The chill of the Archives still clung to Elias, a faint scent of dust and forgotten ambition. After that wretched discovery in the restricted section, Lord Alaric Vane’s disdain had become a palpable presence. It wasn’t a simmering resentment anymore, but a sharp, cutting edge to every glance, a venomous quiet in every shared space.
Alaric now occupied the seat beside Lysander Thorne in the lecture hall, a stark tableau. Lysander, usually so unassuming, seemed pinned there, a moth caught in a collector's display. Their proximity was a constant, irksome reminder.
Elias knew his own vanity was a fragile shield. He wouldn’t pretend indifference, not with such a gaping wound. He refused to be a pitiable figure, a discarded plaything. Yet, the courage to address Alaric, to mend what felt irrevocably broken, simply wasn't there.
A gnawing melancholy settled in, a hollow ache that sometimes flared into petty desires for retribution. Always, he endured. Always, he retreated further into himself.
Alaric, that petulant lord, succumbed to envy and resentment like a spoilt child. The reason was painfully clear: Lysander. Lysander, who had never truly been Elias’s to possess, had somehow managed to steal Alaric’s companionship and then turn Alaric’s ire back upon Elias. A malicious little viper, Elias sometimes thought, against all logic.
Intent didn't matter in the face of such raw, untamed feeling. His heart chose its own scapegoat for the miserable situation. Yet, Elias Thorne was a creature of calculated reason. He understood Lysander was merely caught in Alaric's tempestuous wake. He never allowed a flicker of animosity to cross his features, not towards Lysander.
Partly, shame kept his jealousy locked away. Partly, he knew an outburst directed at Lysander would brand him a fool, further cementing Alaric's contempt. More horrifying still, the Academy's whispers would twist, distort, and label him something unspeakable, a grotesque aberration.
“This is utterly insufferable.” The words were a dry rasp in his throat.
He hated it. A deep, consuming hatred that overshadowed even Alaric’s rejection. Then, Cassian Blackwood’s rakish grin floated to mind. He couldn't pinpoint why, perhaps simply because Cassian was the most irritating fixture in his recent existence. If Cassian ever glimpsed the rot within Elias’s thoughts, what crude jest would he unleash?
*“Turns out Thorne’s just a queer, festering anomaly, eh?”*
The image of Cassian’s disdainful gaze sent a cold tremor through him, his fists clenching involuntarily. Such a horrifying vision almost made him gag. He absolutely could not, would not, allow anyone to unearth his hidden shame.
Academy friendships often proved ephemeral, fragile as spun sugar. Once it became clear Alaric and Elias were at odds, the ties to Alaric's coterie frayed and snapped. Amusingly, it was Marcus Croft, the most peripheral member of Cassian’s unconventional set, who approached him yesterday in the common room.
“Thorne, Cassian was looking for you earlier.”
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“Couldn’t say. Just was.”
A shrug, a brief silence. It was always like this now, conversations bereft of substance, yet hinting at a new alignment. People now perceived Elias as more aligned with Cassian’s group than with Alaric’s.
Of course, the severance wasn’t absolute. Occasional polite nods exchanged during fencing practice, or a murmured good morning in the vestibule. Though mostly, this limited itself to Marcus Croft.
“Morning, Thorne!”
“...Morning, Croft.”
Elias remembered one of those awkward encounters. Marcus had leaned closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
*“Vane's been… peculiar lately. The way he treats Lysander... wouldn't you say it's rather unseemly?”*
Elias must have worn an expression of deep disgust, because Marcus seemed to take it as agreement. He went on, detailing how Alaric would practically chain Lysander to his side, gripping his arm with an unnatural tenacity, refusing to release him.
He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. His response was a low, dangerous growl.
“I hold no interest in such sordid affairs, Croft.”
Marcus instantly recoiled, his face paling.
Lately, Marcus had been making overtures to Cassian and his friends, a silent acknowledgment of Alaric’s waning influence. Perhaps his shared confidences were merely an attempt to secure a new perch.
