A peculiar thread of thought began to unravel in Lysander’s mind, unbidden and unsettling. He often wondered about Kaelen Thorne and Valerius Thorne, and their unspoken ritual of departure from the Lore-Weaving Gallery after afternoon sessions. A simple curiosity, one born from a deep-seated jealousy he refused to acknowledge.
From his vantage, concealed amidst the towering shelves of arcane texts, Kaelen always trailed Valerius. Kaelen, quiet and earnest, followed the scion of House Thorne with a silent devotion that seemed to defy the Arcanum’s rigid social order. Valerius, with his effortless command of lesser enchantments and inherent aura of authority, would stride ahead, oblivious or uncaring of the figure in his wake.
This image—Kaelen, a fully-grown initiate, following Valerius like a moth drawn to a flame—clung to Lysander’s mind. A bad feeling pulsed beneath his ribs, a tremor of unease, as if he toyed with a cursed grimoire, its pages promising forbidden knowledge.
A tiny, sealed box, one that should remain untouched, containing not merely despair, but a cruel, insidious hope that surpassed it. Despite knowing the peril, the lure of its contents was irresistible.
“...This is madness,” Lysander whispered, his voice thin against the rustle of aged vellum.
Indeed, his thoughts were unbound. Yet, propelled by that very madness, he found himself shadowing Kaelen after the session, past the ancient scriptorium and through the winding, lesser-used corridors of the Arcanum.
He did not follow far.
Moving with the ghost-step of a practiced scholar, careful not to draw Valerius’s notice, Lysander watched Kaelen. Kaelen’s gaze remained fixed on Valerius’s retreating back. Around them, the Arcanum’s forgotten corners revealed themselves: crumbling gargoyles overlooking disused courtyards, corroded runic conduits tracing faded paths across weathered flagstones, motes of dust dancing in fractured shafts of captured starlight. A scene imbued with the quiet decay of forgotten ages.
Two figures moved within this tableau: Valerius leading, Kaelen following. And Lysander, a silent observer, from a distance.
Everything about it felt utterly pathetic, utterly foolish. He turned back, the dust of ancient neglect clinging to his robes.
---
Later, in the dim solitude of his Quarter-House, Lysander sat at his worn desk. A sense of grim satisfaction settled over him. He had chosen wisely. His curiosity, though potent, had not entirely consumed him. Who knew what further sight might have poisoned his mind had he continued? Better not to know. He was not so foolish as to pry open that accursed grimoire for a fleeting urge.
Valerius’s obsession with Kaelen, the undercurrent of unease that Kaelen radiated in Valerius’s presence—a tangible dread. Or perhaps, outright disdain. Yes, it was hatred. Kaelen could feel nothing less for the scion who, during his initial induction period, had subjected him to countless petty humiliations. Lysander felt a faint, bitter smugness. Perhaps his early inaction, his refusal to intervene when Valerius had first tormented Kaelen, had been for the best.
Lysander laced his fingers behind his head, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. The elegant, magically illuminated sigils inscribed there, casting intricate patterns of light and shadow, reminded him of his own fortunate existence. Born into the established prominence of House Vance, cherished as an only child, never denied access to any arcane tome or scholastic pursuit.
“...Damn it all,” he muttered, the words tasting like ash.
He had always believed there was no lore too obscure, no runic puzzle too complex, that he couldn’t master. Until his heart had become ensnared by Valerius Thorne. That damnable acolyte had shown him the cruel reality: that even the most potent will could not command the currents of affection. He was certain Valerius, too, was learning that harsh truth.
Ah, the Arcanum could be merciless, a crucible of unyielding reality.
Lysander, at least, had learned to master himself, to conceal the tumultuous workings of his heart. Valerius, by contrast, was so consumed by his own emotions he remained blind to the raw, almost desperate way he regarded Kaelen. That sudden, abnormal intensity must have been profoundly disquieting for Valerius.
Lysander knew that precise feeling; he had endured it himself. But where Lysander had endured, Valerius faltered. Instead of subtly seeking Kaelen’s favor, Valerius acted in ways that only cemented Kaelen’s aversion. For Lysander, this twisted scenario worked out perfectly.
“Please, just remain clueless,” he murmured to the silent chamber.
Or better yet, let Kaelen grow weary of Valerius’s shadow and seek solace elsewhere. Lysander did not wish for Valerius to turn to him. If anything, that kind of all-consuming obsession terrified him.
He desired but one thing: for a day to arrive when his own love for Valerius had faded, and for Valerius to find affection elsewhere, with anyone but Kaelen. That was all. But the Arcanum, and life, rarely accommodated such simple wishes.
