Elias Thorne found himself seated before Professor Valerius, the faint scent of aged parchment and pipe tobacco clinging to the study air. Valerius, known for her sharp mind and even sharper tongue, had summoned him without preamble.
Elias had felt a flicker of confusion, then a cold clarity: he was a favored student, known for his meticulous observations, and he had been a silent, unwilling spectator to the Blackwood-Croft debacle.
Her gaze, usually reserved for the dissection of classical texts, now pierced him with an unsettling directness. Elias clasped his hands, the coolness of the polished wood against his palms grounding him. He understood his role.
"Thorne," Professor Valerius began, her voice a low contralto that commanded attention. "You were present during the unfortunate incident between Mr. Blackwood and Mr. Croft."
"Indeed, Professor." Elias kept his tone even, professional.
"Your account, then. Be forthright."
"Mr. Blackwood initiated the altercation," Elias stated, his voice steady. "He struck Mr. Croft first. Mr. Croft merely defended himself."
A delicate eyebrow arched, a subtle skepticism in the gesture. "Are you certain, Thorne? You share a passing familiarity with both students, do you not?"
Elias suppressed a flicker of indignation. Doubt, a familiar phantom, brushed against his carefully constructed composure. His expression remained neutral, etched from long practice.
"I am certain, Professor. Blackwood's aggression was unprovoked. He advanced, he insulted, then he delivered a blow to Mr. Croft's jaw. Croft retaliated. Blackwood sustained the greater injuries."
Valerius leaned back, a rustle of silk as she shifted. "We've received word that Blackwood's condition is... more severe than initially reported. A fractured nasal bone, extensive contusions." Her fingers traced the line of a faded scar near her temple. "The disparity is rather stark, wouldn't you agree? Croft appears largely—"
"Croft lost a tooth," Elias interjected, the memory of the grotesque trophy still fresh, a small, chilling detail. He knew only of one at the time, not the second.
A soft, percussive click filled the silence as Valerius toyed with a silver-capped pen. "Yes, a regrettable outcome for both. But the nature of Mr. Blackwood's injuries suggests a certain... excess. There wasn't, say, a concerted effort by others to—"
Elias's posture stiffened, a silent refusal to entertain the insinuation. "No, Professor. It was a one-on-one engagement. Other students attempted to intervene, to separate them."
Valerius clicked the pen again, a rhythm in the quiet room. Her gaze softened, a calculated warmth entering her expression. "Thorne, you are among our most trusted. Your diligence, your unwavering adherence to fact, has always been a credit to this Academy. I value your judgment, your character." Her words, smooth as polished obsidian, settled around him. "I believe in you, Thorne. And I am on your side."
"Thank you, Professor," Elias murmured, his internal ledger already tallying the subtext. This wasn't genuine solicitude. It was an elegant maneuver, a carefully laid foundation for an institutional escape route. His testimony, unshakeable as it was, provided the convenient narrative, the justification for minimizing further scrutiny.
"What I saw," he repeated, a quiet, almost imperceptible modification of truth. It wasn't a lie, not precisely. But it was a truth carefully curated.
The Professor nodded, a faint smile gracing her lips. She would speak to others, perhaps, those less rigorous, less observant. But Elias's word would carry the weight. He knew no formal censure would touch Magnus Croft. Blackwood, with his patrician pride, would never admit to such a crushing defeat, to the loss of teeth, to being so thoroughly thrashed. Only Lord Blackwood, the elder, would likely gnash his teeth in private, demand recompense where none would be given. Elias knew the Academy's ancient walls were adept at absorbing scandal, at letting inconvenient truths fade into the grey fabric of tradition.
---
Days bled into one another, marked only by the turn of lecture pages and the scent of brewing tea in the common rooms. Magnus Croft moved through the Academy's hallowed halls with an unnerving nonchalance. His face, a canvas of fading bruises and a diligently applied bandage across his nose, bore his "battle scars" with almost celebratory pride. He tossed a rubber ball against the oak panels of the common room, a boisterous, carefree sound that grated on Elias's nerves.
