A chill, sharper than the late autumn air, settled over the Imperial Academy. Caspian Blackwood, though breathing still, had ceased to exist in the way that truly mattered within these hallowed halls. His standing, once precarious but distinct, had been meticulously, brutally dismantled.
Not two hours prior, the courtyard stones had borne the frantic, gouged marks of carriage wheels, now meticulously swept clean by groundskeepers who moved with almost funereal solemnity. Then, the piercing, brass-lunged bell of the disciplinary tower had shrieked, an unprecedented clamor that sent every student scrambling to the ornate windows.
Their faces, a pallid collection framed by arched panes, stared out. A low murmur, like the drone of disturbed hornets, permeated the usually hushed corridors, carrying fragments of hushed whispers from adjacent classrooms.
“What in Veridia’s name…?”
“You haven’t heard? Blackwood and Croft. A proper brawl.”
“No! Caspian? Against Magnus Croft?”
“Apparently so. A disgrace.”
Elias observed the spectacle with a detached fascination. We stood on the precipice of manhood, shedding the last vestiges of boyhood’s self-absorption, yet still craving the raw, visceral catharsis of simple, explosive conflict. Their reactions, he mused, were depressingly predictable.
“Anyone know a fellow in Form Six? They were practically inseparable. What fractured them so?”
“Have you not caught wind of the whispers surrounding Blackwood?”
His own form was a tableau of varied responses: a scattering of acolytes eager to amplify the drama, a few feigning solemnity, and a significant contingent basking in the triumph of a rival’s fall. Below, a sleek, black medical coach, usually reserved for more delicate maladies, waited ominously. For the next half-hour, the identity of the students necessitating such a grave conveyance became the Academy’s singular obsession. Rumors, Elias knew, traveled faster than imperial decrees within these five-story walls.
So, who had prevailed?
Those who pieced together the sordid truth cared little for the bruised bodies ferried away. Instead, they savored the bitter fulfillment of an unspoken, almost primal desire that had simmered since term began: Magnus Croft’s ascendance.
Such contests rarely yielded clear victors, especially when fought man-to-man. But today, every turn of the wheel had favored Croft. The insidious whispers that had preceded the fracas merely ensured Caspian Blackwood’s ignominious defeat.
Through the Academy’s gilded, yet grimy, halls, the tale unspooled, twisting Blackwood’s legacy into something base and unsavory:
“They say Blackwood engaged in unspeakable acts.”
“What? The scion of House Blackwood? He was always so reserved, so proper.”
“Proper, my foot! A gilded façade, it was. Whispers of a debt, a sordid affair with a commoner, perhaps even illicit dealings. A true degenerate, they say. Money, it seems, can’t buy true virtue, only conceal its absence.”
“Gods above… I never would have imagined. A man of such supposed standing, revealed as a mere rake.”
“Heh. Imagine the shame. Perhaps he’ll be sent to the colonies, far from polite society. Though some say a scandal like this is worse than death itself.”
The conversation drifted, not to Blackwood’s fate, but to the broader implications of such moral failings, yet in that short exchange, Caspian Blackwood’s honor had been irrevocably sullied, his very essence murdered. This act of reputational annihilation multiplied with every student who heard the tale.
Having fallen to Magnus Croft, Caspian Blackwood became a thing of scorn, as if everyone had merely awaited his collapse.
The classroom hung in a tense equilibrium, poised between the lingering excitement of the spectacle and the sudden, uneasy calm. Eyes flickered, like the pendulum of a forgotten clock, between the hushed faces and the far corner of the room where a dark, viscous stain marred the polished parquet. It must have dried by now, but Elias imagined, with a morbid clarity, that pressing a finger to it would still yield a slick, metallic seep.
Professor Atheria, our homeroom mistress, was a woman of fragile temperament, often flustered by a raised voice. Her reaction to this incident was, therefore, entirely unexpected. The bell for self-study had barely faded when she burst through the door. The low hum of gossip died instantly. She threw a stack of weighty ledgers onto her desk; the resounding thump echoed like a gunshot, followed by a high-pitched, almost feral scream that tore at the ears.