---
Another shift in the delicate ecosystem of their scholastic lives unfolded. Valerius, of all initiates, chose to relocate his designated study-plinth within the Runic Etymology lecture hall. He moved it to the spot directly in front of Kaelen Thorne. The chosen plinth, terribly placed considering Valerius’s imposing stature and his tendency to obscure the scry-board, drew murmurs. Kaelen’s original study-mate, a junior acolyte from a minor House, exchanged an awkward nod with Lysander and Aurelian, his expression a mingling of embarrassment and discomfort.
“Greetings, Vance, Nychus,” the acolyte mumbled.
Lysander and Aurelian exchanged a brief glance, offering a curt nod in return.
“Haha…” The acolyte’s forced laugh dissolved into the ambient hum of the lecture hall. Neither Lysander nor Aurelian responded. They harbored no interest in such trivialities.
Valerius settled onto the plinth beside Kaelen, silent, radiating an almost palpable possessiveness. Lysander, across the chamber, hoped—no, desperately willed—that this awkward stasis, this frozen tension, might persist for another two years of their tenure. That someday, this moment would dissolve into nothing more than a faint dream, utterly forgotten.
---
Another change, more significant. Valerius, who had spent his free evenings indulging in various base enchantments and carousing with lesser acolytes in the chant-houses of the Obsidian Dominion, seemed to cease these habits. Or so it appeared. Scattered whispers, gleaned from Aurelian’s group, suggested he hadn’t ceased entirely. But at least he no longer boasted of his conquests in the lecture halls, nor did the cloying scent of illicit concoctions cling to him like a second skin.
For Lysander, this offered a modicum of relief. He no longer endured the close proximity of Valerius’s decadent escapades.
“Valerius, no more chasing lesser spirits? No more like this?” Caius Solus, a junior acolyte with a lewd smirk, swayed suggestively before Valerius, his hands making crude gestures near his own belt-sigil. Valerius’s face twisted in disgust at the vulgar display. He glanced sharply towards Kaelen, then growled.
“Solus, you witless fool! I forbade you to make such displays in the common halls!”
“Why the sudden modesty, Thorne, eh?”
“Mention it again, Solus, and you’ll regret it. Profoundly.”
“Valerius—”
“I said, silence!”
“...Fine, fine.” Caius retreated, clearly disappointed. Valerius, with his imposing frame and mature aura, had once been the perfect conduit for the hormonal curiosities of younger initiates.
The acolytes in Valerius and Aurelian’s circle were not novices; they’d all fumbled through clumsy attempts at spell-weaving and rudimentary enchantments of passion. Compared to the truly uninitiated, they were easily stirred. With Valerius no longer sharing his exploits, their attention drifted to Aurelian. But Aurelian merely bared his teeth, an expression of pure disdain.
“Filthy perverts.”
“Ah, here he goes! Nychus with his usual sanctimony!”
“He’s just a zealous fanatic. Honestly, such a waste of potential.”
Laughter rippled through the chamber, loud and fleeting.
Most of the young men in their year had ventured into forbidden enchantments at least once, but for some inscrutable reason, Aurelian Nychus had not. While they jested, calling him “The Ascetic,” no one truly disrespected him. He was Aurelian Nychus, after all, a formidable talent in his own right. At the same time, Aurelian possessed a lighthearted, almost casual air about everything, which made his cutting remarks seem less malicious, his actions more approachable. Many found it charming, often remarking he didn’t match his intimidating visage.
“Solus, you brain-addled imbecile, stop glaring at me. You’ll provoke a hex.”
“Aye, Nychus does have a frightful aspect.”
“Do you imbeciles harbor a death wish?”
Aurelian scowled, and the group burst into laughter again, though little humor existed in the exchange. Some acolytes lingering at the back of the lecture hall, perhaps friends or simply hangers-on, joined in with their hollow laughs and idle chatter, adding to the cacophony. Lysander sat amidst them, staring blankly at his own belt-sigil, lost in thought.
He recalled, if memory served, never having felt the tremor of desire for a sorceress or a female acolyte. Perhaps that made him, by arcane decree, an initiate of the male persuasion from birth. Sure, he had felt a vague stirring while observing certain forbidden scry-rituals involving both men and women, but never once had he envisioned a woman’s form while manipulating a minor focus. The former seemed more about the intensity of the ritual itself, while the latter simply felt like an absence of desire.
He had been dragged to a chant-house once, by Valerius Thorne, but had not even passed the ward-line. He lacked the requisite identification sigil. Instead, he waited outside until Valerius emerged. Illicit pleasure dens? Disgusting. He couldn’t fathom why anyone would frequent such places.
Because of all this, the others in the group jokingly called him “Abstinent Vance,” but in truth, his abstinence was more a forced state of being.
A small sigh escaped his lips. The others were too busy laughing at Aurelian’s retorts to notice. Seizing the moment, Lysander glanced at Valerius, who sat silently, his gaze fixed on the back of Kaelen Thorne’s head as Kaelen studiously poured over an ancient scroll across the chamber.
