A chill settled deep in Lysander Thorne’s bones, more profound than the autumnal air seeping through the manor walls. Since that wretched discovery in the Academy’s private gallery, Lord Julian Ashworth’s disdain had become a palpable weight. No longer did Julian bother with the charade of polite indifference; his aversion was now an open, festering wound.
Elias Sterling, Julian’s newest companion, now occupied the velvet-cushioned seat always reserved for Julian’s closest confidante. Elias remained there, a quiet shadow, almost perpetually beside Julian.
Lysander’s pride, a delicate thing, chafed under this relentless scrutiny. He might be adept at cloaking his deepest sentiments, but he lacked the coarser strength to feign unaffectedness, to carry his head high amidst such public shame. He refused to be a pitiable wretch. The thought of engaging Julian in casual conversation, as if the past weeks hadn’t shattered their fragile bond, curdled in his stomach.
A desolate ennui consumed Lysander. He would drift through the routines of Veridian society, his mind a haze of melancholy. Moments of petty vengeance would flare, brief, hot embers, but they always guttered to a weary endurance.
Julian, that petulant lord, whose temper was as volatile as a summer storm, now regarded Lysander with a venomous envy. Elias was the obvious catalyst.
Elias Sterling. Lysander despised him with a fervour that defied logic. Elias had never been Lysander’s to claim, yet he had not only usurped Lysander’s place by Julian’s side but had also twisted Julian’s affections into this bitter hatred. Elias felt like a serpent coiled in Lysander's breast.
Even if Elias was but an unwitting pawn, that distinction offered Lysander no solace. Human hearts, Lysander knew, rarely bowed to reason. Blaming Elias, however irrational, provided a necessary scapegoat, a small bastion against the misery that threatened to overwhelm him.
Yet, Lysander’s intellect, precise and sharp, always asserted itself. He understood Elias was merely swept into Julian’s possessive orbit. For this reason, Lysander never allowed a flicker of animosity to cross his features when their paths intersected.
He felt too exposed, too vulnerable, to reveal the raw jealousy that clawed at him. A public display of temper towards Elias would only brand Lysander a fool, a desperate, ‘unnatural’ aberration in the eyes of society. Julian, no doubt, would only despise him more. The whispers, the damning labels, would follow him like a noxious vapour.
“This is intolerable.”
A low murmur escaped Lysander’s lips, tasting of ashes. He hated it. Hated it more than Julian’s open scorn. He wished, at times, to simply cease existing.
Lord Alaric Vane’s face, sharp and knowing, surfaced in Lysander’s mind. An inexplicable intrusion. Perhaps it was Alaric’s irritatingly constant presence these past weeks. Lysander wondered what Alaric would say, would *think*, if he ever glimpsed the depths of Lysander’s tormented heart. ‘Why, Lysander Thorne is a depraved, unnatural creature, isn’t he?’
A chill, colder than the morning mist, coiled around Lysander’s heart. He clenched his fists, knuckles white against his pale skin. The image of Alaric’s sardonic gaze, heavy with disgust, was a nightmare. He would rather perish than have anyone uncover his truth.
Friendships, Lysander observed, were often as fragile as spun glass. As Julian’s estrangement from Lysander became undeniable, Lysander’s connections with Julian’s former coterie withered. It was strangely amusing, then, that Sir Gareth, a peripheral member of Julian’s set, had sought him out yesterday.
“Thorne, Lord Alaric inquired after you earlier.”
Gareth’s voice was hushed, almost conspiratorial, in the antechamber.
“Oh? For what purpose?”
“Could not say, my lord. Simply inquired.”
A dismissive wave of Lysander’s hand. Such exchanges were always thus—purposeless, tangential. It seemed society now considered Lysander more aligned with Alaric’s unconventional circle than with Julian’s more traditional one.
Yet, the severance wasn’t absolute. Occasionally, at the Royal Academy’s fencing practice or during a chance encounter in the morning, polite, stiff greetings were exchanged. Mostly with Sir Gareth.
“Lord Thorne! Good morning.”
“...Sir Gareth.”
Lysander recalled one such awkward exchange, Sir Gareth muttering low, almost to himself.
‘Lord Ashworth has been acting... peculiar. His manner with Sterling... verges on the grotesque, wouldn’t you agree?’
Lysander’s face must have betrayed his disdain. Gareth seemed to take it as agreement. He continued, whispering of Julian’s possessive grip on Elias’s arm, of Elias being coerced to sit by Julian’s side.
Lysander’s fingers tightened into fists. His teeth ground together. He forced a response, cold and sharp as a winter’s blade.
‘Those sordid details hold no interest for me.’
