A thin, acrid scent of conjured cleansing solution clung to the air of Professor Atheria’s office, attempting to mask the faint, metallic tang of residual arcane discharge. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through the heavy, leaded-glass window, illuminating stacks of ancient scrolls and a formidable, rune-etched desk.
Professor Atheria, her silvered hair pulled into a severe knot, peered over her half-moon spectacles. Lysander sat across from her, his posture impeccably straight, hands resting calmly in his lap. He’d felt a prickle of bewilderment when summoned, a quiet `Why me?` echoing in his mind, but understanding had quickly settled. His reputation for meticulous study, for an unwavering, almost ascetic comportment, preceded him. And, crucially, he maintained a carefully neutral, if distant, cordiality with both Thorian of House Aethel and Kaelen.
His testimony, however, was anything but neutral. It was a finely honed blade, cutting only one way.
“Thorian initiated the direct confrontation, Professor,” Lysander stated, his voice a smooth, low murmur. “He was also the first to unleash a physical strike.”
Professor Atheria’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of doubt crossing her usually composed features. “Truly? You aren’t perhaps swayed by... certain affinities, Lysander?”
A phantom unease stirred in Lysander’s gut, the sensation of being interrogated a rare, unwelcome visitor. Yet, his expression remained perfectly schooled, a mask of earnest, if slightly weary, honesty. The professor likely saw nothing amiss.
“Indeed, Professor. Thorian began a heated exchange concerning a misplaced ritual text, then abruptly resorted to violence. Kaelen merely responded in defense.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. “A rather primitive display, I thought, for the Arcane Ward.”
“Hmm. Is that the whole of it?” Her fingers absently traced the delicate whorl of an earlobe. “You are aware Thorian sustained injuries far more severe than anticipated?”
“Did he?” Lysander feigned a polite, measured surprise, though he knew the extent, had observed it with a detached, clinical interest.
“When the House Healers arrived, Kaelen walked under his own power. Thorian, conversely, was carried away, unconscious. A fractured nasal bone, facial tissue lacerations requiring intricate mending. The disparity, Lysander, is stark.”
“Even so, Thorian struck first,” Lysander countered, a subtle tightening in his jaw. “And Kaelen, I observed, lost a tooth.” He omitted the second lost incisor, a detail he found rather grotesque even in his own quiet vindication.
Looking back, a shiver sometimes traced Lysander’s spine when he recalled the aftermath. Kaelen, amidst the confusion, had reportedly collected those fallen teeth. Not for sentiment, but to—as rumor whispered—deliberately conceal the one capable of re-implantation, a macabre jest. In some dark corners of his mind, Lysander considered Kaelen a more formidable, psychologically unsettling opponent than Thorian could ever be.
“Yes, Thorian made the first error,” Professor Atheria conceded, her voice a low hum. “But does Kaelen’s retaliation not strike you as... excessive? To leave a fellow student’s face in such disarray?”
“...Perhaps,” Lysander admitted, allowing a hint of mild reluctance into his tone. “But one cannot dictate the precise measure of a desperate defense.”
“And there was no... no communal participation in the assault?”
Lysander stiffened imperceptibly for a fraction of a second. Then, his reply came, firm and unwavering. “No, Professor. It was a duel, however regrettable. The other students present were solely engaged in attempting to de-escalate.”
“Hm.” Professor Atheria began to scratch the delicate skin near her ear more vigorously. The fine hairs on her pale skin quivered. With her other hand, she repeatedly clicked the cap of a polished inkwell. She seemed to delve into a deep contemplation, then moistened her lips before speaking Lysander’s name.
“Lysander.”
“Professor.”
“Your conduct has always instilled confidence. You have consistently provided invaluable assistance. Therefore, I place great faith in your account. I hold you in high esteem, Lysander. I am on your side.”
“I understand.”
He repeated himself, allowing a barely perceptible sigh of practiced deference to escape.
“...That is what I observed.”
It was a calculated evasion, a perfectly formed escape route. *It was simply my perception.* A singular, albeit crude, strategy, yet flawlessly executed. And Professor Atheria, for all her academic rigor, proved remarkably susceptible. To summon only a handful of students known to be congenial with Kaelen for testimony – how could that truly illuminate the truth? He sensed, with a growing certainty, that even the professor, consciously or otherwise, harbored a subtle bias in Kaelen’s favor.
Truth, Lysander mused, rarely emerged straightforwardly. There were no truth-telling glyphs embedded in the Arcane Ward’s walls, no scrying pools capturing every altercation.
Just as he predicted, Kaelen faced no disciplinary action. He had been certain of this outcome, yet its utter transparency still pricked at him. The certainty stemmed not merely from the Arcane Ward’s often-lax handling of internal disputes, but from his year-long study of Thorian of House Aethel. Lysander understood how such matters would inevitably conclude.
Thorian, scion of a proud Eldorian House, would never allow words of losing teeth, of being beaten near-unconscious by a peer, of ultimate defeat, to pass his lips. His arrogant pride would forbid any admission of such indignity. Most likely, only his progenitor gnashed teeth in silent fury, a private, impotent rage directed at the Ward’s administration.
