A tell-tale puffiness marred Lord Alaric Vance’s otherwise handsome face. He’d clearly indulged his nocturnal whims. Feigning an exasperated sigh, Lysander slid a cool, damp linen square across the polished mahogany of Alaric’s desk. It was a silent ritual, a small offering on mornings such as these, solely for the benefit of Alaric’s unfortunate tendency to swell. He always accepted it with a grunt.
“Must you resemble a pufferfish? It quite spoils the morning.”
Alaric grumbled, pressing the cool linen to his temples. “My thanks, Thorne.”
“Did your father not rage this morning?”
“Not thanks to you.”
Alaric shrugged, a flash of boyish pride in his eyes. Lysander merely pursed his lips, a faint smirk playing on his own. As he turned to claim his own seat, his gaze snagged on a spread of parchments on the desk beside Alaric.
Lord Kaelen Rhys, not Lysander, occupied that space. Kaelen, a handspan taller than Alaric, naturally found himself placed there. Lysander, ever conscious of his own modest stature, often inwardly cursed it, finding scant comfort in his own position, two rows back, only because Alaric sat directly before him. A solitary solace, indeed.
Lysander buried that familiar sting of envy. He shamelessly inclined his head toward Kaelen.
“When did Rhys arrive?”
“No notion. He was thus when I entered.”
“One who retired early last night has no business looking quite so… somnolent.”
His words hung in the air. A soft rustle. Kaelen’s architectural sketches slid to the floor, revealing half-lidded eyes. A narrow gaze swept from Lysander to Alaric, then Kaelen’s jaw unhinged in a cavernous yawn.
“…Swore I’d only refine one more detail, and… well.”
They say yawns are contagious. Alaric mimicked Kaelen, stretching his mouth wide before contorting his face into a smug grin.
“This rogue. Appears a wastrel, yet more devoted than Lord Fairfax.”
“Oh, do desist.”
“As you wish, you lout.”
Kaelen, oblivious or perhaps simply unbothered by Alaric’s jibe, leaned back and let out a rich, hearty laugh. Lysander watched him for a beat too long. Their eyes met. Kaelen’s gaze drifted to the tall arched window, then back to Lysander. A strange prickle of unease traced Lysander’s skin. He scratched his shoulder, redirecting his attention to Alaric.
Morning in the academy’s study salon often held a deceptive calm. These early exchanges set the day’s languid pace. Soon, other young gentlemen—Lord Easton, Sir Finch—would saunter over, eager listeners to Alaric’s latest exploits. The predictable routine would unfold: murmurs, polite chuckles, and eventually, the arrival of the tutor to commence the day’s lessons.
For young men deemed the most influential amongst their peers, it was a surprisingly benign dawn.
Yet, beneath the veneer of composure, they were still but adolescents, barely eighteen. Tales of late-night dalliances, of clandestine encounters, particularly when Alaric was involved, often left a faint sourness. Lysander played his part, feigning amusement.
Despite it all, he found these mornings tolerable. But that all changed six weeks prior. A shift, a discord, and the architect of it all was entirely Elias Beaumont.
“Look, Beaumont enters.”
“Damn it. Ghastly.”
“Does that insolent wretch truly presume to show his face after his ignoble drubbing?”
Lord Easton openly scoffed, pointing with an exaggerated gesture. At the tip of his finger, Elias Beaumont shuffled into the salon. His face was obscured by an unruly mop of dark hair. He gravitated toward a solitary desk in the front row, deposited his worn satchel, and immediately slumped forward. Watching his hunched figure, Lysander released a breath laden with irritation.
Elias Beaumont was utterly pathetic. His voice, when heard, was reedy. His frame, small and unassuming. He was a pitiable excuse for a noble. As the murmurs rippled through the room, Alaric shot daggers at Elias’s back, muttering curses under his breath. Lysander loathed it. That acute sensitivity in Alaric—it chafed at his own composure.
