Lysander Vance moved through the hallowed halls of the Crimson Spire Arcanum with an innate, almost preternatural composure. His existence had been a meticulous calculus of expectation and restraint, each moment calibrated by the unspoken decrees of his lesser House and his own pervasive anxieties. He abhorred any display of vulnerability, viewing it as a chink in the formidable, if quiet, armor he had painstakingly constructed. Consequently, even when the undercurrents of emotional turmoil threatened to surge, he could hold his breath and endure, his face a placid mask. This unyielding control often led others to dismiss him as an unfeeling automaton, devoid of passion. Yet, within him, every slight, every flicker of indignation, every buried frustration, had calcified, thickening the protective shell around his core. Over the cycles of the Arcanum, it had become a near-impregnable fortress, making true provocation an arduous task for anyone. The constant, simmering presence of Kaelen Ashwood, scion of one of the Obsidian Dominion’s most ancient and fearsome Houses, proved no exception. This stoic temperament, Lysander knew, was his anchor in the turbulent waters of the Arcanum’s social hierarchy. He occupied a respectable, if overshadowed, position. A quiet scholar, not a powerful mage, but one whose intellectual rigor granted him a certain deference. This hard-won equilibrium, this fragile foothold, was something he would defend with every fiber of his being. “Lysander.” The resonant baritone of Kaelen Ashwood cut through the murmur of the communal study chambers. Lysander’s spine stiffened imperceptibly, but his head turned with practiced ease. “Yes, Kaelen?” “Is that the tone you employ when addressing your betters?” Kaelen’s voice, a silken whip, held a false amusement. “Sounds rather… pallid.” “Perhaps a reflection of the company I keep,” Thorne Vex drawled from his perch atop a precarious stack of forbidden grimoires. His own tone was a blunt instrument, unafraid of Kaelen’s shadow. Kaelen merely laughed, a sound like dry bones clattering. An insult, even one aimed at his infamous vanity, only held weight if it found purchase. Thorne’s barbs glanced off him harmlessly. “Thorne, do you ever associate with anyone of substance? Anyone worth acknowledging?” Kaelen’s eyes, obsidian chips, glinted with predatory intent. “Substance? What precisely do you mean by that?” Thorne pushed a small, polished geomantic sphere between his fingers, its intricate carvings blurring with the motion. “Don’t play the fool, Thorne. You lack the subtlety for it.” Thorne merely chuckled, the geomantic sphere tracing slow circles in his palm, and offered no further reply. Kaelen, his attention already elsewhere, allowed his gaze to drift across the bustling chambers, lingering for a moment on a slight, perpetually nervous figure hunched over a worn scroll at the farthest table. “…Someone with a bit of a pliable temperament and a malleable spirit might prove… diverting.” Kaelen was a force of nature—impulsive, brutal, devoid of deeper thought, his actions often dictated by the whims of raw, untamed arcane power. His predatory instincts had bloomed early, and he rarely bothered with the pretense of restraint. Consequently, the subtle cruelties he inflicted upon Elara Solstice, a scion of a faded House with little to protect her, had blossomed into an open, relentless persecution. By this point, as the ancient wards of the Crimson Spire shimmered with the fading light of summer, Elara had been utterly isolated, a solitary star in an unforgiving sky. But even this was not enough to sate Kaelen Ashwood. While Kaelen’s immediate retinue—Renwick, Seraphim, and Malachi—would linger near his side, patiently awaiting his whim after the morning’s runic drills, other peripheral students, like Garek and Stellan from the western wing, would scatter the moment the chime for noon sustenance echoed through the Arcanum. Lysander remembered his first year, a shadowy extension of Kaelen’s inner circle. But the second year brought a subtle shift. Renwick, with a sneering glance at Lysander meticulously dissecting an ancient Arcanum fragment during a shared break, had remarked, “Lysander still poring over dusty lore? Most of us are done before he even lifts his head.” Without a word from Lysander, a silent decree had been issued. He was excluded. The most galling part? Kaelen hadn’t cared. Lysander’s presence or absence made no discernible difference to the Ashwood heir. A bitter current surged through Lysander. He looked at Kaelen, his voice carefully level. “Am I truly so… deliberate?” “Of course. You pore over every glyph as if it holds the secret to eternal life, while the rest of us conclude our studies in mere minutes.” “Aye, we were always delayed for the geomancy practice because of your… thoroughness.” “Ah.” Lysander’s response was a mere exhalation. “We’ve a challenge against the Serpent House apprentices today, so perhaps you should accompany Thorne to the refectory.” Lysander’s pride, a brittle thing, prevented him from arguing. Besides, the frantic scramble to keep pace with Kaelen’s restless energy during their first year had often left Lysander with a gnawing unease, a constant internal discord. The thought of clinging to Kaelen’s shadow, a mere afterthought, was frankly nauseating. So, he offered no plea, no protest. And just like that, he was adrift from the main current. His own will, his own preferences, held