“...But this is curious.”
This was where his meticulous expectations began to diverge from reality. Days melted into one another, and Kaelen inhabited the same lecture halls, the same cloistered courtyards, as if nothing untoward had transpired. Not a whisper of worry, not a shadow of concern marred his face. He’d be idly bouncing a small, glowing orb of conjured light, conjured from who-knew-where, his voice as boisterous as ever. All the while, the faint, yet glorious, scars of his recent skirmish adorned his cheekbone and temple.
“How can he simply exist like that?”
In Lysander’s meticulously ordered mind, Kaelen should, by now, be bowing his head to Thorian’s progenitor, his own House elders in tow. The statement, *Kaelen struck Thorian*, was undeniable. Having orchestrated an outcome so displeasing to Thorian’s father, Kaelen should, by ancient custom, offer some form of apology. Not necessarily a sincere one to the actual victim, but the carefully phrased appeasement an enraged House elder demanded.
Yet, Kaelen had made no such pilgrimage. Thorian’s progenitor had not darkened the Ward’s gates. This lacuna in Lysander’s carefully constructed understanding piqued his curiosity, a needle-sharp point demanding attention.
Lysander harbored a peculiar compulsion: whenever a situation defied his predictions, when the currents of consequence shifted unexpectedly, he felt an irresistible urge to excavate the truth. He would unearth every hidden thread, then decide whether the uncovered knowledge was to be seized, or discarded like a spent ritual component. So, he concocted a simple plan – a child’s trick, really, beneath his usual sophisticated stratagems.
“Kael—”
“Valerius!”
Just as Lysander began to speak, having carefully prepared his trivial scheme, Kaelen had already dismissed his glowing orb, the light fading into the air, and called out to Valerius of House Theron, munching on a sweetmeat of unknown origin. Lysander’s brow furrowed, an instinctive, subtle sign of displeasure. Ill-timed. Damnation.
“Did someone just call my name?” Kaelen, about to resume his boisterous conversation, suddenly pivoted, his gaze sweeping the room. Could he truly discern Lysander’s hushed utterance amidst the din? Nonetheless, Lysander swiftly raised a hand.
“I did.”
“...What in the name of the Outer Spheres did you want, then?” Kaelen’s tone was laced with a casual insolence. Before answering, Lysander narrowed his eyes fractionally, a silent expression of disapproval.
“If you summoned me, you should speak with more clarity,” Kaelen continued, a slight roll of his tongue producing a crisp, almost mocking tone. He crooked a finger, beckoning Lysander closer. The gesture scraped at Lysander’s composure, drawing another subtle frown. Of course, Lysander had intended his own displeasure to be half-jest, and Kaelen was often one to endure such barbs, so it was hardly a momentous transgression.
“You mentioned feeling... unengaged after classes tomorrow, did you not?” Lysander chose his words carefully.
“Aye. Utterly so.”
“Are you free then? My personal studies are not scheduled.”
Living a life perpetually calculating the optimal advantage, Lysander decided to create an opening. He allowed a thin, satisfied smile to grace his lips. After hearing his proposal, Kaelen pointed at him, uttering something so utterly outlandish.
“You’re not suggesting *we* spend time together, are you?”
“What? Uh, yes.” Lysander’s composure fractured. What kind of reaction was that? The lukewarm dismissal rigidified his face, tightening the muscles around his jaw.
“You and I? For what purpose?”
“For what purpose? As we typically do.”
“Typically? Have we ever ‘typically’ spent time, one-on-one, outside the Ward’s precincts?”
Lysander’s frown deepened. Kaelen’s taunting tone grated on his nerves. Right. They hadn’t. His casual phrasing, “as we typically do,” was a misstep. Was Kaelen mocking him for it? Damnation. A sudden heat flushed Lysander’s cheeks. *Confound it, does he truly need to make me feel so utterly pathetic?*
“Very well. If you are disinclined, dismiss the notion.”
“I never declared myself disinclined.”
Kaelen hadn’t, not explicitly, but the sarcasm in his voice was a tangible force. Lysander bit back the retort that sprang to his lips, clamping his mouth shut. What was this infuriating man’s game? He was about to speak again when a sudden realization struck him, silencing the words.
Right. This was Kaelen’s fundamental nature.
Lysander had always known Kaelen could be charming, even generous, when it suited him, and then withdraw just as easily. Why had he assumed Kaelen would leap at his suggestion with such uncharacteristic readiness? Had he, Lysander, been swayed by some foolish sense of camaraderie, merely because they shared a common ‘adversary’ in Thorian? Ashamed and disgusted by such a facile thought, Lysander feigned indifference, speaking with deliberate nonchalance:
“Never mind. Forget I even spoke.”
But the instant the words left his mouth, a wave of profound regret washed over him. The phrasing sounded like a childish bluff, and his face burned with renewed embarrassment. *Ugh. How utterly pathetic.* Pathetic, Lysander. Biting his lower lip, he clenched the fist resting on his thigh, once, twice, a third time. His right eye twitched, a tell-tale sign of suppressed agitation. Finally, Kaelen offered his response:
“Alright.”