Alaric snatched a discarded illustration, a preliminary sketch of Lysander’s own, from his desk. He balled it tightly in one hand. Then, with a casual flick of the wrist, he hurled it. *Thud*. The crumpled paper struck Elias’s head. Elias’s head slumped further onto his desk.
“Damnation. Do not parade that grotesque visage first thing in the morning.”
Elias simply buried his face in his arms, precisely as Alaric commanded. Yet, Alaric watched with palpable disdain. He kicked his own desk with a sharp rap.
“Answer me, you cur!”
Alaric abruptly rose, his voice sharp. Elias, still hunched, stammered a trembling reply.
“Y-yes, Lord Vance.”
“Lift your head, look at me, and speak with proper address.”
Did Alaric even hear the sheer absurdity of his demands? The preposterous nature of it all coaxed a bitter laugh from Lysander.
Whether Alaric noticed or not, he strode toward Elias. With each measured step, the unpleasant agitation within Lysander grew more vivid, more raw.
Alaric closed the distance. That alone made Lysander feel a terrifying slippage, a loss of control over the emotions he fought so desperately to suppress.
This was not the same, familiar prickle of jealousy he felt when Alaric grew close to Kaelen. Instinctively, Lysander knew. Deep down, he harbored something just as sinister, just as dark as Alaric’s own cruelty. That was why watching Alaric with Kaelen had become tolerable, a dull ache, but his interactions with Elias unsettled him with increasing intensity. Lysander’s hands began to tremble. He clenched them tightly, concealing their traitorous shakes within his sleeves.
Alaric kicked Elias’s desk with a brutal thud. The polished wood shook violently, threatening to topple. Elias jolted upright in alarm, his voice still unsteady.
“F-forgive me.”
Alaric stood, silently gazing down at Elias’s face. Elias’s eyes glistened, unshed tears on the precipice of falling. Yet, in that charged moment, Lysander felt as though he was the one on the verge of tears.
Alaric did not burden Elias with frivolous errands, yet his eyes never truly left him. If Elias excused himself to the lavatory during a break, Alaric would still track his retreating figure, even whilst engaged in conversation with Lysander and Kaelen. Lysander knew this, for he never ceased watching Alaric.
To be candid, Lysander’s first impression of Elias Beaumont had been utterly unremarkable. His complexion, though not flawless, possessed youthful features that made his face agreeable enough. When he smiled, it seemed genuinely warm, and even his neutral expression held a certain quiet brightness.
Before Alaric’s torment began, no one truly harbored animosity towards Elias. He seemed a young man nurtured in a loving, gentle household. While not overtly gregarious, preferring solitary contemplation, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor.
Most considered Elias a decent sort. He never paraded the affection he’d received, earning him quiet praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be near—that was Elias Beaumont.
But Lysander had never particularly liked him from the start. Nor did he hate him—he simply did not care. To say Elias wasn’t even a fleeting thought would be more precise. Yet, whenever he conversed with his friends, with Alaric, or with Kaelen’s circle, and Elias’s name arose, Lysander would casually offer a fabricated assessment: “Ah, Beaumont? He’s quite agreeable. Polite enough.”
Alaric, much like Lysander, had paid scant attention to Elias initially. Alaric was never one to concern himself with the affairs of lesser students. After Elias transferred in May, he and Alaric did not exchange a single word until June. Such was the ordinary course of things.
But one day, the course veered. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane flow of events. It happened just after the midday meal. Looking back, Lysander believed he had never regretted an action as profoundly as he regretted what occurred that day.
Elias, as was his custom, had found a secluded corner during the break, immersed in a book. He was the type of person who delighted in losing himself within the pages of a tome. Lysander, on the other hand, possessed a habit of cultivating an overly cordial demeanor towards those with estimable reputations.
That was why, when he chanced upon Elias, he initiated a conversation about the very book he held. Lysander was no true scholar of literature—he merely affected a cultured air.
