A tell-tale puffiness marred Lysander Valerius’s usually sculpted features, a lingering testament to a night spent with heedless abandon. Irritation, sharp and cold, pricked Kaelen Thorne’s own composure. He uncorked a small vial of his latest invigorating draught and set it with a precise click upon Lysander’s desk. It was an involuntary gesture, a concession to the nobleman’s persistent self-destruction, though Kaelen told himself it was merely a test of the potion’s efficacy. “Wipe that foolish expression from your face and quell that lingering headache.” Kaelen’s voice was flat, devoid of true concern. Lysander merely grunted, reaching for the vial with languid grace. “Thanks.” “Did your father not deliver his usual morning sermon?” “Not a syllable, thanks to your timely intervention.” Lysander’s words, accompanied by a casual shrug, were laced with an unearned pride. A bitter taste coated Kaelen’s tongue. He merely pressed his lips into a thin line, refusing to indulge the emotion. As Kaelen turned towards his own study alcove, his gaze snagged on the adjacent desk. A large, complex runic diagram, shimmering faintly with residual arcane energy, lay spread open. It was Theron Blackwood’s. Of course. Kaelen stood a handspan shorter than Lysander, while Theron, with his imposing frame, sat a half-handspan taller. The natural order of the academy meant Theron occupied the seat beside Lysander. A familiar twist of inadequacy coiled in Kaelen’s gut; his own stature, his lack of inherent elemental grace, often felt like a physical impediment to his aspirations. His sole comfort, meager as it was, was that Lysander was always within earshot. Burying the gnawing jealousy deep, Kaelen gestured dismissively towards Theron. “When did he arrive?” “No idea,” Lysander murmured, already halfway through the draught. “He was precisely thus when I stumbled in.” “Why does one who departed early last night appear so… spent?” Kaelen’s tone implied judgment, a subtle jab at Theron’s supposed diligence. A rustle answered him. The runic diagram shifted, revealing Theron Blackwood’s half-lidded eyes. His narrow gaze swept from Kaelen to Lysander, then he opened his mouth wide, a languid yawn escaping him. “…I merely thought to refine a few more parameters before resting,” Theron drawled, his voice a low rumble. They say yawns are contagious. Lysander followed suit, a wide stretch of his jaw, before a smug grin split his face. “This one,” Lysander quipped, nodding towards Theron, “appears a rogue, yet harbors a diligent heart. Far more virtuous than many a scion of virtue.” “Your observations are noted, Valerius.” Theron’s reply was dry, devoid of true offense. “Indeed, Blackwood.” Whether Theron registered Lysander’s underlying mockery, he simply leaned back, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. Kaelen watched him for a beat too long, their eyes meeting across the polished obsidian of the desk. A strange tickle prickled Kaelen’s skin. He cleared his throat, turning his focus back to Lysander. The early morning hum of the Grand Hall of Artifice was typically a pleasant prelude to the day. Such exchanges often set the relaxed, albeit aristocratic, tone. Soon, other students – heirs from houses like the Aeridae and the Solarium – would drift over, drawn by Lysander’s effortless magnetism, eager to absorb his latest anecdotes. The familiar ritual would unfold: light chatter, superficial laughter, then the Arcane Master’s arrival, commencing the day’s arduous curriculum. For those regarded as the most captivating and privileged within the academy, it was a surprisingly unblemished start to the mornings. Yet, beneath the veneer of gilded grace, they were still but nascent adults. Tales of reckless revelry, particularly those in which Lysander was the central figure, left a lingering, unpleasant residue in Kaelen’s meticulous mind. Still, he played his part, feigning amusement. Despite it all, these mornings had possessed a peculiar, fragile comfort. But that delicate balance had shattered a month and a half prior. And the catalyst, Kaelen knew with an aching certainty, was entirely Elara Fenn. “Look, Fenn’s here.” “Gods, that’s just wretched.” “Does that commoner truly dare show her face after her last performance in Archival Theory?” One of Lysander’s coterie, a particularly unpleasant Aeridae scion, openly sneered, pointing with exaggerated disdain. At the tip of his finger, Elara Fenn stood awkwardly within the entrance to the hall, her usually bright face obscured by a curtain of mussed dark hair. She shuffled towards a rarely-used table in the front row, placing her worn satchel upon it before immediately slumping over. Her hunched figure, so small and utterly devoid of the usual aristocratic bearing, stirred a sigh of profound irritation from Kaelen. Elara Fenn was undeniably pathetic. Her voice, when heard, was a reedy whisper; her frame, slight and unassuming. A pitiful display for anyone aspiring within the academy’s hallowed halls. As the murmurs of the hall swelled, Lysander, from his position, fixed Elara’s back with a withering glare, a low curse escaping his lips. Kaelen hated it. That particular sensitivity of Lysander’s – it grated upon Kaelen’s nerves. Lysander snatched a discarded scroll – one of Theron’s lesser attempts at a mnemonic array, still on the desk – and balled it in one hand. