A raw, unveiled enmity pulsed from Lord Kaelen, a chill that had settled deep within Lysander’s marrow after the incident in the Forbidden Archives. Kaelen’s polished pretense, carefully maintained for his House Elders, had crumbled to dust. Now, the young Elara’s Scion, Seraphina, occupied the polished plinth beside Kaelen in the Grand Scriptorium, a silent testament to the chasm between them.
Lysander felt a profound shame, yet beneath it, a defiant refusal to be some pathetic weakling. He lacked the courage to simply approach Kaelen, to bridge the divide as if no scar had been carved. Instead, a spiral of melancholy consumed him, punctuated by sparks of petty vengeance. Always, he endured.
Kaelen, heir to a mighty House, now seethed with a childish resentment, his gaze curdled with envy. The reason, a brittle shard of obsidian, was clear: Seraphina. Lysander, despite his own cold rationale, found himself hating Seraphina more. She had never been his to claim, yet she had stolen Kaelen’s attention, twisted his former ally into an antagonist. A vicious, unwelcome shadow, even if her part in it was unintended.
Lysander couldn’t shake the thought of her as a conspirator. He knew well, in his quiet, analytical way, that Seraphina was merely swept along by Kaelen’s current. Yet, blaming her offered a bitter solace, a scapegoat to endure this miserable situation. Still, he kept his expression neutral, his posture unyielding. He could not afford to reveal the corrosive jealousy within, or to appear a fool, losing his temper before an unwitting pawn. Such an outburst would only cement Kaelen’s hatred and brand Lysander with a far worse stigma within the Arcanum.
“This… this is a labyrinth without end.” His whisper was lost in the rustle of ancient scrolls.
---
Go Yohan, Zephyrion of the House of Aetheria, drifted into his thoughts. Why did the infuriating scion always appear when Lysander’s mind turned to torment? Perhaps it was the sheer inconvenience of Zephyrion’s constant proximity. Zephyrion would likely offer some biting, casual observation if he knew the depths of Lysander’s spiraling despair.
*‘Turns out Vance is just a craven, truth-shirking aspirant, eh?’*
The imagined sneer from Zephyrion’s lips made Lysander clench his fists. The image was abhorrent. No one, absolutely no one, must ever glimpse the fragile heart of his anxieties.
Acquaintances in the Arcanum often shifted like desert sands. When Kaelen’s open enmity became undeniable, Lysander’s existing bonds with Kaelen’s former circle naturally frayed. Amusingly, the most isolated scholar, Orin, a recluse of the Lower Arcana, had approached Lysander yesterday, a whisper in the echoing hallway.
“Lysander, Zephyrion sought your presence earlier.”
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“He did not say. Merely sought.”
Orin’s words were always like this—fragments, devoid of true meaning. Yet, the implication was clear: the Arcanum now perceived Lysander as aligning more with Zephyrion’s cadre than Kaelen’s fading influence.
The old ties were not entirely sundered. Occasionally, in the training grounds or during the morning procession to the Runeforging Chambers, polite nods were exchanged. Though this was mostly limited to Torvin, a junior adept with an eager, uncertain demeanor.
“Greetings, Lysander! Morning.”
“...Morning, Torvin.”
Lysander recalled one such awkward exchange. Torvin, his voice a low murmur, had leaned closer.
*‘Lord Kaelen… he has been acting most erratically of late. His behavior towards Seraphina… is it not unsettling?’*
Lysander must have worn a mask of revulsion, for Torvin seemed to interpret it as agreement. He then spoke of Kaelen’s possessive grip on Seraphina’s arm, his insistence that she sit beside him, a near-constant tether.
Lysander clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding. “Their dalliances are not my concern, Torvin.”
His dismissive tone silenced the junior adept immediately.
Of late, Torvin had been making subtle overtures toward Zephyrion’s friends. He appeared to be a creature quietly seeking an escape from Kaelen’s increasingly volatile shadow. Perhaps his shared observations were a bid for closer alliance.
---
Today, as often happened, only Lysander and Zephyrion remained in the abandoned Astronomical Observatory, its great brass mechanisms silent, its star-charts gathering dust.