“You must possess a profound fondness for books, Lord Beaumont?”
“Hm? Oh, yes, I suppose so.”
At that time, Elias and Lysander were but distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made the approach easier.
“Have you concluded that particular volume?”
“Indeed, I am nearing the final pages.”
“Then close it now. The denouement will disappoint you. It is one of those unfortunate narratives where the ending mars the entire experience.”
“You have perused it before?”
“Aye, some time ago.”
To sate his intellectual vanity, Lysander always sought out critical reviews and scholarly critiques of the volumes he pretended to read, ensuring he possessed a ready opinion. Drawing upon those dim memories, he offered a pithy critique—not a genuine one, merely enough to sound informed—and Elias smiled brightly, looking genuinely pleased. It quite startled Lysander.
“You are the first soul I have met who has read this work, besides myself.”
“Oh… truly?”
“Yes, but I shall still conclude it. Pondering the reasons behind such an ending is, in itself, a pleasure.”
“Well, certainly. Opinions inevitably differ.”
“Hearing you say that makes me anticipate it all the more.”
That smile still lingered in Lysander’s memory, an uncomfortable specter. Was it some instinctive unease he had felt even then?
After that day, Elias Beaumont began to seek Lysander out with increasing frequency. While Lysander found it rather irksome, often silently wondering, *Why me?*, he never outright rejected Elias. Beaumont, with his unblemished reputation, was not the worst person to keep within one’s immediate acquaintance.
After all, books—save for academic texts and ledgers—were practically anathema to young men of their station. Even if one found the leisure, most regarded such volumes as glorified props. For Elias, Lysander was likely the sole individual capable of engaging in such discourse.
That day was one of those routine encounters, yet it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days amongst them all.
Lord Kaelen Rhys was to blame. To this very day, Lysander could not fathom why he had acted as he did. Why he, a man who never meddled in the affairs of others, chose to insert himself where he did not belong. Why Kaelen, of all things, had left his draft of a political treatise spread wide open for all passing by to see.
Lysander, who abhorred having his own scores or sketches revealed, naturally assumed Kaelen would desire his work concealed. So, he flipped the parchment over. That was when he saw it: the tutor’s scrawled commendation. *A-minus*. A remarkable score. A rare distinction for such a complex analysis. Considering the rigorous standards of the Veridian Academy, it was an exceptional feat for a young man known more for his charm than his diligence.
It was the first time one of Lysander’s preconceptions had been shattered. A small shock to realize Kaelen was not as intellectually detached as he’d believed. Naturally, that made him think of Alaric’s dismal academic record. Now, *he* was the true academic refuse. A fellow who would mark every question with the same arbitrary cipher and then slumber through the remainder of an examination, Alaric had never once achieved a respectable commendation.
Perhaps that was why Lysander felt such a peculiar melange of emotions—as if he had discovered a valuable antique amidst a pile of common refuse. A young man he had once casually dismissed proved more salvageable than the one he admired. That strange realization must have unsettled his judgment, for he did something he would never ordinarily have done.
It was nothing grand. He simply seized a nearby quill and inscribed a brief note at the top of Kaelen’s parchment.
“Focus on the nuances of constitutional law. You shall attain the highest honors swiftly. A commendable effort. —Lysander Thorne.
P.S. My profound apologies for perusing your work without leave. I merely sought to conceal it and happened upon the tutor’s most generous assessment.”
The sheer arrogance of evaluating another’s work and offering unsolicited counsel made Lysander flush with a prickle of embarrassment. He rambled, hoping to justify himself.
Lysander could not articulate why he had even composed the note. At the time, he must have been quite beside himself. Looking back, it was unequivocally the first mistake in what would become a series of entanglements. Every profound mess, he now understood, began with a poorly fastened first button.
Had he not penned that missive, he would not have encountered Elias Beaumont, book in hand, descending the grand staircase just as Lysander hurried toward his next lesson. The scent of aged parchment and latent regret clinging to his fingers.