Elaraeth’s cheek, a canvas of purple and bruised amber yesterday, now offered a less damning portrait. A faint puffiness remained, a bluish tinge lingering near the temple, but it was the kind of slight discoloration one might dismiss as a clumsy encounter with a heavy tome. He traced the fading mark with a self-conscious fingertip, a manageable injury, yet one that still throbbed with the ghost of Kaelen’s fist and the raw wound of humiliation.
He moved through the Lumina Scholarium’s labyrinthine corridors, a sense of fragile hope fluttering within his chest. The morning mists, usually a balm, felt cloying, a precursor to the day’s inevitable weight. Anticipation, cold and sharp, coiled in his gut as he approached the Great Lecture Hall, its grand doors looming like the jaws of some ancient beast.
The air within the hall hung thick with unspoken judgments, a humid miasma of unease that clung to the velvet draperies and polished lecterns. Conversations hushed to whispers as acolytes filed in, their gazes darting, collectively drawn by a silent, oppressive force. Kaelen. His presence, even before he was seen, permeated the very stone.
Instinctively, Elaraeth scanned for Jorin. The younger acolyte slipped through the arched entrance just as the first chime of the morning lecture resonated, narrowly avoiding censure. Jorin. His own heart seized in his chest, breath catching, the sight of him a fresh, agonizing blow.
He had half-jokingly, in the dark corners of his private despair, wished Kaelen might have received some reciprocal injury. A childish, ugly thought, born of his own elegant torment. Now, seeing Jorin, a suffocating remorse weighed him down. He felt a disgust so profound it tasted of ash.
Jorin was a wreck. His lower lip, split and crusted, bore the angry bloom of an untreated wound. One eye, swollen almost shut, was a grotesque parody of Elaraeth’s own fading bruise. A faint discoloration, no, this was a clear, brutal testament. A choked sound, half-gasp, half-whisper, escaped Elaraeth’s lips.
Jorin paused at the threshold, his gaze skittering nervously across the assembly. Then, as if drawn by an invisible, cruel string, his eyes found Elaraeth’s. He stared for a long, agonizing moment, recognition and something akin to fear twisting his battered features. Abruptly, he stiffened, a startled grimace seizing his face, then averted his gaze sharply. Jorin shuffled to his accustomed bench, avoiding Elaraeth entirely.
*What in the name of the Silent Scribes?*
That strange reaction left Elaraeth cold, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. He glanced around, and the reason became clear, stark as a lightning strike. Kaelen, perched imperiously upon his own bench, glared at Elaraeth with an intensity that promised annihilation.
*Ah, damnation.* He should have feigned an illness, a sudden scholarly insight that demanded his solitary attention. Regret, a bitter wave, washed over him.
---
After that, Jorin, once so eager to cling to Elaraeth’s proximity, avoided speaking during the brief pauses between lectures. At midday, he vanished with Kaelen, spirited away to some secluded corner of the Scholarium, or perhaps beyond its hallowed walls.
Elaraeth found himself adrift, his usual solitary lunch in the less-frequented scriptorium annex feeling particularly desolate. A part of him, a childish, reckless part, yearned to seek them out, to demand answers. But he knew, with a certainty that chilled him, he would not. He hated to admit it, but he was too afraid of what he might witness if he did.
Surely, Kaelen would not be inflicting further harm upon Jorin… Would he? It was not his concern, he told himself, not his place to interfere in the complex, unspoken rituals of hierarchy and dominance within the Scholarium. Yet, the memory of Jorin’s battered face made it impossible to dismiss.
Across the worn oak table, Seren, ever the unperturbed, kept up his usual stream of sardonic observations. He munched on a candied fruit pastry, oblivious to the storm raging within Elaraeth’s mind.
“The Grand Acolyte Lyraeth’s lecture on aetheric resonance felt particularly… resonant today, did it not? I swear I almost choked on my own intellectual fervor.”
