A well-rehearsed apology, crafted by a youth still slick with the ambition of his years, rarely held the genuine ring of remorse. Within the Academy’s hallowed halls, such declarations were often merely another facet of the intricate social theatre, a performance of deference or contrition, subtly polished to mitigate consequence. Elias had observed it countless times, cataloguing each variation. They were less pleas for understanding and more strategic maneuvers, designed to navigate the treacherous currents of Veridian society. These were not acts of true vulnerability, but rather carefully constructed facades.
“Just a trifle, you say?” Magnus’s voice, a low rumble even in the quiet of the corridor, carried a mocking lilt. He leaned against the polished oak wainscoting, a stark contrast to his usual boisterous posture, an almost deliberate nonchalance. “Such a harsh judgment for a fledgling’s attempts at grace. Have you never heard the old adage, Thorne?”
Magnus straightened, a slight arch to his long spine, his gaze tracing the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling. His arms, usually expressive, crossed over his chest, lending a rare stillness to his frame. A faint smile, more of a grimace than true mirth, played on his lips. His dark hair, perpetually on the verge of disarray, seemed to defy the Academy’s strict grooming standards even in this subdued setting.
“Man is but a child, or a beast,” he murmured, the words barely audible.
Elias shifted his weight, the starched collar of his uniform chafing slightly against his neck. “Seriously, Croft.”
“I am no beast, for all my coarser inclinations. And if not a beast, then what? We are all merely overgrown children, Elias, whether we’re chasing academic laurels or imperial titles. What true difference does a few decades make to the fundamental wiring?” Magnus unfurled his arms, the movement almost languid. He offered a useless, almost provocative jest, a familiar tactic to needle Elias into a reaction. His logic, always absurd yet occasionally unsettling in its directness, never failed to surprise.
---
A soft chime echoed, a discreet summons from the infirmary reception. Magnus sprang away from the wall, moving with an agile grace that belied his often-slouching posture, and plucked a vibrating pager from a nearby hook.
“Keep an eye on my things, Thorne.”
“What ‘things’?” Elias started to ask, but Magnus was already striding away, leaving the question hanging in the air. He returned moments later, a tray in each hand. Elias felt a flicker of genuine astonishment. Magnus’s hands, though large, were not so enormous as to make this an effortless feat. Yet, he managed it without visible strain, his arms held steady.
“Isn’t that… cumbersome?” Elias finally managed, his voice betraying his surprise.
“Hardly. They weigh next to nothing.”
One of the trays held a heavy stoneware bowl, its steam still rising faintly, a testament to its recent preparation. Magnus set both down on a small side table with an unnerving absence of sound, no clatter of porcelain against wood. Elias found himself staring, momentarily disoriented by the unexpected display of controlled strength. Magnus, catching Elias’s blank expression, let out a soft click of his tongue.
“Were you perhaps… impressed by my culinary etiquette?” The corners of his mouth twitched, a sly glint in his eyes.
That was… a rather egregious miscalculation. “Just eat, Croft.”
“And how am I to accomplish such a feat with a sealed mouth? Like this?” He pressed his lips together, a picture of exaggerated solemnity, then brought a spoon to them. A moment later, a wide, irreverent grin split his face before he dropped into the chair opposite Elias.
Elias picked up his own spoon, his gaze drifting to the steaming bowl before him. He lowered his hand slowly, the metal scraping lightly against the ceramic. Magnus, meanwhile, blew on his own food, then set his spoon down and began to pick at the accompanying side dishes with an almost surgical precision using his chopsticks.
Elias paused, his intended bite forgotten, his eyes drawn inexplicably to Magnus’s hands. “I’ve often noticed, Croft… you handle those with remarkable… propriety.”
“Me? You think so?” Magnus looked up, a faint challenge in his eyes.
“Indeed.” *It hardly suits your usual presentation,* Elias thought, the unspoken observation hanging unspoken between them. *Far too refined for your theatrical boorishness.* Perhaps sensing Elias’s unvoiced thoughts, Magnus narrowed his eyes, then suddenly exclaimed, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. “Ah! So you did observe.”
“Observe what?” Elias asked, genuinely perplexed. What cryptic game was this?
“Playing coy, are we, Thorne? Very well, you sharp-eyed, quick-witted fiend. I shall let you in on the secret.”
