Kaelen woke to a phantom ache beneath his cheekbone. The unguent Hadrian had pressed into his hand last night, a cooling balm of distilled nightbloom and silverleaf, had done its work. The angry puffiness had receded, leaving only a faint, bruised shadow, a bluish marring that might pass for a clumsy collision with a doorframe. Manageable. Perhaps even dismissible. A less observant eye might never notice. A lightness settled in his chest, fragile as spun glass. He had to attend the morning lecture. There was no avoiding the day, no escaping the polished halls of Lumina Arcanum. Yet, the air within the grand lecture hall was anything but light. It hung heavy, thick with a silent dread. A pallor seemed to cling to the polished oak desks, to the hushed murmurs of the early arrivals. A palpable tension vibrated through the hushed chamber. The reason became painfully clear: Elian Valerius. His gaze, swift and involuntary, sought out Darius Valerius. Darius, always a dramatic arrival, slipped into the hall just as the chime for the first period resonated through the vaulted ceilings, a fraction of a breath from being marked tardy. His presence, as ever, commanded attention, a dark star drawing all light to its orbit. The sight of Elian’s face stole Kaelen’s breath. A silent gasp caught in his throat, and he forgot, for a moment, to blink. A childish, ugly part of him had harbored a fleeting thought yesterday, a dark wish that Darius’s fury might have found another target, a shared burden. Now, only a suffocating wave of guilt washed over him. Elian’s lip was split, a jagged crimson line against pale skin. One eye, swollen to a grotesque caricature, was almost entirely eclipsed by purpling tissue, a mirror to Kaelen’s own lesser injury, magnified into something brutal. A wave of self-loathing crashed over Kaelen. Such petty, monstrous thoughts. He was no better than… them. A whispered curse escaped Kaelen’s lips. “By the Arcane Lattice…” Elian entered hesitantly, his eyes darting like a trapped bird. His gaze, as if drawn by an unseen thread, snagged on Kaelen’s. A long, agonizing moment passed. Then, Elian flinched, a startled grimace twisting his features. He averted his eyes sharply, shuffling towards his usual seat at the back, his movements stiff, as if resisting an invisible tether. “What in Lumina’s name?” Kaelen whispered, the odd reaction settling a cold knot in his stomach. Kaelen glanced instinctively across the lecture hall. The reason solidified into a palpable wave of hostility. Lord Darius Valerius was staring at him, a silent, murderous promise in his shadowed eyes. The air crackled with it, a primal, warning current. “Ah, damn it all,” Kaelen murmured. Staying home would have been the wiser course. Regret, sharp and bitter, lanced through him. Elian, who had once offered Kaelen cautious, almost deferential smiles in the corridors, now actively avoided his gaze. During the brief recesses between lectures, Elian vanished, presumably with Darius, to some hidden alcove or secluded corner of the academy grounds. Kaelen’s usual solitary lunch, spent poring over runic diagrams in the scriptorium, felt heavier than usual. Today, Hadrian Vance found him. Hadrian, ever a whirlwind of casual disregard for convention, plonked himself down beside Kaelen’s usual table. Hadrian’s presence, usually a distraction, became a strange anchor. A part of Kaelen yearned to seek out Elian, to confront Darius, to simply understand. But a deeper, colder fear held him fast. He hated admitting it. He was terrified of what he might witness. Surely, Darius wouldn't inflict further injury upon his own kin… Would he? The thought gnawed. It wasn't Kaelen's place, not truly, to intervene in Valerius family affairs. Yet, Elian’s bruised face, his haunted eyes, made indifference impossible. Hadrian, meanwhile, chattered on, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath Kaelen’s reserved exterior. “See? Told you the aura in the Hall of Whispers was thick enough to carve. Almost choked on my own spell-weave today.” “You seemed remarkably composed when we shared spiced honeycakes yesterday,” Kaelen observed, a faint dryness in his tone. Hadrian winked, a flash of mirth in his sapphire eyes. “Give me credit. I mastered the art of elegant consumption, even under duress.” He laughed, a bright, unburdened sound. “Honeycakes, after all, are meant to be savored with practiced poise.” Kaelen, annoyed by Hadrian’s self-congratulatory grin, nudged his calf lightly under the table. Hadrian rubbed his chin, a flicker of something