Zephyrion, his lean form draped against the cold stone arch, stared at Lysander. Was it indifference, or a silent appraisal? Lysander, annoyed by the scrutiny, turned his head, focusing on a half-finished diagram of an elemental nexus. He would ignore Zephyrion in return.
“Lysander.”
“What now, Zephyrion?”
“Let us find some chilled Moonpetal Nectar after our studies. The one we shared last cycle was potent.”
Zephyrion ignored Lysander’s attempt at dismissal. As he spoke, he idly tossed a polished scrying orb across the echoing chamber. The orb bounced erratically off the ancient instruments, threatening to strike a student, but no one dared challenge him. Zephyrion held no regard for decorum. He was indifferent, selfish even. Lysander watched the orb’s unpredictable trajectory, a frown deepening on his brow. His irritation over Zephyrion’s brazen disregard sharpened his reply.
“You speak of the one you drained yourself, I presume? You acquired it solely for your own palate, did you not?”
“Well, not precisely. I merely favor the lunar brews.”
“So my preference was not consulted in the slightest?”
“How was I to discern your desires? You offered no counsel.”
The scrying orb rolled to a halt near a junior adept, who hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved it, placing it in Zephyrion’s outstretched hand. Zephyrion casually spun the orb between his fingers, then nodded to the retreating student.
“My gratitude, fledgling.”
What an insufferable personality. “Fledgling this, un-awakened that.” Every utterance from his lips grated on Lysander’s nerves.
Honestly, it defied logic that someone as obnoxious as Zephyrion aligned himself with Lysander, rather than Kaelen. Zephyrion always joined Lysander at the Refectory, shared his Lore-Circles, attended studies with him. Kaelen was often elsewhere, yet Zephyrion could easily communicate with him, arrange a meeting, if he so wished.
The thought materialized, unbidden, and Lysander voiced it without true deliberation. “Why do you not join Lord Kaelen’s circle these days?”
Zephyrion, mid-toss of the scrying orb against the wall, froze. Then he turned, a puzzled expression on his sharp features.
“You quarreled with him,” Zephyrion stated.
“I?”
“Indeed. You and Lord Kaelen.”
“I know. I am the one who quarreled. So what does that signify to you?”
“You utter the strangest pronouncements. It signifies that you are my confederate.”
Zephyrion’s gaze, oddly blatant, swept over Lysander. Feeling uneasy, Lysander averted his eyes and retorted, “You were also Kaelen’s confederate, though.”
“Ha. You are amusing. What, are you disavowing our bond?” Zephyrion’s tone was incredulous now, his finger pointing at Lysander.
“No, I am your confederate. But you were also aligned with Lord Kaelen. So why this allegiance to me?”
“Well, because my acquaintance with you precedes his.”
“What folly are you speaking of? Our bond was forged through Kaelen, was it not?”
“Lysander. We shared a rapport back in our first year of awakening!”
“When?”
“Seriously, you are a callous bastard. Unbelievable. Back in the Great Refectory, our gazes often crossed!”
“Oh… back then.”
“So, what, was I the only one who perceived this kinship? You are a deceiver. That is why, as soon as we were in the same Lore-Circle, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge that? Unacceptable. I am disappointed in your remembrance.”
“Oh.”
“Unbelievable. Truly. How could you inflict such disservice upon me?”
“Fine, I apologize. My deepest apologies, then.” Lysander mumbled the words hastily, recalling those awkward, yet strangely frequent, encounters from their first year. Those hostile, challenging stares. So, Zephyrion had categorized those as ‘kinship.’ Lysander felt robbed of his own interpretation. How could anyone perceive such glares as friendly? They were pure antagonism. Wait, did that mean the first overture, the invitation to share a table, wasn’t Kaelen’s, but… Zephyrion’s?
The realization struck Lysander with the force of a falling stone, leaving him stunned. It was unsettling, almost shocking. Still, he wished to avoid further entanglement, so he feigned comprehension, nodding slowly.
“Alright, alright. I understand. My apologies.”
“I was profoundly upset just now, truly.” Zephyrion glared briefly. Sometimes, Lysander truly couldn’t fathom the labyrinth of Zephyrion’s mind.
“And anyway, Lord Kaelen is acting most unhinged.”
