A chill had settled in Elara Theron’s gaze, sharp as obsidian shards. Since the incident in the Hidden Vault, her scorn for Lysander Vance had become an open wound, festering for all the Arcane Citadel to witness. The carefully cultivated image of the dutiful scion she presented to the High Council had vanished, leaving only raw, possessive animosity.
Kaelen Varr now occupied the coveted lectern beside Elara in the Grand Library, his presence a constant, gleaming taunt.
Lysander might be skilled at masking the true depths of his ambition, but he possessed no such talent for feigning indifference to public humiliation. He would not cower like some forgotten acolyte. Still, the brazen courage required to approach Elara as if nothing had shattered between them eluded him.
A hollow unease began to consume him, a perpetual hum of melancholy and boredom. Sometimes, a flicker of petty vindication would ignite within his chest, but always, he endured.
Elara, incapable of taming her tempestuous emotions, now seethed with a childish envy and resentment toward him. The reason was stark, a gilded cage forged around Kaelen Varr.
Despite the clear intent, Lysander’s animosity for Kaelen intensified. Kaelen was never his to claim, yet the junior acolyte had not only stolen Elara’s singular attention but had twisted her regard for Lysander into venom. A vicious, undeserving presence, Kaelen seemed.
Whether by design or accident, the outcome remained unchanged. Human emotions rarely bowed to logic. For Lysander, blaming Kaelen offered a convenient scapegoat, a small comfort in his miserable exile.
However, Lysander prided himself on making rational decisions. He understood Kaelen was merely a pawn, swept along by Elara’s potent will. Thus, he never allowed a flicker of open hostility to mar his expression towards the boy.
Part of it was the deep shame of revealing his raw jealousy. Part of it was the cold knowledge that losing his composure with Kaelen would only brand him a fool. Should he lash out, Elara’s contempt would deepen, and the scholars of his cohort would whisper of his base, unworthy origins, an acolyte unfit for even the lowest tier of the Citadel.
“This is… unbearable.”
The words were a rasp in his throat. A gnawing hatred, sharper than Elara’s disdain, began to consume him. It was a self-loathing that rivaled the pain of her public rejection.
Then, for some inexplicable reason, Seraphon Grey’s image rose in his mind. Perhaps it was simply because Seraphon, with his unsettling charm, was the only one who seemed to tolerate his company these days. What would Seraphon say if he knew the depths of Lysander’s secret anxieties? Something cutting, no doubt:
‘Ah, Lysander. Turns out you’re just another desperate, low-born supplicant, grasping for a power you can never hold, hmm?’
The thought of Seraphon’s knowing smirk, his disdainful assessment, made Lysander’s hands clench. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He would rather wither and fade than let anyone, especially Seraphon, discover his true hunger.
Friendships in Aerthos were as fragile as aged parchment. Once Elara’s contempt for Lysander became undeniable, his connections with her inner circle frayed. Amusingly, Taelon, one of the quietest acolytes, approached him yesterday with a strange overture.
“Lysander, Seraphon sought your presence earlier.”
“Oh? For what purpose?”
“He did not specify. Only inquired after you.”
Lysander merely nodded, offering nothing more.
Such was the nature of their exchanges—brief, utilitarian, lacking substance. From the shifting currents, it became clear: Lysander was now perceived as belonging to Seraphon’s shifting orbit, rather than Elara’s once-gilded sphere.
Not that all ties to Elara’s group were severed. Occasionally, during the arcane drills or by chance in the morning, polite, stiff greetings were exchanged. Mostly, this fell to Ren, a minor scholar of lesser lineage.
“Lysander. A quiet morning.”
“Indeed, Ren.”
Lysander recalled one such awkward exchange, Ren’s voice a low murmur.
‘Elara’s comportment has become… erratic. Her treatment of Kaelen. Is it not… unsettling?’
A tightness coiled in Lysander’s jaw. He must have made an unpleasant face, for Ren seemed to interpret it as agreement. Ren continued, detailing how Elara would insist Kaelen share her work station, how she would grasp his arm, her grip possessive.
Lysander’s fists clenched, teeth grinding. He forced the words out, cold and flat.
‘Such petty theatrics hold no interest for me.’
Ren’s quiet observations ceased immediately.
Lately, Ren had been making subtle efforts to ingratiate himself with Seraphon’s coterie. He seemed, like many others, to be seeking an escape from the suffocating shadow of Elara’s influence. Perhaps his confidences were a quiet plea for acceptance.
