A chill trace of irony permeated Kaelen’s thanks. Despite the hollow ring, a faint smirk touched his lips, then he made a dismissive, almost playful gesture—a phantom kiss blown across the expanse between us. Lysander watched him, tearing at a piece of dried mana-bread without appetite. A tremor ran through his thigh, a nervous twitch that spoke of adolescent confusion, a feeling he detested and rarely acknowledged. Mana-bread sat untouched. Lysander drew on a crystallized elixir stick, thoughts tangling around the awkward exchange with Kaelen. He understood the discomfort’s origin, though a part of him recoiled from admitting it. Clarity seemed within reach, a tangible thing, yet his grasp yielded only mist, cold and elusive. He slowly twirled the elixir stick. Was Kaelen truly aligned with Seraphina? Seraphina, known for her wild dalliances within the Ward, now seemingly destined for a life of decadent leisure, much like Brennus. Whether Gareth, Brennus, or Seraphina, their trajectories mirrored each other—shallow, predictable, and utterly devoid of genuine magic. How ridiculous. “Someone plundered my stashed confections! Yield your coin, you thieving wretches!” Brennus’s bellow echoed, irreverent in the Grand Lecture Hall. Remaining acolytes, deep in their Lumina Scrolls, merely flinched. Other students showed similar disregard. Gareth landed a sharp jab on Brennus’s arm. “Wretch! My loaned coin could procure a hundred of these paltry biscuits.” “My coin!” Farther back, the Hall dissolved into clamor as Gareth and Brennus wrestled. Oblivious to all but their petty squabble, they paid no mind to the displeased glances from the Hall’s fore. Lysander’s gaze drifted. “That one’s been a particular annoyance lately.” The whisper carried on a subtle current of displaced air. Turning toward the voice, Lysander’s eyes met Kaelen’s across the tables. Kaelen sat, poised, watching. Their gazes locked. --- Without preamble, Kaelen’s hand moved, unhurried, toward Lysander. Lysander froze, captivated by the immaculate neatness of Kaelen’s nails, the long, elegant fingers that curled around the white stick at Lysander’s lips with serpent-like grace. Kaelen tugged gently. A sticky warmth slid down Lysander’s tongue, grazing his lower lip. Then, with a sudden pop, the heavy, sweet mass left his mouth. “I shall partake.” The melted elixir, pressed between Kaelen’s lips, formed a sly, knowing smile. He licked his lips slowly, as if polishing them, then chuckled. “Why the grimace?” Kaelen often laughed. Yet, his laughter frequently carried a discordant note, far from pleasant. “Unclean.” Lysander’s voice was barely a whisper. “Unaware? The exchange of vital essences fortifies one’s mystic immunity.” “That is truly repulsive.” Lysander pressed his lips together, a parched fissure. Kaelen settled his hand on his thigh, sweeping upward to his knee, his back arching in a languid stretch. Lysander’s fingers curled, hiding deep within his palms. He knew. He acknowledged his own foolishness. With a hand resting on his knee, Kaelen sat askew, then popped the pilfered confection into his mouth, shrugging. “You claimed aversion to citrus essence?” He sucked on the elongated elixir stick. Air whistled in and out between his lips. Ninth year. A life surprisingly mundane for Kaelen’s polished lips. “It bears the tang of veridian lime.” “Then it suits. Veridian lime, I find agreeable.” Kaelen, with infuriating finesse, licked the confection, despite its previous host. Another day bled into twilight. As the season turned, the Arcane Ward braced for the impending harshness of winter. Beneath a sky of crystalline azure, now sharper, heavier, no speck of dust dared mar the perfect expanse. Mentors felt the weight of their duty, acolytes sensed a grave responsibility to carve their mark. Yet, exceptions persisted. Brennus, Gareth, others—exiled from the inner circle of model students—were mere pawns, meant to highlight the majority’s ascent. Time had softened the strictures for their wanderings, interest in their fates had waned. The sole exception: Thorian, whose lineage still garnered a certain, albeit unwelcome, attention. Pitiful was Elara. If only she hadn’t entangled with Thorian. She might have secured a respectable placement, graduated, perhaps even joined a House she wouldn’t shy from discussing. Or, if her grandmother hadn’t succumbed to the blight of the withered lung. Lysander consciously walled off all distractions beyond the prescribed academic square. This, he knew, was paramount for his own trajectory. Thus, he lived, until the day he encountered an inevitability. Potential always lurked. Especially for Thorian Stone, who, devoid of foresight, accelerated headlong into it. Thorian returned to the Grand Lecture Hall. --- A quiet click of Lysander’s tongue. Through the partially open back entrance, Thorian lay sprawled over a lecture desk near the dais. His father, a grizzled House Elder, had located him. The news had reached Lysander through hushed whispers in the archival chambers. An awkward timing, nearly twenty days after his sudden departure, only to be found. If one fled, one ought to seek some remote, forgotten moor. Why he lingered, practically inviting discovery, remained a mystery. Lysander’s fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the joint of the twin doors. Crossing that threshold felt profoundly unsettling. His gaze fell upon Thorian’s head. A few strands of thick, dark hair stood defiant. Once, Lysander might have, under some casual pretense, smoothed them down. Now, that memory seemed so distant, so blurred, he released any lingering phantom attachment. He turned, beginning his descent to the lower levels. An encounter with Thorian, especially with few witnesses, promised only ill tidings. The Arcane Ward pulsed with watchful eyes. Even a simple exchange with Thorian would ignite rumors. They would spread, magnified, twisting into grotesque proportions. The worst outcome: another bout of Thorian’s crude physical dominance. The mere thought of such humiliation chafed. Best, perhaps, for Thorian to ignore him, but Lysander