A chill, damp breath announced his arrival. Two periods had bled into the afternoon, and the grand classroom door, crafted of dark, polished oak, eased open. Alaric Vance, ghost-pale and hesitant, slipped inside.
He might have sought anonymity by choosing the main entrance, away from the boisterous throng that typically gathered by the rear egress. Yet, those returning from the frigid December air invariably brought the cold with them.
To perceptive senses, it was an announcement.
A strange, brittle quiet descended.
Every student’s gaze, sharp and sudden, fixed upon him.
Perhaps the abrupt hush startled Alaric, for his head bowed further, shoulders hunching as he hurried to the vacant desk. It sat far back, against the arched windows, a forgotten monument to his long absence, coated in a fine, undisturbed layer of dust.
He simply settled into the grime, head still bent, never lifting his eyes.
The silence fractured into a low, insidious murmur. A few students, emboldened by Alaric’s submission, let out quiet, almost inaudible snickers.
“Look at that. The prodigal returns. What a fool.”
“Quiet, you imbecile. He’ll hear.”
Elias Thorne rested his chin on a cool palm, a familiar, weary distaste curling in his gut. Alaric Vance truly possessed the most lamentable luck.
Once the initial shock passed, the hyena-like elements of the class, forever starved for cheap amusement, honed in on their fresh quarry.
Predictably, one voice sliced through the air, meticulously pitched to carry.
“They say, in the lower districts, one in every dozen bears…unnatural affections. Imagine, within these very hallowed halls.”
“Three, perhaps, in a class of our size. Three souls corrupted by such vice.”
“Percival Ashworth, for certain. And now, Vance. Who is the third? Speak up! No need to lurk, casting those…hungry glances. Show yourself, while you still may.”
Disgust tightened Elias’s chest.
A tightly crumpled parchment missile flew, striking the loudmouth squarely on the temple. It was, of course, presented as a jest. But for Alaric Vance, it was anything but.
Across the room, Magnus Blackwood’s eyes, glinting with a dangerous amusement, met Elias’s. Their gazes locked, an almost fated collision.
“What?” Elias mouthed, the word a barely visible movement of his lips.
Magnus raised an index finger, pointing at his own chest.
*Me?* he seemed to ask, as if Elias had been observing him.
Elias responded with an instinctive, sharp scowl.
“Nothing.”
Magnus’s lips quirked into a faint, knowing smirk. He then lowered his head, feigning interest in the polished surface of his desk. Their silent exchange dissolved back into the growing din of the classroom.
Elias found himself debating, briefly, whether to intervene. The notion was swiftly dismissed.
He was spared the effort. By the afternoon’s final lesson, Professor Eldrin’s sharp voice cut through the air.
“Attention, all of you!”
The moment she confirmed Alaric Vance’s return, the Professor had stormed into the classroom, her attendance ledger slamming onto the lectern with a resounding thud.
Her usually calm features were etched with a peculiar mix of guilt and wrath. Her gaze swept over the students, dissecting them, searching for the instigators.
“Should any of you partake in the harassment of Mr. Vance, I expect immediate notification. You have my private correspondence number. Anonymity is guaranteed. A reward will be extended for truthful reports. Conversely, should you be identified as a participant in such barbarity, be forewarned. This deplorable behaviour ceases now.
“This institution, as you are aware, has been elevated to an Elite Academy this term. The Headmaster watches with keen interest. Any further scandals will result in severe repercussions. Suspensions. Expulsion. Your family names dragged through the mud. Do you comprehend the gravity of this situation?”
Few students in their class possessed Percival Ashworth’s brazen disregard for consequence. This was no common preparatory school. Here, within these venerable academic walls, no one dared to jeopardise their future prospects, their family’s standing, over puerile bullying.
Still, the Professor’s threats seemed only to solidify the stubborn defiance in some. It was a subtle, simmering resentment, but present nonetheless.
“Yeees, Professor…” a sluggish, almost insolent chorus echoed.
What truly unsettled Elias, however, was not the renewed torment of Alaric Vance. It was the occasional, fleeting glance Alaric cast—his eyes, brushing past Elias’s without quite meeting them.
Alaric Vance looked at him.
Secretly.
Elias meticulously pretended not to notice.
From behind, Magnus poked Elias’s back with an unusually long finger, humming a low, tuneless melody.
“Mmmm~.”
“What now? Stop that.”
“He’s looking at you, Thorne. A great deal. Constantly.”
Magnus’s smirk played on his lips, a subtle curve of mockery.
