The polite inclination of Julian Beaumont’s head was a mere charade, a subtle sneer barely disguised. A flick of his wrist dismissed the recent exchange, a gesture meant to convey indifference, yet his eyes held an unnerving, lingering gleam. Lysander, across the polished mahogany table, tore at a sweetmeat, its almond paste turning dry in his mouth. A faint tremor in his thigh, unnoticed by Julian, betrayed the churn of adolescent confusion within him. He sucked on the candied violet, the delicate bloom already dissolving on his tongue. The conversation with Julian had left a clammy film, a truth half-glimpsed through a thick fog. Lysander knew the source of his profound discomfort, yet refused to give it a name. Julian’s charm was a velvet glove, his intentions a rusted thorn beneath. Was Julian truly as dissolute as Lord Garrick, a known rake and wastrel under his father’s dubious patronage? The whispered rumors of Julian’s reckless diversions, of late-night card games and unseemly company, were a stark contrast to his refined facade. Such lives, Lysander thought, were wretched, no different from the common ruffians Alistair Finchley consorted with. “Someone has pilfered my candied ginger!” Alistair Finchley’s bellow shattered the studied quiet. “Confess now, or pay recompense!” He disregarded the dozen young nobles still poring over their treatises in the vast study hall. Lord Hartley, a younger son with a perpetually flushed face, cuffed Alistair’s arm. “Confound you, Finchley. The debts you owe me could purchase a dozen such trifles!” The rear of the chamber devolved into a crude wrestling match, their shouts echoing off the gilded ceilings. From the front of the hall, tutors cast disapproving glances. “That lout grows tiresome,” Julian murmured, his voice a silken thread carrying across the space. Lysander, turning towards the sound, found Julian’s gaze fixed on him. Their eyes met, a fleeting connection that left Lysander strangely breathless. Julian rose, gliding towards Lysander’s desk. Lysander sat rigid, mesmerized by the elegant precision of Julian’s movements, the perfectly manicured nails on his long, tapering fingers. Slowly, deliberately, Julian reached out. His fingers twined around the stem of the candied violet still poised at Lysander’s lips. He pulled. A sweet, sticky residue grazed Lysander’s tongue, a faint shudder passing through him as the confection slid free. The heavy, warm mass was gone. “I shall enjoy this,” Julian purred, the melted violet now pressed between lips curved into a sly smile. He licked his lips with casual audacity, then chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. “Why so stiff, Lysander?” Julian's laughter often held a hidden edge, a dissonant note beneath its pleasantries. “That’s… ungentlemanly,” Lysander managed, his voice barely a whisper. “But don’t you know? An exchange of such delightful trifles is said to bolster one’s constitution.” “That’s quite… distasteful.” Lysander clamped his jaw shut, as though his mouth were parched earth. Julian then rested his hand on his thigh, sweeping upwards towards his knee, arching his back. Lysander curled his fingers, hiding them within his palms. He knew. He knew he was a fool for even allowing the interaction. Julian, skewed on the corner of the desk, popped the violet into his mouth and shrugged. “You prefer rosewater, do you not?” He sucked on the candied treat, a soft, almost lewd sound escaping his lips. “That was lavender,” Lysander corrected, his voice tight. “Then it is quite acceptable. I find lavender rather agreeable.” Julian continued to suck on the confection, a brazen performance, as another day drifted into twilight. As autumn deepened, the grand Academy of Veridia stood poised against the promise of a harsh winter. Tutors spoke of duty, scholars of destiny. Yet, exceptions lingered at the fringes. Alistair Finchley, Lord Hartley, and others, excluded from the hallowed halls of academic merit, were but expendable pieces, their wanderings softening the severity of societal censure, their very presence designed to highlight the success of the majority. Lord Caspian de Valois, however, was a different matter. His prominent lineage, his family’s influence, rendered him a nuisance, a scandalous blotch on an otherwise pristine ledger. The truly pitiable one, Lysander often thought, was Theron de Valois, Caspian’s younger brother. Had Theron not been entangled with Caspian’s reckless fall from grace, he might have found a reputable placement, a respectable career. Or, if his grandmother had not succumbed to the pallor of consumption. Lysander resolved to ignore the swirling eddies of scandal that threatened to engulf the Academy. It was the only prudent course. But some inevitable confrontations could not be sidestepped. Caspian de Valois reappeared, a shadow returning to the sunlit chambers of propriety. Lysander clicked his tongue, a quiet, almost imperceptible sound. Through the partially opened double doors, Lysander saw Caspian slumped across a distant desk near the dais. His return came almost a fortnight after his abrupt, scandalous retreat from the court. Why he had lingered so conspicuously, almost inviting detection, Lysander could not fathom. He had tapped his fingers against the ornate paneling of the door, dreading his entry. His gaze fell upon the unruly tangle of dark hair at the back of Caspian’s head. There was a time when Lysander, under the guise of casual conversation, would occasionally smooth down those wayward strands. Now, the memory felt distant, blurred by the weight of present anxieties. He turned, deciding to descend the grand staircase. Encountering Caspian alone, especially now, promised nothing but unpleasantness. The Academy, despite its size, was a hive of watchful eyes. Even a simple exchange with Caspian would ignite a wildfire of rumors, doubtlessly exaggerated. The worst outcome, of course, was Caspian’s infamous temper, perhaps even violence. The mere thought of such a public display of impropriety, a physical affront, filled Lysander with revulsion. The wisest choice, he concluded, was to circumvent the potential catastrophe entirely. He lingered on the ground floor, near the shoe lockers, until the corridors thronged with students returning from their afternoon promenades. Only then, ten minutes before the final chime, did he merge with the crowd, finding his assigned seat amongst the rows of