A chill, not of the autumn air, but of stark absence, settled over the Imperial Academy. Two days after Lysander Vance’s desk had been overturned, his carefully annotated texts vanished. They were discovered, later, a smoldering heap of charred paper and singed leather in the courtyard’s refuse incinerator, a plume of acrid smoke staining the morning sky.
Finding the perpetrator required no profound deduction. Several periods passed, marked by the smug, victorious gleam in Cassian Thorne’s eyes when they met Lord Alaric’s across the lecture hall. Whispers, like the dry rustle of dead leaves, confirmed it. That same morning, Cassian, always too loud, too careless, had reportedly regaled his cronies in the lavatories with the tale of Lysander’s immolated scholarly possessions.
*A rather theatrical gesture.* My thoughts drifted, unbidden.
My gaze drifted to the recycling bin, a utilitarian steel cylinder near the main entrance. Tucked beside it, a discarded crate, its timber splintered and its surface fuzzy with damp decay, seemed to encapsulate the bitter, unspoken contest between Lord Alaric and Lysander Vance.
Lysander, two days prior, had suffered a profound defeat, entirely oblivious to the shifting currents that dragged him under.
The motive now seemed crystalline. Initially, I’d dismissed it as mere playground cruelty, a coarse display of dominance. But a peculiar, almost visceral intuition had stirred, nudging me toward a deeper truth. Even Lysander’s most ardent companions had begun to note the increasing peculiarity of his manner, the unsettling glint in his eye. His animosity towards Lord Alaric was no simple youthful pique; his erratic outbursts were more than mere bullying. The moment I witnessed Lysander’s raw, unrestrained fury erupt in the main quad, a certainty solidified within me. Yet, as the tide of opinion turned, sweeping Lysander into its cold depths, I felt no compulsion to intercede. No guilt pricked at my conscience.
I possessed no desire to sabotage my meticulously constructed life with my own hands. I understood, with chilling clarity, the perilous optics of defending him. It might paint me as compassionate, even steadfast. But in this enclosed, gilded cage, where every student projected an intricate, multifaceted persona, even one such gesture would invite a single, devastating question:
*Why?*
The thought, a tiny, insidious seed, bloomed into a quiet terror.
I rested my chin on my folded arms, pressing my forehead against the cool, worn wood of my desk. My eyelids fluttered shut. Perhaps a brief respite. For one fleeting instant, I yearned for a world where, upon reopening my eyes, everything would align precisely with my desires. Sleep, a dark, welcoming current, began to pull at me. Had I been left undisturbed, I would have certainly surrendered.
A sharp, percussive *thwack* against my skull jolted me awake. I sat bolt upright, my fingers immediately finding the tender spot. Across the aisle, Cassian, too, rubbed his forehead, a faint frown creasing his brow.
“What in the name of the Sovereign—that smarted!”
“Sleeping before the morning bell? Truly, Elias?” Cassian’s voice, a low rumble, held a familiar undercurrent of amusement.
“Hardly your concern. What was that, pray tell?”
“This?” Cassian’s grin was an unapologetic flash of white teeth. He lifted the polished oak crutch from beneath his right arm, twirling it idly. “A lucky find. Pulled it from the Academy’s refuse bins on my way in.”
My features tightened, a knot of irritation forming in my stomach. Cassian, bless his peculiar soul, always unearthed the most unusual instruments for his daily theatrics.
The impact, though not severe, had jarred me. My fingers, still hovering over my crown, fretted over the possibility of dishevelled hair. Cassian, meanwhile, spun gracefully, sending a nearby chair skittering across the flagstones. With an elegant sweep, he settled into it before it could topple. He never fell. His satchel landed on his desk with a soft *thud*, instantly repurposed as a pillow. Then, he simply flopped forward, his head vanishing into the canvas.
“You rouse me from slumber merely to indulge in it yourself?”
