Julian Vance's face, puffed from a night spent chasing ephemeral pleasures, truly did resemble a pufferfish. A wave of manufactured annoyance rippled through Elias. He extended a polished silver flask, its surface gleaming with a fine condensation, and tapped it against the edge of Julian's mahogany desk. A soft clink echoed in the still-quiet Common Room.
"You look rather… aquatic, Lord Vance." Elias kept his tone light, a sliver of amusement hidden beneath. "This might help. If you insist on staying up until dawn."
Julian mumbled thanks, his eyes still heavy-lidded. He took the flask, the metal cold against his palm, a faint shiver passing through his hand.
"Your father didn't send a missive about your late arrival?" Elias inquired, a faint curl to his lips.
"Not this morning," Julian replied, a hint of pride in his voice. "Thanks to your… timely intervention." He gave a vague gesture towards the flask.
Elias merely offered a dismissive shrug, turning to navigate the narrow aisle towards his own seat. His gaze, however, snagged on the desk beside Julian's. A broad sheet of the Veridian Gazette lay splayed there, its bold headlines about imperial trade routes partially obscured.
***
Elias was a handspan shorter than Julian, a constant, petty irritant that pricked at his carefully constructed composure. Sir Alaric Finch, on the other hand, towered over even Julian by a good measure. By the immutable laws of height and hierarchy, Alaric occupied the desk directly adjacent to Julian's, leaving Elias to perch two rows back.
It was a small mercy, a hollow comfort, to know Julian was just ahead. But proximity was not intimacy.
A familiar pang of inadequacy, sharp and quick, pierced Elias. He meticulously buried it, as he always did, deep beneath layers of carefully constructed indifference. His gaze flickered back to Alaric.
"When did Finch arrive?" Elias asked, nudging Julian with a casual elbow.
Julian glanced over, yawning without bothering to cover his mouth. "No idea. He was slumped there when I walked in."
"One would think a gentleman who retired early last night would appear less… ravaged," Elias mused aloud, a subtle jab in his voice.
***
A rustle of newsprint broke the quiet. The Veridian Gazette slid to the floor, revealing Alaric Finch. His eyes, half-lidded and distant, swept over Elias and Julian. He stretched, a wide, ungentlemanly yawn escaping his lips.
"Ah," Alaric drawled, his voice thick with sleep. "I merely intended to consult a few more texts before retiring. One thing led to another." He winked, a glint of mischief in his exhausted gaze.
A contagious wave of weariness seemed to ripple through Julian. He mirrored Alaric’s yawn, then scrunched his face into a smug grin.
"This rogue," Julian declared, a theatrical sigh escaping him. "Looks like a brawler, yet dedicates himself to study more diligently than old Master Thorne’s prize pupil."
Alaric merely chuckled, leaning back in his chair with an easy grace. "Oh, do dry up, Vance."
"Understood, you scamp," Julian retorted, his grin widening.
Elias watched their exchange, a faint prickle beneath his skin. Alaric’s gaze met his for a fleeting moment, a spark of shared understanding, before drifting to the window. Elias scratched his shoulder, subtly, then refocused on Julian.
***
The early morning in the Common Room often possessed a deceptive pleasantness. These casual exchanges, these easy jests, tended to set the day's rhythm. Soon enough, Lords Caelen and Sir Gareth would inevitably saunter over, their eyes gleaming with admiration as they hung on Julian's every whispered anecdote.
The familiar tableau would unfold: a low hum of chatter, bursts of laughter, until the Homeroom Master's arrival signaled the stern commencement of lessons.
For the scions of the Empire's most esteemed houses, boys widely considered the brightest and most popular, it felt, in its own way, a surprisingly wholesome start.
Yet, they were still but eighteen. Stories of clandestine encounters, of dalliances with tavern girls and illicit card games, especially when Julian was the narrator, often left a sour taste in Elias's mouth. Still, he played his part, feigning amusement, an eager audience member in a drama he only partially endorsed.
