A cool, dry wind, scented with old parchment and faint ozone, drifted through Lysander’s window. It did little to soothe the dull ache in his jaw. Yet, a flicker of relief stirred within him. The swelling had receded considerably overnight, leaving only a faint puffiness and a greenish-yellow bruise that could be dismissed as a clumsy mishap.
He traced the tender skin with a fingertip. A minor restoration rune, scrawled hastily on a scrap of vellum and pressed against his skin, had worked its quiet magic. The worst of the shame felt less visible, less immediate.
Lysander dressed in the muted grays and deep blues of a Spire scholar, the heavy robes a familiar comfort. He squared his shoulders. He could face the Arcanum today. The thought offered a fragile sort of bravery.
Stepping into the main lecture hall, the air itself seemed to congeal. It hung heavy and oppressive, a tangible weight on every breath. Heads turned away as he entered. Whispers died on half-formed words.
His gaze swept the rows of students, searching. A familiar tension coiled in his gut. Valerius Thorne was not in his usual seat.
Moments later, a shuffling sound. Valerius entered, hesitating at the threshold. His eyes darted nervously across the room, seeking, avoiding. He had only just made it before the Arcane Chronometer chimed the start of the first lecture.
Lysander’s breath caught. He froze, jaw clenching. Valerius’s face was a ruin. One lip was split and swollen, a dark line of dried blood tracing its edge. His left eye was puffy, nearly shut, rimmed with a stark, purplish bruise far worse than Lysander’s own earlier injury. Guilt, sharp and sudden, pierced Lysander’s fragile relief.
He had allowed a brief, monstrous thought yesterday—that Valerius, for his cruelty, deserved a taste of his own. Now, seeing the raw damage, a cold nausea turned his stomach. The thought made him feel like a ghoul.
Valerius’s eyes, bruised and wary, met Lysander’s across the distance. A flicker of something — fear? Accusation? — crossed Valerius’s face before he flinched, turning his head sharply. He hurried to his seat, avoiding Lysander entirely.
A coldness spread through Lysander’s chest. He glanced around, seeking the source of the hall's pervasive dread. His eyes landed on Elara Thane. She sat, still and silent, her gaze fixed on him like a predator's, an intensity in her usually timid features that stole his breath. Pure, unadulterated hatred emanated from her, a palpable wave of hostile magic.
His heart sank. This was worse than he’d imagined. He should have remained in his chambers.
Throughout the morning, Valerius kept his distance, his posture hunched, his movements hesitant. During the brief intervals between lectures, when students would normally congregate in the corridors, Valerius disappeared. He vanished, and Lysander knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that he was with Elara.
Left alone, Lysander found himself drifting towards the Spire Courtyard for the mid-day repast. A sardonic voice cut through his thoughts.
“Vance. Thought you’d be keeping to your den.”
Cassian Varrick stood by a sun-dappled archway, chewing thoughtfully on a crystallised glow-berry. His usual wry smirk played on his lips, oblivious or indifferent to the storm raging within Lysander.
“The air in the lecture hall felt… charged,” Lysander managed, keeping his voice even.
“Charged? More like stagnant. I nearly suffocated on the collective dread.” Cassian rolled his eyes. “You seemed perfectly unbothered by that infused tea yesterday.”
“A man has to adapt. I swallowed my nerves like a true scholar.” Cassian winked, a mischievous gleam in his dark eyes. “Besides, tea’s meant to be savored. Or chugged, if you’re desperate.”
Annoyed, Lysander nudged Cassian’s ankle with his foot as Cassian laughed at his own jest. Cassian rubbed his chin, a fleeting expression of something akin to sheepishness crossing his face. No, that couldn’t be right.
---
Life possessed a cruel, capricious streak. Lysander had never intended to grow close to Cassian Varrick. In truth, Cassian’s cynical wit and flippant disregard for solemnity had always grated on him. Yet, here he was, seeking out Cassian’s presence, finding a strange solace in it.
Cassian’s lighthearted demeanor, his refusal to be drawn into the oppressive currents of the Arcanum, acted as an anchor. It prevented Lysander from drowning in the sheer weight of his own anxieties. In the past, Lysander had dismissed Cassian as shallow, unserious. Now, he relied on that very levity to maintain a tenuous grip on his sanity. Had Elara and he remained bound by their old familiarity, Lysander might never have realized how desperately he needed Cassian’s presence.