---
Today, as often happened, the emptying lecture hall left only Cassian and Elias. Cassian, elegant in his carelessly tailored jacket, leaned against the dark walnut paneling at the rear of the room, regarding Elias with an unreadable gaze. Whether it was indifference or assessment, Elias couldn't decipher. Annoyed, he turned his head away, adopting his own posture of studied disinterest.
“Thorne.”
“Yes, Blackwood?”
“Let us acquire some of those candied violet pastilles after our lessons. The batch we sampled last week possessed a rather delightful piquancy.”
Cassian simply ignored Elias’s attempt at aloofness. As he spoke, he idly tossed a polished river stone into the air, catching it with practiced ease. The stone arced erratically, threatening to strike a retreating scholar, but no one dared utter a word.
He possessed no regard for the atmosphere, indifferent, selfish even. Elias watched the stone's trajectory with a frown, finally breaking his silence. Irritation over Cassian’s brazen self-assurance sharpened his tone.
“You refer to the confection you consumed entirely yourself? Did you not procure it solely for your own indulgence?”
“Not entirely. I confess, I have a particular fondness for green, you see.”
“So my own preference held no sway?”
“How was I to discern your desires? You offered no counsel.”
The stone had rolled to a stop near a junior acolyte. Cassian extended a hand, motioning. The acolyte hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the stone, placing it into Cassian’s open palm. Cassian gave the retreating student a casual nod, a faint twist of his lips.
“My gratitude, scholar.”
Such an insufferable temperament. *‘Scholar this, dullard that.’* Every utterance grated.
It defied sense, honestly, that someone as utterly obnoxious as Cassian preferred Elias’s company to Alaric’s. He ate with Elias, sat with Elias, attended classes with Elias. True, Alaric was often elsewhere, but Cassian could easily arrange a meeting, send a missive.
The thought materialized, unbidden, and Elias voiced it without much reflection.
“Why do you no longer seek the company of Lord Alaric these days?”
Cassian, mid-toss, froze. The river stone hovered for a moment, then dropped silently into his palm. He turned, a bewildered expression on his face.
“You had a disagreement with him,” he stated simply.
“I?”
“Indeed. You and Lord Alaric.”
“I am aware. I was the one involved in the… fracas. How does that pertain to you?”
“You utter the most peculiar sentiments. It pertains to me because you are my friend.”
Cassian’s gaze swept over Elias, overtly direct. Feeling a prickle of unease, Elias avoided his eyes and countered.
“You were also a confidant of Lord Alaric, were you not?”
“Heavens. You are most amusing. Are you suggesting you are *not* my friend?” Cassian’s tone was incredulous, his finger jabbing playfully in Elias’s direction.
“No, I am your friend. But you were also friends with Alaric. Why do you then side with me?”
“Why, because I have known you for longer, naturally.”
“What nonsense are you spouting? Our acquaintance truly solidified through Alaric, did it not?”
“Hold, now. What precisely are you alleging? We were quite close in our first year!”
“When?”
“Upon my word, you are a dreadful fellow. Truly. In the refectory, we often exchanged glances!”
“Ah… those occasions.”
“So, was I the sole individual who perceived a burgeoning camaraderie? You charlatan. That is precisely why, upon finding ourselves in the same curriculum, I sought you out! And you deign to deny it? Unbelievable. My disappointment is profound.”
“Oh.”
“Truly. Beyond belief. How could you inflict such a slight upon me?”
“Very well, I apologize. My deepest apologies, then.” Elias mumbled, a hazy memory of those awkward, yet strangely frequent, shared gazes from their first year stirring. Could that have been within Cassian’s definition of ‘friendship’? He felt utterly swindled. Those stares had been fraught with hostility, plain and simple. Wait – was Cassian the first to suggest they dine together, not Alaric?
The realization struck him like a physical blow, leaving him momentarily stunned. It was unsettling, almost shocking. Yet, unwilling to delve deeper into the disquieting truth, he feigned understanding, nodding slowly.
“Alright, alright. I comprehend. My sincerest apologies.”
