A curious ache settled in Kaelen’s chest. He found himself drawn to the thought of Lysander and Elara, a morbid fascination that he couldn't quite extinguish. How did they truly interact now, after her return, after her quiet, almost imperceptible transformation? It was the base, ugly curiosity of a man consumed by jealousy, a man who saw in their twisted dynamic a dark reflection of his own unacknowledged yearning.
From his vantage point, tucked away in the shadowed alcoves of the Grand Refectory, Elara moved with a studied grace. She trailed a few paces behind Lysander, always. Not quite side-by-side, never quite at his elbow. Still, the image lodged itself in Kaelen’s mind: Elara, a fully-grown, gifted artificer, following Lysander like a shadow caught in his orbit. A shiver traced Kaelen’s spine. Indulging this curiosity felt like pressing a bruised finger against a forbidden door, a door he knew should remain sealed.
Within that door, he imagined, lay not merely despair, but a cruel, insidious hope that promised to shatter him. Yet, knowing all this, he couldn’t resist the pull.
“...This is madness,” he whispered, the words barely audible in the cavernous hall.
His thoughts tangled, a knot of unease and longing. But even as the realization settled, he found himself shadowing Elara as she left the Refectory, ostensibly heading for the archives.
He didn't get far.
Moving with the quiet precision of an acolyte, Kaelen kept to the periphery, careful not to draw attention. He saw Elara pause, her gaze fixed on Lysander’s retreating back. The ancient, lichen-stained stone of the academy walls, the worn flagstones of the courtyard, the intricate, half-faded frescoes above the archways—a scene steeped in the patina of centuries. Two figures in this setting: Lysander striding ahead, Elara following, a silent sentinel. And Kaelen, observing them from a distance, a ghost in the margins.
Everything about it felt pathetic, utterly foolish. He pivoted sharply, retreating back into the cool embrace of the academy’s deeper corridors.
---
Later, in the quiet sanctuary of his small atelier, bathed in the soft glow of a low-burning arcane lamp, Kaelen pondered his retreat. A sense of weary satisfaction settled over him. He was curious, yes, but what horrors might he have witnessed had he pressed on? It was better this way. Better not to know. He was not so reckless as to tear open that gilded box of sorrows out of mere petulance.
Lysander’s possessive intensity around Elara seemed to deepen with each passing day. Roric Ashwood, ever the casual observer, relayed fragmented observations. Lysander’s movements became more deliberate, his proximity to Elara in communal spaces more pronounced. He would often linger, his presence a heavy weight Kaelen could feel from across a room.
“Our dear Lord Lysander behaves like a hound on a scent,” Roric had murmured, a dry smile playing on his lips. “A rather ill-tempered hound, at that.”
Kaelen felt a prickle of something akin to dark satisfaction. At least he had not interfered. Perhaps his inaction, his deliberate distance, had been for the best. Lysander, for all his effortless grace, was now entangled in a web of his own making, his carefully constructed composure slowly unraveling.
He laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back against the cool stone of his wall. Above him, the simple, elegant lamp cast intricate shadows, a stark contrast to the grand, crystalline chandeliers that adorned noble dormitories. His own life, by comparison, felt…sparse. Yet, he had been granted the rare gift of arcane affinity, a talent for runic artifice that superseded mere bloodline. He had always believed there was nothing he couldn’t achieve.
Until he had fallen for Lysander. That cursed noble, with his sharp, knowing eyes and effortless privilege, had laid bare the cruel truth: not all desires yielded to ambition or skill. And Lysander, Kaelen was certain, was now learning that bitter lesson too.
Ah, the world possessed a merciless, exquisite cruelty.
At least Kaelen had learned control, a silent mastery over his own tumultuous emotions. Lysander, however, was so consumed by his burgeoning obsession for Elara that he seemed oblivious to the raw, almost feral hunger in his gaze. That sudden, abnormal intensity must be unsettling for him, Kaelen surmised.
He knew the feeling. He had experienced it, a visceral thrum beneath his ribs. But while Kaelen had endured, had bottled his longing behind layers of academic pursuit, Lysander could not. And so, instead of seeking Elara’s favor with grace, he acted in ways that only garnered her wary obedience. For Kaelen, ironically, this suited him perfectly.
“Please, just remain clueless,” Kaelen murmured to the silent room.