“You seemed perfectly content consuming honeyed apricots yesterday,” Elaraeth murmured, picking at a crust of bread.
“Give me some credit, Elaraeth. I possess the enviable skill of masking profound scholarly contemplation beneath a veneer of casual indulgence.” Seren winked, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “One must, after all, absorb the sweetness of knowledge.”
Annoyed, Elaraeth nudged Seren’s shin beneath the table with a light tap of his boot. Seren merely chuckled, rubbing his chin with an oddly sheepish expression – or so it seemed. A fleeting anomaly in his usual irreverence.
---
Life, Elaraeth had long observed, rarely adhered to the neat dictates of scholarly expectation. From their first reluctant introduction, he had held no intention of cultivating a friendship with Seren. Indeed, he had found the man’s flippant humor and casual disregard for strict Scholarium decorum grating. Yet, here they were, and Seren was fast becoming the unexpected anchor in his turbulent existence.
Seren’s lighthearted demeanor, his almost impudent flippancy, possessed an uncanny knack for preventing Elaraeth from sinking too deeply into the suffocating weight of his own thoughts. In the past, Elaraeth had dismissed these very qualities as shallow, unserious, unbecoming of an acolyte destined for higher scholarly pursuits. Now, he found himself relying on that levity, a delicate counterweight against the oppressive gravity of his circumstances.
Had Kaelen and he remained as they once were, bound by a fragile, unspoken pact, Elaraeth might never have recognized how desperately he needed Seren’s irreverent presence. How much he needed someone to cut through the elegant torment with a jibe and a knowing glance.
After that day, Kaelen began to distance himself from the established coterie of his former associates. Sometimes, he would vanish with Jorin. Other times, a few acolytes would be cajoled into accompanying them. There were even moments when some simply refused, shaking their heads with uneasy expressions, their whispers of dissent barely audible above the rustle of ancient scrolls.
One such instance involved a junior adept, Lysander, a usually boisterous fellow with a penchant for dramatics. Elaraeth encountered him clambering over a low wall bordering the outer gardens, seemingly attempting to avoid a particularly watchful Magister. Lysander, a curious blend of amusement and unease in his voice, confided that Kaelen had been ordering others to inflict minor, yet cumulative, indignities upon Jorin – a shove here, a tripped foot there, a 'lost' satchel. His face twisted in disbelief. Lysander, sensing Elaraeth’s reaction, quickly added that he’d been avoiding Kaelen’s presence lately because of it. He then mentioned he was on his way to the arcane smithy with another acolyte, Theon, and asked Elaraeth not to misinterpret his absence. With a hurried shrug, he vanished.
Theon, Elaraeth recalled, had been close to Kaelen during their first year as initiates but, after being assigned to a different arcane specialty, their paths had gradually diverged.
At midday, Elaraeth and Seren went to the outer grounds, purchasing spiced honeycakes from a street vendor. The sweet, warm dough spread across Elaraeth’s tongue, momentarily soothing the raw ache in his chest. Yet, beneath that fleeting relief, a bitter knot of unease tightened, a persistent, dull throb. He held his ground, determined not to let the turmoil show on his face.
“Is that palatable, Elaraeth?” Seren asked, eyeing Elaraeth’s honeycake greedily, his own already half-devoured.
“Would you care for a portion?” Half-teasing, Elaraeth brought his honeycake, sticky with his own saliva, close to Seren’s mouth. Without hesitation, Seren grinned, lifted one corner of his lip, and took a surprisingly large bite.
“Seren! Did you truly partake of that?”
“You extended the offer.”
“That is… unhygienic. And why such a prodigious bite?”
“It was but a singular taste.” Grinning, Seren shrugged one shoulder, utterly unrepentant. It was a peaceful moment, a fragile bubble of calm. In stark contrast to Elaraeth’s internal turmoil, the crisp autumn air was clear, the Scholarium’s spires gleaming under a serene, cloudless sky.