“Merely ensuring your scholarly diligence, little brother. My own grades are already an irredeemable blight upon the Thorne name. No matter if I miss a lecture or two.” A muffled response from the depths of his satchel.
“Nonsense.”
I twisted in my seat, a low grumble escaping my lips. Every word Cassian uttered seemed to provoke an automatic rebuttal. I nudged his foot with the toe of my boot. A faint smirk played on his lips, though his face remained hidden.
“Elias, is it truly proper to assault an injured gentleman? You barbaric wretch.”
The playful blend of sarcasm and genuine mischief elicited a scoff from me. This time, I aimed a kick at his crutch. It began to topple, but with an almost supernatural swiftness, his hand darted out, catching the polished wood before it could strike the floor. He didn’t even lift his head. A soundless chuckle vibrated through his body. Then, quite abruptly, he spoke.
“I’ve had a question for you, actually.”
“Indeed?”
“That wasn’t an accident, was it?”
A prickle of unease snaked down my spine. Had it been so glaringly obvious? The graze on my cheekbone was barely discernible, a faint discoloration the color of bruised plums.
I hesitated for only a breath, then ran a hand over my jaw, feigning nonchalance. “It was an unfortunate misstep.”
“Hah.”
Still propped on his satchel, Cassian released a soft, knowing chuckle.
“Truly?”
His eyes, bright as polished emeralds, flickered open, fixing on mine. His finger, long and slender, pointed directly at me, as if singling me out for inspection. I failed to grasp his intention, so I simply echoed, “What?”
“You are quite shamelessly transparent, Elias.”
The moment he smiled, his crutch leaning innocently against his shoulder, my thoughts scattered like startled pigeons.
*What in the Hells is he implying?*
“...Shameless, you say?”
“I rather suspect your ‘misstep’ involved something more deliberate...”
“.........”
Cassian’s pronouncements were often oblique, cloaked in riddles. This time, however, a quiet, predatory menace laced his tone.
His gaze, unnervingly still, pinned me. His luminous irises, encircled by a dark, intense pupil, bored into mine. It was like watching the taut string of a bow, trying to guess the trajectory of the arrow it would unleash. And this time, it was aimed squarely at me. My mind, usually a fortress of logic, went utterly blank. Two words echoed, insistent and frantic: *Impossible. He couldn’t know. Impossible. He couldn’t know.*
Then, finally, Cassian’s eyes narrowed, a predatory gleam flickering within their depths.
“It had the distinct appearance of you having *run into* something.”
His long, serpentine eyes curved upward, a chilling, knowing smile playing on his lips. My throat constricted, dry and tight. My breath hitched in my chest. I swallowed, a difficult, painful gulp. While he slowly parted his lips to speak again, I found myself unable to even blink.
“If word of *that* particular incident were to circulate, it would be... dreadfully inconvenient, wouldn’t it?”
“.........”
“I shall endeavor to keep it a secret.”
Then, raising the hand that still clutched his crutch to his lips, he mouthed the final words, concluding with a theatrical wink. The breath I had unwittingly held slammed against my ribs, a trapped, frantic animal clawing for release.
He offered no time for reaction. With an infuriating casualness, he ran a hand through his perpetually artful dark hair, then pointed a finger at me once more.
“Tell me, though, did you perhaps attempt to copy my coiffure? It’s a touch uninspired, don’t you think?”
I was speechless, utterly dumbfounded. Cassian wrinkled his nose in an exaggerated display of disapproval.
“In any case, I am quite finished with my observations. Sleep awaits.”
He yawned, a wide, languid stretch, and promptly reburied his face into his satchel. Staring at the dark, unruly hair at the back of his head, I finally managed to mutter, a faint, almost inaudible protest:
“I did not copy you. And I have not had my hair cut.”
“Oh, is that so?” His muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his canvas prison.
---
“By the Azure Throne, who absolves the sins of man.”
