Lysander awoke to the muted glow of a Veridian dawn, a sliver of light piercing through his chamber’s heavy velvet drapes. A quiet dread already settled in his stomach, a familiar companion since the conservatory incident. He rose, his movements stiff, and approached the polished silver mirror. His reflection met him with a stark reminder. A faint puffiness remained on his left cheekbone, a bruise like a bruised plum beneath the delicate skin. It had subsided enough, mercifully, that one might attribute it to an unfortunate collision with a doorframe. A hollow relief settled over him. His pride, however, remained a raw, festering wound. Donning his finest velvet waistcoat and a freshly starched cravat, Lysander masked the lingering traces of his ordeal. He felt every seam, every button, as a constraint, a reminder of the suffocating expectations of the court. He descended to the Collegium, the familiar grandeur of the marble halls offering little comfort. A palpable chill hung in the air, a silent testament to the events of the previous day. Students moved with hushed reverence, their whispers like rustling leaves in a sudden gust. Every glance felt weighted, every averted gaze a confirmation of his humiliation. Julian’s presence, though unseen, was already a palpable pressure, a storm front gathering over the Collegium’s ancient stones. *** Lysander’s heart gave a sickening lurch as he spotted Elian across the grand lecture hall. The timid apprentice, usually a study in muted hues, seemed almost transparent, a ghost haunting the edges of the room. Elian’s lip was split, a dark, unsightly gash, and one eye was swollen to a grotesque size, blooming with shades of violet and crimson. It was a brutal testament to Julian’s unchecked fury. A sharp, unbearable guilt pierced Lysander. He had, in a moment of childish pique, wished similar pain upon Julian, a petty, fleeting thought born of his own despair. Seeing Elian’s ravaged face, his small frame trembling, Lysander felt a wave of self-loathing wash over him. Such thoughts were beneath him, unworthy. Elian’s eyes, red-rimmed and darting, met Lysander’s for a fleeting instant. The apprentice froze, a startled deer caught in a hunter’s sights, before wrenching his gaze away. He stumbled towards his seat, his head bowed, seemingly desperate to disappear. The avoidance stung, a fresh rejection. An icy tendril of dread crept up Lysander’s spine. Julian Blackwood stood by a tall arched window, his silhouette stark against the morning light. Julian’s gaze, sharp and predatory, cut across the crowded hall, finding Lysander with unnerving precision. A silent, damning accusation passed between them, a cold promise of further retribution. Lysander’s breath caught in his throat. "Damn this," he muttered, the words barely audible. He should have feigned illness, retired to his chambers. Regret, bitter and acrid, flooded his senses. *** After the first lecture, Elian melted into the bustling corridors, a shadow slipping away from Lysander's reach. Always, a glimpse of Julian Blackwood followed, a dark satellite. Luncheon arrived, and Elian vanished entirely, leaving Lysander to navigate the grand dining hall alone, a solitary figure amidst the animated chatter of his peers. The thought of seeking Elian out, confronting Julian, was a fleeting, terrifying fantasy. What horrors might he witness? He preferred not to know. Lysander found an unexpected anchor in the buoyant presence of Lord Aris Beaumont. Aris, with his perpetually rumpled cravat and disarming grin, was an anomaly in the rigid hierarchy of the Collegium. He moved with a careless grace, his laughter echoing a little too loudly for proper decorum, yet his wit was as sharp as any courtier's blade. "Lysander, my dear fellow! You look as if you've been wrestling a particularly stubborn muse," Aris declared, pulling out a chair at a secluded table in a quieter antechamber. He gestured to a plate of delicate almond biscuits. "Take a seat. Misery loves company, or so I'm told." Lysander managed a weak smile, accepting a biscuit. Aris's easy banter, his flippant disregard for the weighty tension that clung to Lysander, offered a strange, fragile respite. In the past, Lysander had dismissed Aris as frivolous, his levity a superficial veil. Now, he clung to it, a lifeline in a turbulent sea of anxiety. Without Aris’s presence, Lysander might have drowned in his own introspection, the silence echoing with Julian’s cruelty. *** A nervous shadow, Lord Percival, cornered Lysander later that afternoon by the Collegium's rear gate. Percival, usually a picture of robust good humor, looked pale and agitated. He leaned close, his voice hushed. "Thorne, a word. If you please." Percival fidgeted with the lapel of his coat. "Julian... he's been most vexing. Ordering the others, you see. To... to 'correct' Elian. A punch here, a cuff there. Insisting everyone takes a turn." Lysander's