After that day, Elara began to distance herself from their usual cadre of peers. Sometimes, she would disappear with Valerius. Other times, she would lead a handful of students away. There were even moments when some of them flat-out refused, shaking their heads with uneasy expressions, glancing towards Lysander with fleeting sympathy.
One afternoon, Lysander encountered Torvin Grey as the younger student was vaulting a low garden wall, clearly trying to avoid a tutor. Torvin, a usually boisterous boy, looked haggard. He confessed, with a nervous laugh and a shiver, that Elara had been ordering them to ‘correct’ Valerius, one strike at a time, to ‘teach him respect’. Lysander’s face must have betrayed his horror. Torvin quickly added that he’d been avoiding Elara’s group, claiming a sudden interest in ancient cartography. He then mumbled about heading to the Arcane Study Hall with Brennus Thorne (Valerius’s cousin, a quiet boy who had been close to Elara in their first year) and asked Lysander not to misinterpret his absence. Then he fled.
Later, in the Spire Courtyard, Lysander and Cassian bought chilled sun-gem elixirs from a street vendor. The cold sweetness spread across Lysander’s tongue, momentarily numbing the bitter knot of unease tightening in his chest. He held his ground, determined not to let his turmoil show.
“Is that any good?” Cassian, sucking loudly on his own brightly colored starfruit infusion, eyed Lysander’s elixir with a glint of hunger.
“Care to try?” Half-teasing, Lysander brought his glass—sticky with the elixir and his own saliva—close to Cassian’s mouth. Cassian smirked, lifted one corner of his lip, and took a long, unapologetic slurp.
“Hey! Did you actually drink that?”
“You invited me.”
“That’s… unsanitary. And why did you take such a huge gulp?”
“Just one gulp.” Grinning, Cassian shrugged a shoulder. It felt, for a fleeting instant, like a peaceful moment. The crisp autumn sky above the Arcanum was a clear, unblemished cerulean, a stark contrast to Lysander’s internal storm.
Where were Elara and Valerius now? A few desolate corners of the Arcanum came to mind, but Lysander didn’t go looking. Perhaps he feared what he might find if he did. He tried his best not to think about Elara. But the harder he tried, the more vividly her face, etched with that new, terrible fury, occupied his mind.
How long would it take to untangle himself from the feelings that still clung to her, a parasite? How much effort would it demand? He didn’t know. It felt like being lost in a vast, desolate wasteland, not merely sad and suffocating, but terrifying and unbearable. He felt himself retreating, like a cornered beast. When the weight became too much, he would occasionally find himself speaking with Cassian. And, well, that was that.
Suddenly, a question escaped him.
“Cassian.”
“Hm?”
“…Do you think spell-blooms will ever sprout in a barren desert?”
The emotional vulnerability of the question made Lysander flush the moment the words left his mouth. He scratched his head awkwardly, but Cassian did not mock him.
“They will.”
“…”
“They must. Life’s grim enough as it is.”
Hearing those blunt words from Cassian — a person Lysander never thought capable of such solemnity — made him realize the futility of his desperate hope. How much more time would pass before he could relinquish these meaningless sentiments?
“…Yes. Life’s grim.”
Elara Thane. That wretched sorceress. Why did she seem so intent on destroying the fervent, loyal devotion Lysander had always offered her? Elara, who seemed to have abandoned all the basic decorum expected of a Spire acolyte, now came and went from lectures as she pleased. And always, a shadow at her side, was Valerius Thorne.
As the situation grew increasingly suspicious, the lecture hall buzzed with a mix of unease and intrigue. It became clear: Elara’s volatile temperament was escalating. And so was the cold resentment towards her, slowly spreading throughout their class. None of it felt right.
So, when Lysander saw Elara dragging Valerius by the wrist down a deserted corridor, he stopped in his tracks. Watching them, his gaze flickered between their faces before he finally spoke.
“Your father is concerned about you, Valerius.”
It was not an apology, nor flattery. It was a lie. Such was the extent of Lysander’s pride. But since Elara had always been distant from her own powerful family, she likely wouldn’t discern the falsehood. And even if she did, Lysander could always argue that, at this rate, Valerius’s father would indeed have ample cause for concern. He always ensured an escape route.
“If someone is to bear the burden of her fury, let it be you, Elara. What has Valerius Thorne done?”