Despite the undercurrents, these mornings, Elias had always conceded, were tolerable. But that tranquil façade had shattered a month and a half prior. The catalyst, the very core of this abrupt disintegration, was Rhys Sterling.
***
"Sterling's arrived."
A murmur rippled through the room, punctuated by a low, disgusted hiss.
"Gods. Pathetic."
"Does that wretch possess no dignity? To show his face after such a public humiliation?" Lord Caelen openly scoffed, a theatrical sneer contorting his features as he gestured towards the door.
At the tip of Caelen's outstretched finger, Rhys Sterling shuffled into the Common Room. His shoulders were hunched, his usually bright face obscured by a curtain of lank, dark hair. He moved like a ghost, depositing a frayed satchel onto a desk in the front row, then immediately slumping forward, his head disappearing into his arms. Elias watched the miserable figure, a sigh, heavy with an inexplicable irritation, escaping him.
Rhys Sterling was indeed a pathetic sight. His voice, when he dared to speak, was thin and reedy. His frame, perpetually small, seemed to shrink further under the collective gaze of the room. As the whispers swelled, Julian Vance’s eyes, usually alight with arrogant mirth, narrowed into daggers fixed on Rhys's bowed back. He muttered a low, guttural curse. Elias hated it. That sudden, raw edge to Julian's disdain—it clawed at something within him.
***
Julian snatched the discarded Veridian Gazette from Alaric’s desk. With a single, fluid motion, he balled the paper tightly in one hand. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he hurled the crumpled sphere at Rhys's head.
*Thud.*
A soft, dull sound. Rhys Sterling's head, already buried, slumped further onto the polished wood of his desk.
"For the Empire's sake, Sterling," Julian's voice cut through the air, sharp and laced with venom. "Do not parade that wretched visage here first thing in the morning."
Rhys, without lifting his head, simply placed his forearms upon the desk, burrowing deeper into the protective huddle. He did exactly as Julian commanded. Yet, Julian merely watched, a fresh wave of disgust contorting his aristocratic features. He kicked his own desk, a sharp, resonant thwack.
"Sterling! Are you quite deaf? Answer me!" Julian's voice boomed as he abruptly pushed himself to his feet.
Rhys, still hunched, a mere shadow of a person, stammered a response, his voice trembling. "Y-yes, Lord Vance."
"Lift your head," Julian commanded, his tone deceptively calm. "Look me in the eye, and speak with the dignity of a man."
Did Julian even comprehend the sheer, almost theatrical absurdity of his own demands? A bitter, humorless laugh caught in Elias's throat, a sound he quickly swallowed.
Whether Julian noticed, or cared, was irrelevant. He began to stalk towards Rhys's desk. With each deliberate step, the knot of unpleasantness tightened in Elias's chest, growing vivid and raw. Julian was closing the distance. Just that, the simple act of his approach, made Elias feel the meticulous control he exercised over his own emotions fraying, unraveling.
This was not the same prickle of jealousy that surfaced when Julian grew close to Alaric. Elias knew, with an instinctual, chilling certainty. Deep within him, something just as cold and calculating, just as potentially cruel, resided. That hidden darkness was why his observations of Julian and Alaric had eventually become bearable. But Julian's interactions with Rhys—they unsettled him, digging at a nerve Elias hadn't known existed. His hands, resting beneath the desk, began to tremble. He clenched them, digging his nails into his palms, desperate to hide the betrayal.
***
Julian brought his polished leather boot down hard against the leg of Rhys's desk. The antique wood shuddered violently, threatening to topple. Rhys jolted upright, his small frame rigid with alarm. His voice, when it came, was a barely audible whisper.
"F-forgive me, Lord Vance."
Julian stood over him, a silent, imposing figure, his gaze fixed on Rhys’s face. Rhys’s eyes, wide and glistening, were on the precipice of tears. Yet, in that charged moment, Elias felt a strange, inverted empathy; it was *he* who felt on the verge of breaking down.
