A curious discipline had shaped Lysander since childhood, a meticulous regulation instilled by his parents. Vulnerability, he considered it a weakness, a chink in the armor of his carefully constructed existence. He had learned to endure emotional storms with a chilling composure, a mask so convincing it often led others to describe him as placid, unyielding.
Never did they guess the truth. Anger, fear, jealousy – every raw emotion merely hardened the shell around him. It became an impermeable layer, making it nearly impossible for anything to truly pierce his practiced calm. That steadfastness, paradoxically, kept him anchored within Kaelen Vane's volatile orbit.
He needed that anchor. His standing within the Arcane Ward, a precarious balance of scholarly merit against the weight of his less distinguished lineage, relied upon maintaining certain alliances. A position he had painstakingly, academically, built.
“Lysander,” Valerius Rane called, his voice a low rumble across the polished refectory table.
“Valerius?” Lysander replied, his own tone even, almost flat.
“Your voice sounds like a dirge. Are you always so mournful?” Valerius’s lips curled in a familiar, irritating smirk.
Lysander didn’t dignify the jab with a response. Valerius’s words only truly stung if one cared. Kaelen, seated beside Valerius, merely laughed, a rough, unburdened sound that grated on Lysander’s nerves.
“Valerius, you know any novices? From the lesser Houses?” Kaelen asked, his gaze drifting across the vast, echoing space of the Great Refectory.
“What kind of novices?” Valerius tossed a polished arcane coin in the air, catching it with practiced ease.
“Pleasing ones. Quiet ones.” Kaelen didn’t elaborate, but the implication hung heavy in the air.
Valerius only chuckled, the coin a blur of motion. Kaelen’s eyes, however, had snagged on a figure at the far end of the hall, a slender, almost translucent form.
Kaelen Vane, scion of the formidable House Vane, possessed an untamed impulsiveness. His cruelty was legendary, his thoughts often crude, his instincts primal. He moved through the Arcane Ward like a storm, heedless of the delicate lives in his path. Lysander had witnessed it countless times, a dark theatre playing out daily.
Now, at the end of the summer term, Elian Thorne had been utterly isolated, his presence a ghost-like shimmer on the periphery of the student body. Yet, even that wasn’t enough to sate Kaelen’s peculiar appetite for torment.
Kaelen’s coterie, comprised of his House brethren and other powerful prodigies, often lingered after the midday lesson, waiting for him. Others, those with less influence or raw talent, melted away like mist, fleeing the Refectory the moment the chime for repast sounded.
Lysander once belonged to Kaelen’s primary circle. That had shifted last year. A casual comment from a Vane junior: “Lysander always takes so long to prepare his glyph-work. We miss half our sparring time waiting for him.” Lysander hadn't even offered a word of protest. He was simply… excluded.
The most stinging part? Kaelen hadn’t cared. Lysander’s presence or absence made no tangible difference to him. A quiet fury simmered beneath Lysander’s calm. He glanced at Kaelen, speaking softly.
“Am I truly that slow in my ritual studies?”
“Of course. You pore over every ancient script like a dusty archivist, while the rest of us are already halfway through our practicals.” Kaelen waved a dismissive hand.
“We’re always late to the dueling grounds because of you,” another Vane heir chimed in.
“Ah.” Lysander’s breath hitched, barely perceptible.
“We have a challenge bout with the Scions of House Theron today. Eat with Valerius.”
Lysander swallowed a retort. His pride, an obstinate, fragile thing, prevented him from begging. Perhaps, he reasoned, the constant rush to keep pace with Kaelen’s raw, unthinking power had been the source of his persistent arcane indigestion. The thought of clinging to Kaelen like stray motes of dust in a sunbeam repulsed him.
Thus, Lysander was out. His will, his carefully cultivated intellect, his meticulous craft—none of it mattered. He tried to project indifference, meeting Valerius’s gaze across the Refectory. Valerius, sprawled on his seat, still idly bouncing the arcane coin, asked casually:
“When do you plan to eat?”
Lysander paused.
“I usually go in about ten minutes.”
“That works for me,” Lysander replied, though he had never once eaten at that time. Survival demanded adaptation. His first solitary meal with Valerius, he left half his food untouched, feigning a lack of appetite. Valerius raised a sardonic eyebrow.
