Two days had passed since Kaelen’s pronouncements, the memory a chilling, gilded chain around Elaraeth’s heart. He found a small, hastily folded scrap of parchment tucked beneath a stack of deciphered runic tablets within his study carrel – a place rarely disturbed. The script was an unpracticed, almost childish scrawl.
“*Might you spare a moment in the disused scriptorium annex before the Aetheric Kinetics session this morn?*”
Elaraeth’s fingers, accustomed to the delicate dance of ancient vellum, traced the unfamiliar characters. His mind, ever analytical, considered the implication. A summons, yes, but for what purpose? A fleeting, absurd thought of a *personal* appeal flickered, then extinguished itself. Such notions were for the highborn, for those whose social currency bought them such intimacies. He was Elaraeth, of the low house of Cynath, a scholar by grace, not birth. It couldn’t be what he fleetingly feared, or hoped.
He had nearly forgotten the cryptic summons until the chime for the fourth period, signalling the dreaded Aetheric Kinetics, resonated through the Lumina Scholarium’s ancient halls.
Donning the spare, unadorned vestments for physical training, Elaraeth made his way towards the annex. A vague curiosity pricked him, but no deeper anticipation. He expected some minor request, a favour for deciphering a difficult passage, perhaps. Nothing of import.
The sender, however, proved to be an unexpected figure: Jorin, his usually timid face cast in shadow by the low light of the annex, his dark hair neatly pressed against his brow. Jorin, a junior acolyte of no particular standing, known for his nervous fidgeting.
“Jorin?” Elaraeth’s voice was low, puzzled. Jorin’s small head, which had been bent over, biting at a nail, snapped up. He offered a quick, hesitant wave, a faint echo of the bright, guileless smile he’d worn upon entering the Scholarium years ago. That ingenuousness, Elaraeth noted, had always grated.
“What is it, then? Why this urgency?” Elaraeth inquired, a faint tremor of impatience in his tone. Jorin, in response, nervously twisted his plump fingers, a tell-tale sign of distress.
“Ah, I… I have something I wished to convey…”
“Speak it, then.” Elaraeth felt a mounting urge to depart. To be discovered alone with Jorin, a scholar of such negligible standing, could only breed unwelcome whispers. He performed his occasional duties for Jorin with scrupulous correctness, no more, no less, always mindful of preserving his own precarious, hard-won reputation.
Jorin, oblivious to Elaraeth’s discomfort, continued to bite his thumb, his gaze darting about the dusty scriptorium annex. His face was a shifting canvas of indecision and resolve. Each time he seemed on the verge of articulation, his mouth clamped shut once more.
Silence stretched, taut and thin. This hesitance ignited a flicker of Elaraeth’s irritation. Jorin’s demure nature had never endeared him, and every stuttering movement now magnified Elaraeth’s unease. His small, constantly moving mouth might have appeared endearing to another, but to Elaraeth, it was an unbearable affliction. He recognised the sharp edge of his own sensitivity, honed by sleepless nights and the pervasive sense of unease that had settled after Kaelen’s fervent pledges.
“See here, I must return to my session. Could you not simply speak your mind?” Elaraeth’s voice was tighter than he intended. His temper, already frayed by Kaelen’s unsettling devotion and Lyrian’s insinuations, was a knotted cord within him. His thoughts churned like troubled waters.
Perhaps his ire was not truly directed at Jorin. Perhaps he simply sought an outlet for the nameless frustrations that had festered within. His stomach had been a constant knot of unease of late, adding to the pervasive tension.
As Elaraeth’s thoughts spiralled, Jorin finally seemed to gather his courage. In a small, stammering voice, he began.
“El… Elaraeth… I… you see, I…”
“Yes?” Elaraeth responded absently, scratching at his neck. The short interval before Kinetics was almost spent, and he longed for the release of Jorin’s pronouncement. A dark, fleeting impulse urged him to pry the words from Jorin’s lips himself.
Just then, the heavy oak door of the annex swung open with a sudden, jarring groan. Both Jorin and Elaraeth turned in unison. Kaelen stood silhouetted in the entrance, gasping for breath, his chest heaving. His eyes, however, were not on Elaraeth. They were fixed, burning, upon Jorin.
“Hmph, hmph…” Kaelen’s laboured breathing filled the air. Elaraeth’s chest constricted with a suffocating ache, imagining Kaelen’s frantic search through the Scholarium’s labyrinthine passages for Jorin.
Kaelen let out a long, ragged exhale, then strode purposefully into the annex. Unconsciously, Elaraeth dropped the hand that had been rubbing his neck. Kaelen’s gaze flickered between Jorin and Elaraeth, a fierce, barely contained storm brewing in his eyes.
“Why are you here, with *him*?” The query hung in the air, directed at no one, yet accusing everyone. Kaelen’s clenched fists opened and closed, a silent testament to his rage.