Today, as often happened, only Lysander and Seraphon remained within the echoing study chamber, the other scholars having retreated.
Seraphon leaned against a column of ancient granite, his eyes tracing patterns on the ceiling. Whether he ignored Lysander or merely assessed him, Lysander could not tell. Annoyed, he turned his head, choosing to ignore Seraphon in turn.
“Lysander.”
“Yes?”
“Let us acquire some frosted elixirs after the next lecture. The cerulean draught was rather pleasing last time.”
Seraphon’s voice cut through Lysander’s attempted disengagement. As he spoke, he idly tossed a small, perfectly spherical levitation orb from hand to hand. The orb drifted erratically, threatening to collide with the high shelves of ancient texts, yet no one dared utter a word to Seraphon.
Atmosphere held no sway over him. He was indifferent, almost selfish in his casual power. Lysander watched the orb’s unpredictable flight, a frown etched on his face, finally breaking his silence. The irritation at Seraphon’s shamelessness sharpened his tone.
“The draught you consumed entirely yourself, you mean? You procured it solely for your own indulgence, did you not?”
“Not entirely. I merely prefer cerulean.”
“So, my preference was entirely disregarded?”
“How was I to discern your desires? You offered no counsel.”
By then, the orb had come to rest near the feet of a junior acolyte. Seraphon extended a languid hand, a silent command. The acolyte hesitated, then stooped to retrieve the orb, placing it gingerly into Seraphon’s palm. Seraphon casually spun the orb, his voice a low drawl to the retreating student.
“My gratitude, drudge.”
Such a grating temperament.
‘Drudge here, acolyte there.’ Every utterance from his lips felt like a barbed arrow.
Honestly, it defied logic that someone as utterly obnoxious as Seraphon would prefer Lysander’s company over Elara’s. He would share meals with Lysander, sit beside him in lectures, even seek him out for quiet study. Elara was absent, true, but Seraphon could easily send an arcane whisper or arrange a private meeting if he wished.
The thought surfaced, unbidden, and Lysander spoke without thinking.
“Why do you no longer seek Elara Theron’s company these days?”
Seraphon, mid-toss of the levitation orb against the chamber wall, paused. He turned, a puzzled expression on his handsome face.
“You quarreled with her,” he stated.
“I did?”
“Indeed. You and Elara Theron.”
“I am aware. I am the one who quarreled with her. Why should that matter to you?”
“You utter the most peculiar things. Because you are my confidant.”
Seraphon’s gaze, oddly blatant, swept over Lysander. Feeling a prickle of unease, Lysander averted his eyes, posing his own question.
“Yet, you were also her confidant.”
“Remarkable. Are you suggesting you are not mine?”
His tone was laced with incredulity as he pointed a long finger at Lysander.
“No, I am your confidant. But you were also Elara Theron’s. So why do you side with me?”
“Because I have observed you for a longer span.”
“What nonsense do you speak? Our acquaintance began because of Elara, did it not?”
“Lysander. What exactly are you saying? We shared the quiet wisdom of the archives back in our first year!”
“When was this?”
“Truly, you are an insolent wretch. Back in the lesser scriptorium, we would exchange glances constantly!”
“Ah… those moments.”
“So, was I the only one who perceived a connection? You rogue. That is why, the moment we were assigned to the same cohort, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge that? Unbelievable. My disappointment in you is profound.”
“Oh.”
“Unfathomable. Truly… unfathomable. How could you inflict such an insult upon me?”
“Forgive me. My apologies, then.”
Lysander mumbled his apology hastily, a strange memory stirring within him. Those awkward, yet surprisingly frequent, moments of shared silence in the first-year archives. They had been filled with a kind of simmering tension, he remembered, not camaraderie.
So, that had been within Seraphon’s definition of ‘friendship.’ Lysander felt oddly defrauded. How could anyone interpret those hostile stares as anything but challenges? Wait, did this imply that the first to suggest shared study, all those cycles ago, had not been Elara but… him?
The realization struck Lysander like a blow, leaving him momentarily stunned. It was unsettling, even shocking. Still, he wished to avoid further entanglement, so he feigned comprehension and nodded.
“Very well. I grasp it. My apologies.”
“I was genuinely perturbed just now.”
Seraphon’s gaze lingered on Lysander briefly. Sometimes, the workings of his mind remained an impenetrable enigma.