That smirk ignited a flicker of irritation in Elias.
He turned slightly, lowering his voice to a clipped whisper. “Don’t look at him.”
“And why not, pray tell?”
“Because if he realises I know he’s looking, it will become…complicated. Unpleasant. I prefer to ignore it.”
“A pity. He quite literally gazes upon you with the eyes of a lost spaniel. And you remain utterly indifferent?”
“I do. Now be quiet.”
“Hmm.”
Magnus covered his mouth, a soft, stifled chuckle escaping him, then waved Elias dismissively. “Very well, very well. Face forward, then.”
Elias glanced at Magnus’s hand for a moment, then dutifully turned back, attempting to focus on the waning lesson.
When class concluded, Elias began to pack his satchel.
Magnus tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
Elias turned. Magnus clicked his tongue, then formed a finger gun, miming a shot at Elias.
“Let us proceed together.”
“I am heading directly home.”
“Indeed. As am I.”
“Then why are you choosing my route?”
“That, Thorne, is entirely my affair.”
“…….”
“And honestly, upon reflection, what a preposterous query. Have you purchased the thoroughfare? Are you the sole inhabitant of that particular district?”
Elias felt a prickle of annoyance. He wished to argue, to articulate the subtle reasons: the short, secluded walk; the prevalence of private estates in his neighbourhood; the distinct lack of fellow students along his path. Yet, the explanation felt cumbersome, pathetic even.
He conceded, the effort not worth the expenditure.
“Do as you wish.”
Magnus slung his satchel over one shoulder, hands disappearing into his pockets. Then, quite suddenly, he winked at Elias—a swift, effortless gesture. A smirk followed, sharp and knowing.
Elias must have maintained his customary impassivity, for Magnus chuckled softly, then inquired, “Why the smile, Thorne?”
Had he been smiling? Elias’s fingers instinctively brushed his lips.
Magnus sneered. “Merely a jest, imbecile.”
“Truly, Magnus,” Elias exasperation was a faint tremor in his voice.
Magnus, unable to stifle his mirth, snickered, then abruptly shifted his tone. “No, I was not jesting. Why the smile?”
Elias delivered a light, mock punch to Magnus’s back. Magnus dodged, grinning, feigning an exaggerated wince before slipping out of the classroom. Elias watched him for a beat, then followed.
From the academy gates, Elias walked his usual, direct route home. Magnus ambled alongside him, a quiet companion. Neither spoke. Magnus merely sucked on a confection, the wet, rhythmic pop and click against his teeth filling the crisp air. Elias, unbothered by the silence, continued his measured pace.
Then, Magnus spoke first, his voice a low hum. “Alaric Vance.”
“Alaric Vance?”
Though no one else was within earshot, Magnus hunched slightly, cupping a hand over his mouth as he whispered close to Elias’s ear. Each word was punctuated by the faint, grating scrape of the hard candy against his teeth. Occasionally, the lollipop stick brushed Elias’s cheek, a fleeting, almost imperceptible contact.
Magnus’s voice, rough as silk against skin, sent a faint shiver down Elias’s spine.
“Indeed. I overheard Lord Hawthorne in the Prefects’ office. He mentioned Vance had been…attached to Percival all this time.”
Elias did not break stride. Surprisingly, the revelation stirred little within him. Perhaps he had already, subconsciously, anticipated it.
Percival must have been coercing Vance, dragging him into his sordid affairs, until the public disgrace of the inkwell incident forced Percival to release his hold. It was, in hindsight, utterly predictable.
“Ah. Is that so?”
“Given Percival’s public humiliation, Vance finally found his freedom. One might think he’d be grateful to us for it, yet he stares at you, Thorne, like a lost puppy. It feels…unjust.”
Magnus was still whispering, the low cadence oddly unsettling. Elias nodded absently, letting the words wash over him.
“Regardless, thanks to Percival’s latest imbroglio, Vance’s prospects are quite utterly ruined.”
Magnus clicked his tongue, drawing a thumb across his neck in a chilling, slicing gesture. Elias winced, a brief, involuntary tightening of his features. The shift in his mood was subtle, almost imperceptible, but enough to prompt a weak murmur.
“That is…unfortunate.”
“Like a rare, delicate orchid planted in a barren field. Destined to be crushed.”
A creature of delicate constitution, born into a world designed to devour it. Was that Alaric Vance? Elias recalled Alaric’s large, dark eyes. Herbivores, he mused, often possessed such soft, vulnerable eyes.
Precisely like Vance’s.