uncharacteristically sheepish in his expression. Or perhaps, Kaelen mused, he simply imagined it. --- Life, Kaelen mused, possessed a cruel, capricious streak. From their initial, strained encounters, he had harbored no intention of cultivating any closeness with Hadrian Vance. Indeed, Hadrian's boisterous charm, his lack of refined gravitas, had always grated. Yet, here they were. Hadrian, of all people, had become the unexpected confidant, the one solid presence in a swirling tide of uncertainty. Hadrian’s innate buoyancy, his flippant disregard for the weighty pronouncements of noble society, possessed a strange power. It prevented Kaelen from drowning in his own carefully cultivated anxieties, from succumbing entirely to the crushing pressure of his lower station, or the lingering shame of Darius’s abuse. In earlier days, Kaelen had dismissed Hadrian’s qualities as shallow, unserious. Now, he found himself clinging to that very levity, a lifeline in the deepening shadows. If Kaelen had remained tethered to the false promise of acceptance from the likes of Darius, he might never have recognized how profoundly he needed Hadrian’s grounding presence. After that bruising incident, Darius began to openly distance himself from his usual coterie of acolytes. Sometimes, he’d vanish from lectures, Elian Valerius trailing behind him like a frightened shadow. Other times, Darius would gather a select few, their expressions a mix of unease and unwilling compliance. Some students, Kaelen noticed, flatly refused Darius’s summons, their eyes wide with unspoken apprehension. Seraphina, a sharp-eyed student from a lesser merchant house, sought Kaelen out near the arcane wards that protected the academy's northern perimeter. She was clambering over a low wall, a common shortcut to avoid a patrolling proctor. A mixture of amusement and genuine disquiet etched her face. Darius, she whispered, had been issuing orders to his cronies, directing them to strike Elian—a single blow each, a grotesque ritual of submission. Kaelen’s face twisted in disbelief. Seraphina, sensing his horror, quickly added that she had been avoiding Darius’s group entirely, citing a sudden aversion to such 'unrefined spectacles.' She then mentioned she was on her way to the Crystal Spire commons with Alaric, and asked Kaelen not to misconstrue her avoidance as anything personal. With a final, hurried glance, she departed. Alaric, Kaelen recalled, had once been closely aligned with Darius during their first year, but the differing academic paths had seen them drift apart. Later, Kaelen and Hadrian ventured to the academy’s central courtyard, where a vendor offered chilled sorbets infused with summer fruit. The icy sweetness, a burst of candied rose and tart elderberry, spread across Kaelen’s tongue, offering a fleeting, almost defiant moment of solace. But beneath the ephemeral relief, a bitter, cold knot of unease tightened in his chest. He held his expression neutral, determined not to betray the turmoil within. “That tastes good?” Hadrian asked, his own sorbet—a vibrant hue of crushed star-fruit—already half-devoured, his eyes glinting with a familiar avarice. “Would you care to sample?” Kaelen replied, a hint of wry amusement touching his lips. He brought his own, still half-eaten sorbet, closer to Hadrian’s mouth. Without a moment's hesitation, Hadrian grinned, a flash of white teeth, and took a generous bite. “Hadrian! Did you truly?” Kaelen exclaimed, feigning disgust. “You offered,” Hadrian said, mouth full, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “That is… unhygienic. And why such a prodigious bite?” Hadrian merely shrugged, a careless gesture. “It was but a single taste.” He chuckled, a sound that somehow managed to be both irritating and strangely comforting. The moment hung, oddly peaceful. The crisp autumn air, usually a harbinger of academic rigor, felt calm, a stark contrast to Kaelen’s internal tempest. Where were Darius and Elian now? A few sequestered courtyards, a rarely used archive wing, or perhaps the clandestine training grounds, sprang to mind. Kaelen did not pursue them. Perhaps he truly feared what truths such a search might unearth. He tried, with every fiber of his being, to banish Darius Valerius from his thoughts. But the harder he tried, the more profoundly he realized the extent of Darius’s insidious presence within his mind, a constant, unwelcome echo. How long, Kaelen wondered, would it take to excise such an entanglement? How much arduous effort would it demand? He possessed no answer. The feeling