Where were Kaelen and Jorin now? Several secluded courtyards, disused antechambers, or even forbidden passages came to mind. Elaraeth did not seek them out. Perhaps he was afraid of what he might find if he did.
He tried his utmost not to think of Kaelen. But the harder he strove to banish the acolyte’s image, the more Kaelen seemed to occupy the vast chambers of his mind.
How long would it take to excise the clinging tendrils of a sentiment he despised? How much effort would it demand? He did not know. It felt like being lost in a vast, endless desert, not merely sad and suffocating, but terrifying, an unbearable weight on his soul.
Sometimes, he retreated within himself, a scholarly retreat, much like a meticulous archivist stepping back to discern the faded script upon an ancient parchment. When the overwhelming pressure became too great, he would occasionally speak with Seren. And, for the moment, that was enough.
Suddenly, a question, born of a deep, unarticulated longing, spilled from his lips.
“Seren.”
“Hm?”
“…Do you believe flowers can ever bloom in a barren desert?”
It was such an emotional question, so uncharacteristically raw, that Elaraeth felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck the moment the words were uttered. He scratched his head awkwardly, his gaze fixed on the intricate carvings of the Scholarium gate. Seren, however, did not mock him.
“They will.”
“…”
“They must. Life, after all, is quite dismal enough already.”
Hearing those words from Seren—a person Elaraeth had never considered capable of such earnest sentiment—made him realize just how futile, how desperate, his own flickering hope truly was. How much time would it take for him to relinquish these meaningless feelings, this futile devotion?
“…Indeed. Life is dismal.”
Kaelen. That useless, arrogant scion. Why did he seem so intent on killing the loyal, tail-wagging hound Elaraeth became every time Kaelen graced him with a flicker of attention? Kaelen, who seemed to have abandoned all the basic tenets of acolyte decorum, now came and went from the Scholarium as he pleased. And always, by his side, a shadow of his former self, was Jorin.
As the situation grew increasingly suspicious, the student body buzzed with a mix of unease and veiled intrigue. It became clear: Kaelen’s cruelty was escalating. And so, too, was the fog of resentment toward him, slowly spreading throughout the junior acolytes. None of it felt right.
So, when Elaraeth saw Kaelen dragging Jorin by the wrist down a quiet antechamber, he stopped dead in his tracks. Watching them, his gaze flitted between their faces, before he finally spoke, his voice carefully level.
“Magister Lyraeth has expressed… concerns regarding your recent conduct, Kaelen.”
It was not an apology, nor flattery—it was a lie, a carefully constructed fabrication, born of Elaraeth’s desperation and what remained of his pride. Magister Lyraeth, known for his detachment, would likely not care about such minor transgressions. But Kaelen, ever conscious of his family’s standing, might pause. And even if he saw through the pretense, Elaraeth could always argue that, at this rate, Lyraeth would indeed have plenty to worry about. He always ensured an escape route.
“If punishment must be meted out,” Elaraeth continued, his voice barely a murmur, “let it fall upon you alone. What transgression has Jorin committed?”
“Move, Elaraeth.”
The moment Elaraeth mentioned Jorin’s name, Kaelen’s gaze locked onto him, blazing with a dangerous, feral gleam. Elaraeth’s chest felt like it might burst from the weight of that silent threat. He hated him. And yet, pitiful, pathetic Jorin stood glued to Kaelen’s side, his tear-filled eyes looking at Elaraeth with a fragile, desperate plea.
“Unless you wish to revisit the ignominy of yesterday,” Kaelen snarled, a low, dangerous rumble, “I suggest you remove yourself from my path.”
“K-Kaelen, please,” Jorin stammered, his voice trembling, a pitiful, broken sound. Only then did Kaelen stop speaking. His gaze was fixed solely on Jorin now. Elaraeth could only see the rigid line of Kaelen’s back as he turned slightly away.
“As I said,” Elaraeth tried again, his voice cracking, “Magister Lyraeth has—”
“…”
Jorin, on the verge of tears, clung to Kaelen’s arm, attempting to restrain him. Watching that wretched scene unfold was unbearable, a searing agony in Elaraeth’s soul. He closed his eyes.