Gareth, chastened, fell silent.
Lately, Sir Gareth had been assiduously cultivating the acquaintance of Lord Alaric and his friends. Gareth appeared to be a man quietly seeking to escape Julian’s long, oppressive shadow. Perhaps his confidences were a clumsy overture.
Today, as was becoming customary, Lysander found himself alone in a quiet drawing room at the Academy, save for Lord Alaric. Alaric, sprawled with casual irreverence on a chaise lounge, regarded Lysander with a languid, unreadable gaze. Lysander, discomfited, turned his head, choosing to ignore the other lord.
“Thorne.”
“Vane.”
“After our studies, let us seek a confectioner’s. That pistachio sorbet we sampled last time was quite palatable.”
Alaric, oblivious or indifferent to Lysander’s silent rebuff, spoke with easy confidence. He idly flicked a silver snuff box into the air, catching it with practiced ease. The box glinted, a small, arrogant star. Other scholars in the room, though few, remained silent, eyes fixed on their texts.
Alaric possessed a disregard for convention that was almost admirable, or perhaps merely selfish. Lysander watched the silver box arc through the air, a frown creasing his brow. His patience, already thin, snapped. His tone, sharper than he intended, reflected his irritation.
“You mean the one you devoured with such singular focus? Was it not purchased solely for your own indulgence?”
“Not entirely. I merely prefer verdant hues.”
“And my preferences were utterly inconsequential?”
“How was I to discern your desires? You offered no counsel.”
The snuff box had rolled, quite deliberately, to the feet of a young scholar bent over a tome. Alaric extended a hand, a silent command. The scholar hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the box, placing it in Alaric’s open palm. Alaric twirled the box, a glint in his eye, and offered the retreating scholar a careless, audible remark.
“My thanks, dullard.”
Such an abrasive temperament.
‘Dullard this, uninspired wretch that.’ Every utterance from Alaric’s lips was an affront. It defied sense that someone so deliberately obnoxious, so cavalier in his disdain, would now frequent Lysander’s company rather than Julian’s. Alaric ate with Lysander, attended lectures beside him, often sought him out for conversation. Julian might be distant, but Alaric could easily dispatch a message or arrange a meeting if he so desired.
A question, unbidden, formed in Lysander’s mind. He voiced it without much thought.
“Why do you no longer consort with Lord Ashworth?”
Alaric, mid-flick of his snuff box against the ornate wall, froze. He turned, a bewildered expression on his face.
“You quarrelled with him,” Alaric stated, a flat declaration.
“I?”
“Indeed. You and Lord Ashworth.”
“I am aware. It was *I* who fell out with him. What bearing does that have on your allegiances?”
“You possess a truly peculiar manner of reasoning, Thorne. It is because you are my friend.”
Alaric’s gaze, uncomfortably direct, swept over Lysander. Lysander, unnerved, averted his eyes. He tried again.
“But you were also Lord Ashworth’s friend, were you not?”
“My dear fellow, you are utterly droll. Pray tell, are you suggesting you are *not* my friend?”
Alaric’s tone was incredulous, his finger jabbing lightly in Lysander’s direction.
“No, I am your friend. But you counted Lord Ashworth among your friends. So why have you chosen my side?”
“Well, I have known you longer.”
“What nonsense is this? Our acquaintance began through Lord Ashworth, did it not?”
“Thorne, truly. We were quite amiable in our first year!”
“When?”
“By the Twelve, you are insufferable. Unbelievable. We exchanged glances in the refectory, frequently!”
“Oh... *those* instances.”
“So, I was alone in considering us friends? You rogue. That is precisely why, upon finding ourselves in the same curriculum, I sought you out! And you deny this? I confess, I am quite disappointed.”
“Ah.”
“Utterly, truly, unbelievably vexing. How could you be so callous?”
“Forgive me, then. My apologies, Alaric. Is that sufficient?”
Lysander mumbled his contrition, recalling those awkward, yet undeniably frequent, encounters from their first year at the Academy. He had always interpreted Alaric’s intense stares as veiled antagonism, not nascent camaraderie.
So *that* was Alaric’s definition of friendship. Lysander felt a strange, unsettling sensation. Could it be that the first overture, the suggestion of shared meals, had come not from Julian, but from... Alaric?
The realization struck Lysander with the force of a thunderclap, leaving him momentarily speechless. It was disturbing, a recalibration of memory he hadn’t anticipated. He merely nodded, feigning understanding, desperate to extricate himself from the burgeoning entanglement.
“Indeed. I comprehend. My sincerest apologies.”
“I was profoundly vexed just now.”