blood ran cold. His expression must have mirrored the horror he felt, for Percival quickly added, "I've been avoiding his circle, you understand. I told him I had pressing scholarly duties. Don't... don't think ill of me, Lysander." Percival wrung his hands, then scurried away, citing an urgent engagement at a bookbinder’s shop. The image of Elian, a frightened lamb, enduring such calculated cruelty twisted in Lysander's gut. Julian’s rage was not a spontaneous outburst but a deliberate, orchestrated torment. The knowledge settled in Lysander’s chest, a cold, heavy stone. Lysander sought out Aris once more, finding him by the ornamental pond in the Collegium gardens, skipping flat stones across the still water. Aris offered a rueful smile. "A rather dismal display of physics, I fear. But the quiet is appealing." Lysander sat beside him on a stone bench. Aris produced a small tin of candied violets from his pocket, offering one. Its delicate sweetness blossomed on Lysander's tongue, a stark contrast to the bitter knot in his stomach. The crisp autumn air rustled through the ancient oak trees, a gentle whisper against Lysander's turmoil. "Is it... palatable?" Aris asked, munching on his own. "Remarkably so," Lysander replied, his voice thin. "Want another?" Aris extended the tin. Lysander took another, the small act of shared sweetness a momentary balm. But beneath, the bitter unease tightened its grip, an incessant drumbeat of dread. He tried to project an outward calm, a mask of indifference. *** Lysander’s mind, despite his efforts, drifted back to Julian. The opulent rooms of the Collegium seemed to echo with Julian’s cutting remarks, his possessive touch. How much of his own identity had he permitted Julian to claim? How long would it take to excise such a persistent, poisonous affection? He felt lost, adrift in a vast, arid emotional desert, choked by sand and silence. "Aris," Lysander began, the question escaping him before he could consider its profound vulnerability. "Hm?" Aris replied, polishing a skipping stone against his sleeve. "Do you believe... flowers might ever bloom in a barren desert?" The words felt raw, exposed, a testament to his own emotional fragility. Lysander grimaced, suddenly embarrassed by his own poetic melancholy. He scratched the back of his neck. Aris paused, turning the stone in his fingers. He looked at Lysander, his usual jocularity momentarily absent. "They will," Aris said, his voice surprisingly firm. Lysander merely looked at him, surprised. "They must," Aris continued, a hint of weariness in his tone. "Life's quite wretched enough without that small mercy." Hearing such uncharacteristic sincerity from Aris, a man who usually deflected all seriousness with a jest, struck Lysander with a sudden, devastating clarity. His desperate, clinging hope felt utterly futile. How much longer could he sustain these meaningless feelings, this wretched devotion? "Yes," Lysander murmured, the word tasting like ash. "Life's wretched." Julian Blackwood. That infuriating, destructive force. Why did he seem so determined to crush the very loyalty Lysander had, against all reason, offered him? Julian, who now flouted every minor decorum expected of a young lord, arriving and departing as he pleased, always with Elian in tow. The situation festered, a growing malignancy within the Collegium. Murmurs of discontent spread like a blight among the students. Julian’s escalating cruelty towards Elian was undeniable, feeding a quiet resentment that thickened the air. None of it felt right, none of it felt good. *** Watching Julian drag Elian by the wrist down a secluded corridor, Lysander felt a sudden surge of something beyond fear. Pride, sharp and insistent, flared within him. He stopped, blocking their path, his gaze flickering between Julian’s hard profile and Elian’s terrified, downcast face. "Your Grace's father," Lysander began, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. It was a lie, a carefully constructed fabrication, for Duke Blackwood was known for his cold detachment towards his son. But Julian, in his self-absorption, might not know the depth of his father's indifference. "He expressed... concern regarding your recent conduct." Lysander had always ensured his words possessed an escape route. He could argue, if pressed, that Julian’s antics *would* eventually cause his father concern. "If someone must bear the brunt of your displeasure, Julian, let it be you alone. What has Elian ever done to merit such treatment?" Lysander pressed, his voice betraying a hint of its usual quiet strength. "Move, Thorne," Julian snarled, his eyes locking onto Lysander with murderous intensity. The air crackled between them, thick with unspoken threats. Lysander felt his chest constrict, a suffocating pressure. He hated him. And yet, Elian, pitiful and trembling, clung to Julian’s arm, his tear-filled eyes wide with fear, silently