And, as always, Lysander regretted it. Why had he looked? Why the persistent curiosity? To distract himself, he posed a pointless question to Aurelian.
“So, Nychus, do you genuinely intend to remain celibate until you are formally bonded?”
Aurelian, lounging in his plinth with the casual arrogance of a minor archmage, suddenly looked directly at Lysander’s belt-sigil. His gaze was so persistent that Lysander instinctively crossed his legs, shielding himself. What in the Abyss?
“You’re not my intended, Vance, so why the sudden concern? Are you offering?”
Lysander merely stared. Of course. This infuriating acolyte always dealt in malicious jests. The others laughed, and Lysander delivered a swift, silent kick to Aurelian’s shin beneath the plinth.
Such were his days—a repetition of the same unspoken tensions, day after arduous day.
---
Alone in his Quarter-House, Lysander often found himself lost in the labyrinthine corridors of his own mind, contemplating countless alternative realities. Inevitably, those thoughts sometimes drifted into strange, unsettling fantasies.
Today, he found himself wondering what it would have been like if his heart had become entwined with Aurelian Nychus instead of Valerius Thorne. It seemed, by all logical measures, a less torturous path. If he had loved Aurelian, he wouldn’t have had to endure the silent anguish inflicted by Valerius’s messy entanglements with lesser acolytes and wayward sorceresses.
Even so, his heart would likely still ache.
Neither Valerius Thorne nor Aurelian Nychus would ever truly love him, after all. But at least his heart wouldn’t suffer this peculiar agony because of Kaelen Thorne.
That train of thought ultimately led to familiar feelings of inferiority and a dull, simmering anger. In the end, he simply wished for the swift completion of his Arcanum tenure, for the day he could become a stranger to Valerius Thorne.
---
At some point, Lysander started unconsciously placing his hands beneath his study-plinth whenever he sat. This habit truly began in his second year of junior initiates, and the cause was always the same—men. As he absently fiddled with the buckle of his outer tunic, lost in thought, a silent debate unfolded. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? The faint, metallic click of the buckle against his nails filled the quiet room. Just as he applied a light pressure with his thumb to release the catch, a soft rap sounded upon his Quarter-House door.
“Vance! Are you deep in your scrolls?”
“...Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!”
Lysander nearly vaulted from his plinth. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm. Today was clearly not the day. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damnation.
---
Lately, Valerius Thorne had become an unbearable presence. Sometimes, when Kaelen Thorne’s gaze drifted towards Lysander, Valerius would deliberately interject, initiating conversation with Kaelen. Kaelen, caught in the invisible vice between them, would flick his eyes towards Lysander, his lips parting as if to speak, only to press them shut. Then, as if wary of Valerius’s simmering presence, he would lower his head and offer the faintest reply.
“Y-yes…” Just like that.
Kaelen, subtly, had begun to seek Lysander out more often, and started calling him “Lysander.” Aside from the Elder Mages and House tutors, almost no one addressed him by his given name, so the shift was acutely noticeable. Kaelen seemed to believe he was being discreet, but he was not. The worst part was how Valerius couldn’t mask his discomfort whenever Kaelen dared such a small familiarity.
“Kaelen Thorne, cease distracting Vance from his studies.”
“What?”
“Stop bothering him. Is that unclear?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes…”
When Kaelen stammered and avoided his gaze, Valerius, with an immature display of power, slammed a fist against the stone leg of the plinth beside him, a faint crackle of uncontrolled mana accompanying the impact. Lysander pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, Kaelen, in his cluelessness, seemed to believe no one cared about him using Lysander’s given name anymore. He grew bolder, using it casually, as if it were the most natural thing.
“Uh, Lysander… pardon my interruption while you’re immersed.”
Lysander stiffened, staring at Kaelen in disbelief. Was he mad? Valerius sat mere feet away.
Sure enough, Valerius pounded his fist on the plinth again, the crackle louder this time. Damnation.
“Thorne! Kaelen Thorne!”
“...Huh?”
The air in the lecture hall instantly soured, growing thick with unspoken tension.
“I told you.” Valerius’s anger was blatant, a dark storm brewing behind his eyes. “I told you not to call him ‘Lysander,’ did I not?”
“...W-well…”
“Call him Vance. That is his name—Vance.” His gaze turned sharp, almost predatory, as he fixed it on Lysander. Lysander hated that look and instinctively lowered his head. At that moment, Aurelian Nychus, seated beside him, casually draped an arm over Lysander’s shoulders. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Lysander’s ear.
“Valerius Thorne, if you continue this charade, you will truly unravel your own ambitions.”
“What gibberish are you spouting, Nychus?”
“I say, you’ll regret it.” Aurelian smirked, and Lysander felt a flicker of irritation. For one reason only.