to this academy starting today.”
Tears began to well in Alaric’s large, luminous eyes, shimmering as he looked at Elias, a silent, desperate plea for succor. Damn it. Elias pressed his lips together, the bitter taste returning.
“It is fine. I shall stop him,” Elias said, trying to infuse his voice with a reassurance he did not entirely feel.
“Thorne,” Julian growled, his voice tight with barely suppressed fury.
Elias forced himself to meet Julian’s gaze, feigning an outward calm, but inside, he felt an overwhelming, almost primal urge to shatter. To suppress it, he looked up at the vaulted ceiling for a brief, agonizing moment before lowering his head and replying nonchalantly, “What?”
“You…” Julian clenched his fist, glaring at Elias with an intensity that felt as though it could ignite him. Still, Elias had to endure it. His every instinct screamed that he could not abandon Alaric to Julian’s tender mercies.
But then Julian’s focus abruptly shifted back to Alaric.
“I-I will go,” Alaric stammered, his voice trembling, broken.
“...” Julian watched him, unmoving.
“Th-thank you, Thorne.” Alaric scrambled to his feet, his chair scraping loudly across the stone floor. He fled the refectory, his footsteps unsteady, a faint echoing patter against the ancient stone. As soon as he was gone, Julian turned abruptly, his cold, calculating gaze locking onto Elias, a silent promise of retribution.
---