This was not the outcome Elias had anticipated. He had envisioned Magnus, perhaps, making a perfunctory apology to Lord Blackwood, a humiliating pilgrimage orchestrated by their families. He expected Magnus to return sullen, chastened, ready to grumble about the injustice.
Elias had even prepared a mental script for commiserating.
But Magnus bowed to no one. Lord Blackwood hadn't materialized at the Academy, no apologies were offered, and Magnus continued his disruptive antics, impervious to the unspoken currents of social censure. A peculiar unease settled in Elias's gut. The unpredictability of it pricked his insatiable curiosity.
When the narrative diverged so sharply from expectation, Elias felt an almost instinctual urge to decipher the deviation, to unearth the hidden mechanism.
"Croft," Elias called out, a simple, almost childish gambit forming in his mind.
Before the word fully escaped, Magnus, in a loud burst of laughter, tossed his ball high and bellowed, "Lysander! Over here!" He was already munching on some pastry, procured from god-knew-where, completely engrossed. Elias's brows furrowed. Poor timing.
Then, as if sensing a faint disturbance in the ether, Magnus paused, a half-eaten confection suspended mid-air. "Did someone just call my name?" He turned, his gaze sweeping the common room, then settling on Elias.
Elias raised a hand, a gesture of quiet affirmation. "I did."
"Well, out with it, Thorne. What's vexing you?" Magnus's tone held a familiar blend of arrogance and amused condescension.
Elias narrowed his eyes, a silent testament to his mild irritation. "If you wish for my full attention, perhaps you might endeavor to speak with a modicum of civility." The words were delivered with a precise, almost surgical quietness.
Magnus merely hooked a finger, a dismissive gesture. Elias felt a fresh prickle of annoyance, but he knew Magnus tolerated such barbs. It was, in their own strange dynamic, almost an invitation.
"You mentioned being idle this weekend," Elias ventured, pushing past the annoyance. "I find myself with a rare reprieve from my studies. Perhaps you'd care to—"
Magnus’s eyes widened in mock horror. "Are you suggesting," he interrupted, pointing a pastry-stained finger, "that *we* might... *socialize*? Together? Thorne and Croft?"
Elias felt a flush creep up his neck. The casual disdain in Magnus's voice was a physical affront. "Is that so preposterous?" he managed, his voice tightening. "We could... simply pass the time."
"Pass the time," Magnus echoed, a theatrical drawl. "As we usually do?" A sharp, almost cruel laugh escaped him. "Tell me, Thorne, when precisely have we ever 'passed the time' outside of these academic confines? One-on-one, I mean."
The flush intensified, hot and mortifying. Elias had miscalculated, betrayed by a momentary surge of misplaced camaraderie. His suggestion had been clumsy, an uncharacteristic lapse in his usual precision. He tasted bitterness.
"Forget I said anything," Elias snapped, his voice clipped. He turned, ready to retreat, to bury his embarrassment in the solace of dusty tomes.
"I didn't say no," Magnus retorted, a low, teasing undertone.
Elias clamped his jaw shut, fighting the urge to lash out. He knew this game. Magnus was always thus: capricious, offering a crumb of warmth only to snatch it away. Elias had foolishly mistaken their shared antagonism towards Blackwood for something akin to alliance. He felt a profound self-disgust.
"As you wish," Elias said, forcing a brittle indifference. He wanted to disappear, to dissolve into the Academy's shadows.
"Alright," Magnus conceded finally, his voice flat, devoid of its earlier taunt.
Elias whirled away, a surge of irrational anger coursing through him. The man was insufferable.
---
Weekends for Elias Thorne were not sanctuaries of leisure. They were extensions of his scholarly pursuits, solitary hours spent poring over ancient texts or deciphering intricate ciphers in the hushed solitude of the Academy's archives. His parents, perpetually absent, ensured a certain unmonitored liberty, a freedom born of neglect rather than generosity. He cherished these stolen moments of intellectual exploration.
