A sudden, unbidden curiosity seized me. How did Lyrian and Kaelen traverse the Scholarium's grounds after lessons concluded? A simple, ugly yearning, the sort that blossoms from a poisoned seed of jealousy.
From what stray glimpses I’d caught, Kaelen always trailed Lyrian, a shadow clinging to his heels. They never walked side-by-side, yet the image persisted: Kaelen, already a man grown, following Lyrian with an unnerving devotion. Even as this idle thought took root, a cold dread coiled in my gut, a premonition of some cursed revelation.
A tiny chest, best left sealed, containing not merely despair, but a cruel, unyielding hope that eclipses all reason. Still, one cannot resist the lure of its lid.
“...My mind wanders to madness.”
Indeed, I was not thinking clearly. Nevertheless, I followed Kaelen after the final bell chimed, my steps light, my heart heavy.
I did not venture far.
Cautiously, lest Lyrian detect my presence, I watched Kaelen. His gaze, fixed on Lyrian’s retreating back, held a strange stillness. Ancient flagstones, scoured by centuries of footfalls, led past cracked gargoyles and windows of dim, uneven glass. Weather-worn arcane sigils, barely discernible, clung to crumbling archways. A scene steeped in age and neglect. Two figures, stark against it: Lyrian striding ahead, Kaelen following. And I, observing from the shadows.
Something in the tableau struck me as utterly pathetic, absurd. My own presence most of all. I turned back.
Later, confined to my chambers, the pale light of the moon fractured by the leaded panes, I reconsidered. A quiet satisfaction settled within me. My curiosity had been sharp, yes, but what horrors might I have unearthed by persisting? Ignorance, in this instance, was a solace. I was not so foolish as to pry open such a vexing box for trivial curiosity.
Lyrian’s fixation on Kaelen intensified with each passing day. Kaelen, in turn, seemed to harbor a deep aversion—perhaps outright fear—for Lyrian.
No, it was most certainly hatred. And justly so. How could he feel otherwise toward a peer who, for a full term, had subjected him to ceaseless harassment? A small, dark corner of my heart found smug satisfaction in this. My failure to intervene early, to halt Lyrian’s torment of Kaelen, perhaps served a twisted purpose.
I laced my fingers behind my head, staring at the vaulted ceiling. The intricate celestial charts etched above reminded me of my own fortunate birth. My lineage granted me a prominent place, a life of studied comfort, every scholarly pursuit indulged.
“...Damnation.”
I had once believed myself unburdened by insurmountable obstacles. Then Lyrian entered my heart. That man, with his blinding intensity, unveiled a harsh truth: life’s currents do not always bend to one’s will. I felt a bleak certainty that Lyrian, too, was learning this bitter lesson.
Ah, the world possessed a cruel, exquisite indifference.
At least I had mastered the art of concealing my affections. Lyrian, however, was so consumed by his own tempestuous emotions, he remained oblivious to the stark transparency of his gaze upon Kaelen. That sudden, abnormal intensity must have been profoundly unsettling for Kaelen.
I recognized the feeling. It mirrored my own agonizing infatuation. But where I endured in silence, Lyrian lashed out. Instead of wooing Kaelen, he ensured he earned only contempt. For me, this suited my hidden desires perfectly.
“Please, remain delightfully oblivious,” I murmured to the silent chamber.
Or better yet, may Kaelen grow weary of it all and depart. I harbored no delusion that Lyrian would ever turn to me. Indeed, such a notion, such a love, terrified me.
My sole desire was for a dawn to break where my affections for Lyrian had withered, and for Lyrian to find his own peace elsewhere. Nothing more. But the world, as always, defied such simple hopes.
Another unsettling shift occurred. Lyrian changed his seat, settling himself directly beside Kaelen. He chose the worst possible position, immediately before the Head Archivist’s desk, blocking the view of the blackboard with his towering frame. Kaelen’s former seatmate, a nervous junior scholar, offered me and Theron an awkward, hesitant greeting, his expression a mingling of embarrassment and discomfort.