Beneath Elaraeth’s carefully cultivated calm, a frantic hammering began in his heart. After a prolonged silence, Kaelen’s eyes finally settled on Elaraeth. The intensity of that gaze, a mixture of betrayal and maddening possessiveness, was unbearable.
“What is the meaning of this, Kaelen?” Elaraeth managed, his voice barely a whisper.
*Please, please, avert your gaze. Cast your blame upon Jorin, who summoned me. Why do you look upon me, your… confidant, with such raw resentment? I am but an unwitting party to this.* Elaraeth’s internal plea was desperate.
Yet, Kaelen’s burning eyes remained locked onto him. Elaraeth knew, with a chilling certainty, that these were not the eyes of passion or fervent adoration. These were the eyes of a soul consumed by wrath, by a venomous jealousy, by a burgeoning madness. It was the visage of a man deranged by a love that Elaraeth found both pitiful and utterly despicable.
“Why are you here with him!” Kaelen’s voice rose, a sharp, ragged cry.
*You are pathetic, Kaelen. So utterly pathetic.* Elaraeth met his gaze with a defiant, cold stare. Yet, a crushing weight settled in his chest, a sickening realisation: *the pitiful one is not you, Kaelen. It is I.*
Before Elaraeth could fully process the thought, Kaelen’s long strides had carried him directly before him. The world tilted, then lurched. A blinding flash of pain erupted on his cheek. His vision blurred.
“...!”
He couldn’t even grasp what had transpired. His body toppled to the cold flagstones, and only then did his mind replay the shocking instant.
“Impossible…”
He had been struck. Kaelen had struck him. Lying sprawled, Elaraeth raised a trembling hand to his cheek. The skin throbbed, raw and hot. He couldn’t comprehend it. *How could you… how could you do this to me?*
“E-Elaraeth!” Jorin, horrified, rushed forward. Kaelen, however, roared like a cornered beast.
“You craven fool! I told you to address me by my full name! No, do not address me at all, you wretched commoner!”
Jorin flinched back, his face paling, tears welling in his eyes. But no, Elaraeth thought, Jorin was not the one who should weep. It was he.
His own tears welled, hot and stinging, threatening to spill. Before the dam broke, Kaelen let out a violent curse, then seized Jorin by the arm, dragging him roughly from the annex. It all happened with disorienting speed.
Left alone, sitting on the cold floor of the disused scriptorium annex, Elaraeth stared at the half-open door. A sliver of late morning light streamed through the crack, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Something within him finally gave way. The elegant torment, the carefully constructed composure, shattered. Tears flowed freely, unchecked, scalding his bruised cheek.
He loathed everything. Jorin, who had ensnared him in this sordid affair. Kaelen, who had dared to strike him. He wished them both banished from his sight, from his very existence. He felt profoundly miserable, reduced to a mere bystander in their twisted, brutish drama.
Rising, Elaraeth skipped the Aetheric Kinetics session. He made his way directly to the Master Librarian’s office, requesting leave for the day. His swollen, reddened face lent credence to his plea of a sudden ailment, and the Master, a stoic woman with a kind but discerning gaze, offered no further inquiry.
---
At his humble chambers within the Scholarium, Elaraeth collapsed upon his narrow cot and sank into a fitful slumber. When he awoke, his face felt puffy and sore, a dull ache radiating from his cheekbone. Out of habit, he retrieved his communication slate. A message from Seren caught his eye. They rarely exchanged private missives, save for matters related to Kaelen, a thought that brought a fresh wave of bitterness. *Damn him*.
Were it any other acolyte, Elaraeth would have ignored the message. But Seren was Kaelen’s closest associate, wielding influence among the Scholarium’s informal factions. He could not afford to dismiss him.
“*Elaraeth, when did you abscond from the drills?*”
Elaraeth clicked his tongue, his reply terse, hours after the original message.
“*A momentary indisposition, naught else.*”
He deliberately kept his response light, dismissive. The thought of others discovering Kaelen’s violence was an unbearable humiliation. And all because of Jorin, no less.
“*Are you well?*” Seren’s unexpected concern felt strange, unsettling. Elaraeth shut off the communication slate.
Hours later, a fresh wave of despondency washed over him. Even Seren’s message felt cloying, suffocating. Other scholars with whom he held academic affiliations had sent perfunctory inquiries, but none were what he truly sought.
No message from Kaelen. *He must be mad.* Yet, Elaraeth lay there, still, consoling himself with the bitter thought that this was the inevitable fate of one consumed by such a maddening devotion. Even knowing the truth, he lay like an imbecile, doing what he did best: closing his eyes, averting his gaze from the stark reality.
“...I am not the only one.”
Perhaps Jorin and he shared a similar plight. A strange, twisted, grotesque thought, mingling with a selfish, wicked, childish hope. As he stared at the ceiling, another message arrived. An unknown sender.