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he lobbed it at Elara Fenn’s head. *Thud*. With a soft, unsettling sound, Elara’s head slumped further onto her desk. “By the Mother Crystal, don’t parade that utterly dismal mien before first light.” Lysander’s voice, though low, carried an edge of cold command. Elara placed her arms upon the table, burying her face within them, doing precisely as Lysander had ordered. Yet, Lysander watched her with an expression of deepening disdain, then kicked his own desk, the polished wood groaning in protest. “Fenn! Are you so bereft of common courtesy that you cannot respond?” When Lysander abruptly rose, his voice sharp with petulance, Elara, still hunched, stammered a trembling response. “Y-yes, Lord Valerius.” “Lift your head, meet my gaze, and articulate your response properly.” Did Lysander even comprehend the sheer absurdity of his demands? The utter illogic of his cruelty made Kaelen release a bitter, almost silent scoff. Whether Lysander noticed, he stood and advanced towards Elara Fenn. With every measured step he took, the unpleasant feelings swirling within Kaelen intensified, growing more vivid and raw. Lysander closed the distance between himself and Elara. That alone made Kaelen feel as though he was losing all command over the carefully constructed emotions he’d labored to suppress. This wasn’t the familiar, biting jealousy he felt when Lysander gravitated towards Theron. Instinctively, Kaelen knew. Deep within his own carefully guarded heart, he harbored something just as corrosive as Lysander’s callousness. That was why observing Lysander with Theron, though painful, had become bearable. But his interactions with Elara, with their raw cruelty, unsettled Kaelen with an escalating tremor. His hands began to tremble. He clenched them tightly, burying them under the folds of his academy robes. Lysander kicked Elara’s table hard. The ancient wood groaned, threatening to overturn, and Elara jolted upright in alarm, her voice still unsteady. “F-forgive me.” Lysander stood over her, silently scrutinizing her face. Elara’s eyes glistened, unshed tears threatening to spill. Yet, in that charged moment, Kaelen felt as though he was the one on the precipice of breaking down. Lysander never compelled Elara to run tedious errands, yet his gaze never left her. If Elara sought the Refectory during a break, Lysander would still watch her retreating figure, even whilst engaged in conversation with the other students. Kaelen knew this because he, too, never ceased watching Lysander. Truth be told, Kaelen’s first impression of Elara Fenn had been largely unremarkable. Her complexion was perhaps not the clearest, but her youthful features lent her a face that was easy enough to regard. When she smiled, it felt genuinely unburdened, and even her neutral expression carried a certain quiet luminosity. Before Lysander’s attentions turned to her, no one truly harbored ill will towards Elara. She seemed a scholar who had thrived in a supportive, if humble, environment. While she was not overtly social, preferring the quiet solace of her studies, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in her demeanor. Most considered Elara a decent, if somewhat unremarkable, student. Since she never flaunted any familial affection or academic achievements, she earned a quiet respect. Humble, diligent, possessing an inexplicable, quiet charm – that was Elara Fenn. But Kaelen had not particularly favored her from the outset. He didn’t actively dislike her, no – he simply held no regard. To say she hadn’t even registered upon his intricate internal schematics would be more precise. Yet, whenever he found himself amidst his peers, particularly Lysander’s circle, and Elara’s name arose, Kaelen would find himself casually fabricating, offering, “Oh, Fenn? She’s quite capable. Pleasant enough.” Lysander, much like Kaelen, had initially paid Elara little mind. Lysander was never one to concern himself with the affairs of students beyond his immediate circle. After Elara transferred into their runic cohort in late spring, he and Lysander exchanged not a single word until mid-summer. Such was the initial, indifferent state of affairs. But one day, everything shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the predictable flow of academy life. It occurred right after the midday repast, and looking back, Kaelen doubted he had ever regretted an action as profoundly as what transpired that afternoon. Elara, as was her habit, had claimed a secluded alcove during the break, engrossed in a particularly dense grimoire. She was the sort who found profound solace in ancient texts. Kaelen, on the other hand, possessed a proclivity for appearing exceptionally well-versed amongst those with esteemed reputations. That was why, upon encountering Elara by chance, he initiated