“Eighteen summers and still a finicky eater, Lysander? How unbecoming.”
“What concern is that of yours?” Lysander shot back, a spark of annoyance flickering.
“Frankly, you’re like a child. Too delicate for the gristle of the world.”
“Even adults avoid the fermented grubs,” Lysander retorted petulantly. It was the only way he could channel his irritation. Valerius simply infuriated him.
Kaelen and Lysander had been almost inseparable in their first year. Valerius had, by his mere presence, orchestrated their separation. Not that Lysander had any right to complain. Valerius Rane, heir to a formidable House, outranked him, outmaneuvered him.
Valerius and Kaelen shared many casual acquaintances, mostly minor scions and prodigies from lesser Houses who skirted the edges of academic responsibility, often forging ritual exemptions or feigning arcane malaise to skip lessons. Kaelen, ever mindful of his parents’ watchful eyes, usually remained until the end of the day’s curriculum. Valerius, whose reputation was equally stained, often stayed as well. Lysander once asked him why.
“Do you think me so pathetic?” Valerius had asked, his coin glinting.
“No, but your associates seem to be.”
“Associates? What drivel. They are not my associates. They are refuse.”
“Refuse?” Lysander frowned.
“A scholar’s duty is to attend lessons and master the arcane arts, yes?” Valerius’s tone was surprisingly serious.
“That is true.”
“Do not lump me with trash like them. It rankles.”
“My apologies.”
“No apology was necessary.”
A reasonable declaration, though hearing it from Valerius Rane, whose circle of “refuse” skipped lessons at least thrice a week, felt absurd. Regardless, Lysander spent most of his subsequent years within the liminal space between Kaelen and Valerius. He considered it a sacred, if uncomfortable, haven. Without Valerius, it would have been perfect. Yet, they coexisted with surprising ease. Lysander didn’t like him, but Valerius was not so intolerable that Lysander would abandon the table. He was merely… aggravating.
But Elian Thorne’s existence turned even those strained moments into a subtle nightmare.
Today, something shifted.
“Damnation. Theron and Kaelen’s other junior scions, those bastards,” Kaelen cursed, clutching his head as the fourth period neared its close. Lysander turned instantly, a tremor of anticipation, a fragile hope, stirring in his chest. “They’ve absconded again?”
“Fools.” Kaelen spat the word.
“Unfortunate. Who will you share repast with, then?” Lysander asked, his fingers tightening imperceptibly on the back of his chair.
Kaelen sighed, a heavy, dramatic sound, and turned to Valerius.
“I’m eating with you two today.”
“Don’t. No one extended an invitation,” Valerius replied, blunt and dismissive.
“Keep that tongue wagging, Rane, and I’ll silence it for you.”
“Gods, today truly makes me yearn to introduce my fist to your face, Vane.”
“Try it, dolt.”
“Brave words for one who would otherwise sup alone.”
Lysander couldn’t hold back. “Come, let us all eat together. We cannot leave Kaelen to dine in solitude.” His desperation must have been palpable. Kaelen smirked, a triumphant gleam in his eyes, glancing at Valerius.
“See? I have true friends.”
Valerius scowled, sweeping Kaelen’s stylus case from the table with a sharp, echoing clatter. Whether Valerius liked Lysander was irrelevant. What mattered was Kaelen joining them for lunch. It had been too long since they had shared a meal, and Lysander felt a thrill of victory. He even forced himself to swallow the unappetizing dried root, a dish he abhorred.
Kaelen, however, paid little mind to his plate. His eyes, like a predator’s, scoured the Refectory. Lysander, too fixated on Kaelen’s presence, barely registered Valerius plucking a roasted mushroom from his own tray. Then, Kaelen’s ornate eating rods clattered to the table. His free hand snaked out, seizing the arm of someone passing by.
Elian Thorne.
“Sit here,” Kaelen commanded, nodding to the empty space beside him. “You have no one else to eat with, anyway.”
Elian’s frail face flushed. His eyes darted, briefly meeting Lysander’s, before he bit his lip and slowly, hesitantly, lowered himself into the indicated seat. Lysander felt a jolt of pure shock. Since when did Kaelen care about Elian’s companionship? And the reason Elian had no companions was Kaelen’s doing. Kaelen hated any who dared approach Elian.
