Kaelen Thorne navigated the polished flagstones of Lumina Arcanum with practiced ease, his posture a study in controlled precision. Each step was measured, each glance carefully neutral. Life under the vigilant eyes of his distant noble kin had forged him into a vessel of self-restraint. He loathed vulnerability, a weakness he could ill afford in a world obsessed with innate power. Every slight, every emotional tremor, he filed away, hardening it into a protective sigil inscribed upon his very soul. They called it impassivity; Kaelen knew it was survival.
This unyielding composure allowed him to endure Lord Lysander Thorne, his cousin, who embodied everything Kaelen resented about inherited privilege. Lysander, for all his boorishness, was untouchable. And Kaelen, the overlooked branch on a grand family tree, needed to maintain his precarious standing.
“Thorne. Kaelen.”
The call was Lysander’s, sharp and devoid of respect. Kaelen turned, a faint arch of his brow the only indication of his internal struggle.
“Your tone grates, Lysander.” Kaelen’s voice remained even, a carefully calibrated instrument.
“Such wit. Is that the best your studious mind can conjure?” Lysander sneered, but a flicker of amusement touched his eyes. Insults only landed if the target cared, and Lysander seemed to find Kaelen’s measured responses more amusing than stinging.
“Haven’t you any suitable companions, Kaelen?” Lysander continued, turning to Roric Ashwood, his usual companion. “Proper ones, not like… well.”
“Define ‘proper’,” Roric drawled, tossing a smooth, enchanted stone from hand to hand. His dark eyes, usually glinting with mischief, held a faint challenge.
“Don’t play the fool, Ashwood.”
Roric merely chuckled, the stone a blur between his fingers. He offered no further response. Lysander didn’t press. His gaze had already drifted, locking onto a quiet figure at the far end of the Refectory’s main hall.
“A student with a softer demeanor, perhaps. One with a gentler aura.” Lysander mused, his voice laced with predatory interest. Lysander was a creature of impulse, his appetites unbridled. He hunted without subtlety, his cruelty laid bare.
By this late summer, Elara Vance, the gentle scholar of botanical magic, had become a ghost among the student body, utterly isolated. Yet, even that desolation failed to satisfy Lysander’s craving.
Lysander’s inner circle—Cadmus, Orion, Bardon—would linger for him after classes, their fealty evident. Others, like Silas and Peregrine, often vanished the moment the bell for refectory rung, eager to distance themselves from his volatile presence.
Kaelen, in his first year, had been part of Lysander’s immediate retinue. But the second year brought a shift. A casual remark from Orion, mocking Kaelen’s deliberate pace at meals, was all it took. “Thorne eats with Ashwood now, doesn’t he? Always so… particular with his meals.” Without a word from Kaelen, the unspoken exclusion solidified.
The sting was sharp, a humiliation Kaelen swallowed whole. Lysander, of course, had barely noticed. Kaelen’s presence or absence was irrelevant. Kaelen caught his own reflection in a polished wall sconce, his expression unreadable.
“Am I truly so slow?” Kaelen asked, his voice barely a murmur.
“Of course. You pick at your plate like an elderly alchemist. We finish in moments.” Lysander waved a dismissive hand.
“We missed half the practice duels because of him, that term,” Orion added, a sneer on his face.
“Ah.” The word felt hollow.
“We have a challenge from the Aetherweaving Guild today. Eat with Ashwood, Kaelen.”
Kaelen’s pride, a brittle thing, prevented any protest. Besides, the constant indigestion from rushing his meals had been an unwelcome companion throughout his first year. The thought of clinging to Lysander, like a parasitic vine, sickened him. He offered no plea.
And so, he was cast out. His will, as ever, held no sway.
Trying to project indifference, Kaelen met Roric Ashwood’s gaze across the deserted common room. Roric, sprawling across a plush velvet settee, the enchanted stone still arcing between his hands, regarded Kaelen. “When do you usually take your meal?”
Kaelen hesitated, an internal calculation running. “I… about ten minutes from now.” He had never eaten at this time, but adapting was instinct. If he wished to retain any semblance of association, even with Roric, he must conform.