Julian, to his credit, never stooped to petty tasks, never made Rhys run pointless errands. But his eyes, always, were on Rhys. If Rhys so much as left for the washroom during a break, Julian's gaze would follow his retreating figure, even as he engaged in conversation with the others. Elias knew this with absolute certainty, because Elias never stopped watching Julian.
***
To be utterly honest, Elias's first impression of Rhys Sterling had been one of complete, utter unremarkable neutrality. His complexion wasn't flawless, but his youthful features lent him a face that was, at the very least, agreeable. When he smiled, it held a genuine, unburdened quality. Even his neutral expression carried a subtle, inherent brightness.
Before Julian Vance had begun his cruel sport, no one in the academy had harbored any particular dislike for Rhys. He exuded an aura of quiet contentment, a boy who had clearly thrived in a warm, loving environment. While he wasn't overtly gregarious, preferring the solitary company of books to boisterous camaraderie, there was no trace of worry or discomfort etched into his demeanor.
Most gentlemen had regarded Rhys as a decent sort. Since he never flaunted the obvious affection he'd received during his formative years, he garnered even more casual praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be around – that was the general consensus on Rhys Sterling.
But Elias had never particularly cared for him from the start. He didn't actively dislike him either; he simply held no strong opinion. To say Rhys hadn't even registered on his intricately curated mental radar would be a more precise assessment. Yet, whenever conversations with Julian, or Alaric's circle, drifted towards Rhys, Elias would find himself casually, almost instinctively, uttering a subtle falsehood. "Oh, Sterling? He's quite alright. Perfectly amiable, I suppose."
Julian, much like Elias, had initially paid Rhys no mind. Julian Vance was never one to concern himself with the lesser tides of academy life. After Rhys had transferred in May, he and Julian had not exchanged a single word until early June. That was how the natural order of things had been.
***
But one day, something shifted. A small, almost imperceptible deviation formed in the mundane, predictable flow of events. It happened right after the midday repast, and looking back, Elias didn't think he'd ever regretted a single action as profoundly as he regretted what transpired that afternoon.
Rhys, true to form, had claimed a secluded corner during the break, his nose buried in a leather-bound volume. He was precisely the sort of young man who found solace and purpose within the silent communion of printed pages. Elias, on the other hand, harbored a rather embarrassing habit: an almost reflexive conviviality towards individuals of good standing, and a penchant for feigning intellectual curiosity where little existed.
It was this peculiar blend of vanity and ambition that compelled Elias to approach Rhys. He stumbled upon him quite by chance, the book, a worn copy of ancient Veridian folklore, catching his eye.
"You must find solace in these tomes, Sterling?" Elias began, his voice carefully modulated to convey cultured interest.
Rhys looked up, startled. "Oh. Yes, I suppose."
At that time, Rhys and Elias were still distant acquaintances, their interactions confined to polite nods. Perhaps that very detachment made the approach feel effortless, less fraught.
"Nearing the conclusion of that particular narrative?" Elias inquired, gesturing vaguely at the book.
"Indeed," Rhys replied, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. "Almost at the final page."
"Then I'd advise you to close it now," Elias stated, a confident, knowing air about him. "The ending, I assure you, will disappoint. It's one of those unfortunate tales where the resolution sours the entire experience."
Rhys blinked, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "You've... read it, Lord Thorne?"
"A while ago," Elias lied smoothly, a practiced ease in his tone.
To fuel his intellectual vanity, Elias diligently sought out critiques and scholarly reviews of popular and obscure works alike, ensuring he possessed an arsenal of cultivated opinions for future discourse. Drawing upon these carefully cataloged memories, he offered a brief, fabricated critique—just enough to sound informed, suitably erudite. Rhys, to Elias's quiet astonishment, smiled. It was a bright, unadulterated expression of pleasure, utterly genuine.