“What in Veridia’s name is wrong with you all! You… you louts! Do you take me for a fool? Why do you live like this? Stop it! I command you to stop! Silence during self-study! Is this a market stall? You are to be seniors next year! Seniors! Please, for the love of the Emperor, listen to me and cease this barbarity! Do you understand the responsibility I bear for your actions? I never should have accepted a post at an all-male academy. I feel my sanity fraying. Live like this, and your lives will be nothing but refuse, do you not comprehend that? Are you not ashamed before your parents? And how many times must I implore you for quiet during private study?!”
Any sensible man, witnessing such a sudden, violent eruption from a timid soul, would have clamped his jaw shut. But this was an all-boys academy, a crucible of unrefined humanity. Some defied common sense, some remained trapped in a perpetual, pathetic adolescence, and some, despite their supposed intellectual pursuits, possessed a profound dullness that manifested in idiotic acts. Our classroom, Elias thought, was a prime example.
“Eh, Professor’s quite cross, isn’t she? Cross!”
“Atheria’s ire is always so amusing.”
Lysander Finch, perched by the corridor window, drawled the first, his voice laced with sneering amusement. From two seats ahead of Elias, another student whispered the second, a simpering snicker escaping him.
“You… you insolent cur! Do you think I am a joke?! You, step forward. To the lectern, now!”
“Oh, Professor. Must you be so dramatic?”
“I said, step forward, rascal!”
Professor Atheria seized the attendance ledger and flung it. It soared between desks, a leather-bound missile, struck the corner of a third-row desk with a sharp crack, then clattered to the floor, its momentum spent.
“My sincerest apologies, Professor. It shan’t happen again. Forgive my lapse?”
Lysander merely offered a languid smirk, entirely devoid of contrition. It was always these middling cravens, neither truly popular nor entirely outcast, who indulged in such theatrics. The slovenly ones, eager for attention, mistook bravado for strength. Yet they, in their pathetic myopia, were the only ones blind to the clumsy, transparent nature of their charade.
“Approach the front. Or shall I drag you there myself?”
“Ah, Professor! This is quite beyond the pale, truly!”
“Enough!”
“Lysander, silence. The Professor commanded you.”
Elias could bear it no longer. The words, unbidden, slipped from his tongue. The collective gaze of the class shifted, impaling him, but he met their stares with an unwavering calm, taking in the pathetic display. It was, frankly, so utterly ridiculous that a scoff nearly escaped him. He found a strange, dark enjoyment in these situations.
He was no brawler, nor did he ever posture with false toughness. Yet, his subtle, unacknowledged position within this academic jungle was maintained precisely by feeding on the weakness of men like Lysander Finch.
“Alaric, why so grave all of a sudden?” Lysander sneered.
Alaric Vance, from his usual seat near the aisle, merely offered a cold, level stare. “You’re the one who cannot read the room, Finch.”
This unspoken hierarchy had not, of course, solidified overnight. During the turbulent first year, there had been a flicker of resistance, but now, it was as comfortable as a familiar, spiraling silence.
“Indeed. Cease your caterwauling and proceed. Ah, truly, can you not gauge the gravity of the situation?” another student added, his voice firm.
“If you possess an ounce of remorse, Lysander, step forward. Your antics drag us all into disrepute, you blithering idiot.”
“Ah, what is his affliction? Honestly.” Elias heard Lysander muttering under his breath, even as his confident, mocking façade, so readily deployed against the Professor, began to wane, like a dying ember. Under the silent, collective pressure of his peers, he finally rose, slinking to the front of the room, looking, as Elias observed, like a rat caught in a trap.
Elias allowed himself a secret, twisted smile. Caspian Blackwood had fallen. And nothing, he realized, could have brought him greater satisfaction. Perhaps it stemmed from the memory of Blackwood’s satchel striking him, that moment of unwarranted aggression. Yes, he was certain of it. A profound sense of vindication surged through him, an almost electrifying thrill as a sliver of forgotten power returned.
“To the hallway, this instant!”
“…”
Having dispatched the disruptive fool, Professor Atheria gripped the lectern, her knuckles white, silently battling her tempestuous anger for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice, fortunately, had calmed considerably, as if she had gathered her fragmented thoughts. She announced that she would interview each student individually, seeking an unvarnished account of the incident.
“I pledge absolute discretion. So, please, tell me the truth. Do not disappoint me further. I am begging you.”