Or better yet, let Elara grow weary and leave. He harbored no hope for Lysander to turn his affections to him. If anything, the intensity of Lysander’s feelings, once glimpsed, terrified Kaelen.
He desired only one thing: for a day to arrive when he no longer loved Lysander, and for Lysander to find solace elsewhere. That was all. But the world rarely bowed to such simple, desperate pleas.
---
Another subtle shift began. Lysander, who had once spent his weekends indulging in the academy’s more rakish circles, seemed to withdraw from that particular pastime. Or so it appeared. From the whispered gossip Kaelen overheard, it wasn’t a complete cessation. But at least he no longer boasted of his conquests in the communal study halls, nor did the faint, cloying scent of late-night revelry cling to his robes. For Kaelen, that was a small mercy. He no longer had to endure the tang of Lysander’s escapades up close.
“Lord Lysander,” a student, the son of Lord Alaric, drawled, swaying suggestively in the common room. He mimed a crude gesture with his hands, a lewd pantomime that elicited snickers from their small gathering. “Not chasing skirts with such vigor these days? Growing soft?”
Lysander’s face tightened, a flicker of outrage in his eyes. He cast a quick, almost imperceptible glance towards a distant corner where Elara was sketching in a grimoire. His voice, when it came, was a low growl.
“Silence, Alaric. I tolerate no such crude banter.”
“Why the sudden modesty, my lord? Your reputation precedes you.”
“Another word, and you will regret it, Alaric.”
“Come now, Lysander—”
“I said, enough!”
“...As you wish, my lord.”
The others exchanged disappointed glances. Lysander, with his tall, imposing presence and air of confident debauchery, had once been the perfect conduit for the hormonal curiosity of their peers. The students in their small circle were not novices; they’d all stumbled through clumsy experiences. Compared to the more sheltered, they were easily stirred. With Lysander’s exploits no longer for public consumption, their attention drifted to Roric.
But Roric merely bared his teeth in a sardonic smirk.
“You filthy imbeciles.”
“Ah, there he goes! Roric and his purity sermons.”
“He’s just a fanatic, honestly. Such a waste.”
Laughter rippled through the common room, loud and fleeting.
Most of the young lords and ladies had ventured into forbidden territories at least once, but for some reason, Roric had not. While they teased him as a jest, calling him “The Ascetic Ashwood,” no one truly disrespected him. He was Roric Ashwood, after all, his wit as sharp as any blade. Yet, Roric possessed a disarmingly lighthearted approach to everything, which made his cutting remarks seem almost casual, his dismissal easy to bear. Students found him either charmingly unconventional or simply approachable, often remarking that his pleasant demeanor belied his rather intense features.
“Ashwood, stop glowering. You’ll curdle the ale.”
“Indeed, such a frightful visage.”
“Do you have a death wish, all of you?” Roric scowled, and the group burst into fresh laughter, though the joke was hardly new. Some lesser nobles lounging at a nearby table, perhaps his acquaintances or simply eager to be seen, joined in with their hollow laughs and idle chatter, adding to the general din.
Kaelen sat among them, staring blankly at his own hands, lost in thought.
“...”
If memory served, he had never felt a flicker of desire for a woman. He supposed that made him different, queer from birth. He had felt arousal, certainly, watching etchings depicting both men and women, but never had he once fantasized about a woman’s form in moments of private indulgence. The former seemed to be more about the narrative intensity, while the latter felt like a complete absence of desire.
He had once been dragged to a rather decadent soirée by Lysander, only to retreat to the garden and wait. The gilded cages of pleasure houses repulsed him. He couldn’t fathom why anyone would seek such a place.
Because of all this, his peers sometimes jokingly called him “Abstinent Kaelen,” but in reality, his abstinence was less a virtue and more a fundamental truth. He let out a soft sigh, barely audible.
His companions were too engrossed in Roric’s latest retort to notice. Taking advantage of the moment, Kaelen’s gaze drifted to Lysander, who sat in silent contemplation. Lysander was staring intently at the back of Elara Vance’s head as she studied across the room.
And, as always, Kaelen regretted it. Why did he look? Why did he allow his curiosity to sting him so? To distract himself, he posed a question to Roric, pointless and probing.