Cassian’s voice, a theatrical lament, echoed through the half-empty classroom. He clutched his academic appraisal, fresh from the Quartermaster’s desk, in one hand. It was fourth period. The Latin lecture had just concluded, leaving us with the grim reality of our midterm results.
He buried his head in the crumpled document, scanning the brutal figures. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he flung his head back, letting out a mournful, drawn-out sigh.
“Ah, my reputation is quite utterly undone.”
I merely glanced at my own appraisal, verifying the familiar string of commendations and perfect scores. I folded it once, twice, then tucked it neatly into the inner pocket of my tailored academy jacket. When my eyes returned to Cassian, he was still engaged in his operatic sighing.
His head was thrown so far back that only the sharp line of his Adam’s apple was visible, bobbing heavily, almost as if chastising me for my silent observation. Fixing my gaze on his throat, I spoke.
“That particular invocation is not typically employed for such mundane concerns.”
“Who cares? A prayer’s a prayer.”
Then, with sudden earnestness, he asked, “Tell me, Elias, is it the Sovereign or the High Confessor one appeals to?”
The question, utterly devoid of religious conviction, illuminated a peculiar facet of Cassian’s persona—his unique, almost pragmatic approach to faith.
“Why ask me? It’s *your* supposed creed.”
“Oh, come now, little brother. You’re the scholar, the one who devours ancient tomes. I assumed you’d possess the definitive answer to everything.”
“I do not. And I confess no particular spiritual allegiance.”
Cassian, who had been leaning back precariously, suddenly shot forward. Our eyes met across the narrow aisle. Before I could process the sudden intimacy, I instinctively averted my gaze, fixing it on the window beyond, pretending a profound interest in the distant Veridian skyline. Yet, a sharp prickle, like a guilty conscience caught in a clandestine act, flared in my chest.
My attention drifted from the abstract patterns of the frosted pane to the stiff, perfectly pressed collar of Cassian’s pristine white shirt. The crisp fabric rested against the elegant curve of his neck. With every exaggerated movement, the sharp angles of his collarbone flashed into view.
“So? Fancy joining me for Vespers this weekend?”
“What? Certainly not.”
“Ah, why the refusal? Come along. They distribute spiced bread and warmed wine during the Midwinter festivals, and small tokens of imperial favor during certain holy days. Perhaps even a scholarly parchment or two...”
“Wait. You don’t mean to tell me you attend solely for such material inducements?” My voice, despite my best efforts, betrayed a touch of incredulity.
“Naturally, I do.”
I finally allowed myself a proper look at his face. My eyes settled on the quill pen he had somehow balanced on his upper lip, nudging his aristocratic nose. Pride, a stubborn, unyielding thing, had long prevented me from admitting it. But in that moment, faced with his unapologetic charm, I had to acknowledge it—Cassian Thorne possessed a rather exceptional handsomeness. *The infuriating rogue.*
The pen, wedged between his septum and philtrum, distorted his voice into a slurred, disgruntled murmur.
“But the way you phrase it, one would think I was stealing. If they are freely given, what harm in accepting?”
“Can one truly call it faith if its foundations are so entirely selfish?”
“That, Elias, is precisely how such things begin. Few commence with grand, existential beliefs. They think, ‘Ah, that is a generous provision of spiced bread. The one who offers it must be kindly.’ And then, little by little, their appreciation for the ‘kind person with the bread’ slowly transmutes into absolute devotion to the Azure Throne. The initial impetus, the process—these are incidental. What matters is the present conviction.”
Cassian, at times, spouted absolute rubbish. Even Lysander Vance had occasionally been drawn into his peculiar orbit.
Sometimes, it was pure, unadulterated nonsense. But then, there were moments, like this one, when his particular brand of sophistry held a compelling, almost tempting logic. This was one such instance.