After a moment, Kaelen looked down at Jorin, then, with a curt nod, turned and walked back into the Grand Lecture Hall. For the rest of the day, he remained within its hallowed confines—just as he had done a few weeks prior.
---
The long-anticipated day of the Grand Scholarly Excursion arrived, heralded by the soft, resonant chiming of the Lumina bells. An enchanted conveyance, usually reserved for Arch-Librarians, had been commissioned to transport them to the Ancient Archives of Eldoria. While a few junior acolytes grumbled about being dragged away from their studies, most were electrified by the rare chance to escape the Lumina Scholarium, even for a single day.
There was no need to pack provisions; they would return by evening’s light. The lecturing Magisters offered only a few half-hearted warnings about decorum and the sanctity of ancient knowledge before releasing them to the antechamber where the conveyance awaited. They were no longer mere initiates, after all.
Elaraeth, usually a meticulous planner, had not considered the seating arrangements beyond his customary spot beside Kaelen. Custom, after all, dictated his place, a silent pact forged over years of shared study. He hadn’t even spared a thought for where Seren might sit, having never traveled with him in such a formal setting.
At first, a tremor of apprehension had coursed through Elaraeth, a fear that Seren, with his casual disregard for social niceties, might somehow usurp his spot. Thinking back on it now, it was pathetic, that petty, anxious thought. Neither Elaraeth nor Seren would claim that particular berth.
He arrived in the antechamber, the conveyance shimmering with faint arcane light, and climbed aboard to find his accustomed place. The five rearmost berths were already claimed by a group of boisterous acolytes, including Lysander, who waved at Elaraeth, then hesitated before pointing toward Kaelen’s seat.
“Elaraeth! There’s space here!”
“…Oh, indeed.”
Of course. He had always been the one beside him. But today, Elaraeth hesitated as he approached Kaelen’s usual berth. He sighed, a tremor of relief passing through him, when he saw that the cushion beside Kaelen was still empty. Swallowing hard, he felt a twinge of desperate determination.
It was his spot. His pride—the last, stubbornly clinging vestige—compelled him to claim it, even after the brutal ignominy inflicted upon him because of Jorin.
He nervously touched the gilded armrest for a moment, his gaze sweeping across the opulent interior of the conveyance, then quietly asked, his voice barely a whisper,
“Kaelen… This berth…”
“It is not yours, Elaraeth. Find another.”
Before Elaraeth could finish, Kaelen cut him off, his gaze fixed on the arched entrance of the conveyance. Following Kaelen’s line of sight, Elaraeth saw Jorin, timid and hesitant, making his way toward them. Elaraeth’s fists clenched, and he swallowed the bitter words that threatened to choke him.
“…Very well. As you wish.” He tried to infuse his voice with indifference, though his heart felt as if it had been shredded into countless, aching pieces.
He quickly vacated the berth and scanned the conveyance. He found an empty cushion near Seren’s group, directly in front of where the man was seated. Relieved, Elaraeth hurried over, collapsing into the seat, and spoke without waiting for a response.
“Seren. Sit with me.”
There was no answer. When Elaraeth looked closer, he realized Seren was already asleep, his head resting against the enchanted glass window, bouncing gently with every subtle undulation of the conveyance. He always seemed to doze off during morning transitions, and today was no exception. Shaking his head at Seren’s ridiculous sleeping posture, Elaraeth removed a leather-bound journal from his satchel and carefully wedged it between Seren’s head and the cold pane, then sat back into the surprisingly uncomfortable berth.
Across the aisle, he caught a glimpse of dark, unruly hair. Kaelen’s. He was taller than most of their fellow acolytes, making him easy to spot. Though he could not see clearly, the rigid set of Kaelen’s shoulders, the way Jorin leaned slightly into him, was enough to fuel the elegant torment that gnawed at Elaraeth’s soul.