On what, precisely? Elias frowned at Magnus’s deliberately enigmatic words. Magnus merely twisted his lips into another knowing smile.
“When we eventually present ourselves before Caspian Blackwood,” Magnus leaned forward conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “there’s a small matter I’ll require your… particular assistance with.”
“What in the… Forget it.” Elias dismissed the obvious subterfuge with a dismissive wave of his hand. It was bound to be some fresh absurdity, so he merely offered a half-hearted nod.
---
Magnus finished his meal first, pushing the stoneware bowl aside with a decisive clatter. His hands disappeared into the pockets of his trousers, and he simply watched Elias with an unnerving intensity. The moment Elias laid his own spoon down, Magnus jerked his chin towards the infirmary’s polished brass elevator doors. Then, without a timepiece in sight, he tapped his bare wrist repeatedly, urging Elias to hasten.
“I am quite finished, Croft. There’s no need to rush.”
“Visiting hours, Thorne. We’re cutting it frightfully close. You dawdle like a man contemplating a philosophical treatise.”
“For the love of… Fine.”
“Up now. A little haste, if you please.”
“I’m up, I said.” Elias rose, the familiar exasperation a dull ache in his chest.
“Then summon the contraption.”
“Gods above…” Elias muttered under his breath, jogging over to press the gilded button. The mechanism whirred to life with a quiet sigh.
“Attaboy!” Magnus crowed, a triumphant grin on his face.
“Begone,” Elias muttered, shooting Magnus a discreet, withering glare. It had taken him months to deduce that, beneath the veneer of insolent disregard, Magnus Croft possessed an almost childish propensity for clinginess once he considered someone within his inner circle. Not that Elias had ever actively sought to decipher the man.
As they waited, Magnus’s fingers traced the edge of a thick, off-white bandage affixed to his jaw. The adhesive patch, secured firmly to his skin, began to peel away slightly as he worried at it.
“Are you meant to strip it away like that?” Elias asked, a flicker of curiosity momentarily eclipsing his irritation.
“It’s an infernal nuisance. Interferes with a proper ablution.”
Before Elias could offer a reply, the elevator doors glided open with a soft hiss. Magnus stepped inside immediately, his finger already poised to press the designated floor button without a moment’s hesitation. As they ascended, he caught his reflection in the polished mirror of the elevator, baring his teeth in a grotesque mimicry of a grin. “Hmm, perfectly aligned,” he mumbled, a nonsensical comment that only further highlighted his strange eccentricity.
Elias stole a glance at him. Magnus bent slightly, craning his neck to fully assess his reflection, his hands still tucked into his pockets, an aura of delinquent defiance clinging to him even in this sterile environment. And the man was absurdly tall, his frame almost filling the narrow confines of the lift. Elias found himself instinctively observing, cataloguing, and the elevator reached their floor with startling swiftness.
The hallway was hushed, the silence thick and expectant. Magnus merely jerked his chin towards a particular door.
“That’s the one.”
His lips were slightly parted, his gaze cast downwards, a subtle arrogance emanating from his relaxed posture. As the elevator doors began to close behind them, they stepped out into the quiet corridor. However, Magnus did not immediately advance towards the designated room. Elias stopped behind him, waiting, anticipating his next theatrical move.
After a brief, almost theatrical pause, Magnus resumed his stride, his unusually long legs covering the distance with effortless grace. His ring finger reached up, scratching at the adhesive edge of his jaw bandage, then, with a sharp, decisive tug, he ripped it clean away.
“Ah! Gods. That stings.”
The discarded bandage vanished into his pocket. His trousers, previously pristine, now sported a small, tell-tale bulge. Magnus turned, his eyes fixed on Elias.
“…”
His exposed jaw was a canvas of mottled blues and deep, angry reds. Honestly, it looked rather gruesome, a testament to the ferocity of the prior altercation. Yet, Magnus himself merely grinned, a picture of absolute, unsettling confidence. It was an eerie sight, particularly with his perpetually melancholic cast of features – always appearing as if he were plotting some grand, convoluted scheme.
“Well? How do I fare? Convincing enough?”
Magnus Croft, ever the master of self-serving performance. Everything he uttered seemed spontaneous, yet possessed an underlying, self-indulgent theatricality. He possessed a peculiar knack for attempting to persuade Elias with utter nonsense, and on occasion, even trapping himself within the gilded cage of his own delusions.
