Two days later, a folded square of parchment awaited Elias in his personal cubby. Tucked beneath his polished parade boots, its presence felt a deliberate act of clandestine intent.
"Kindly attend the supply room before the afternoon's gymnastics drills," the neat script instructed. A simple request, yet for a fleeting moment, a foolish thought pricked at Elias: a clandestine confession, perhaps? The notion dissolved as swiftly as a puff of smoke. Veridia’s Imperial Academy was a bastion of masculine pursuits, its hallowed halls devoid of such romantic entanglements. It was, of course, utterly preposterous.
Other matters swiftly eclipsed the note. Hours bled into one another, filled with the rigorous parsing of ancient legal texts and the intricate logic of imperial cipher. Only the sharp clang of the four-period bell, signaling the imminent drills, jolted the memory back.
Donning the loose-fitting uniform of the physical training corps, Elias made his way to the auxiliary supply room. A flicker of mild curiosity stirred within him, no more profound than observing a rare insect. He anticipated nothing of consequence.
The sender, however, proved an unexpected figure. Caleb Vance, a timid face framed by raven hair slicked neatly against his scalp, shifted nervously within the shadows of stacked equipment.
“Vance?” Elias’s voice carried a note of faint surprise. Caleb’s small head, previously bowed over nails he meticulously worried between his teeth, snapped upright. A bright, almost too-wide smile, reminiscent of his first day at the Academy, stretched across his face. Elias felt a familiar tightening in his brow. That smile, so guileless, always grated.
“What is it, Vance? Why this sudden summons?”
Caleb’s plump fingers twisted into knots. His gaze darted around the cavernous room, settling everywhere but on Elias. “Ah, I… I have something I wished to impart…”
“Well?” Elias pressed, a prickle of impatience stirring. He wished to conclude this interaction swiftly. Proximity to Vance invited unwanted scrutiny, whispers among the stratified ranks of the Academy. He offered Vance just enough courtesy to appear exemplary, never so much as to invite attachment.
Oblivious, Caleb continued to gnaw at his thumb, his eyes wide with a mixture of irresolution and stubborn resolve. He would open his mouth, only for his jaw to clamp shut again.
This hesitant dance ignited a familiar spark of irritation within Elias. Vance had always been an irritant, a constant, low thrum beneath his carefully constructed composure. His delicate mouth, twitching with unspoken words, might have been deemed charming by another, but to Elias, it was an insufferable spectacle. Perhaps, he conceded internally, his own nerves were simply frayed today.
“Vance, I must attend drills. Speak your piece.”
His constitution felt a ragged mess. A dull throb pulsed behind his eyes, mirroring the confusion and frustration tangling his thoughts. He suspected his annoyance wasn’t truly directed at Caleb. It was simply a convenient target for the gnawing disquiet that had taken root within his own stomach, a persistent churn that tightened his chest with each passing day.
As Elias wrestled with this internal turbulence, Caleb finally seemed to reach a decision. His voice, when it came, was a barely audible stammer.
“Thorne… I… uh, you see, I…”
“Yes?” Elias replied, a hand absently rubbing his neck. The bell for drills would ring any moment. He felt a perverse urge to pry Caleb’s small mouth open and extract the words himself.
Then, the heavy oak door to the supply room creaked open, then swung inward with an abrupt force. Both Elias and Caleb turned, their eyes meeting Julian Roth’s. Julian, winded, leaned against the frame. Or rather, his gaze bypassed Elias entirely, locking onto Caleb.
Heavy, ragged breaths rasped from Julian’s chest. He had been running. A suffocating ache tightened Elias’s own ribs, picturing Julian's desperate search through the Academy’s sprawling corridors.
Julian expelled a long, shuddering sigh, then strode into the room, his movements decisive. Elias’s hand, still at his neck, dropped. Julian’s fierce gaze flickered between Caleb and Elias. His fists, clenched then released, hinted at a coiled fury.
“What are you doing here with him?” The question hung in the air, its target ambiguous.
Beneath Elias’s outwardly composed facade, a tempest churned. A long, agonizing pause stretched. Julian’s eyes finally settled on Elias, their intensity an unbearable weight. He could not, *would not*, meet that look.
“What is this, Roth?” Elias’s voice was carefully neutral.
Please, *please*, he pleaded silently, do not look at me this way. Blame Caleb for his summons. Why target him, a confidant, with such raw resentment? He was merely an unwilling participant.