*What an insufferable creature...* Lysander spun abruptly, turning his back on Kaelen. An infuriating, unpredictable bastard.
---
There was no true “rest” on a scion’s day away from the Arcane Ward. It was merely an extension of private tutelage, ritual drills, self-study, and supplemental magical preparations. But Lysander’s House elders were distant, absorbed in their own machinations. No one observed him directly. One of the few dubious benefits of being neglected by busy, ambitious progenitors was the surprising degree of liberty granted. Because of this, Lysander, unlike many of his peers, knew how to carve out a respectable measure of freedom on his non-academic days – but then, an abrupt magical missive shattered his so-called respite.
The culprit: Kaelen.
*“Damn, the Grand Sanctum’s broth is surprisingly palatable now, isn’t it?”*
The abrupt text left Lysander dumbfounded. Kaelen had dismissed his invitation, only to summon him now. Yet, thinking it through, this was precisely Kaelen’s selfish, capricious nature. Lysander’s emotions seesawed between annoyance and a reluctant, inexplicable fascination.
“Why did you call?” Lysander texted back, a terse, almost demand.
*“You simply materialized in my thoughts, suddenly… thought we might procure some sustenance.”*
This arrogant fool. Lysander gritted his teeth, biting the inside of his lip. “We shall see.” He licked the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t simply acquiesce, even if, by their unspoken hierarchy, he wasn’t truly in a position to dictate. He wasn’t attempting to irritate Kaelen; he was merely offering a taste of Kaelen’s own capricious medicine. He was about to formulate a definitive rejection when Kaelen’s initial line replayed in his mind.
*“Wait, did you say you’re at a Grand Sanctum right now?”*
That was the true reason his ‘rest’ was cancelled, the subtle hook that compelled him. If the Sanctum Kaelen occupied had been some obscure, minor healing ward far from Lysander’s private chambers, he would have adhered to his original plan. But it transpired Kaelen was at the Grand Sanctum of Eldoria, a prestigious institution known for its potent healing rituals, and, crucially, it was quite near Lysander’s House. He accepted the invitation, a flicker of dark intrigue outweighing his annoyance.
Upon his arrival, Kaelen was waiting in the vast, echoing lobby, sprawled irreverently across a gilded bench, legs splayed wide. As soon as he spotted Lysander, he merely flicked a hand in a languid, half-hearted greeting. Lysander didn’t bother to return the gesture, instead standing before him, his gaze narrowed as he scrutinized Kaelen’s face.
“Why have you not removed that binding from your nose?”
“I have my reasons.” Kaelen’s voice was nonchalant.
“Are you still bleeding? Has the wound not closed?”
“It is sealed. No cause for concern.”
As Lysander spoke, Kaelen rose, approached him, and casually slung an arm around his shoulders, the touch surprisingly warm through his robes.
“Let us dine. My treat.”
“In the refectory, I presume?”
“What, curse it... You believe the Sanctum’s refectory offers its fare gratis?”
“To boast over a few silver Marks...?” Lysander glared at him. Kaelen merely sneered back, an arrogant tilt to his lips. The two descended to the Sanctum’s lower levels, placing their orders, intending to fill their stomachs with a mediocre lunch. As they waited for their steaming bowls, Lysander asked,
“So, what brings you suddenly to the Sanctum?”
“Hm?” Kaelen’s eyes were distant, as if already bored.
“Are you here because of your face? Your injuries?”
“Oh.” Kaelen pointed to his own face with a finger, circling gently around his jaw, then waved his hand dismissively. His response was delivered in a tone of utter, infuriating casualness.
“No. This is where Thorian of House Aethel is currently recuperating.”
“...What?”
The air seemed to thicken, growing impossibly heavy. Lysander’s light, rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the polished table ceased abruptly. His body stiffened, a chill creeping up his spine. Why would Kaelen come all this way, to this particular Sanctum, if Thorian was admitted here? Lysander alone felt the burgeoning unease, while Kaelen continued, his voice utterly devoid of concern.
“I’ve something amusing to show you.”
“What in the blazes are you speaking of?”
“Thorian’s progenitor is in the chambers. Right now. I summoned him.”
Lysander’s mouth opened and closed. The question, `How...?` circled in his head, a frantic moth against glass, but no sound emerged. Bouncing a fork lightly in mid-air, Kaelen continued, offering only the twisted rationale for his actions.
“You know I am a devotee of the Old Ways, Lysander. Reconciliation! Man, what a truly luminous, venerable concept. My tenets demand one seek and offer clemency. How could I neglect such a sacred duty?”
“You expect me to believe you cloak this… this under such pretenses? That you genuinely seek clemency?” Lysander’s voice was barely a whisper, laced with disbelief.
“Precisely.” Kaelen wrinkled his nose, a smirk playing on his lips, the faint bandage on his nose a bizarre counterpoint to his casual malice.