Days after Elara Vance's study-desk had been upturned, her grimoires were found, their ancient script smudged with ash, then tossed into the Arcane Ward’s alchemical waste brazier. A pungent smoke, sweet with burnt parchment and desiccated herbs, clung to the air near the common study halls, a silent testament to the deed.
Discernment of the perpetrator required little effort. After a few lectures, Kaelen, a youth whose features were perpetually stretched in a smirk, openly preened near Thorne. Whispers carried on the ward’s subtle currents: Kaelen had boasted in the ablution chambers of liberating Elara’s texts to the purifying flames.
"A rather brazen display," Lysander murmured, his gaze falling upon a discarded satchel. Its woven edges were frayed, its surface dulled by neglect, holding the last remnants of Elara Vance's struggles, like a forgotten memory.
Two days prior, Elara had lost a battle she hadn't even perceived. Lysander remembered her face, wide with a furious incomprehension as Corvan Vance, her distant kin, had subtly, yet devastatingly, undermined her during a public display of arcane skill. Her magic, usually volatile, had buckled under the pressure, turning against her in a minor but humiliating backfire. The true motive for Kaelen’s actions, however, stretched beyond mere animosity.
At first, Lysander had dismissed it as a simple act of schoolyard malice, a common occurrence within the Arcane Ward. But an unsettling premonition had pricked at him. Even Elara’s own clique had begun to eye her with a nervous uncertainty, noticing the strange undercurrents in her behavior. Her resentment towards Corvan Vance wasn't mere sibling rivalry; her uncontrolled outbursts were not mere tantrums. The moment Lysander witnessed her confront Corvan, her very aura flickering with unrestrained power, he knew. The tide of opinion had irrevocably turned against Elara. Yet, as he watched, no impulse to intervene, no flicker of guilt, disturbed his calculated calm.
He wasn't so foolish as to unravel his carefully spun existence with his own hands. The implications of defending Elara were stark. He might appear kind, perhaps even loyal. But within the Arcane Ward's intricate labyrinth, where countless interpretations of one’s self could exist, even a single thread of doubt could begin to unravel his carefully crafted image.
*Why*?
That chilling query haunted him. Lysander rested his brow upon the cool slate of his desk, closing his eyes. A brief respite, perhaps a momentary escape. For a fleeting instant, he wished that when he reopened his eyes, the world would have rearranged itself precisely to his desires. The edge of slumber beckoned, promising oblivion. Had he been left undisturbed, he might have drifted into its depths.
Something tapped the crown of his head, a sharp, precise rap that startled him awake. Lysander sat upright, his fingers tracing the spot, finding no mark. Across the table, Thorne, too, touched his forehead, a faint frown marring his usually placid features.
"What in the Elder Weave was that? A bolt of raw magic? It stung."
"Why are you slumbering so early? Has the spirit of ambition forsaken you?"
"Mind your own Warding, Thorne. What is that contraption?"
"Oh, this?" Thorne grinned, a flash of white against his tanned skin. He lifted the slender wand of etched bone he leaned upon, its polished moonstone cap catching the faint light. "Found it. Tucked away in the Ward's discarded artifacts bin. A rather charming piece, wouldn't you agree?"
Lysander’s lips thinned, a prickle of irritation tracing his spine. Thorne always seemed to unearth oddities, breathing new life into forgotten things. A strange talent, perhaps even an unsettling one.
No real pain lingered, yet Lysander still ran his fingers through his dark hair, a phantom worry that a stray strand might have fallen amiss. Thorne, meanwhile, nudged a heavy lecture-chair aside with his foot, then settled into it with a fluid, almost lazy motion, his balance impeccable. He tossed his worn satchel onto the desk, resting his cheek upon it like a pillow.
"You rouse me from my contemplation only to indulge in your own idleness?"
"Merely worried for your scholastic decrees, Lysander. Didn't want you to miss vital insights. My own grades are beyond salvage, anyway. A few hours of missed wisdom won't matter for me."
"Such profound humility is rarely genuine."
Lysander shifted, a quiet grumble escaping him. Thorne had a peculiar knack for eliciting a retort. Lysander nudged Thorne’s foot under the table, a silent gesture of annoyance. Thorne’s smirk widened.
"Is it customary to assault an injured individual? You, a scion of Eldoria, such barbarism."
The playful mix of sarcasm and subtle accusation made Lysander scoff. This time, he nudged Thorne’s enchanted staff. It began to topple, but Thorne, without lifting his head, raised a hand and caught it with an almost preternatural grace. His face remained buried in his satchel, but a silent laugh shook his shoulders. Then, his voice, muffled and low, broke the quiet.
"I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Lysander."
"What?"
"That wasn’t simply a fall, was it?"
A chill snaked down Lysander's spine. Was it so obvious? His cheek had not been deeply bruised, merely a faint discoloration he’d concealed with a quick glamour-charm.
He paused for only a breath, then smoothed his hand over his face, affecting a nonchalant air. "An unfortunate misstep. Nothing more."
"Hah."