“And besides, Elara Theron’s conduct is truly unhinged.”
Lysander remained silent.
“That woman is utterly possessed at present. She has always been… singular, but this? This is beyond the pale.”
Seraphon grasped the levitation orb with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The sight brought to mind Ren and the other scholars who had awkwardly tried to discuss Elara’s behavior with Lysander.
From that alone, one truth resonated: Elara Theron’s reputation was in precipitous decline.
“Obsessed.”
The word, carrying the weight of forbidden fervor, the most damning stigma in the intricate world of Aerthos’s young magi, sent a shiver through Lysander. His body trembled slightly at the thought. At the same time, a cold relief washed over him; no one knew of his own peculiar, deep-seated ambitions. Did that relief mean he valued his own hidden desires above Elara’s public fall?
Uneasy, Lysander looked at Seraphon’s impassive face, feeling like a blasphemous priest hiding a forbidden scroll before the High Magi.
“Truly, it is I,” he whispered.
A strange, choked laugh escaped him—a fragile mix of fear and derision.
It was almost darkly humorous that, to the eyes of the Citadel, he was Seraphon’s closest confidant. In truth, Lysander was no different—a supplicant branded with an unholy craving for recognition, a hidden power he knew he possessed. Just a few months ago, he had been Elara Theron’s most favored scholar. And yet, here he was, hiding within a treacherous alliance, a filthy trap he had barely escaped.
He had only managed to avoid being caught. That was all.
---
The pre-dawn air, crisp and cold, filtered through Lysander’s sleep-fogged mind. An illusionary summons, a whisper of pure thought, arrived unexpectedly. A contact at this ungodly hour. Half-asleep, he wondered if the current nightmare was merely an extension of his dreams. Though he had carefully avoided seeking Elara to protect himself from further hurt, his heart still leaped at the flicker of hope that the summons might be from her.
He rubbed his eyes, hastily dispelling the haze, and sought to discern the origin of the thought-form. His feelings were conflicted. Part of him wished it was merely a stray thought-phantom, an echo of some passing acolyte. But as soon as he deciphered its intricate pattern, he knew it was not Elara Theron.
“Lysander, forgive this intrusion at such an hour. Could you meet me at the Lesser Tower’s base? I am truly sorry. I am deeply sorry.”
“Just this once. Just this one time.”
Elara Theron would never apologize to him.
Among his peers, there were few who addressed him by his full given name, Lysander, with such earnest plea, and of those, only one sounded so utterly broken. How had Kaelen Varr even known his private meditations? The moment he parsed the message, Lysander’s face twisted into a scowl. He did not wish to see Kaelen—never wished to see him. Kaelen was always a jarring, unpleasant presence.
But despite his thoughts, Lysander pushed aside his sleep-shrouded blankets, buttoned his simple scholar’s tunic, and rose. He walked to his chamber door, but halted before stepping through, resting his forehead against the cool frame with a deep sigh.
“Damn it all.”
It was all so overwhelming, a cloying knot of emotion in his stomach. That was the only way to describe it. He clutched his chest. He had always prided himself on his keen intellect, on his mastery of arcane nomenclature from countless ancient texts, yet none of the words he knew could fully express this intricate, tangled mess of feelings.
It was simply… complicated.
The hatred he felt for Kaelen Varr, the memory of the junior acolyte’s weary eyes during that hidden vault incident, and the desperate cycles he’d spent trying to pry Elara’s attention away from him—all swirled together into a toxic brew. Biting his lip, he fiddled with the door’s latch, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist.
In the small, private garden outside his quarters, the cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding the arrival of an early autumn. To avoid the damp moss, Lysander stepped carefully onto the cool, ancient flagstones. The chilly dawn made him pull his tunic tighter around him. His bare feet, poking out from the front of his slippers, carried him all the way to the lesser gate that led to the Citadel’s outer pathways.
He paused there for a moment, clicked his tongue lightly, and grasped the cold iron handle. The creaking of the hinge made him flinch, and he opened the gate even more slowly, drawing out the inevitable.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the faint glow-orb on the asphalt-like pathway, stood Kaelen Varr in his junior acolyte’s tunic. His head was hung low as he idly scrawled invisible sigils on the ground with the tip of his worn boot.
“Kaelen Varr.”
At Lysander’s voice, Kaelen’s head snapped up like a startled raven.
“Lysander! Lysander!”