“Evening, Elaraeth, Theron.”
Theron and I exchanged a fleeting glance. We offered curt nods in return.
“Haha…”
The forced chuckle hung in the air, unanswered. Neither of us felt compelled to respond. His unease was of no consequence to us.
Lyrian sat beside Kaelen, uttering not a single word, his silence a palpable weight. I desperately wished—prayed—that this stasis, this fragile, awkward tension, might endure for another year and a half. That one day, this unbearable moment would dissolve into a forgotten, indistinct dream.
Yet another change manifested. Lyrian, who had once spent his weekends indulging in revelries within the city’s lower districts, seemed to abandon that habit. Or so it appeared. Whispers among Theron’s usual cohort suggested he hadn't ceased entirely. Still, he no longer boasted of his conquests in the lecture hall, nor did the cloying scent of cheap spirits cling to his robes.
For me, this offered a modicum of relief. I no longer had to endure the acrid tang of his escapades up close.
“Lyrian! Abandoning your pursuits? These… nocturnal ventures?”
Seraph, a boisterous figure, swayed suggestively before Lyrian, his hands gesturing obscenely. Lyrian’s face twisted in revulsion at the crude display. A swift, almost imperceptible glance towards Kaelen, then a shouted retort.
“You oaf! I forbid such talk in public!”
“Why this sudden modesty, then, Lyrian?”
“If you resurrect that topic again, Seraph, you shall regret it.”
“But Lyrian—”
“I said, silence!”
“…Fine, have it your way.”
The others clearly felt disappointed. Lyrian, with his imposing stature and precocious aura, had been the perfect conduit for the hormonal curiosities of young scholars. Many within Lyrian and Theron’s circle were not novices; they had fumbled through their own clumsy experiences. Compared to the truly innocent, they were more easily titillated. With Lyrian’s exploits now off-limits, their attention drifted to Theron. But Theron merely bared his teeth, an expression of pure disdain.
“You filth-ridden perverts.”
“Ah, there he goes again! Theron, with his grand pronouncements.”
“He’s a zealot, truly. Such a waste.”
Laughter rippled through the hall, loud and fleeting.
Most of the young men in our group had, at least once, ventured into forbidden territories. For reasons unknown, Theron had not. While we teased him, jestingly calling him 'The Unblemished', no one truly disrespected him. He was Theron, after all. He carried a peculiar, carefree insouciance about everything, which rendered his actions natural, his words easily accepted. Many found this either charming or approachable, often remarking how his demeanor belied his formidable countenance.
“You lout, cease glaring at me. You’ll make me soil myself.”
“Aye, that one’s face could curdle milk.”
“Do you imbeciles yearn for an early grave?”
Theron scowled, and the group erupted into another round of laughter, though little humor existed in his words. Some acolytes loitering at the rear of the chamber, perhaps friends, perhaps less, joined in with their hollow laughs and aimless chatter, adding to the din. Amidst them, I sat, my gaze fixed blankly on my lap, lost in thought.
…
If my memory served, I had never once felt the stirrings of desire for a woman. I suppose that made me, by some intrinsic design, inclined to men. I had felt arousal witnessing depictions involving both sexes, yet never, not once, had I conjured a woman’s form in my solitary fantasies. The former seemed a response to the raw intensity of the situation; the latter, a simple absence of desire.
I had once been dragged by Lyrian to a certain establishment, notorious in the capital’s underbelly, but I failed to even pass the threshold. My documentation was insufficient. Instead, I waited outside until Lyrian reappeared. Houses of ill repute? Repugnant. The mere thought of such a place turned my stomach. I often wondered at those who frequented them.
Because of this, my companions jokingly dubbed me “Elaraeth the Ascetic.” In truth, my abstinence felt less like choice, more like compulsion.
I let out a small, quiet sigh.
My companions, absorbed in Theron’s latest quip, paid me no mind. Seizing the moment, I glanced at Lyrian, who sat in utter silence. His eyes, as ever, were fixed on the back of Kaelen’s head as Kaelen poured over some ancient scroll.