She seemed resolute in her pursuit of an unbiased narrative, yet Elias knew, with a certainty that bordered on pity, that a female instructor, however well-meaning, could never truly grasp the brutal, intricate pyramid that defined their all-male world. As self-study time concluded and the Professor, her face still flushed, finally caught her breath and departed, Gideon Sterling rose. He closed the windows, then the classroom door, before turning to address them all, his gaze sweeping the room with a chilling authority.
“Listen closely, all of you. Choose your words with utmost care. You must determine who will hold sway in these halls: Magnus Croft, or that… that disgraced cur, Blackwood.”
“Blackwood threw the first blow,” Lysander Finch piped up, his voice now eager, desperate for validation. “Remember that.” Such admirable loyalty, Elias noted, now that the tide had decisively turned.
---
Less than a week later, Magnus Croft returned to the Academy.
He entered, flaunting a jaw still swollen and bruised a ghastly blue. His nose, clearly fractured, bore a square plaster, meticulously layered with tape. Yet, in stark contrast to his battered visage, the aura radiating from him was more imposing, more arrogant, than ever before. He grinned, a wide, predatory flash of teeth, then tapped a perfectly reattached canine with his index finger. Elias, watching from his desk, offered a faint, almost imperceptible chuckle in return.
Immediately after the fight, Croft had risen, seemingly unassisted, and walked into the waiting medical coach. It had been a bizarre, yet undeniably flashy exit that had dominated every conversation for days. Elias, impelled by a complex blend of curiosity and calculation, had hurried after him. Just before Croft climbed into the carriage, Elias had pressed a small, dark glass vial into his hand.
“This is yours, Croft. Say it fell. Tell them you feared tetanus without proper disinfection.”
Croft, at that moment, wiped his face with a bloodied left hand. The crimson, already dried stiff, refused to budge. Honestly, seeing half his face caked in rust-hued gore was not a pleasant sight. Elias’s focus, however, was on how Croft’s unusually small pupils had locked onto his outstretched hand. In that horrifying state, he had spoken, and Elias had strained to listen, caught utterly off guard.
“…I’ll send for you.”
Croft’s hand, crusted with dried blood, had then brushed Elias’s cheek, an abrupt, almost intimate gesture.
“…Hm?” Elias had merely stood there, dumbfounded.
Soon after, a discreet note had arrived, informing Elias that most of the nerves were intact, and the reattachment had been successful. And as soon as he returned to the Academy, Magnus Croft took the seat beside Elias.
When Elias’s original seatmate arrived, Croft, without even sparing him a glance, merely gestured with a dismissive thumb towards an empty chair across the room. The bewildered student quietly retreated, finding another spot.
Before Elias fully registered it, the formidable brute was beside him, tapping his shoulder twice with a quick, rhythmic rap of index and middle fingers. Then, abruptly, he spoke.
“A token, Thorne.”
“A… what? Out of nowhere?”
“Quiet. Open your hand.”
Elias slowly set down his mechanical pencil, then unfurled his palm. At the same instant, Croft carefully placed something upon it. A peculiar, almost brittle sensation registered in the center of Elias’s hand, leaving him unsettled. When Croft’s large hand lifted away, Elias saw it: a small, broken tooth, rootless, beside another whose root was still fully intact. The yellowish end, the dark, almost sticky red stains clinging to it, made his stomach lurch. Confused, Elias glanced at Magnus Croft. Croft leaned back in his chair, a slow, triumphant smirk spreading across his lips.
“I’ve ensured Blackwood will chew on little more than soft paste for the rest of his miserable existence.”
A low, guttural laugh, like a pure, unburdened child, shook Croft’s shoulders.
“Did you witness it?”
“…”
“I won.”
This insufferable man. For a fleeting moment, Elias envisioned hurling those gritted teeth against the far wall.
Magnus Croft’s return ignited another ripple of unrest throughout the Academy. After all, he was the first of the main combatants to reappear, his face less disfigured than many had anticipated, entirely devoid of the gloomy aura of a vanquished man. The rumors of his decisive victory solidified swiftly amongst the second-form students. Most of those privy to the true account were, after all, in their year. For the first-formers, the drama of the older students remained a distant, intriguing spectacle.