no sway. Feigning indifference, he found his gaze meeting Thorne Vex’s. Thorne lounged on his desk, the geomantic sphere now resting in his open palm, and regarded Lysander with an unreadable expression before speaking. “When do you usually take your noon sustenance?” “…” “I typically head to the refectory in about ten bell-chimes.” “Yes, that… aligns with my schedule as well.” In truth, Lysander had never eaten at that precise interval before. But instinct, sharp and unforgiving, compelled him. To survive, to maintain even a tenuous link to any social group, even Thorne’s, adaptation was paramount. That first solitary meal with Thorne, Lysander left half his tray untouched, citing a sudden lack of appetite. Thorne raised a single brow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Are you truly so particular about your sustenance, Vance? At this age?” “What concern is that of yours?” “Honestly, you’re like an untutored apprentice.” “Even Arch-Magi don’t consume scorched gryphon talons with acrid brine.” Lysander retorted, his voice sharper than intended. Thorne’s impertinence always pricked at him. In their first year, Kaelen and Lysander had been almost inseparable. By the second, those moments had dwindled dramatically, a direct consequence of Thorne’s disruptive presence. Yet, Lysander had no right to complain. Thorne Vex, though of a different House, held a strange, almost equal footing with Kaelen, a consequence of his own raw, untamed power and utter lack of deference. Thorne and Kaelen’s circles overlapped, primarily comprising apprentices who preferred illicit rituals to arcane studies. These were the types who would forge dispensations or slip away from the daily lectures, exploiting the lax oversight of junior instructors who rarely bothered to verify their whereabouts. Kaelen, ever mindful of his parents’ watchful eyes, usually remained until the end of the allotted instruction. As for Thorne, whose reputation was equally infamous, Lysander had once ventured to ask why he bothered to adhere to the schedule. “Do you truly believe me that pathetic?” Thorne had asked, his voice low. “No, but your… associates… often absent themselves.” “Associates? What foolish cant is that? They are not my associates. They are dross.” “What?” “An apprentice’s duty is to attend the lectures and absorb the lore, is it not?” “…That is true.” “Do not equate me with such dross. It chafes.” “My apologies.” “I was not soliciting contrition.” It was a reasonable statement, yet hearing it from Thorne Vex felt utterly absurd. This was the same individual whose so-called companions vanished from the Arcanum’s grounds at least once every seven cycles. Regardless, Lysander found himself spending most of his second year in the company of Kaelen Ashwood and Thorne Vex. He had come to regard this arrangement as a sacred space, a sanctuary that no outsider could breach. It would have been perfect without Thorne, but, surprisingly, their uneasy alliance proved more tolerable than expected. Lysander did not like Thorne, but Thorne was not so insufferable that Lysander would abandon his carefully maintained social perch. He was simply… an irritant. But Elara Solstice, through no fault of her own, threatened to turn even these days into a living nightmare. Today, however, felt subtly different from the usual cadence. “Damn it. Renwick and Seraphim, those craven fools,” Kaelen swore, raking a hand through his dark hair as the fourth period neared its close. At the sound of his voice, Lysander turned immediately, a tremor of anticipation, unwelcome yet undeniable, stirring within him. “They absconded again?” “Fools.” “How unfortunate. With whom will you share your noon sustenance, then?” Lysander asked, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly on the armrest of his chair. A desperate spark of hope flickered. Kaelen exhaled slowly, his gaze falling upon Thorne, who sat beside him, still idly manipulating the geomantic sphere. “Thorne, I shall join your table today.” “Do not. Your presence was not solicited,” Thorne replied, his voice flat. “Continue that insolent patter, and I will seal your lips for you.” “By the Void, today truly makes me desire to introduce my fist to your face, Kaelen.” “Attempt it, imbecile.” “Brave words for one who would otherwise break bread in solitude.” Lysander could no longer remain silent. He interjected, his voice carefully modulated. “Come, let us all share the noon sustenance. We cannot leave Kaelen to dine alone.” His desperation, though masked, must have been palpable. Kaelen smirked, a triumphant glint in his obsidian eyes, and glanced at Thorne. “You see? I possess true companions.” “…” “What say you, Thorne? Lysander proves quite… pliable, does he not?” Thorne merely scowled and swept Kaelen’s meticulously organized array of arcane reagents off the desk, sending vials and powdered elements clattering across the stone floor. Whether Thorne held any particular affection for Lysander was irrelevant. What mattered was Kaelen’s assent. He would join them for lunch. It had been a long cycle since Lysander had shared a meal with Kaelen, and a thrill, cold and swift, coursed through him. He even forced himself to consume a portion of spiced swamp-eel stew, a dish he normally abhorred. But Kaelen’s attention remained far from his own tray. His eyes scoured the refectory, a predator surveying its domain. Lysander, too absorbed in Kaelen’s presence, failed to notice