scholars, his quills and parchments awaiting his attention. Lysander strove to appear wholly disengaged from the drama surrounding Caspian, or more accurately, to mask the significant interest that gnawed at him. His diligent efforts seemed, for the most part, successful. Yet, Caspian remained his great unknown. Frustration mingled with a deep, weary disgust. Confound it all. Discomfort and anxiety, emotions that only intensified with Julian Beaumont’s arrival earlier that day, consumed him. Julian approached Caspian with an unsettling nonchalance, extending a theatrical greeting. “It has been a considerable while, Lord de Valois?” His friendly tone was so absurdly out of place it stunned Lysander. Curiosity, for a fleeting moment, overcame his apprehension. Julian stood with his satchel slung casually over his shoulder, a broad, unsettling smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Caspian merely nodded, sullen and silent. “Such a frigid reception for a returning prodigal,” Julian remarked, his boot nudging Caspian’s desk. The impertinence, given Julian’s indirect role in Caspian’s downfall within the Academy’s delicate hierarchy, was staggering. Not wishing to become further embroiled in such petty theatrics, Lysander attempted to refocus on the intricate geometric problems laid out on his desk. The effort was disrupted by Master Thorne’s entry for the morning roll call. The tutor appeared genuinely pleased by Caspian’s return, yet a palpable sense of guilt hung about him regarding young Theron’s continued absence. “Theron is not with us today either,” Master Thorne murmured to himself, the words laden with unspoken meaning, before tapping his attendance ledger shut. The incident occurred with swift, brutal precision. As the afternoon bell signaled the end of the final lecture, Caspian rummaged through his desk drawer. He grimaced at the grimy, neglected state of his few remaining scrolls. A couple of students, feigning a need to retrieve their own folios, raised their hands and exited to the antechamber where the private lockers were kept. Caspian’s expression darkened as they departed. Having never been one for diligent study, the actual treatises likely held little importance for him. The true offense, for a young man as acutely sensitive to hierarchy as a cornered animal, was the disappearance of items bearing his name. Everyone in the study hall knew the truth, yet by unspoken accord, no one uttered a word. Not of who had cast out Caspian’s folios, nor of who had orchestrated it. “Who was it?” No sooner had Master Thorne dismissed them than the moment everyone had unconsciously anticipated began. Caspian, hands thrust into the pockets of his tailored breeches, chin lifted in defiance, demanded answers. “I said, who was it?” Those seeking to avoid confrontation slipped from the chamber, while those intrigued glanced around, their curiosity a palpable hum. In that fraught atmosphere, Julian, holding a grimy, ink-stained quill, idly scribbled a marginal note in a large folio. He spoke with nonchalant dismissiveness. “What exactly do you speak of, Lord de Valois?” “Who?” Caspian’s voice was a low growl. “You must articulate yourself, my dear fellow, if you wish to be understood.” The audacity was staggering, truly brazen. “The blackguard who cast out all my folios!” It was clear to Caspian that his treatises had not simply vanished by chance, especially to one as attuned to slights and social positioning as he. Julian’s refusal to name the culprit served only to acknowledge the truth. Even a fool would understand. Yet, Julian continued to jest, as if oblivious to the gravity of the situation. “Did you even possess folios, Lord de Valois? I recall only your slumbering form stretched across your desk.” Julian laughed, a bright, insincere sound. There was no way Caspian would let such an affront pass. “Enough, was it you, Lysander Thorne?” And naturally, Lysander found himself implicated. It was inevitable; any fool could see it. “...No,” Lysander breathed. In this chamber, no one was more wild, less civilized, than Caspian de Valois, perpetually prone to foolish, violent outbursts. He must have felt his ignominious downfall acutely, as every glance, every empty space, seemed to hold the weight of his humiliation. Yet, those sharing the space pretended as if nothing untoward had transpired. “Come now, would our diligent Lysander truly defile his cherished treatises in such a manner?” Julian's voice, laced with mock surprise, cut through the tension. “Julian Beaumont—confound you, cease your meddling!” Caspian roared. “Meddling? If a friend faces an injustice, is it not a gentleman’s duty to offer aid?” “What cant are you spouting, you moron?” “Moron? That’s a trifle harsh.” “Stop your prevaricating! Who else here could have so thoroughly poisoned the atmosphere during my absence, if not you two?” Caspian scoffed. Only then did Julian lay his quill upon the desk, his lips still puckered in a smirk. Caspian’s face twisted in displeasure. Unable to contain his rage, Caspian hurled a nearby satchel. It struck Lysander squarely in the chest. “Ah!” It wasn’t a heavy blow, hardly painful, but it was startling. Lysander frowned, watching the satchel fall to his knees. “This madman resorts to throwing objects now?” Before Lysander could speak, Julian interjected, his voice already laced with undisguised annoyance. At that moment, Caspian slowly lifted the corners of his mouth, a chilling, self-satisfied smile. “Ah, I see.” It was the look of one who believed he had won, who thought he understood. Lysander’s furrowed brow would not relax. What did he perceive? “Julian Beaumont. Lysander Thorne. You two conspire?” Lysander was at a complete loss for words, and Julian’s playful smirk vanished instantly. Lysander, bewildered by the unexpected accusation, was more taken aback than Caspian, who had lost his folios. Julian, it seemed, felt the same. “Lord de Valois, your words are so utterly discomposed, I confess I quite failed to apprehend them.” Despite clearly hearing them, Julian placed his palm near his ear—a blatant mockery. And from Lysander’s observation, Julian rarely stopped at a single jest. This was merely the beginning of his cruel provocation. Sensing the uneasy air, Lysander slowly rose. Meanwhile, Julian stuck his pinky finger, adorned with a delicate signet ring, into his ear, twisting it with exaggerated nonchalance.

Velvet and Ash