I ran a hand through my dark hair, brushing the fringe away from my forehead. But the fine strands, insistent, fell back into my eyes. With a sigh, I shook my head, left to right. My thin, dark hair swayed like a curtain before me. I gathered the errant locks near my temples, and finally, the tickling sensation receded.
I had been so preoccupied lately that the simple act of arranging for a proper trim had slipped my mind.
Now, with Lysander Vance and Lord Alaric both absent from the Academy, the front row of the lecture hall remained conspicuously empty. There was no longer any reason for my gaze to stray in that direction.
Six days prior, the Prefect of Studies had summoned me to his private office. His primary query: had I received any communication from Lysander Vance?
I answered with a measured honesty, devoid of hesitation.
“No, Prefect. I regret to say I have not.”
“You and Vance are still estranged, I presume?” His tone was laced with a paternal, yet probing, concern.
I offered a small, carefully practiced, bitter smile. A precisely calibrated expression. In truth, the inclination to smile was entirely absent.
“Indeed. Lysander... felt quite betrayed by me, I believe.”
“Vance felt betrayed by you?” A flicker of surprise crossed the Prefect’s face.
“Yes, Prefect.”
The academy corridors, I knew, hummed with rumors. The Prefect, therefore, was not entirely ignorant of the delicate implications woven into my words.
“Very well, I understand,” he stated, dismissing me with a weary wave. As I turned, he settled back into his plush armchair, muttering softly to himself. Snippets drifted to me: complaints regarding Lysander’s intransigence, frustration over a recent, scathing reprimand from Lysander’s own formidable father.
I feigned deafness to his pathetic monologue, my back to him, yet my ears were acutely attuned. It was how I gauged the true atmosphere within the hallowed, hushed confines of the staff office.
Later that day, after the final bell, while I was immersed in preparations for my private tutor’s evening session, Lysander’s father himself telephoned. He posed the identical query to me—did I possess any knowledge of Lysander Vance’s whereabouts?
I delivered the same polished response.
“No, Master Vance. Lysander has not sought to reach out to me in some time.”
— *I see...*
“I am truly sorry I cannot be of more assistance.”
— *No, my boy. There is nothing for you to apologize for. It is quite alright.* The forced cordiality in his voice was a thin, brittle veneer.
Lately, Master Vance had been calling with an unsettling frequency. And each time, the conversation unfolded with the same, almost ritualistic, predictability.
There was an oddly deliberate insistence in his attempts to continually link Lysander and me. I hastened to conclude the call.
Honestly, there was no true need for an apology. Yet, I offered it nonetheless—a subtle, calculated maneuver to be liked, to be seen as amenable.
It was the same innate social instinct that compelled one to praise an ill-favored newborn as ‘charming.’ A social convention, a vital piece of etiquette functioning within this highly civilized, utterly brutal society.
So, I harbored no illusion that the adults perceived my actions as genuine. My politeness, I understood, was closer to the crude pantomime of a court jester.
I had always known my station. And because I invested such painstaking effort into being liked, I was destined to become a truly beloved jester.
Even if, one day, I were to commit an error so blatant it would furrow the brows of the most discerning audience, they would, in the end, forgive me. This, I knew, was the meticulous groundwork I laid, brick by invisible brick.
Unlike some hapless fool, I was navigating the labyrinth of this life with a considered, strategic wisdom.
Perhaps, from an adult’s loftier perspective, my intricate calculus was nothing more than a narrow, petty stratagem to evade immediate inconvenience. But among my peers, it was an undeniable truth—I was the one who possessed the foresight to deftly manage unpredictable currents.
For proof, one needed only observe Hadrian Croft, Lysander’s erstwhile confidante.
Hadrian Croft, desperate to curry favor with Cassian Thorne, now directed a practiced cordiality my way. For in the eyes of their peers, I had, early on, seamlessly aligned myself with Cassian.
Though he had once been one of Lysander Vance’s closest companions, Hadrian now made it unequivocally clear that he was abandoning that sinking ship.