The flicker of gratitude in Lord Alaric Vance’s eyes held all the warmth of winter frost. He curved his lips into a lazy smile, fingers air-kissing the space between us, a gesture both mocking and intimate. Kaelen picked at a stale roll, the coarse crumbs feeling like grit on his tongue. A nervous tremor hummed in his thighs, a disquiet he couldn't name, a sudden, juvenile confusion that tightened his jaw. His conversation with Alaric had left a peculiar taste, bitter and cloying like over-sweetened wine. He understood the unease, though he resisted the admission. A clammy mist, elusive and frustrating, clung to the edges of his thoughts, refusing to solidify. He sucked on a lemon drop, its sharp tang failing to cut through the lingering awkwardness. Was Alaric truly involved with Lady Seraphina, of the notoriously wild Seraphina line, known for her scandalous escapades even within the academy? Her life, like those of Cadet Elara and Cadet Rhydian, seemed absurdly trivial, a parade of thoughtless indulgence. “Someone pilfered my nutrient paste! Pay up now!” Cadet Rhydian’s bellow echoed through the study hall, oblivious to the few dedicated scholars bent over scrolls. Others were no better. Cadet Elara punched Rhydian’s arm. “You owe me enough for a dozen of those paltry rations, you overgrown stable boy.” “My paste!” Chaos erupted in the back rows. Rhydian and Elara grappled, lost to their own juvenile squabble. Disapproving glances, sharp as daggers, shot from the front of the room. “These lower-house cadets grow tiresome.” Turning towards the hushed murmur, Kaelen saw Alaric Vance. Their eyes met, a brief, charged moment across the room. “......” Alaric’s hand moved, slow and deliberate, reaching towards Kaelen. Mesmerized by the immaculate curve of Alaric’s fingernails, Kaelen remained frozen as those long fingers, elegant as a serpent, coiled around the white stick protruding from his lips. Alaric tugged gently. A sticky mass slid from Kaelen’s tongue, grazing his lips, then popped free with a soft sound. “I shall savor this.” The melted candy, now between Alaric’s own lips, was shaped by a sly, knowing smile. Alaric licked his lips, a slow, sensual gesture, then chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. “Why the sudden silence?” Alaric often laughed. Yet, his mirth rarely felt pleasant, always edged with something sharper. “That’s rather… unsanitary.” “Don’t you know? Sharing essences builds immunity.” “......That’s truly repulsive.” Kaelen clamped his mouth shut, a dry, parched sensation. Alaric rested a hand on his thigh, sliding it up to his knee, arching his back slightly. Kaelen curled his own fingers into tight fists, hiding them in his palms. He knew. He was an idiot, too. With his hand still on his knee, sitting askew, Alaric popped the candy into his mouth, shrugging. “You claimed disdain for citrus flavors?” He sucked on the candy, a drawn-out, almost theatrical sound. Air whistled between his lips. Such an ordinary gesture for Alaric Vance, from a house whose name alone commanded deference. “That’s lime.” “Then it’s quite acceptable. I find lime agreeable.” “......” And then, with infuriating finesse, Alaric licked the candy, savoring the taste left by another. --- Another cycle passed. As the chill of autumn deepened, Lumina Arcanum prepared for the biting frosts. Above, the sky stretched, a canvas of unbroken cerulean, growing sharper, heavier. Instructors carried a somber sense of responsibility; students felt a grave duty to etch their names into history. But exceptions always existed. Cadets like Elara, Rhydian, and others, excluded from the hallowed ranks of model students, were mere cast-offs, their purpose seemingly to highlight the majority’s ascent. As time wore on, their minor transgressions were overlooked, interest in them waned. Only Sir Gareth Ashworth, whose father held a precarious but ancient title, remained a lingering nuisance. Truly pitiful was Apprentice Silas. Had he not become entangled with Gareth, he might have achieved a decent posting, a respectable artisan’s workshop. Or, if his grandmother’s rare wasting sickness hadn't stolen her strength and his meager savings. Yet, Kaelen resolved to ignore all disturbances outside his carefully constructed sphere. This was the only path to survival. So he lived, until the day he could no longer avoid the inevitable. Every probability possessed the potential for realization. Especially with a fool like Gareth Ashworth, who, without a modicum of forethought, accelerated towards that potential. Gareth Ashworth returned to the classroom. --- Kaelen clicked his tongue, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. He saw Gareth sprawled over a desk near the lecture podium, framed by the unopened back entrance. Gareth’s father had finally retrieved him. Rumors had spread like wildfire through the academy. Twenty days since his flight, now apprehended. An awkward return. If one must flee, why remain so close to the academy grounds, practically inviting capture? Such a baffling lack of foresight. Kaelen tapped his fingers against the polished wood of the double doors. Entering now felt… complicated. His gaze fell on the back of Gareth’s head. A few unruly strands of thick, dark hair stood defiant. Once, he might have smoothed them down, feigning a casual adjustment. That memory felt distant, hazy, like a half-remembered dream. He chose to sever any lingering attachment, turning to descend the stairwell. Encountering Gareth when few eyes were present held no good. Lumina Arcanum was a crucible of observation. Even a simple exchange with Gareth would ignite rumors: Kaelen Thorne and Gareth Ashworth, seen speaking alone. The whispers would twist, inflate. Worst scenario? Gareth might strike him again. The thought of such a public humiliation, from Gareth of all people, was unbearable. The best possible outcome was Gareth ignoring him, but Kaelen was no fool to stake his calm on a mere third of a chance. The wisest course: eliminate the bad situation entirely, unseen. Thus, he returned to the first floor, lingering