“I was genuinely quite vexed just now.” Cassian narrowed his eyes briefly. Sometimes, Elias truly could not fathom the workings of his mind.
“And furthermore, Lord Alaric is behaving most eccentrically.”
“...”
“That man is utterly unhinged at present. He has always possessed a peculiar streak, but this? This is… well, it simply is.”
He caught the river stone with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with an index digit. The sight evoked memories of Marcus Croft and the other less subtle scholars who had awkwardly attempted to broach the topic of Alaric’s increasingly erratic behavior.
From that alone, one truth became undeniably clear: Alaric’s standing was in precipitous decline.
“Degenerate.” The whispered word, the most feared and damning stigma in the insulated world of the Academy's elite, sent a shiver through Elias. His body trembled imperceptibly. Simultaneously, a wave of sickening relief washed over him that his own truth remained shrouded. Did that relief signify he valued his own preservation above Alaric’s ruin?
Uneasy, he studied Cassian’s face, feeling like a blasphemous priest concealing a dark secret before the Almighty. “Truly, me,” he murmured, a strange laugh, a brittle mix of fear and derision, escaping his lips.
It was almost comical. To others, he was now Cassian Blackwood’s closest confidant. In truth, he was no different from what they scorned – a criminal branded with an unholy stigma. Only months prior, he had been Alaric Vane’s intimate. Yet here he was, hiding within a filthy trap he had barely escaped.
He had only managed to avoid capture. That was all.
---
It was the pre-dawn hour. A discreet message, delivered by a nameless footman, arrived unexpectedly. A sealed note, brought to his chamber at four in the morning. Half-asleep, Elias wondered for a fleeting moment if the entire day’s events were merely a somnambulist’s fabrication. Even though he had deliberately avoided seeking Alaric, protecting himself from further injury, his heart lurched at the possibility the missive might be from him.
He rubbed sleep from his eyes, verifying the sender. His feelings were a conflicted jumble. Part of him hoped it was a misdelivered summons, a mundane administrative query. But the moment he scanned the elegant script, he knew it wasn’t Alaric.
“Elias, my apologies for this unseemly hour. Would you grant me a moment of your presence outside your residence? I am deeply sorry. Truly, profoundly sorry.”
“Just this once. Only this once.”
Lord Alaric Vane would never offer such an abject apology. Among Elias’s acquaintances, only one used his given name with such earnest supplication, and only one was so utterly wretched. How had Lysander Thorne even discerned his private address? The moment the message registered, Elias’s face twisted into a scowl. He did not wish to see him – never wished to see him. Lysander was always an unpleasant encounter.
But despite his fervent thoughts, Elias swung his legs from the bed, buttoned his dressing gown, and stood. He walked to his chamber door, stopping short of stepping through, resting his forehead against the cool frame with a profound sigh.
“...Damnation.”
It was overwhelming, like a knot tightening in his vitals. That was the only way to articulate the sensation. He clutched at his chest. He had always prided himself on his academic prowess, on his vast lexicon culled from countless tomes, but none of the words he knew could fully express this intricate, tangled mess of emotions.
It was simply… complicated.
The hatred he felt for Lysander, the indelible memory of Lysander’s face bruised that day, and the desperate weeks Elias had spent attempting to insert distance between them all swirled together. Biting his lip, he fiddled with the ornate doorknob, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist.
In the manicured garden, the cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding the arrival of a crisp autumn. To avoid the damp grass, he stepped carefully onto the cool marble flagstones that paved the path. The chilly dawn made him pull his dressing gown tighter around his frame. His toes, peeking from the front of his slippers, carried him swiftly to the wrought-iron front gate.
He paused there for a moment, clicked his tongue lightly, and grasped the cold handle. The faint creaking of the hinge made him flinch, and he opened the gate even more slowly, drawing out the inevitable.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the gaslight on the cobblestone thoroughfare, stood Lysander Thorne in his Academy uniform. His head was hung low, and he idly scrawled invisible shapes on the ground with the tip of his polished boot.
“...Lysander.”
At Elias’s voice, Lysander’s head snapped up like lightning.
“Elias, Elias!”