“...”
“That one spirals completely now. Always a flicker of imbalance, but this? This is just… yes.” Zephyrion gripped the scrying orb with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index. The sight conjured images of Torvin and other junior adepts, awkwardly murmuring about Kaelen. From that alone, Lysander discerned one stark truth: Lord Kaelen’s reputation was in freefall.
“Abominant.”
The word – the most feared, the most damning stigma in the world of nascent adepts – sent a chill through Lysander. His body trembled slightly at the thought. At the same moment, a cold relief washed over him that his own hidden affinity, his unconventional path, remained veiled. Did that relief signify a deeper valuing of his own survival over Kaelen’s ruin?
Uneasy, he looked at Zephyrion’s face, feeling like a blasphemous priest harboring a secret before the very Arch-Magus. “Truly, me,” he muttered.
Then he let out a laugh—a strange, hollow sound, born of fear and derision. It was almost a cruel jest that, to others, he was Zephyrion’s closest confidant. In truth, Lysander was no different—a criminal branded with an unholy stigma. Only months ago, he had been Kaelen’s closest. And yet, here he was, hiding in a filthy trap he had barely evaded. He had only managed to escape being ensnared. That was all.
---
Pre-dawn’s chill. A shimmering sigil, not parchment, materialized silently on Lysander’s study table. A whispered arcane call, four bells past midnight. Half-asleep, Lysander momentarily wondered if this unraveling was but a dream. He had deliberately avoided seeking Kaelen, shielding himself from further hurt. Yet, his heart lurched at the irrational thought that the message might still be from him.
He rubbed his eyes, hastily checking the sender. His feelings tangled. Part of him hoped it was merely a misfired ward-spell or a forgotten chore reminder. But as soon as he read the shimmering glyphs, he knew it was not Kaelen.
“Lysander-ah, forgive this intrusion at such an hour. Could you step beyond your chamber’s threshold for a moment? Forgive me. Truly, forgive me.”
“Only this once. Just this one moment.”
There was no celestial alignment that would compel Lord Kaelen to apologize to Lysander. Among his peers, only two used the familiar ‘Lysander-ah,’ and of those two, only one was so pitifully desperate. How had Seraphina even discovered his private quarters within the Spire? The moment he saw the message, Lysander’s face twisted into a scowl. He did not wish to see her—never wished to see her. Her presence was always unpleasant.
But despite his thoughts, Lysander rose from his cot. He pulled on a simple night-robe, buttoning the clasps with automatic precision. He walked to his chamber door, but stopped short of stepping through, resting his forehead against the cold stone of the Architrave, letting out a deep, shuddering sigh.
“...Damnation.”
It was all so overwhelming, a knot in his guts, a coil of arcane energy tightening in his core. That was the only way to describe it. He clutched his chest. He had always prided himself on his meticulous scholarship, on a lexicon of ancient words gleaned from forgotten lore. Yet, none of the arcane verses he knew could fully express this intricate, tangled mess of emotions.
It was simply… complicated.
The hatred he felt for Seraphina, the memory of her bruised visage from Kaelen’s obsessive grip, the desperate days he’d spent trying to place distance between them all swirled together. Biting his lip, he fiddled with the ornate door-latch, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist.
In the courtyard beyond, the cold, dew-kissed air heralded the arrival of the deep autumn. To avoid the damp, moss-laden flagstones, Lysander stepped carefully onto the cool, ancient marble path that wound through the arcana’s gardens. The chilly pre-dawn wind made him pull his night-robe tighter around him. His toes, peeking from the front of his worn slippers, carried him all the way to the outer gate of his secluded annex.
He paused there, clicking his tongue softly against his teeth, then grasped the bronze handle. The ancient hinge groaned, a mournful sound that made him flinch. He opened the gate even more slowly, a sliver of darkness widening.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the faint, pulsing arcane glow of the academy’s ward-crystals, stood Seraphina in her faded Arcanum robes. Her head was hung low, as she idly traced invisible shapes on the cold asphalt path with the tip of her worn boot.
“...Seraphina.”
At his voice, Seraphina’s head snapped up like lightning, her eyes wide with a desperate light.
“Lysander, Lysander-ah!”
“What is this…?”