“Works for me,” Roric nodded. The first time they ate together, Kaelen left half his enchanted stew untouched, citing a sudden lack of appetite. Roric raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“Still picky, Thorne? You’re nearly a journeyman artificer.”
“What concern is that of yours?” Kaelen’s voice tightened.
“Honestly, you’re like a child.”
“Even adults don’t douse crystal-shard fries in sweetened ambrosia.” Kaelen shot back, his glare unwavering. Roric’s observations, though often accurate, were always unwelcome.
In their first year, Kaelen and Lysander had been near inseparable. By the second, those moments were rare, thanks in no small part to Roric. Yet, Kaelen had no grounds for complaint. Roric, though a commoner, held a strange, almost unsettling, authority within their social strata.
Lysander and Roric’s circles often overlapped, a strange mix of privileged scions and sharp-witted commoners. Students who would, without hesitation, forge dismissal seals or vanish during lectures, confident in the lax oversight of indifferent tutors. Lysander, wary of his parents’ scrutiny, usually remained in class. Roric, however, bore a reputation almost as infamous as Lysander’s. Kaelen once inquired why he bothered attending.
“Do you take me for some witless lackey?” Roric’s gaze sharpened.
“No, but your associates… many are.”
“Associates? They are dregs. Not friends.” Roric scoffed, his voice laced with genuine disdain.
“What?” Kaelen blinked.
“A scholar’s duty is to attend his lessons, is it not?”
“That is true.”
“Then do not lump me with that trash. It offends.”
“My apologies.”
“I sought no apology.”
The declaration, from Roric Ashwood, struck Kaelen as profoundly absurd. This was the same youth whose self-proclaimed “dregs” vanished from lessons with alarming regularity. Nevertheless, Kaelen spent most of his second year in this odd trinity, with Lysander and Roric. He considered it a sacred, if occasionally irritating, arrangement. It would have been perfect without Roric’s constant jibes, yet, surprisingly, they functioned. He didn't like Roric, but Roric was not so intolerable that Kaelen would disrupt their fragile truce. He was merely… vexing.
But Elara Vance would twist even these days into a torment.
Today felt different. A discordant hum in the academy’s usual rhythm.
“Curse Cadmus and Orion, those craven fools!” Lysander swore, gripping his dark hair as the fourth period neared its end. Kaelen, hearing the frustrated growl, turned, a subtle anticipation stirring within him.
“They’ve shirked again?” Kaelen asked, his voice betraying a hint of hope.
“Worthless dogs.”
“A pity. Who will you share your refectory meal with, then?” Kaelen’s fingers, resting on the back of his chair, trembled almost imperceptibly. Lysander exhaled a long, heavy sigh, then looked at Roric, lounging nearby.
“I’ll join you two today.”
“No invitation extended,” Roric stated, his tone flat.
“Keep that insolence, Ashwood, and I’ll silence you myself.”
“By the Lady, Lysander, you try my patience.”
“Come then, imbecile. Try your hand.”
“Big words from a student who’d otherwise dine alone,” Roric taunted.
Kaelen could no longer remain silent. “Come, let us all share a meal. It would be… uncouth to leave Lysander un-companioned.” His desperation, uncharacteristic and raw, must have been evident. Lysander smirked, a triumphant gleam in his eyes as he glanced at Roric.
“You see? Some of us possess loyalty.”
Roric scowled, sweeping Lysander’s rune-etched slate off the desk with a casual flick. It clattered to the floor. Roric’s opinion of Kaelen mattered little. What mattered was Lysander joining them. A thrill, sharp and unexpected, coursed through Kaelen. He even forced himself to consume a serving of bitter marsh-roots, a dish he abhorred, simply for the novelty of their shared meal.
Lysander, however, paid scant attention to his food. His eyes, like a predator’s, scanned the bustling Refectory. Kaelen, too focused on Lysander, missed Roric casually pilfering enchanted breadsticks from his tray. Then, without warning, Lysander’s enchanted cutlery dropped, and his hand shot out, seizing the arm of a passing student.
Kaelen looked up. It was Elara Vance.
“Sit here,” Lysander commanded, gesturing to the empty seat beside him. “You’ve nowhere else to go, have you?”