near the boot racks until, ten minutes before the great gates closed, he merged with the torrent of departing students. Only then did he find his designated seat, opening his complex runic schematics, feigning intense focus. He strove to display no interest in the commotion surrounding Gareth. More accurately, he worked tirelessly to conceal his very significant interest. His efforts, consistent and unwavering, seemed to be yielding success. Yet, Gareth remained Kaelen’s most volatile variable. Frustration, sharp and cold, washed over him. Damn it. Discomfort and a creeping anxiety began to consume his carefully regulated emotions, an unnerving phenomenon that had only intensified since Alaric Vance’s arrival at the academy. Alaric approached Gareth with an air of utter casualness, even offering a pleasantry. “Been a while, Sir Gareth, hasn’t it?” The friendly tone was so utterly disingenuous, it momentarily stunned Kaelen. Curiosity, for a fleeting instant, overshadowed his anxiety. He looked up. Alaric stood, bag slung over one shoulder, a broad, mocking smile playing on his lips. Gareth merely grunted, offering no reply. “Such a frigid reception. How uncouth.” Pushing Gareth’s desk with his foot seemed inappropriate, considering Alaric had orchestrated Gareth’s fall from grace within this very hall’s delicate hierarchy. But Kaelen chose not to dwell on such petty ironies. He tried to redirect his attention to the true problems on his desk, but the homeroom Master’s arrival for morning roll call disrupted his focus. The Master seemed genuinely relieved by Gareth’s return, though a palpable guilt hung around his words concerning Apprentice Silas, who remained absent. Such a timid, fragile soul. “Silas isn’t present today either.” He murmured the words to himself, clearly intending to imply more. A soft tap on the attendance ledger on his desk punctuated the thought. --- The incident unfolded swifter than anticipated. Gareth rummaged in his desk drawer for a textbook, grimacing at the grimy, neglected state within. A few students, whose texts were in their personal lockers, raised hands and exited. Gareth’s expression darkened further as they left. Since he rarely studied, the presence or absence of a textbook likely mattered little. The true affront for Gareth, a creature of primal hierarchy, was the disappearance of something bearing his name. Everyone in the hall knew the truth. Yet, by unspoken covenant, not a soul uttered a word. Not about who had discarded Gareth’s texts, nor about who had orchestrated the deed. “Who was it?” As soon as the instructional period ended, the moment everyone had unconsciously braced for, began. “I said, who was it?” Gareth, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his academy trousers, chin lifted, demanded answers. Those averse to confrontation slipped from the room. Others, intrigued, exchanged furtive glances. In that charged atmosphere, Alaric Vance, holding a thoroughly grimy, almost unrecognizable stylus, etched something into a page, nonchalantly speaking. “What are you babbling about?” “Who?” “Clarity, Sir Gareth. One must articulate if one wishes to be understood.” The sheer audacity was breathtaking. Truly brazen. “The cur who tossed my texts.” Gareth knew his books hadn’t simply vanished. Not for someone so attuned to slights, a wild beast scenting weakness. Alaric’s failure to answer 'who' was itself an acknowledgment of the truth. Even a dolt would understand. Yet, Alaric continued his jest, feigning ignorance of the situation’s gravity. “Did you possess texts? You were always prone to napping across your desk.” There he went again, that unnecessary, unsettling laugh. Gareth would never let such a provocation pass. “Enough. Was it you, Kaelen?” Naturally, Kaelen found himself implicated. This was utterly predictable; any fool could see it. “...No.” In this hall, no one was more untamed, less civilized, than Gareth Ashworth, constantly stumbling into foolish missteps. He must have felt his downfall acutely, every gaze, every empty space pregnant with unspoken emotions and memories. Yet, those of them sharing this confined space feigned utter obliviousness. “Oh, come now. Would our diligent Kaelen ever disrespect his cherished scrolls in such a manner?” “Alaric—damn you, why do you keep meddling?” “Meddling? If a comrade faces injustice, it is only proper to assist.” “What in the blazes are you spouting, you imbecile?” “Imbecile? A rather harsh assessment.” “Cease your drivel. Who else here could have fouled the atmosphere so thoroughly while I was gone, if not you two?” Gareth scoffed. Only then did Alaric set his stylus upon the desk. His lips still held that faint, infuriating smirk. Gareth’s face twisted in displeasure. Unable to contain his rage, Gareth hurled a nearby satchel. It struck Kaelen squarely in the chest. “Ah!” Not painful, it was lightly loaded. But the abrupt impact startled him. Kaelen frowned, watching the satchel tumble to his knees. “This madman simply throws objects now.” Before Kaelen could articulate a single word, Alaric interjected. His voice already held a cutting edge of annoyance. In that moment, Gareth’s lips slowly curled into a triumphant smile. “Ah, I see.” The look of someone convinced of victory. What did he think he understood? Kaelen’s furrowed brow refused to smooth. “Alaric Vance. Kaelen Thorne. You two—conspiring?” “What?” Kaelen felt a loss for words, a sudden hollowness. Alaric’s playful smirk vanished, replaced by an expression of genuine bewilderment. Kaelen was more disoriented than Gareth, who had lost his texts. Alaric, it seemed, shared the sentiment. “Sir Gareth, forgive me, but your pronouncements are so utterly disjointed, I fail to grasp their meaning.” Despite clearly hearing, Alaric cupped a hand to his ear—a blatant, chilling mockery. And Kaelen knew, from observation, Alaric never stopped at a single jest. This was merely the prelude to his full provocation. Sensing the rising tension, Kaelen pushed back his chair, rising. Meanwhile, Alaric casually picked at his pinky finger.

Dust on Polished Desks