“*Elaraeth, are you grievously unwell?*”
He frowned. Who among his peers would address him so familiarly, without their full title? Seren? But the glyphs did not match Seren’s known script. Before he could dwell upon it, a follow-up message arrived, relentless, infuriating.
“*I am sorry. Truly sorry. It is all my doing.*”
“*I am sorry.*”
“*Please, forgive me.*”
Three messages, four, five… each syllable a fresh lash. Elaraeth slammed his communication slate against the stone floor in frustration. How had this commoner acquired his private channel? And how could one who possessed no personal slate send such persistent missives? Then, a chilling memory resurfaced. *Oh. He had provided his channel to Jorin months ago, in a moment of scholarly charity.*
He cursed his idiotic brain, letting out a raw, angry sigh. To vent his fury, he pounded his fists against the cot for a while until exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted into a restless sleep. Just before his thoughts completely faded, one final message lingered in his mind, echoing Jorin’s frantic plea.
“*Please, do not hate me.*”
*Humorous,* Elaraeth thought, a bitter, hollow laugh trapped in his throat. *I have despised you for months.*
The following morn, Elaraeth awoke, his face swollen like a baked apple.
---
He elected to forgo the Scholarium altogether. No matter his fervent dedication to his studies, he could not present himself with such a disfigurement. His seneschal, a stern but kindly woman, prepared a light meal for him. As he ate, she could not resist a gentle scolding, urging him to exercise greater caution. Lunch was unexceptional: soft porridge, a few limp, seasoned greens. He swallowed it all without truly tasting, without much chewing.
As he set his spoon down and reached for a goblet of spiced water, the seneschal entered to clear the dishes. Plate in one hand, she spoke.
“Elaraeth, a visitor awaits.”
“A visitor?”
“Shall I admit them?”
A visitor. His heart fluttered, a strange, unbidden tremor. Before he could fully identify the emotion, his mind had already begun to conjure images of who might stand beyond the heavy oak door.
Could it be… Kaelen? It seemed a wild, improbable fantasy, yet not entirely impossible. Few among his peers ever ventured to his private chambers. Only a select handful even knew his exact location within the sprawling complex. If it were Kaelen, then he must have arrived to offer contrition, his conscience finally pricked by his violent outburst. Kaelen had never before raised a hand to him, not once. Yes, he must be wracked with worry, consumed by regret.
“Yes, pray admit them.”
The fantasy solidified into a fragile certainty. Even as he silently chastised himself for such naive hope, a small sense of perverse satisfaction bloomed in his chest. Despite everything, despite the pain, he still held some measure of significance for Kaelen. That thought, treacherous and seductive, suffused him with an inexplicable, fleeting warmth. He rose quickly, his pace quickening with a surge of anxious anticipation as he moved towards the antechamber.
But the figure awaiting him was not the one he had so desperately yearned for.
“Elaraeth, what woes befall you?” Seren greeted him with his usual playful smirk, a small satchel of candied fruits in his hand. But as his gaze fell upon Elaraeth’s face, his expression sobered, the levity draining from his voice.
“What in the name of the Arcane occurred to your visage?”
Elaraeth’s knees nearly buckled from the sudden, crushing disappointment. *How did Seren even know his private chambers?*
“...I suffered a fall,” he replied, his voice flat, devoid of inflection.
Seren frowned, twisting his lips in that familiar, sardonic manner before offering a cutting remark.
“Verily, you possess a remarkable talent for misfortune, do you not?”
Elaraeth did not bother to argue. He merely rubbed his swollen cheek, a dull ache throbbing beneath his fingertips. A wave of profound embarrassment washed over him, remembering his earlier, foolish hopes. He was such an imbecile. Kaelen did not consider him important. And here he was, wagging his tail like a hopeful, idiotic hound.
“Here, take this.” Seren extended a small flask of chilled herbal balm. Elaraeth accepted it, immediately uncorking it to ascertain its properties.
“...It is Mint-infused.”
“Is it? I did not observe closely.”
“Figures. Why would you care?”
“By the Mother, that is a harsh judgment.”
“What purpose brings you here?”
“What else? I came to ascertain your welfare. May I enter?”
“See here, wait!”
Without hesitation, Seren’s long legs carried him into the chambers. He moved with an almost insolent ease, his eyes already sweeping over the sparse furnishings.
“Where are your study alcoves?”
“Where do you go?”
“Where else? There is no other destination within these modest confines.”
“...” Elaraeth had no retort. Seren spoke the truth. His quarters were simple, functional, bereft of the elaborate personal touches common among the higher-ranked scholars. Feeling utterly awkward, Elaraeth followed Seren, who seemed oddly intent on inspecting the interior of his private abode, a quiet invasion of his fragile solitude.