A bitter, coppery taste filled Lysander’s mouth. Unconsciously, he slammed his spoon down onto his stoneware plate. The ceramic shrieked in protest, a jarring sound that echoed in the high-ceilinged hall. Only Elian reacted, flinching, eyes wide and nervous. Kaelen remained oblivious, his gaze still fixed on Elian.
Damnation. At that moment, the protective shell Lysander had so meticulously constructed over the years began to crack, a hairline fracture spiderwebbing across his composure. He tried to staunch it, but the fissure widened. Perhaps, he thought, he was closer to a breaking point than he had ever realized.
Clinging desperately to denial, Lysander snapped at Elian. “Elian. Just leave.”
“H-huh?” Elian stammered, bewildered.
“Do not heed Kaelen. Go. It is permissible.”
“Lysander,” Kaelen growled, his voice a dangerous, low rumble. Kaelen, who had ignored the jarring sound of Lysander’s spoon, now ground his teeth, glaring at Lysander with chilling intensity. That glare, far from deterring Lysander, solidified his resolve. He fixed his eyes on Elian, unwavering.
“I will handle this. You may go.”
“Uh, o-okay.” Elian’s voice was barely a whisper.
“And Kaelen, cease this charade.”
“Indeed, I concur,” Valerius chimed in, a mouthful of food muffling his words. His sudden interjection felt utterly out of place. He chewed and swallowed with deliberate slowness, then glanced between Lysander and Kaelen, a maddening smirk playing on his lips.
“What are you staring at? You spoil my appetite.”
Valerius’s pointless provocations always grated on Lysander’s nerves. The man was insufferable. Lysander ignored him, turning back to Kaelen.
“Leave Elian be.”
“Who are you to dictate my actions?” Kaelen shot back, his face contorted.
“It grates on the rest of us to observe.” Lysander did not blink. Kaelen slammed his fist on the table, a thunderous impact that made Elian, sitting awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Valerius, however, merely chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender.
“Count me out of this.” He licked a bead of water from his lips, adding, “Let us decide by majority. I am neutral. Lysander desires his departure. Kaelen insists he remains.”
Valerius was one of the few who called Lysander by his given name, ‘Lysander,’ not the common diminutive ‘Ly.’ This casual familiarity, even from Valerius, always stirred a flicker of irritation. It seeped into his tone now. “Cease your meddling. Your vote is invalid.”
“Why not? There is another person right there.” Valerius, unperturbed, smirked and pointed at Elian with a flick of his hand. “What? Is Elian not a person?”
“You are incorrigible.”
“Why is he silent? Let him speak his wishes.”
As if Elian could possibly utter a word in this suffocating atmosphere. Lysander sighed at Valerius’s thoughtless antics, picking up his spoon and idly stirring his rice. Kaelen tapped his finger on the table, the sound precise, menacing.
“If you depart, Thorne, you are dead to the Arcane Ward starting this very moment.”
Tears welled in Elian’s large, luminous eyes. He looked at Lysander, a desperate, silent plea. Lysander pressed his lips together, a deep, unsettling hum beginning in his core.
“It is fine. I will halt him,” Lysander said, his voice strained, trying to reassure Elian.
“Lysander,” Kaelen growled, his voice tight with anger.
Lysander forced himself to meet Kaelen’s burning gaze, feigning a calm he did not possess. The overwhelming urge to shatter, to scream, threatened to consume him. He looked up at the vaulted ceiling for a brief, disorienting moment before lowering his head, replying with feigned nonchalance. “What is it?”
“You…” Kaelen clenched his fist, glaring with an intensity that felt like a physical blow. Lysander endured. His instincts screamed he could not abandon Elian to Kaelen’s whims.
But Kaelen’s focus, predatory and unsettling, shifted back to Elian.
“I-I will go,” Elian stammered, his voice trembling.
Lysander’s breath caught.
“Th-thank you, Lysander.”
Elian scrambled up, his footsteps unsteady, and fled. As soon as his fragile form vanished through the Refectory arch, Kaelen turned abruptly, his face a mask of cold fury, his gaze locking onto Lysander.