“…Who can say, Croft.”
Elias’s memory, eidetic and unflinching, recalled a conversation from only a few days prior. Magnus had recounted, with a detached amusement, a story as if it belonged to another. He’d spoken of returning to the Academy’s ancient chapel for the first time in nearly a decade, not since his induction ceremony at eleven. His confession? A decade of unacknowledged absence from the sacred rituals. He’d admitted to only attending because his father, a stern military man, had demanded it. The chaplain, a stoic old man, had informed him that such a mercenary faith was problematic. “Ah, my apologies, Father,” Magnus had said, intending to leave. Yet, somehow, he had ended up delivering the final blessing himself, rather than the flustered chaplain. He’d only realised his transgression after stepping out of the confessional booth. “I wanted to shrivel into dust from sheer mortification. Why, in the Emperor’s name, do they print the blessing right there in front of one?”
And yet, Elias knew, with absolute certainty, that Magnus would not be found within the chapel walls this week either. That was the crux of his peculiar consistency. “My parents, and a few of the more zealous old biddies from the Order, kept asking why I hadn’t been attending. Is that their sole topic of conversation? What can one do? One must maintain a degree of consistency, after all.” Magnus had snickered then, and seeing the others in the common room laughing along, Elias had found himself nodding. Yes, in his own twisted way, Magnus was remarkably consistent. And that consistency, for all its disruptive nature, had never once placed Elias at a disadvantage.
Elias raised his own hand, roughly peeling away the bandage that covered the bridge of his nose. The adhesive gave a sharp tug against his skin.
“This should suffice, I imagine?”
A dark red horizontal abrasion marred the otherwise aristocratic line of Elias’s unusually high nose. Magnus looked at him, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, before his eyes crinkled with amusement.
“Do you know why Caspian Blackwood is such an utter simpleton, Thorne?”
Magnus leaned his head slightly, bringing his face closer to Elias’s, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper.
“He possesses no true intellect. Not a shred of genuine cunning. He remains utterly oblivious that if he persists in such reckless conduct, his future is irrevocably destined for the gutter.”
*Tap, tap.* Magnus’s thin fingers drummed lightly against the fabric near his pocket.
“He ought to have heeded his father’s counsel. They say that listening to one’s progenitors often leads to… advantageous outcomes.”
*And do you heed yours, Croft?* Elias swallowed the unspoken question, letting it dissolve into the stifling air. In a strange, convoluted way, Magnus did seem to. Yes, very well. Magnus’s voice was laced with a low, mirthless laughter. They soon arrived at a grand, intricately carved door, and instead of opening it, he simply waited.
For a brief, analytical moment, Elias considered his own actions. Why had he followed Magnus all this way? Why was he complicit in this elaborate charade? The most compelling reason he could conjure was a quiet, unacknowledged desire to witness Caspian Blackwood’s inevitable downfall with his own eyes. Perhaps a grim satisfaction, a sense of justice, however distorted, for the constant humiliation Caspian represented for those outside the privileged circle.
Elias lifted his head, meeting Magnus’s gaze. He placed a hand lightly on Magnus’s back, a rare, almost intimate gesture, and spoke in a quiet, measured tone.
“Let us proceed.”
The moment the words left his lips, Magnus smirked, as if Elias’s acquiescence had been a foregone conclusion, a mere formality. Then, with a deliberate hand, he ran his fingers through his hair, messing it further, and hunched his shoulders slightly, assuming a posture of almost theatrical distress, before carefully pushing open the heavy door. He stepped in first, and Elias followed him into the hushed confines of the infirmary room.
Caspian Blackwood lay still on the bed, a pale, almost ethereal figure against the pristine white linens. And beside him, a face Elias knew all too well – Lord Ashworth, Caspian’s formidable father. Elias was genuinely taken aback. He had not truly expected the man to be present, to descend from his lofty aristocratic perch for such a… domestic incident.
“My sincerest apologies for our belated arrival. I am Magnus Croft,” Magnus announced, his voice smooth as aged wine, lifting his chin with a brazen, almost insolent confidence. Though thrown off balance, Elias quickly masked his surprise, offering a slight, deferential bow.
“Good day, Lord Ashworth.”