“Move, Vance.” The moment Lysander spoke Valerius’s name, Elara’s gaze locked onto him, burning like emerald fire. His chest felt like it would rupture from the weight of it. He loathed her. Yet, pitiful, pathetic Valerius stood glued to her side, his tear-filled eyes looking at Lysander as if on the verge of breaking.
“Unless you wish to revisit the humiliation of yesterday, move.”
“E-Elara, please,” Valerius stammered, his voice trembling as he called out to her. Only then did Elara cease speaking. Her gaze fixed solely on Valerius now. Lysander saw only the back of her head as she turned away from him.
“V-Valerius, your father is worried—”
“…”
Valerius, on the verge of tears, clung to Elara’s arm, trying to deter her. Watching that wretched scene unfold was unbearable. It was so excruciating that Lysander closed his eyes. After a moment, Elara looked at Valerius, then turned and walked back into the lecture hall. For the rest of that day, she stayed there, Valerius seated beside her — just as she had a few weeks prior.
---
The long-anticipated day of the Arcanum Excursion had arrived. An enchanted carriage, powered by bound air elementals, had been chartered to convey them to a distant runic exhibition. While a few students grumbled about being dragged away from their studies, most were excited at the chance to escape the monotonous routine of the Spire, even for a single day.
There was no need for elaborate preparations, as they would return before dusk. The tutors offered only a few half-hearted warnings before allowing them to embark. They were no longer children of the Outer Spires. There was no giddy excitement keeping Lysander awake the night before. He viewed it as just another day – leave without a satchel, return without a satchel. He had no premonition that today would be the day his bottled-up frustration, his raw loyalty, would finally fracture. He had expected it to shatter eventually, but not so suddenly, so cruelly.
As was tradition, Lysander had always been seated next to Elara whenever their studies took them beyond the lecture halls. After all, he had been, for so long, her closest friend. He hadn’t even considered where Cassian Varrick might sit, having never shared such a journey with him.
At first, a tremor of apprehension ran through Lysander. He worried Cassian might inadvertently claim the seat closest to Elara. Thinking back on it now, it felt pathetic. Neither Lysander nor Cassian would end up in that spot.
Arriving at the carriage’s boarding platform, Lysander climbed aboard to find their allocated seats. The back five rows were already claimed by a boisterous group of classmates. Torvin Grey, waving a hand, pointed towards Elara’s designated place.
“Lysander! There’s a space here!”
“…Right.”
Of course. He had always been the one to sit beside her. But today, Lysander hesitated as he approached Elara’s seat. He swallowed a dry knot of dread. A small surge of determination, brittle as old bone, stiffened his resolve. The seat next to her remained conspicuously empty.
It was his spot. His pride — the one thing he stubbornly clung to — compelled him to sit there, even after being struck by Valerius and now, tormented by Elara because of Valerius. He nervously touched the top of the plush seat, glanced around the carriage, and then quietly asked,
“Elara… This seat…”
“It’s not yours, Vance. Find another.” Before he could finish, Elara cut him off, her voice devoid of warmth, her gaze fixed on the carriage entrance. Following her line of sight, Lysander saw Valerius Thorne timidly making his way towards them. Lysander clenched his fists and swallowed his words. The raw wound in his heart began to bleed.
“…Fine. Whatever.” He tried to sound indifferent, though his heart felt as if it had been shredded into countless pieces.
Lysander quickly abandoned the seat. He scanned the carriage, finding an empty spot near Cassian’s group, right in front of where he was already settling. Relieved, Lysander rushed over, plopped into the seat, and spoke without waiting for a response.
“Hey, Cassian. Sit with me.”
No answer. When Lysander looked closer, he realized Cassian was already asleep, his head resting against the enchanted glass of the window, bouncing gently with every subtle undulation of the carriage. Shaking his head at Cassian’s ridiculous sleeping posture, Lysander shoved his scroll case between Cassian’s head and the window pane, then leaned back into the uncomfortable seat. Across the aisle, he caught a glimpse of dark, intricately braided hair. It was Elara’s — she was taller than most of their classmates, making her easy to spot. Though he couldn’t see clearly, he watched as Valerius hesitantly, then obediently, sat in the vacant seat beside her. Lysander pressed his head back, closing his eyes, the image of their proximity burning behind his eyelids. The world felt impossibly vast and cold.