Thorne’s chin remained pressed against his satchel, but a soft, knowing chuckle resonated in the stillness.
"Is that so?"
Thorne’s eyes, bright and unnervingly perceptive, flicked to Lysander, a finger pointing directly at him, as if singling him out for an unseen transgression. Lysander failed to grasp his true intent, his own voice tightening.
"What do you mean?"
"You are quite shameless, aren't you?"
The moment Thorne smiled, his wand resting against his shoulder, Lysander’s thoughts fractured. What was Thorne implying? The air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing against him.
"...Shameless? In what regard?"
"I don’t think you merely stumbled..."
".......
Thorne’s pronouncements were always veiled, but this time, they carried a quiet, unsettling menace. His gaze was unnervingly still, his bright irises holding a dark, focused pupil that stared at Lysander intently. It felt like watching the tip of an arrow, unable to predict its strike. And this time, it was aimed directly at him. Lysander’s mind went blank. Two words echoed, insistent and frantic, in the echoing chamber of his skull: *No way. He couldn’t have. No way. He couldn’t have.* His heart hammered against his ribs.
Then, Thorne’s eyes narrowed further, the serpentine curve deepening.
"It looked more like you ran into something. Or someone."
His voice, a low murmur, was a silken thread of dread. Lysander’s throat constricted. His breath hitched in his chest. A dry swallow. While Thorne parted his lips again, Lysander couldn’t even blink.
"If the others within the Ward found out, it would be quite... inconvenient, wouldn't it? For your pristine image, I mean."
".......
"I shall keep your little secret, then."
Raising the hand that held his wand to his lips, Thorne whispered the words, then offered a conspiratorial wink. The breath Lysander had been holding, trapped and raw, slammed against his ribs like a caged beast. Thorne didn’t wait for a reaction. This time, he casually ran a hand through his dark, artfully disheveled hair, then pointed a finger at Lysander.
"But tell me, have you decided to copy my coiffure? That would be rather... uninspired."
Lysander was speechless, his mind reeling from the sudden pivot. Thorne crinkled his nose in an exaggerated display of disapproval.
"Anyway, I shall now resume my profound slumber."
He yawned, a wide, languid stretch, and buried his face once more into his satchel. Staring at the back of Thorne's head, Lysander finally found his voice, a low, frustrated mutter.
"I did not copy you, nor have I altered my hair."
"Oh, really?" Thorne’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his bag, thick with feigned indifference.
---
"Lamb of the Elder Weave, who untangles the threads of fate and weaves salvation from our flaws, hear my plea."
Thorne recited, clutching his Scholastic Decree in one hand. Fourth period. As soon as the Rune Script lecture concluded, Archon Lyra had distributed their midterm reports from the previous month. Thorne buried his head in his opened decree, scanned his scores, and then, with sudden piety, uttered the prayer. He then threw his head back dramatically, letting out a profound sigh.
"Ah, I am utterly bereft of academic grace."
Lysander glanced at his own decree, a neat scroll of parchment, noting his exemplary scores with a practiced, almost detached satisfaction. He folded it precisely, slipping it into the front pocket of his bag. When he looked back, Thorne was still sighing, his head thrown back so far that only his prominent Adam’s apple was visible. It bobbed heavily, almost as if chastising Lysander for his gaze.
Fixing his eyes on Thorne’s throat, Lysander said, "That particular invocation is not typically for academic lamentations."
"Who cares? A plea is a plea, no matter its purpose."
Then, Thorne abruptly asked, "But tell me, Lysander, is it the Elder Weave or the Silent Hand that truly governs the cosmos?"
It was then that Lysander acknowledged something peculiar about Thorne—his spiritual convictions were, to say the least, unorthodox.
"Why solicit my opinion? It is your chosen path."
"Lysander, do not be so dour. You, with your formidable intellect, I assumed you possessed all knowledge."
"I do not. Nor do I adhere to any spiritual doctrine."
Thorne, who had been leaning back with exaggerated lassitude, suddenly shot forward. Their eyes met, and before Lysander could fully process it, he instinctively averted his gaze towards the leaded panes of the Arcanum Study Hall's tall windows, feigning disinterest. Yet, a sharp prickle, like being caught in an act of petty theft, pierced his chest.
He stared absently at the shifting light beyond the glass, then shifted his focus to the stiff collar of Thorne’s impeccably tailored tunic. The crisp ivory fabric rested against his neck, but with every exaggerated movement, a sliver of Thorne’s collarbone flashed into view.
"So? Care to accompany me to the Temple of the Elder Weave this coming solstice?"
"What? No."
"Ah, why such reluctance? Come along. Should you attend the festive rites and the winter solstice observances, they bestow gifts. Fruits, sweetmeats, charmed trinkets..."
"Wait, you do not mean to tell me you attend merely for such trifles?"
"Naturally, I do."
Lysander finally met Thorne’s gaze, his eyes snagging on the slender quill Thorne had balanced on his upper lip. At first, a surge of pride made him resistant to the admission, but in that moment, he had to concede—Thorne possessed a rather striking countenance. What a insufferable, smug wretch. The quill, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted his voice into a slurred, disgruntled mumble.