Thorne pilfering a dried sun-fruit from his own tray. Then, without warning, Kaelen’s silver chopsticks clattered, and his free hand snaked out, seizing the arm of someone passing by. Lysander looked up. It was Elara Solstice. “Sit here,” Kaelen commanded, nodding towards the empty seat beside him. “You have no other companions with whom to break bread, in any case.” Elara’s face paled, then flushed crimson. Her eyes darted, briefly meeting Lysander’s, before she bit her lip and slowly, tentatively, sat in the indicated chair. Lysander was stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Kaelen concern himself with Elara’s social standing? And the very reason Elara had been abandoned by her peers was entirely Kaelen’s doing. Kaelen despised any who dared to show Elara Solstice a moment of kindness. A bitter, coppery taste rose in Lysander’s throat. Unconsciously, he slammed his spoon onto his tray, the sharp clatter echoing unnaturally in the sudden quiet around their table. But the only one who visibly reacted was Elara, who flinched, her eyes wide with fear, and looked nervously at Lysander. Kaelen, however, remained fixated on Elara. Damn it. In that moment, the protective shell Lysander had built over the years, layer upon layer of Vancian restraint, began to fissure. He fought it, a desperate, internal struggle, but the cracks spread, spiderwebbing across his carefully constructed composure. Perhaps he was nearing a precipice he hadn't known existed. Clinging to a desperate denial, Lysander snapped, his voice taut. “Elara. You should leave.” “H-huh?” Her voice was a fragile whisper. “Do not heed Kaelen. Simply go. It will be fine.” “Lysander,” Kaelen said, his voice dropping to a dangerously low register. When Lysander told Elara she could leave, Kaelen, who had ignored the jarring sound of the spoon, finally ground his teeth, his eyes boring into Lysander with an intensity that promised retribution. That malevolent glare, rather than breaking Lysander, solidified his resolve. He fixed his gaze stubbornly on Elara. “I will intercede. You are free to go.” “Uh, o-okay.” “And Kaelen, cease this charade.” “Aye, I concur,” Thorne chimed in through a mouthful of some unidentifiable gruel, his words barely intelligible. His sudden interjection felt utterly out of place. He chewed and swallowed with an infuriatingly slow deliberation, then glanced between Lysander and Kaelen, a faint, irritating smirk playing on his lips. “What are you staring at? You are quite spoiling my appetite.” As always, Thorne’s unnecessary provocations grated on Lysander’s nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter the circumstance. Ignoring him, Lysander turned back to Kaelen. “Leave Elara Solstice alone.” “Who are you, insignificant Vance, to issue such commands?” Kaelen shot back, his voice thick with burgeoning fury. “It is… tedious for the rest of us to observe.” Lysander did not blink as he met Kaelen’s enraged gaze. Kaelen slammed his fist onto the stone table. The sudden, violent impact made Elara, who sat frozen, flinch and squeeze her eyes shut. Thorne, on the other hand, chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender. “Exclude me from this.” He licked a bead of water from his lips, then added, “Let us decide by majority consensus. I am neutral. Lysander desires her departure. Kaelen insists she remains.” Thorne was one of the few who abbreviated Lysander’s name, simply calling him “Vance,” and Lysander found it irritating every single time. That irritation often bled into his tone, just as it did now. “Cease your interference, Thorne. Your vote holds no weight.” “Why not? There is another presence right here.” Thorne, unfazed, smirked and gestured toward Elara with a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Elara not considered a person?” “You are unhinged.” “Why is she silent? Let her voice her own preference.” As if Elara could possibly speak in this oppressive atmosphere. Lysander sighed at Thorne’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his bowl of rice-like grains. Kaelen then tapped his finger rhythmically on the table. “If you depart, Solstice, your existence will become… untenable, starting this very cycle.” Tears began to well in Elara’s large eyes, which glimmered as she looked at Lysander, a silent, desperate plea for help. Damn it. Lysander pressed his lips together. “It is well. I will deter him,” Lysander said, attempting to reassure Elara. “Lysander Vance,” Kaelen growled, his voice tight with barely contained rage. Lysander forced himself to meet Kaelen’s gaze, projecting an illusion of calm, but inside, he felt an overwhelming urge to shatter. To suppress it, he lifted his eyes to the ancient, vaulted ceiling for a brief moment before lowering his head and replying, his voice a practiced nonchalance, “What is it?” “You…” Kaelen clenched his fist, glaring at Lysander with an intensity that felt like a burning rune etched upon his skin. Still, Lysander had to endure. His instincts screamed that he could not abandon Elara to Kaelen’s capricious cruelty. But Kaelen’s focus shifted back to Elara. “I-I will depart,” Elara stammered, her voice trembling. “…” “Th-thank you, Lysander.” Elara hurriedly rose and fled, her footsteps unsteady, a faint chime of her House’s ancestral pendant echoing in her wake. As soon as she was gone, Kaelen turned abruptly, his dark, furious gaze falling entirely on Lysander. ---

A Glimmer of Obsidian