“So, are you truly committed to this celibacy, Ashwood, until you find a suitable match?”
Roric, who had been lounging in his chair like a lord upon his throne, suddenly fixed his gaze directly on Kaelen’s lap. His stare was so persistent, so unnervingly direct, that Kaelen instinctively crossed his legs, shielding himself. What in the blazes?
“You are not my intended, Thorne, so why do you ask? Are you offering to remedy my ‘condition’?”
“...”
Of course. Roric always returned with a malicious jest. The others laughed, and Kaelen kicked Roric’s shin under the table. That was how his days unfolded—over and over, a repetitive cycle, each day mirroring the last.
---
Alone in his atelier, thoughts often strayed into peculiar territories. Today, he wondered what it might have been like if his affections had landed upon Roric Ashwood instead of Lysander. It seemed a far more sensible, less agonizing path. If he had loved Roric, he wouldn’t have had to endure the persistent ache caused by Lysander’s volatile attachments.
Even so, heartbreak would still be his companion. Neither Lysander nor Roric would ever truly return his feelings, Kaelen knew with bleak certainty. But at least his heart wouldn’t ache with the same bitter jealousy for Elara Vance.
That train of thought inevitably led to feelings of inferiority and a simmering resentment. In the end, he simply wished for graduation to come swiftly, for the day he could become a stranger to Lysander.
---
He had lately developed a habit: unconsciously placing his hands beneath his desk whenever he sat down to study. This began in his second year at the academy, and the cause was always the same – other men. As he idly traced the intricate buckle of his study robes, a familiar debate sparked within him. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? A faint metallic click of his nail against the buckle filled the quiet room. Just as he applied a light pressure with his thumb, about to undo the clasp, a sharp rap sounded at his door.
“Kaelen! Are you studying diligently?” It was the prefect, Lord Alden.
“...Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!”
His heart leaped into his throat. Today was clearly not the day. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damn it all.
---
Lately, Lysander had become particularly grating.
Sometimes, when Elara Vance glanced subtly in Kaelen’s direction, Lysander would deliberately interject, engaging her in conversation. Elara, caught between them, would flick her eyes towards Kaelen, her lips parting as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if wary of Lysander’s proximity, she would lower her head and offer the faintest reply.
“Y-yes, my lord…”
Just like that.
Elara had begun to seek Kaelen out more subtly, using the familiar shortened version of his name, “Kael.” Aside from a few close peers, almost no one addressed him so intimately, so the change was conspicuous. She seemed to think she was being discreet, but she wasn’t. The worst part was how Lysander couldn’t hide his discomfort whenever Elara dared such a thing.
“Elara Vance, cease bothering Thorne while he studies.”
“What?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Do not disturb him. Is that unclear?”
“Oh... uh, y-yes, my lord…”
When Elara stammered and avoided his gaze, Lysander, with an immature force, slammed his fist against the leg of the desk beside him. Kaelen pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, Elara, perhaps mistaking Lysander’s silence for acceptance, grew bolder, using “Kael” with a casualness that grated on Kaelen’s already frayed nerves.
“Uh, Kael... apologies for interrupting your study.”
Kaelen stiffened, staring at her in disbelief. Was she oblivious? Lysander was sitting just a few feet away, his back rigid.
Sure enough, Lysander pounded his fist on the desk again. Damn it.
“Elara Vance!”
“...My lord?”
The air in the study hall turned frigid instantly.
“I warned you,” Lysander’s anger was palpable, raw. “I told you not to address him as ‘Kael,’ did I not?”
“...W-well…”
“His name is Kaelen Thorne. Call him Kaelen Thorne.”
Lysander’s gaze turned sharp, almost predatory, as he fixed it on Kaelen. Kaelen hated that look and instinctively lowered his head. At that moment, Roric Ashwood, seated beside him, casually draped an arm over Kaelen’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Kaelen’s ear.
“Lysander, if you persist, you will truly ruin yourself.”
“What insolence are you spouting now, Ashwood?”
“I am saying you will regret it,” Roric smirked, and Kaelen felt a flicker of irritation, for one reason only: Roric’s brazenness, drawing yet more attention. His casual disregard for the brewing storm.
“Lysander,” Roric continued, his voice still low, but carrying a thread of steel, “your little game will unravel. And when it does, you will be the only one left grasping at air.”