pleading with Lysander to cease. "J-Julian, please," Elian stammered, his voice a fragile whisper, barely audible. He tried to pull Julian away. Julian paused, his attention drawn to Elian’s distress. He turned his head slightly, and Lysander could only see the sharp line of Julian’s jaw, his back now partially to him. "Your Grace's father, as I said, has his ears everywhere—" Lysander tried again, a desperate gambit. Elian, on the verge of outright weeping, clutched at Julian’s sleeve, desperate to de-escalate the tension. The sight was excruciating, a tableau of power and vulnerability. Lysander closed his eyes, unable to watch. After a long, agonizing moment, Julian looked down at Elian, then, with a curt nod, turned and walked back towards the main halls, Elian still clinging to his side. They disappeared around the corner. For the remainder of the day, Julian remained within the Collegium, a quiet, brooding presence, much like the weeks before the conservatory incident. Lysander allowed himself a shaky breath. *** The highly anticipated Grand Excursion had arrived, a welcome respite from the Collegium’s usual routine. A fleet of polished carriages, emblazoned with the Collegium crest, awaited them, poised to transport the young gentlemen to the ancient Thorne Estate gallery for a display of newly acquired renaissance art. While some older scholars grumbled about the interruption to their studies, most students embraced the opportunity to escape the confines of their hallowed halls. There was no need for elaborate luggage; a short journey, a cultural imbibement, then a swift return. Lysander, though his heart was a restless bird, regarded the day with a practiced detachment. He had always, by unspoken decree, claimed the seat beside Julian on such outings. Their closeness, however fraught, had been an undeniable fact. He hadn't even considered Lord Aris Beaumont's seating arrangements, so ingrained was the expectation of his place at Julian’s side. A pathetic clinging to a broken past, he now realized. Neither he nor Aris would occupy that space today. Approaching the appointed carriage, Lysander found the rear five seats already claimed by a boisterous group of young lords, Lord Percival among them. Percival waved, a hesitant gesture, before his gaze drifted, almost apologetically, towards Julian’s usual carriage. "Thorne! There's a spot here, if you wish!" Percival called, then quickly averted his eyes. Lysander offered a weak nod, his heart already sinking. Of course. His place. He had always been Julian’s closest companion, hadn't he? Yet, a strange reluctance seized him as he neared the designated carriage. He exhaled slowly, a wave of relief washing over him as he saw the seat beside Julian still vacant. His pride, that stubborn, fragile thing, demanded he take it. Even after the brutality in the conservatory, even after Elian's suffering, a part of him still clung to the notion of their bond. Lysander's gloved hand trembled as it rested on the plush velvet of the seat back. He glanced around the carriage, then, forcing a casual air, he spoke softly. "Julian... this seat..." "It is not for you, Lysander," Julian cut him off, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. His gaze remained fixed on the carriage entrance, an almost imperceptible impatience in his posture. "Find another place." Lysander followed Julian’s line of sight, his stomach clenching. Elian, his small frame still radiating an aura of fear, was hesitantly making his way towards them, clutching a worn leather-bound book. Lysander’s fists clenched, his words dying in his throat. "...Very well. As you wish." He forced the indifference, though his heart felt shredded, a silken banner torn to ribbons. He retreated from the carriage, his face burning, the humiliation a searing brand. He scanned the other carriages, his eyes desperate. Lord Aris Beaumont’s familiar, cheerful countenance caught his eye. Aris was already settled in a carriage a few rows behind, gesturing wildly to a companion. Lysander rushed towards him, a desperate need for sanctuary overriding all decorum. He practically fell into the empty seat facing Aris. "Aris," Lysander said, without preamble, a choked plea in his voice. "Could you... sit with me?" No reply. Lysander looked closer. Aris, ever the creature of habit, had already succumbed to slumber, his head resting against the carriage window, bouncing gently with each subtle sway of the vehicle. A ridiculous sight, yet Lysander felt a faint, sad smile touch his lips. He slipped a folded handkerchief between Aris’s head and the glass, then settled back into the uncomfortable seat, his gaze involuntarily drawn back to Julian’s carriage. A glint of dark brown hair. Julian was taller than most, easy to spot. Though his view was obscured, Lysander knew, with a certainty that twisted his gut, that Elian now occupied the seat beside him.

A Garden of Thorns