Yet, for a petty, cowardly, yet deeply personal reason—one that pricked at his own profound insecurities—Elias had never truly liked him.
“To be entirely frank.”
“Hm?”
“I find myself…disliking Alaric Vance.”
The unvarnished candour, the raw admission, surprised Elias. It suggested a degree of trust in Magnus he hadn’t fully acknowledged. And, just as swiftly, a wave of immediate regret washed over him.
Magnus merely smirked, a knowing curl of his lips, as if he had been awaiting such an admission. It was likely Elias’s imagination.
“Thought so,” Magnus drawled, his already keen face seeming to sharpen further. “It is much like my own…antipathy for Percival Ashworth. A kindred spirit, as it were.”
“You…hate Percival Ashworth?”
Elias’s genuine shock was an instinctive outburst, not a feigned reaction. Given their public antagonism, one might assume a recent hatred. But Magnus’s tone implied a long-standing, obvious animosity.
Magnus, however, merely smirked wider, amused by Elias’s surprise. “My, my. Playing the innocent, are we? You are quite the dissembler, Thorne.”
“No, but…since when? Was this recent? Or a longer-standing animosity?”
Theories, dark and unsettling, crept into Elias’s mind. Magnus. A scion of an old, strictly traditional family. Was it Percival’s perceived deviancy? Had Percival committed some act of…unnatural affection to provoke such animosity from Magnus?
A sickening weight plummeted within Elias’s stomach. A heavy, leaden lump strapped to his chest. It felt repellent. Wrong. Disgusting.
Magnus straightened, looking down at Elias, then clicked his tongue. “Tch.” The sound, the look—it was a reprimand. Elias averted his gaze, staring at the cobbled path for a moment before cautiously glancing back at Magnus’s face.
Magnus seemed to ponder something. Then, abruptly, he changed the subject. “Oh, by the by. Do you know why Ashworth won’t be gracing our halls again?”
“For heaven’s sake,” Elias muttered, half-raising a fist in a mock threat. He genuinely did not wish to hear the answer to his previous question. Perhaps it was a form of self-preservation. Perhaps, guilt. Either way, he recoiled from the prospect of such an awful revelation.
“What?” Magnus lowered his head further, pressing his hand even closer to Elias’s ear. His whisper was sharper now, edged with a chilling glee.
“His family has been utterly ruined. Bankrupt.”
“…What?” Had Elias’s voice wavered? He thought it had. How could it not?
He squinted at Magnus, suspicion warring with disbelief. Was this another of Magnus’s elaborate deceits? But Magnus, that smug bastard, merely offered a wicked smile.
“Completely undone. His father? The family enterprise was already teetering, but now, charges of gross malfeasance. Misappropriation of funds, you see. Stripped of his position. His entire fortune dissipated. And what remains? A son? A boy of little academic merit, embroiled in scandal? No power left. His uncle, a veritable vulture, waited for this precise moment. Plucked everything.”
“Percival Ashworth is a pauper now.”
“That arrogant cur, who sneered at Alaric Vance, who looked down upon our entire class? He possesses less now than the lowliest of us.”
“Oh, and mark this—his father’s arrest is imminent. It may even make the daily broadsheets. But that, Thorne, is strictly between you and I.”
Something thumped against Elias’s chest. A small, sharp knock. Magnus’s finger. Tapping against him.
Elias halted. His head tilted fractionally, and in his periphery, he caught Magnus’s face—sharp, cold, and utterly self-assured. Magnus’s lips curved into a confident, predatory smirk.
“I am not fabricating this particular detail.”
A cold dread bloomed in Elias’s gut. His instincts rarely erred. This was not a lie.
He took a step back, the impact of the words staggering him. But Magnus shattered the moment just as easily as he had delivered the crushing news.
“Oh, blast. Thorne, I believe I am utterly witless.”
“…What?”
“I left my historical linguistics essay at the academy. Confound it, I am a fool.”
“The one due tomorrow?”
“Precisely. Damnation, I’m quite ruined. I must return for it.”
A light punch landed against Elias’s chest, a friendly, dismissive tap. “Farewell until tomorrow, Thorne. Apologies, I cannot accompany you the rest of the way.”
Elias stood frozen, unsure if his chest had simply been struck, or if it had quite utterly fractured under the weight of the revelation. The twilight deepened, painting the academy spires in hues of bruised violet and somber grey. He was alone again, the echo of Magnus’s cruel merriment lingering in the quiet air, and a profound, unsettling cold seeping into his bones.