Alaric’s gaze, though brief, held an unsettling intensity. Sometimes, Lysander found Alaric’s inner workings utterly inscrutable.
“And in any case, Lord Ashworth’s behaviour has become truly peculiar.”
A tight silence stretched between them.
“That man, Thorne, is quite lost to reason. He has always possessed a certain... eccentricity, but this? This is beyond the pale.”
Alaric clasped the silver snuff box, idly rotating it against his temple with his forefinger. The sight brought to mind Sir Gareth and other acquaintances who had, in their clumsy ways, attempted to discuss Julian’s conduct. One truth, stark and undeniable, emerged from their whispers:
Lord Ashworth’s reputation was in precipitous decline.
‘Unnatural.’
The word, a whispered anathema, the most feared and damning stigma in the world of Veridia’s young lords, sent a profound shiver through Lysander. His body trembled, a barely perceptible tremor. Yet, a cold relief also swept over him, that his own forbidden truths remained concealed. Did this relief signify that he valued himself above Julian? The thought was a bitter draught.
Lysander looked at Alaric’s face, a blasphemous priest concealing his secret heart before an unknowing deity.
“Truly, *me*,” he murmured, the words hollow.
A laugh escaped him then, a strange, choked sound, a brittle fusion of fear and derision.
It was almost farcical. To others, he was now Lord Alaric’s closest companion. Yet, Lysander was no different. He too bore the brand of an unholy stigma. Only a few months prior, he had been Julian’s most intimate confidante. Now, he merely hid in a squalid trap from which he had barely escaped.
He had merely avoided capture. Nothing more.
---
The first grey light of dawn seeped through the drawn curtains of Lysander’s bedchamber. A message arrived, unexpected, from an unfamiliar number. A missive at four in the morning. Half-asleep, Lysander questioned if the entire waking world was merely a dream. Though he had carefully avoided seeking Julian’s presence, shielding himself from further wounding, his heart still gave an unwelcome leap at the thought of a message from *him*.
He rubbed his eyes, the heavy silk sheets tangling around his legs, and squinted at the sender. His emotions warred. A part of him wished it were merely one of those unsolicited advertisements for dubious investments. But the moment he read the contents, he knew. It was not Julian.
‘Thorne, forgive my intrusion at this ungodly hour. Could you step beyond your threshold for a moment? My sincerest apologies. I am truly sorry.’
‘Just this once. Only this once.’
Lord Julian Ashworth would never, *could* never, offer Lysander an apology.
Among Lysander’s peers, only two ever addressed him so informally, by his surname without honorific. Of those two, only one could sound so utterly bereft. How did Elias Sterling even know Lysander’s private address? The message twisted Lysander’s features into a scowl. He did not wish to see Elias. Never wished to. Elias was always an unpleasant presence.
But despite the vehement protests of his mind, Lysander swung his legs from the bed. He buttoned his dressing gown, the heavy silk cool against his skin, and stood. He walked to his chamber door, but paused, pressing his forehead against the cool, dark wood of the frame. A deep sigh shuddered through him.
“...Damnation.”
An overwhelming knot tightened in his stomach. It was a dense, suffocating ball of conflicting emotions. Lysander clutched at his chest, as if to physically loosen the internal constriction. He had always prided himself on his vast vocabulary, cultivated from years spent buried in ancient tomes, yet no words he knew could fully articulate this intricate, tangled mess.
It was simply... complicated.
The sharp hatred he harboured for Elias Sterling, the indelible memory of Elias’s face, subtly discoloured by a faint bruise on his jawline from that day, and the desperate, calculated distance Lysander had tried to maintain between Julian and Elias—all swirled together in a churning vortex. He bit his lip, his fingers fidgeting with the cool brass doorknob. Then, with a breath held tight, he closed his eyes and turned the handle with a decisive click.
In the private garden, the frigid morning dew clung to the air, a harbinger of the approaching autumn chill. Lysander, avoiding the damp grass, stepped carefully onto the cool marble flagstones that paved the path. The biting dawn air made him draw his dressing gown tighter. His slipper-clad toes, poking out, carried him to the wrought-iron front gate.
He paused, clicking his tongue lightly against his teeth, then grasped the cold, ornate handle. The faint creak of the hinge made him flinch. He opened the gate even more slowly, drawing out the inevitable.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the gaslight on the cobbled street, stood Elias Sterling. He was dressed in his Academy uniform, his head bowed low, idly scuffing invisible patterns on the ground with the toe of his polished shoe.
“...Elias Sterling.”
At Lysander’s voice, Elias’s head snapped up, quick as a startled bird.
“Thorne, Lord Thorne!”
“What is it—”