Julian’s burning stare, however, remained fixed. These were not eyes alight with passion or fervor. They were eyes consumed by fury, by a corrosive jealousy, by something akin to madness. It was the face of a man deranged by affection, a spectacle Elias found both pitiable and repugnant.
“Why are you here with him!”
*You are pathetic, Roth.* Elias’s internal voice was cold, sharp. He met Julian’s glare. Yet, a strange, sickening sensation twisted in his gut. The pity, he realized, was not for Julian, but for himself.
Julian’s long stride closed the distance between them. Elias had barely registered the motion when the world lurched.
His body collided with the flagstone floor. A searing pain erupted in his cheek. Only then did his mind rewind, replaying the abrupt, shocking impact.
“No…”
Julian had struck him. His oldest friend, Julian, had struck him.
Lying prone, Elias’s trembling fingers rose to his throbbing cheek. Disbelief, cold and sharp, pierced him. *How could you… How could you do this to me?*
“E-Elias!” Caleb, horrified, stumbled towards him. Julian’s scream, however, tore through the air, wild and unhinged.
“You cur! I told you to address him as Thorne! No, don’t address him at all, you imbecile!” Julian’s face was contorted in a mask of rage, his fury turning Caleb’s face ashen.
“I-I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Caleb stammered.
“You promised! You swore! Damn it!”
Caleb recoiled, tears gathering in his eyes. Elias, still on the floor, felt his own eyes burn. *He* was the one who should be weeping.
Before the dam holding back his own emotions could fully break, Julian let out a guttural curse and stormed from the room, dragging Caleb by the arm. The suddenness of it left Elias breathless, alone.
Left in the echoing silence of the supply room, Elias stared at the half-open door. A shaft of weak afternoon light cut through the gap, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Something inside him finally fractured. The carefully constructed walls around his emotions crumbled, releasing a torrent of tears.
He hated everything. Caleb, who had drawn him into this squalid drama. Julian, who had dared to lay a hand on him. He wished them both to simply vanish, leaving no trace. He felt utterly miserable, reduced to a mere prop in their twisted, grotesque narrative.
Scrambling to his feet, Elias abandoned the gymnastics drills. His swollen, crimson face provided a perfectly believable excuse for an early dismissal from the prefect’s office. His homeroom tutor, a kind but reserved man, offered no probing questions, merely a sympathetic nod.
---
At home, Elias collapsed onto his bed, succumbing to an exhausted, dreamless sleep. He awoke hours later, his face puffy, a tender bruise blooming on his cheekbone. Out of habit, he reached for the small, leather-bound message book kept by his bedside. Its pages, usually filled with carefully penned reminders, now seemed a morbid extension of his plight.
A note had been left by one of the household pages. The familiar, confident script of Marcus Finch. They rarely exchanged messages, their contact primarily through Julian’s orbit. *Damn him.*
For anyone else, Elias would have simply ignored it. But Marcus Finch was not ‘anyone.’ He was Julian’s shadow, his lieutenant, a figure of significant influence among the Academy’s student cliques. Ignoring him carried its own perils.
“When did you abscond?” the message read, a hint of playful reprimand in the ink. Elias clicked his tongue, a soft, self-deprecating sound. Three hours old. He penned a brief, carefully crafted response.
“Ah, a sudden indisposition, I’m afraid.” He kept it light, deliberately so. The thought of anyone discovering Julian’s act, of his own humiliation, was an unbearable weight. And all, he reminded himself, because of Caleb.
“Are you quite well?” A follow-up, conveyed by the same page, arrived shortly after. Marcus Finch, offering concern? A strange tremor ran through Elias. He closed the message book, pushing it away.
Hours later, a wave of profound melancholy washed over him. Even Marcus’s perfunctory message felt suffocating. Other acquaintances, his study partners, had also sent brief inquiries, yet none of it was what he truly craved.
No message bore Julian Roth’s hand. He must be mad. Yet, he consoled himself, this was the bitter fate of those consumed by a maddening, possessive love. Even knowing the cold, hard truth, he lay there, a fool, doing what he did best: closing his eyes, turning a blind eye to the stark reality.
“…I’m not the only one,” he whispered to the ornate ceiling. Perhaps Caleb and he were, in some perverse way, trapped in the same gilded cage. A strange, twisted, utterly grotesque thought. A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with it.
As he lay contemplating the intricate plasterwork, another message arrived. Delivered by a junior page, it was folded without a seal, its script unfamiliar.
“Thorne, are you gravely ill?” Elias’s brow furrowed. Who among his peers would address him so informally? Marcus? But this was not his hand. Before he could ponder further, a relentless, infuriating follow-up arrived.