Then, an unceremonious vibration against his thigh shattered his quiet. A text message, abrupt and entirely unexpected.
*Cafeterias in hospitals now? The world truly progresses. Come. Lunch is on me.*
The sender: Magnus Croft.
Elias stared at the message, a wave of incredulity washing over him. The audacity, the casual imperiousness, after Magnus's dismissive reaction just days prior. Elias felt the familiar seesaw of emotions—annoyance warring with a strange, nascent curiosity.
"Why the sudden summons?" Elias typed, his fingers hovering.
*A thought occurred. Lunch. My treat.*
Elias gritted his teeth. The man was infuriating. He contemplated a terse refusal, a taste of Magnus's own medicine. But then, a phrase from Magnus's initial message snagged his attention. *Cafeterias in hospitals...*
"You are at a hospital?" Elias typed, a new vector of intrigue.
Had the brawl finally caught up to Magnus? Was he secretly nursing some deeper injury? His curiosity, a relentless beast, demanded answers. If the hospital had been a distant, unfamiliar clinic, Elias would have dismissed the summons. But a quick mental calculation placed it within a reasonable distance, a large institution known for its modern facilities. The draw was too strong. He accepted.
Magnus was a sprawl of casual insolence in the hospital lobby, occupying half a polished wooden bench, legs outstretched, an arm flung over the backrest. As Elias approached, Magnus merely flicked a hand, a lazy, almost dismissive greeting. Elias offered no reciprocation, simply studying the other man.
"Still sporting the bandage, I see," Elias observed, his gaze resting on the pristine white strip across Magnus's nose. "Has the wound not closed?"
"Oh, it's sealed," Magnus replied, his voice a low rumble. "Reasons." He offered nothing further, merely a cryptic shrug.
Magnus rose, his imposing frame unfolding. He clapped a hand on Elias's shoulder, a possessive, jarring weight. "Come on. My treat."
"The basement food hall, I presume?" Elias asked, recalling the hospital's layout.
"Don't sound so surprised, Thorne. You think they hand out meals for free?" Magnus scoffed, a sneer playing on his lips. "It's merely a gesture of imperial generosity."
"Bragging about the cost of a mediocre luncheon," Elias murmured, his eyes narrowed. Magnus merely preened, an arrogant tilt to his chin.
They descended to the basement, the sterile hum of the hospital replaced by the clatter of trays and the murmur of conversation. As they waited for their utilitarian meals, Elias's curiosity finally broke through.
"So," Elias began, his voice low, "why precisely are we here? Your wounds, I assume? A follow-up?"
Magnus simply waved a dismissive hand, swirling it vaguely around his jaw. "No, nothing so mundane." A predatory glint entered his eyes. "Caspian Blackwood is a guest here."
Elias froze. His fingers, which had been idly tapping a rhythm on the table, stilled. A sudden, unsettling coldness permeated the air. Blackwood? Here? The question "Why?" spun in his mind, unvoiced. Magnus, oblivious to Elias's sudden disquiet, continued, a slow, theatrical smile spreading across his face.
"I thought you'd appreciate the spectacle."
"What spectacle?" Elias demanded, the careful composure of his voice cracking.
"Lord Blackwood is within these very walls," Magnus replied, the words dripping with satisfaction. "I called him. A most... cordial invitation." He bounced a fork idly in the air, catching it with practiced ease. "You see, Thorne, I am a man of deep faith. Veridian tenets, you understand. Forgiveness. Such a glorious, beautiful concept, is it not? My faith demands both the seeking and the offering of it. How could I possibly neglect such a sacred duty?"
Elias stared, a profound skepticism etching lines around his mouth. "You expect me to believe you dragged me here, summoned Blackwood's father, all for some twisted sense of religious absolution? You're actually seeking forgiveness?"
"Naturally," Magnus declared, a perfectly disingenuous smirk on his face. He wrinkled his bandaged nose slightly, a gesture of feigned piety.