was akin to being lost in a vast, arid desert, not merely sorrowful and suffocating, but terrifying, unbearable in its endlessness. Sometimes, Kaelen retreated into himself, like an ancient script struggling to reveal its hidden runes. He found himself taking a step back, attempting to discern the pattern of this new, unsettling reality. When the weight became too much, he would occasionally confide a fragmented thought, a veiled anxiety, to Hadrian. And, for now, that was enough. Suddenly, a question escaped Kaelen’s lips, raw and unbidden. “Hadrian,” he began, his voice barely a murmur. “Yes, Kaelen?” Hadrian replied, turning his gaze, unexpectedly serious. “Do you believe… do you think flowers can ever truly bloom in a barren desert?” The question felt overtly emotional, embarrassingly so, the moment the words formed. Kaelen scratched awkwardly at his temple, bracing for a jibe. But Hadrian offered no mockery. “They will,” Hadrian affirmed, his voice soft, almost resolute. “...” “They must. Existence, after all, is wretched enough as it is.” Hearing such profound, almost melancholy words from Hadrian Vance—a person Kaelen had never believed capable of such sentiment—struck him with a sharp, unwelcome clarity. His desperate hope, the tendril of yearning he still secretly harbored for something from Darius, felt impossibly futile. How much more time, how much more pain, would it demand before he could surrender these meaningless feelings? “...Indeed. Existence is wretched.” Darius Valerius. That arrogant, useless scion. Why did he seem so intent on crushing the fragile, loyal devotion Kaelen, against his better judgment, still felt whenever their paths crossed? Darius, who now seemed to have discarded all semblance of academic duty, arrived and departed from Lumina Arcanum as he pleased. And always, a silent, pathetic echo, Elian Valerius was by his side. As the situation grew increasingly unsettling, the lecture halls and common rooms buzzed with a mix of unease and speculative whispers. It became starkly evident: Darius’s veiled violence was escalating. And with it, a creeping resentment, a subtle frost, spread among their fellow students. None of it felt right. So, when Kaelen saw Darius dragging Elian by the wrist down a secluded academic corridor, his strides long and imperious, Kaelen stopped. He watched them, his gaze flitting between Darius’s rigid back and Elian’s hunched shoulders, before words, unplanned and reckless, sprang forth. “Your father,” Kaelen stated, his voice ringing unexpectedly clear in the quiet corridor, “he is… concerned for your conduct.” It was no apology, no flattery. It was a calculated falsehood, a desperate gamble. Such was the extent of Kaelen’s battered pride. Darius, famously estranged from his austere father, Lord Valerius, would likely not discern the lie. And even if he did, Kaelen could always argue that, at this rate, Lord Valerius would indeed soon have ample cause for concern. Kaelen always left himself an arcane escape route. “If violence must be meted out, then let it be visited upon you alone, Darius. What transgression has Elian committed to deserve such treatment?” “Move, Thorne.” The very mention of Elian’s name seemed to ignite a fresh, cold fury in Darius. His gaze, black as obsidian, impaled Kaelen, radiating daggers. Kaelen’s chest felt as though it might burst under the pressure. He hated him. And yet, pitiful, pathetic Elian Valerius remained glued to Darius’s side, his tear-filled eyes wide, flickering between them, as if on the verge of weeping. “Unless you desire another… encounter, as before, you will move aside.” Darius’s voice was a low growl, a promise of pain. “D-Darius, please,” Elian stammered, his voice a reedy tremor, tugging weakly at Darius’s sleeve. Only then did Darius cease his advance, his glare shifting entirely to Elian, his dark head turning, presenting Kaelen with only the rigid line of his back. “As I said, your father is— ” Kaelen pressed, grasping at the fraying thread of his fabrication. “...” Elian, on the precipice of tears, clung desperately to Darius’s arm, a futile attempt to halt him. Witnessing that raw, pitiful tableau was unbearable. It was so excruciating Kaelen closed his eyes, unable to watch the younger Valerius's humiliation. After a strained moment, Darius looked down at Elian, then turned abruptly. He walked back, not further down the corridor, but into the nearest lecture hall, pulling Elian with him. For the remainder of the day, Darius remained within its confines—a rare, almost unprecedented act