And, as always, regret flared within me. Why had I looked? Why did I possess this damnable curiosity? To distract myself, I posed a trivial question to Theron.
“So, do you truly intend to remain celibate until you marry, Theron?”
Theron, lounging in his chair with proprietary ease, abruptly shifted his gaze directly to my lap. His stare felt so penetrating, I instinctively crossed my legs, as if to shield myself. What in the blazes?
“You are not my spouse, Elaraeth, so why do you care? What, are you offering?”
…
Of course. This wretch always resorted to malicious jests. The others chuckled, and I delivered a sharp kick to Theron’s shin.
Such were my days—a monotonous cycle, repeating without end.
---
Alone in my study, thoughts often unfurl, meandering through myriad scenarios. Inevitably, they drift into the realm of strange fantasies.
Today, I found myself contemplating an alternate reality: what if my heart had ensnared itself with Theron, rather than Lyrian? It seemed a far less tortured path. Had I loved Theron, I would not have endured the constant heartbreak born of Lyrian’s messy entanglements with others.
Even so, heartbreak would have found me.
Neither Lyrian nor Theron would ever return my affections, I knew this with chilling certainty. But at least my soul would not ache because of Kaelen.
That train of thought invariably led to a bitter inferiority, then a simmering anger. In the end, I simply wished for the swift arrival of graduation, for the day Lyrian would become a stranger.
---
At some indeterminate point, I began unconsciously placing my hands beneath the desk whenever I settled into a chair. This habit, I recalled, first manifested during my second year of junior scholarship. The cause remained consistent: men.
My fingers toyed with the clasp of my tunic, a low, metallic click tapping against my nail. Should I? Or should I not? The quiet chamber filled with the subtle sound. Just as my thumb pressed against the latch, poised to unfasten it, a rap sounded on the door.
“Elaraeth! Are you immersed in your studies?”
“…Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!”
My heart seized in my chest. This was certainly not the day. Mortified, I buried my face in my arms. Damn.
---
Lately, Lyrian had begun to grate on my nerves.
Sometimes, when Kaelen’s gaze drifted to me, Lyrian would deliberately initiate conversation with him. Kaelen, caught between us, would flick his eyes in my direction, his lips parting as if to speak, only to press them shut again. Then, as if wary of Lyrian’s looming presence, he would lower his head and offer an almost inaudible response.
“Y-yes…”
Always like that.
Kaelen, in his subtle way, sought me out more often. He even began to call me “El.” Aside from my kin, almost no one used that familiar diminutive, making the change strikingly apparent. He seemed to believe his caution concealed his actions, but he was mistaken. The most infuriating part was Lyrian’s inability to mask his discomfort whenever Kaelen dared such a small familiarity.
“Kaelen, cease distracting Elaraeth from his work.”
“What?”
“Do not bother him. Is that unclear?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes…”
When Kaelen stammered and averted his gaze, Lyrian childishly slammed his fist against the leg of the desk beside him. I feigned ignorance. Annoyingly, a clueless Kaelen appeared to believe no one cared about his use of “El” anymore. He grew bolder, using it casually, as if it were an established norm.
“Uh, El… apologies for interrupting your studies.”
I stiffened, staring at him in disbelief. Was he mad? Lyrian sat right there.
Sure enough, Lyrian pounded his fist against the desk again. Damn it.
“Kaelen!”
“…Huh?”
The air thickened instantly.
“I told you.”
Lyrian’s anger was blatant, unapologetic.
“I told you not to call him ‘El,’ did I not?”
“…W-well…”
“Call him Elaraeth. That is his name—Elaraeth.”
His gaze, sharp and almost predatory, shifted to me. I loathed that look and instinctively lowered my head. At that precise moment, Theron, seated beside me, casually draped an arm over my shoulders. His low, distinctive voice murmured near my ear.
“Lyrian, persist in this, and you will truly undo yourself.”
“What nonsense do you speak?”
“I speak of regret.”
Theron smirked. A flicker of irritation sparked within me. For one reason only.
“Lyrian,