"You're the first person I've encountered who has read this book," Rhys said, his voice imbued with a rare warmth. "Aside from myself, of course."
"Oh... really?" Elias managed, caught off guard.
"Yes. But I shall still finish it. Contemplating the author's choices, even the disappointing ones, is half the enjoyment, wouldn't you agree?"
"Certainly," Elias conceded, regaining his composure. "Opinions diverge, as they must."
"Hearing you say that," Rhys continued, his smile softening, "makes me look forward to it all the more."
That smile. It lingered in Elias's memory, an uncomfortable, almost unsettling apparition. Was it some nascent, instinctive unease that stirred within him then?
After that day, Rhys Sterling began to seek out Elias with increasing frequency. Though Elias found it somewhat burdensome, often questioning, *Why me, of all people?*, he never outright rejected the advances. Rhys, with his impeccable reputation and quiet, studious nature, was hardly the worst individual to cultivate a casual acquaintance with.
After all, serious literature—beyond the confines of textbooks and Imperial decrees—was practically a forbidden indulgence for gentlemen their age. Even if one possessed the leisure, such volumes were often treated with casual disdain, mere props for the intellectually pretentious. For Rhys, Elias was likely the only soul within the academy's formidable walls willing to discuss such esoteric matters.
That particular day had been one of these routine, almost mundane, encounters. Yet, it also proved to be one of the most ill-fated amongst them.
***
Sir Alaric Finch was, quite unknowingly, the true culprit. To this very day, Elias couldn't fathom the strange impulse that had guided his hand. Why he, a man who fastidiously avoided meddling in others' private affairs, chose that precise moment to intrude. Why Alaric, of all people, had left his mock Imperial History examination paper splayed wide open on his desk, its contents visible to any passing glance.
Elias, who vehemently detested any public display of his own grades, naturally assumed Alaric would share a similar aversion. Without a second thought, he reached out and flipped the paper over, intending to conceal it. That was when he saw it: Alaric's score. Eighty-one points.
He blinked, a slow, disbelieving movement, then checked again. Eighty-one. Given the notoriously stringent grading for this particular examination, such a score would barely secure a position within the lower echelons of the Fourth Tier. But still, it was respectable. It was the first time one of Elias's ingrained preconceptions had been utterly, swiftly shattered.
A small, internal shock to realize Alaric was not the intellectual wastrel Elias had so comfortably categorized him as.
Naturally, his mind veered to Julian Vance's academic record. *Now, there* was a true intellectual derelict. A gentleman who would scribble the same numeral—a '2', invariably—beside every question, then promptly succumb to slumber for the remainder of the examination. Julian had never once managed a score that could be remotely considered commendable.
Perhaps that was the crux of the strange cocktail of emotions Elias felt: as if he had unearthed a glimmer of something reusable, something salvageable, amidst what he had long dismissed as refuse. A man he had, in his quiet disdain, considered utterly lost, turned out to possess more potential than the man he so desperately sought to emulate. That bizarre realization must have dislodged his usual composure, for he did something he would typically never, under any circumstance, have contemplated.
It was nothing grand, nothing dramatic. He simply plucked a nearby quill from a ceramic holder and, with a fleeting moment of hesitation, penned a short note at the very top of Alaric's paper.
"Focus your efforts on the Imperial chronicles and the economic policy sections, Sir Finch. You'll ascend to the Third Tier swiftly. Well done. —Elias.
P.S. My apologies for observing your score without express permission. I merely intended to obscure the paper and inadvertently caught a glimpse."
The sheer arrogance of presuming to evaluate another's academic standing, to offer unsolicited counsel, instantly flooded Elias with a wave of acute embarrassment. He added the clumsy postscript, a desperate, fumbling attempt at justification.
He still couldn't articulate why he had written it in the first place. At the time, he must have been entirely unhinged. Looking back, it was terrifyingly clear: this was the first, ill-advised button in what would become a series of irrevocable entanglements. Every unraveling, after all, begins with a poorly fastened first button.