of compliance, much like a few weeks prior. --- The long-anticipated day of the arcane exhibition had arrived. A fleet of enchanted carriages, sleek and polished, had been commissioned to transport them to the Arcana Obscura, a private collection rarely opened to academy students. A few elder students grumbled about the interruption to their advanced studies, but most revelled in the chance to escape the academy’s routines, if only for a single day. No need for cumbersome satchels of provisions; they would return to Lumina Arcanum by eventide. The proctors offered only a few half-hearted admonitions before granting their release, their voices lost in the excited chatter. They were not first-year acolytes, after all. There was no giddy excitement that kept Kaelen awake the previous night. He regarded it as merely another day—depart without a tome, return without a tome. He held no inkling that this day, this seemingly ordinary scholarly excursion, would be the moment his carefully bottled frustration finally shattered. He had anticipated its eventual eruption, but not with such sudden, brutal finality. Customarily, Kaelen always occupied the seat beside Darius Valerius whenever they were outside the structured confines of the lecture hall. He was, after all, Darius’s closest… associate. Kaelen hadn’t even considered where Hadrian would sit; they had never shared an enchanted carriage for such an outing. At first, a familiar unease coiled in Kaelen’s gut. He worried Hadrian might, in his blithe disregard, inadvertently claim the seat nearest Darius. Reflecting now, such a fear felt pathetic, almost comical. Neither Kaelen nor Hadrian would ultimately occupy that position. Upon arrival, Kaelen located their designated carriage in the main quadrangle and boarded, seeking their assigned seats. The rearmost five seats were already claimed by a boisterous group of classmates, Seraphina among them. She waved at Kaelen, then hesitated, her gaze flickering towards Darius’s usual seat before pointing a tentative finger. “Kaelen! There’s an empty spot here!” Seraphina called out, her voice carrying over the din. “...Ah, yes,” Kaelen murmured. Of course. It had always been his designated place. But today, a strange hesitancy slowed his steps as he approached Darius’s row. He exhaled a silent breath of relief. The seat beside Darius was, indeed, still vacant. A sharp twinge of determination, cold and brittle, solidified within him. It was his place. His pride—that solitary, tenacious anchor in his turbulent existence—compelled him to claim it. Even after the physical humiliation inflicted by Darius, incited by Elian, that stubborn shard of self-worth demanded he sit there. He reached out, his fingers brushing the smooth, cool wood of the seat for a moment, his eyes scanning the interior of the carriage. Then, his voice quiet, almost pleading, he spoke. “Darius… this seat…” “It is not yours, Thorne. Find another perch.” Darius’s voice, devoid of inflection, cut him off mid-sentence. His dark eyes remained fixed on the carriage entrance, unwavering. Following his line of sight, Kaelen saw Elian Valerius, small and tentative, making his way gingerly toward them. Kaelen’s fists clenched, his unspoken words dying in his throat. “...Fine. As you wish.” Kaelen forced the words out, striving for an indifference he did not feel, his heart feeling as though it had been meticulously shredded. He retreated swiftly from the seat, his gaze sweeping the carriage’s interior. He spotted an empty spot near Hadrian’s convivial group, directly in front of where Hadrian sat. Relief, sharp and sudden, flooded him. He hastened over, dropping into the seat with a soft thud. Without waiting for a response, he spoke. “Hadrian, share this row with me.” No answer. Kaelen looked closer. Hadrian was already asleep, his head lolling against the enchanted crystal window, rising and falling gently with the carriage’s subtle undulations. He always seemed to drift off easily in the mornings, and this day was no exception. Kaelen, shaking his head at Hadrian’s absurdly relaxed posture, carefully tucked his leather-bound runic journal between Hadrian’s head and the cold windowpane. He leaned back into the plush, yet surprisingly uncomfortable, velvet seat. Across the aisle, Kaelen caught a fleeting glimpse of dark, precisely cut hair. Darius’s. His unusual height made him easily discernible even from a distance. Though the angle obscured his face, Kaelen knew precisely the cold, dismissive look Darius would be wearing.

A Gilded Cage, a Bruised Bloom