was no fool to rely on such slim probabilities. Wisdom dictated eliminating the grim possibility entirely, unseen. Lysander retreated to the lower floor, lingering near the scrying pools, affecting casual disinterest. Ten minutes before the gates sealed for the day, he merged with the influx of evening acolytes. Only then did he find his rightful place, his Lumina Scrolls spread, solutions awaiting. He cultivated an aura of indifference to Thorian’s disruptions, or rather, he ensured no one suspected his true, significant interest. His tireless efforts had, until now, borne fruit. Yet, Thorian remained his most volatile variable. Frustration, a simmering disgust, washed over Lysander. Damn it. Discomfort and a creeping anxiety began to eclipse his composure, a phenomenon that intensified following Kaelen’s return to the Ward. Kaelen approached Thorian with the ease of one merely passing the time, even offering a deceptively warm greeting. “A long absence, Thorian, yes?” That cordial tone was so utterly absurd, it stunned Lysander. For a moment, curiosity momentarily eclipsed his anxiety. He looked up. Kaelen stood, satchel slung, a broad, mocking smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Thorian merely gave a curt nod, offering no reply. “Such a frigid reception! What a chill.” Kaelen nudged Thorian’s desk with the toe of his boot. An inappropriate gesture, given Kaelen’s pivotal role in Thorian’s downfall within the Lecture Hall’s social stratification. Yet, unwilling to waste energy on such trivialities, Lysander attempted to re-engage with the authentic problems laid upon his desk. The effort crumbled as the Elder Mentor entered for morning roll call. The Elder Mentor appeared genuinely relieved by Thorian’s return. A subtle guilt shadowed his voice concerning Elara’s continued absence. A timid, fragile soul. “Elara remains away today as well,” he murmured, a thinly veiled implication in his words. Then, with a faint tap on the attendance ledger, he concluded. --- The incident unfolded with unexpected swiftness. Thorian, grimacing, rummaged through his desk, searching for an Ancient Codex, finding only grime. A couple of acolytes, whose own Lumina Scrolls resided in Ward repositories, raised their hands and excused themselves. Thorian’s expression darkened as they departed. He rarely delved into academic texts; their presence or absence likely mattered little. The true affront, for Thorian, was the disappearance of something bearing his mark. Every acolyte in the Hall understood the truth. Yet, as if bound by a silent pact, no one uttered a word. Not about who had discarded Thorian’s codices, nor who had orchestrated it. “Who committed this?” As soon as the session ended, the moment everyone had unconsciously anticipated, began. “I demand to know, who committed this?” Thorian, hands deep in the pockets of his House robes, chin lifted, demanded answers. Those averse to confrontation slipped away. Others, drawn by morbid intrigue, cast sidelong glances. Into this charged air, Kaelen, holding a stylus—its tip thoroughly soiled, almost unrecognizable with finger marks—scribbled idly in a Lumina Scroll. He spoke with utter nonchalance. “To what do you refer?” “Who?” Thorian’s voice hardened. “Who indeed? Clarity eludes. One must articulate if comprehension is desired.” The audacity stunned Lysander. Truly brazen. “The wretch who cast aside all my Lumina Scrolls.” Thorian, acutely sensitive to hierarchy, akin to a wild beast, knew his codices hadn’t simply vanished. Kaelen’s refusal to name a culprit implicitly confirmed his complicity. Even a dullard would grasp this. Yet, Kaelen continued to jest, oblivious to the gravity. “Did you even possess scrolls? Your customary posture involved sprawling across the desk, lost in slumber.” There Kaelen went, laughing needlessly. Thorian would not suffer such disrespect. Not now. “Enough! Was it you, Lysander?” And, predictably, Lysander was ensnared. An obvious conclusion; any fool could see it. “...No.” No one in this Hall possessed a temperament wilder, less civilized, than Thorian, whose foolish missteps were legion. He must have felt his downfall acutely, every gaze, every space holding echoes of his past. Yet, Lysander and the others sharing this space feigned utter indifference. “Come now, would our diligent Lysander truly treat his cherished Lumina Scrolls with such disrespect?” “Kaelen—damn it, why do you constantly interject?” “Interject? A friend facing injustice, surely it is my place to offer succor.” “What arcane nonsense do you spew, imbecile?” “Imbecile? A touch severe, that.” “Cease this charade. Who else could have so thoroughly fouled the air in my absence, if not you two?” Thorian scoffed. Only then did Kaelen finally lower his stylus to the desk. His lips still held a faint, taunting smirk. Thorian’s face twisted in displeasure. Unable to contain his rage, Thorian hurled a nearby satchel. It struck Lysander squarely in the chest. “Ah!” The impact, lightly loaded, caused little pain, yet the suddenness shocked him. Lysander frowned, watching the satchel fall to his knees. Before he could voice a protest, Kaelen’s voice cut in, already edged with annoyance. “This madman simply hurls objects now.” At that moment, Thorian slowly lifted the corners of his mouth. “Ah, I comprehend.” The look of someone certain of victory. What did he imagine he understood? Lysander’s furrowed brow refused to relax. “Kaelen. Lysander. Are you two—bound in pact?” “What?” Lysander was speechless, and Kaelen’s playful smirk vanished instantly. Lysander, whose codices were intact, felt more bewilderment than Thorian. Kaelen, too, seemed similarly taken aback. “Thorian, I regret, your words are so convoluted I fail to grasp their meaning.” Though he had clearly heard every syllable, Kaelen placed his palm near his ear—a blatant, calculated mockery. From past observations, Kaelen rarely stopped at a singular jest. This was merely the overture to his deeper provocations. Sensing the mounting unease, Lysander rose. Kaelen, meanwhile, extended his pinky finger.

Whispers of the Eldritch Bond