Elara’s face flushed a deep crimson. Her gaze flitted nervously around the room, briefly meeting Kaelen’s, before she bit her lip and slowly, reluctantly, settled into the indicated seat. Kaelen felt a cold shock. Dumbfounded. Since when had Lysander ever cared about Elara’s company? And Elara’s isolation was Lysander’s cruel handiwork. Lysander specifically disliked anyone befriending her.
A bitter taste rose in Kaelen’s throat.
Unconsciously, Kaelen’s spoon slammed against his polished obsidian tray, the sound unnaturally loud. Only Elara reacted, flinching, her eyes wide with alarm. Lysander, unperturbed, remained fixed on Elara. A hairline fracture appeared in the protective sigil Kaelen had painstakingly maintained for years. He tried to shore it up, but the control slipped. He was closer to a precipice than he had ever known.
Clinging to a desperate denial, Kaelen snapped at Elara. “Elara. You should leave.”
“H-huh?”
“Don’t heed Lysander. Go. It is permissible.”
“Kaelen Thorne,” Lysander’s voice was dangerously low. Lysander, who had ignored Kaelen’s sudden outburst earlier, now clenched his jaw, glaring. That glare, far from deterring Kaelen, solidified his resolve. He held Elara’s gaze with stubborn intensity.
“I will handle this. You may depart.”
“Oh, o-okay.”
“And Lysander, cease this charade.”
“Indeed, I concur,” Roric chimed in, his words muffled by a mouthful of food. His sudden interjection was jarring, his timing predictably inconvenient. He chewed and swallowed with deliberate slowness, then glanced between Kaelen and Lysander, an irritating smirk playing on his lips. “What a spectacle. It quite spoils the appetite.”
Roric’s provocations were, as always, designed to grate. The man was insufferable. Kaelen ignored him, turning back to Lysander.
“Leave Elara alone.”
“Who are you to dictate my actions?” Lysander shot back, his voice rising.
“It is tiresome for the rest of us to witness.”
Kaelen did not blink, holding Lysander’s furious gaze. Lysander slammed his fist onto the ornate table. The sudden impact made Elara flinch, squeezing her eyes shut. Roric, conversely, chuckled lazily, raising a hand in a mock gesture of surrender.
“Count me out of this.” He licked a stray droplet of water from his lips, adding, “Let us decide by majority. I am neutral. Kaelen wishes her gone. Lysander insists she stays.”
Roric often used Kaelen’s shortened name, and Kaelen found it grating every time. That irritation, a faint tremor, now colored his tone. “Do not interfere. Your vote is irrelevant.”
“Why not? There is another witness right here.” Roric, unfazed, smirked and pointed at Elara, a casual flick of his hand. “Is Elara not a person?”
“You are preposterous.”
“Why is she silent? Let her voice her preference.”
As if Elara could speak in this tense maelstrom. Kaelen sighed at Roric’s thoughtless antics, picking up his spoon and idly stirring his bland meal. Lysander tapped a rhythmic beat on the table.
“If you choose to leave, Elara, your academy days are numbered. Consider yourself a pariah.”
Tears welled in Elara’s large, anxious eyes. They glimmered as she looked at Kaelen, a silent plea. Kaelen’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“It is fine. I will dissuade him,” Kaelen said, attempting to reassure her.
“Kaelen Thorne,” Lysander growled, his voice tight with anger. Kaelen forced himself to meet Lysander’s gaze, projecting a false calm. He felt an overwhelming urge to collapse. To suppress it, he lifted his eyes to the arched ceiling for a fleeting moment, then lowered his head, replying with feigned nonchalance. “What is it?”
“You…”
Lysander clenched his fist, his glare a burning intensity. Kaelen had to endure. His instincts screamed that he could not abandon Elara to Lysander’s cruelty. But Lysander’s focus, abruptly, shifted back to Elara.
“I-I will go,” Elara stammered, her voice trembling.
“...”
“Th-thank you, Kaelen.”
Elara rose hastily, her steps unsteady, and fled the Refectory. The moment she was gone, Lysander pivoted, his gaze like a viper’s strike, locking onto Kaelen.