"But the way you articulate it, it sounds as if I am pilfering. If they are offered freely, what transgression is there in accepting them?"
"Can such a belief be termed 'faith' if it is born of such self-serving desires?"
"Such is the genesis of all belief, Lysander. Mortals rarely commence with grand, altruistic convictions. They ponder, 'Ah, delicious morsels are dispensed. That individual must possess a benevolent spirit.' And then, little by little, their nascent belief in that 'generous purveyor of sustenance' transforms into an unyielding devotion to the Elder Weave. The origin and the process hold no true significance. What truly matters is that now, in this moment, I believe."
Thorne, on occasion, spouted such exquisite nonsense. Even Elara Vance had sometimes found herself ensnared in his elaborate sophistries.
Sometimes, it was pure, unadulterated absurdity. But sometimes, it was the kind of eloquent fabrication that, even Lysander, in his moments of quiet cynicism, found himself subtly tempted by. This, undeniably, was the latter.
Lysander ran a hand through his bangs, brushing them back from his forehead. Yet, they insisted on falling back into his eyes, a constant distraction. He shook his head from side to side, the fine strands swaying before him. He gathered them near his temples, and finally, the tickling sensation lessened. He had been so preoccupied of late, so consumed by the intricate dances of the Ward, that he had forgotten to tend to his appearance, to have his hair trimmed by the Ward's Barber-Mage.
With Elara Vance and Corvan Vance absent, the front of the Arcanum Study Hall remained conspicuously empty. No reason, now, for Lysander to direct his gaze towards that space. No compelling drama to observe.
Six days ago, Archon Lyra, their homeroom mentor, had summoned Lysander to her office. She asked if he had received any word from Elara Vance.
He answered with precise honesty, his voice steady.
"No, Archon Lyra. I have not."
"You and Elara... you still have not reconciled, have you, Lysander?"
Lysander offered a small, bitter smile, a perfectly calibrated expression. In truth, no genuine mirth stirred within him.
"No. Elara... she harbored a deep grudge against me after our last disagreement."
"Elara harbored a grudge against *you*?"
"Indeed."
Rumors, like tendrils of smoke, already permeated the Ward. Archon Lyra was not entirely oblivious to the implications of his carefully chosen words. A quiet understanding settled between them.
"Very well, Lysander. You may go."
As she settled back into her enchanted chair, he caught snippets of her murmured monologue—mostly complaints about Elara Vance's erratic behavior and veiled frustrations over the scolding she had endured from Patriarch Vance, Elara's House Head. Lysander pretended not to hear the pathetic litany, turning to leave, yet every word registered. He grasped the subtle atmosphere within the mentor’s office, the tide of opinion solidified.
Later, after the evening’s studies, as Lysander prepared for his private ritual lessons in the quiet sanctity of his chambers, Patriarch Vance himself called. The elder’s voice, though usually booming, held a strained urgency as he posed the very same question as Archon Lyra—if Lysander knew of Elara’s whereabouts.
Lysander offered the same practiced reply.
"No, Patriarch Vance. Elara has not sought communication with me for some time."
*— I see...*
"I am truly sorry I cannot be of any assistance."
*— No, Lysander, there is nothing for you to apologize for. It is quite alright.*
Lately, Patriarch Vance’s calls had become more frequent, their cadence identical. There was an oddly deliberate undercurrent to his persistent attempts to link Elara and Lysander. Lysander, ever swift, found a polite way to conclude the conversation. Honestly, there was no true reason for his apology. But he offered it anyway—a subtle charm to cultivate goodwill, to be liked.
It was the same social instinct that prompted polite society to deem an awkwardly formed newborn 'charming'. A social convention, a form of etiquette that ensured the smooth function of their highly stratified, magical society. Thus, he was confident that the adults did not perceive his actions as mere manipulation.
If anything, his politeness was more akin to a crude pantomime, performed by a court jester. He understood his place, knew the delicate dance required to survive and, perhaps, even thrive. And because he invested such meticulous effort into being liked, he was destined to become a well-loved jester. Even if, one day, he made a transgression so glaring it wrinkled the brows of the Elder Council, they would find it in their hearts to forgive him. This was the intricate groundwork he meticulously laid. Unlike some witless fool, Lysander navigated his life with calculated wisdom.
Perhaps, from the lofty perspective of Eldoria’s elders, his machinations were nothing more than a narrow-minded, petty trick to evade discomfort. But among his peers, his position was undeniable: Lysander was someone who knew how to master unpredictable currents with cunning foresight.
If proof were needed, one only had to observe Kaelen.
---
Kaelen, whose ambition shone as brightly as polished mithril, was the most desperate to secure a favorable position in Thorne's inner circle. Because of this, he also affected an air of camaraderie towards Lysander. In the eyes of the other students, Lysander had already skillfully aligned himself with Thorne, positioning himself as an indispensable confidante. Though Kaelen had once been among Elara Vance’s closest companions, he now made it abundantly clear that his loyalties had shifted with the prevailing winds.