As Elias finished speaking, the elder statesman’s gaze, which had been fixed with an almost weary intensity on Magnus, shifted abruptly to Elias. A faint, almost imperceptible flicker of surprise crossed Lord Ashworth’s stern features.
“…Thorne? Is that you, Elias?”
“I chanced upon him in the infirmary lobby, my Lord. A fortunate coincidence. Are you here on a visit, Thorne?” Before Elias could form a reply, Magnus interjected, adopting an air of innocent obliviousness as if it were his second nature. The effortless way he wove such a blatant fabrication, presenting it as mere polite conversation, was truly impressive. He must have perfected such artifice countless times. Magnus’s sheer shamelessness rendered Elias speechless, but he merely offered a small, disarming smile and played along. To contradict Magnus would be to derail the carefully orchestrated performance.
“Yes, my Lord. Merely a courtesy call.”
“Ah… But, well…” Lord Ashworth’s worried expression faltered, a tell-tale sign of his internal conflict. It was clear he wished to articulate something, yet hesitated, leaving the unspoken words hanging in the tense air. Ultimately, Caspian Blackwood’s father broke the uncomfortable silence.
“Thank you for coming, young Thorne. I am certain Caspian would be most pleased by your presence. However, Elias, I must ask if you would be so kind as to… step out for a few moments? There is a sensitive matter I must discuss with this young student.” Lord Ashworth gestured towards Magnus.
“Of course, my Lord.” Elias nodded, betraying no hesitation, and retreated from the room. For a fleeting second, he considered leaving the door ajar, just enough to catch stray whispers, but Lord Ashworth’s gaze, sharp and intent, followed him until he was fully out of sight. Eavesdropping felt too risky, too undignified a maneuver to attempt under such scrutiny.
---
So, Elias did not learn what transpired within those closed doors. With nothing else to occupy his meticulous mind, he turned to gaze out of a tall, arched window overlooking the Academy grounds. Clouds drifted slowly across the pale autumn sky, indifferent to the human dramas unfolding beneath them. It was impossible to discern whether the time that passed was too brief or excessively long for a conversation about something as profoundly intricate as forgiveness. Eventually, the door opened, and Lord Ashworth emerged, his shoulders appearing subtly heavier.
“Thorne.”
“Oh, my Lord. Have you concluded your discussion?” Elias quickly turned, offering another small bow. The muted sound of Lord Ashworth’s impeccably polished boots grew closer, and only then did Elias lift his head to fully observe the man who had, indirectly, been the catalyst for his first profound social unease within the Academy. Lord Ashworth had aged, significantly. Only a few months had passed since Elias last saw him, yet his face was etched with new lines, his complexion withered, stirring a strange, unsettling disquiet within Elias.
“My apologies for summarily dismissing you like that, young Thorne. Caspian has been behaving with such an alarming lack of discretion of late… But you still made the journey all this way. I truly appreciate your thoughtfulness. He is under heavy medication at present, so he will not be regaining consciousness for some time.”
“Oh, no need for apologies, my Lord. It was my duty, of course. Though it is a pity I shall not have the opportunity to converse with him.” Elias modulated his tone carefully, infusing it with just the right measure of regret.
“Indeed, thank you for your understanding.” Lord Ashworth let out a low sigh, a sound so frail it seemed almost pitiful. There was none of the furious, roaring authority that had once characterized his reactions to even the slightest transgression involving his son – only a fragile, weary, middle-aged man. Elias found himself unable to comprehend the depth of his visible despair. Surely, such profound dejection could not stem solely from his son enduring a few skirmishes?
“I had hoped that spending more time with students of your calibre, Thorne, would help Caspian to… improve. To find his footing. But lately, he has only plunged deeper into trouble, associating with… regrettable influences. And now, this lamentable incident…”
“…”
“By any chance, Thorne, do you happen to know a boy named Lysander?”
Lysander.
Elias’s fingertips trembled, a tremor he fought to suppress. He was so utterly, profoundly weary of this relentless web of interconnectedness, of the shadowy currents that tugged at the fabric of his carefully constructed life.
“Lysander? Yes, my Lord. He is in my cohort.”
“What manner of youth is he? Do you possess any insights into his character?”
“Uh, well… he is quite amiable. Intellectually sharp, certainly. But his familial circumstances are… challenging. Even so, he always applied himself diligently to his studies…”
“And then?”
“Then, one…”