“I am truly sorry. So deeply sorry. It is all my fault.”
“I am sorry.”
“Please forgive me.”
Three words, four words, it didn’t matter. Each syllable clawed at his composure, making him want to scream. Elias flung the message book across the room, its leather spine hitting the wall with a dull thud. How had this imbecile acquired his private address? And how was someone who supposedly possessed no personal means of correspondence sending him these missives?
Then, a realization, cold and sharp, pierced the haze of his anger. Ah. He had called upon Caleb Vance before, hadn’t he? A shared, brief exchange of information, now weaponized. He cursed his own idiocy, letting out an angry sigh. He pounded his fists against the mattress, venting the surging frustration until exhaustion claimed him. Just before his thoughts faded, one last line from the parchment burned in his mind.
“Please, do not hate me.”
*Funny,* he thought. *I’ve hated you for months.*
The next morning, Elias awoke to a face swollen and tender, as if he’d been stung by a swarm of bees.
---
He skipped the Academy. No matter his scholastic reputation, his dedication to his studies did not extend to parading a bruised and puffy face before his peers.
The household staff, ever attentive, prepared a light luncheon for him. As he ate, the housekeeper, Mrs. Albright, couldn’t resist a gentle scolding, urging him to exercise more caution. The meal itself was simple: soft, unseasoned porridge, accompanied by bland, steamed vegetables. He swallowed it without much chewing, each bite a hollow echo in his mouth.
Setting down his spoon, Elias reached for a glass of water. Mrs. Albright bustled in to clear the dishes, a plate balanced in one hand.
“Master Elias, you have a visitor,” she announced.
“A visitor?”
“Shall I admit them?”
A small flutter stirred in Elias’s chest at the word ‘visitor.’ Before he could identify the emotion, his mind, traitorous and hopeful, began to conjure an image.
*Could it be… Julian?*
The thought seemed a fantastical indulgence, yet it wasn’t entirely impossible. Few at the Academy possessed his private address, fewer still ever ventured to his family estate. If it were Julian, he would have come to offer contrition, a belated apology for the uncharacteristic violence. Julian had never struck him before, not once. Yes, he must be wracked with worry, consumed by regret.
“Yes, Mrs. Albright, please do.”
The fantasy solidified into a fragile certainty. Even as he chastised himself for such foolish naiveté, a faint warmth bloomed within him. Despite everything, he still held some significance to Julian. The thought, however fleeting, offered an inexplicable solace. He moved towards the grand entrance, his steps quickening with a burgeoning anticipation.
The figure waiting by the heavy oak doors, however, was not the one he had envisioned.
“Thorne. What’s all this, then?” Marcus Finch’s sharp features broke into a familiar, lopsided smirk. A small, neatly packaged box of candied fruits, procured from a reputable city confectioner, dangled from his hand. His eyes, however, snagged on Elias’s face, and the smirk vanished, replaced by an uncharacteristic gravity.
“What in Veridia happened to your face?”
Elias felt his knees almost buckle, the sudden plunge of disappointment like a stone in his stomach. *How did Marcus Finch even know where he lived?*
“…I took a tumble,” Elias replied, his voice flat.
Marcus’s brow furrowed, his lips twisting in that way they always did before a cutting remark. “You truly are an utter dolt, aren’t you?”
Elias offered no argument. He merely rubbed his aching cheek. A fresh wave of humiliation washed over him, recalling his earlier, foolish hope. He was indeed a dolt, a complete imbecile, wagging his tail like a hopeful cur. Julian, he knew with a fresh, bitter certainty, cared nothing for him.
“Here. Take this.” Marcus extended the box of candied fruits. Elias accepted it, idly lifting the lid. They were lemon confits, Julian’s favorite. Marcus wouldn’t have known.
“Lemon confits,” Elias observed, a dry note in his voice.
“Are they? Didn’t notice.”
“Figures. Why would you?”
“Damn, Thorne. That’s rather harsh, even for you.”
“What are you doing here, Finch?”
“What else? Came to check on you. Mind if I come in?” Without waiting for an answer, Marcus’s long legs carried him across the threshold.
“Which way to your chambers?”
“Finch, wait!”
“Where else would I go in such a stately home? Not the kitchen, I trust.”
Elias had no retort. Marcus was right. Grand houses, for all their opulence, were fundamentally the same. Awkwardly, Elias followed Marcus, who seemed intent on a casual, yet thorough, inspection of his home’s interior.