a conversation about the volume she was dissecting. He was not, by nature, a voracious reader – intellectual vanity was more his preferred indulgence. “You must possess a deep affection for such tomes, yes?” “Oh? Yes, I suppose so.” At that time, Elara and Kaelen remained distant acquaintances. Perhaps that distance made the interaction easier, less fraught with his usual anxieties. “Have you reached its conclusion?” “Nearing the final chapter, yes.” “Then merely close it now. The culmination will dishearten you. It is one of those works where the final revelation diminishes all prior splendor.” “You have studied it before?” Elara’s eyes, bright with curiosity, met his. “Indeed, some time ago.” To satisfy his intellectual pride, Kaelen meticulously scoured reviews and critiques of any text he intended to discuss, ensuring he possessed a suitably informed opinion. Drawing upon those carefully curated memories, he offered a critique – not a genuine one, but sufficient to sound authoritative. Elara smiled, a genuine, unforced delight. It unsettled Kaelen, catching him off guard. “You are the first I have encountered who has delved into this particular grimoire, besides myself.” “Oh… truly?” Kaelen’s chest swelled imperceptibly. “Yes, but I shall still conclude it. Contemplating the reasoning behind such an ending is, I believe, part of the profound joy.” “Well, naturally. Perspectives diverge.” “Hearing your thoughts only makes me anticipate it further.” That smile, so guileless, still lingered in Kaelen’s memory as an uncomfortable ghost. Was it some instinctive unease he felt even then? After that day, Elara Fenn began seeking Kaelen’s counsel more frequently. Though he found it a minor imposition and often mused, *Why me?*, he never outright rebuffed her. Elara, with her quiet diligence, was not the worst individual to cultivate a connection with. After all, complex grimoires – beyond the mandated academy texts – were practically verboten for students of their age. Even those with ample leisure time regarded such tomes as little more than weighty paperweights. For Elara, Kaelen was likely the only peer capable of discussing such arcane minutiae. That day had been one of those routine encounters, yet it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated amongst them. Theron Blackwood bore a share of the blame. To this day, Kaelen could not fathom why he had acted with such uncharacteristic imprudence. Why he, a man who never meddled in the affairs of others, chose to insert himself where he did not belong. Why Theron, of all individuals, had left his intricate runic inscription schema – a complex theoretical proof – wide open for any passing eye to scrutinize. Kaelen, who loathed having his own arcane designs exposed, naturally assumed Theron would desire the same discretion. So, he gently flipped the parchment over to conceal it. That was the precise moment he saw it: the elegant, precise calculation of an almost impossibly difficult energy transfer. A flawless solution to a problem Kaelen himself had grappled with for weeks. He blinked in disbelief, then checked again. It was undeniably perfect, an exquisite example of applied runic theory. Considering the sheer difficulty, it would secure an Elder-tier commendation, perhaps even surpass it. It was the first time one of Kaelen’s meticulously constructed preconceptions had been utterly shattered. A small, yet profound, shock to realize Theron was not merely Lysander’s congenial shadow, but a brilliant scholar in his own right. Naturally, that realization brought a torrent of conflicting emotions – as if he had unearthed a gem amongst mere stone. A rival he had once dismissed as a simple dilettante proved far more formidable than the one he had so long admired. That strange, unsettling perception must have destabilized him, for Kaelen then committed an act he would normally never have contemplated. It was nothing grand, nothing overtly malicious. He simply retrieved a nearby quill and, with a delicate hand, scribbled a short note at the top of Theron’s schema. *“Consider the elemental resonance within the inner circuit. It may further refine your energy transfer efficiency by a factor of three. A commendable effort. — K. Thorne.* *P.S. Forgive my presumption in viewing your work without permission. I merely sought to conceal it and inadvertently glimpsed a portion.”* The sheer arrogance of evaluating another’s design and offering unsolicited, though technically astute, advice made Kaelen feel a prickle of embarrassment even then, so he appended the rambling justification. He couldn’t articulate why he had penned it in the first place. At that precise juncture, he must have been entirely unmoored from his usual rigid protocols. Looking back, it was undeniably the first error in what would become a complex web of entanglements. Every mess, Kaelen now understood, commences with a poorly fastened first button. If he hadn’t inscribed that note, he wouldn’t have encountered Elara Fenn, her worn grimoire clutched to her chest, rounding the corner shortly thereafter.

A Poorly Fastened Button