Kaelen Thorne's face, flushed and faintly swollen from a night steeped in arcane tinctures and sybaritic indulgence, reminded Lysander of a puffed swamp-toad. A cold, ceramic flask, filled with a draught of his own concoction – meant to soothe such excesses – clinked against the polished obsidian of Kaelen's study table. Lysander set it down with practiced quiet. Without fail, he brought a restorative on mornings Kaelen had spent chasing fleeting pleasures. A small, resentful part of Lysander noted the predictability. Kaelen’s face always swelled.
“Enough with the languid sprawl,” Lysander murmured, his voice pitched low, “The remedy awaits.”
“Ah, Lysander. Ever the dutiful shadow.” Kaelen’s eyes, heavy-lidded, flickered open. “Thank you.”
“Did your father’s Arch-Magi summons cause any... lasting inconvenience this morning?”
Kaelen merely stretched, a picture of indolent grace. “None, thanks to your eloquent deflection.” He offered a dismissive wave. Lysander’s lips tightened, a bitter taste rising. He turned to take his usual place at Kaelen’s side, but his gaze snagged on the sprawling scrolls across a nearby divan.
Not his usual place. Roric Ashwood’s place. Lysander felt a familiar chill. Roric, Kaelen’s current fascination, lay draped across the cushions, a discarded Arcane Lore thesis across his chest. Roric, with his easy laugh and innate magical talent, who stood a full head taller than Lysander, and whose lineage rivaled Kaelen’s own. Lysander often cursed his own unassuming stature, clinging to the precarious comfort of his utility to Kaelen.
He buried the acid surge of jealousy deep. Lysander nodded toward the divan. “When did he arrive?”
Kaelen yawned. “No idea. He was here when I roused.”
“And yet,” Lysander said, a faint edge to his tone, “one who retired early last night still appears… indisposed.”
A rustle. The parchment slid from Roric’s chest, revealing half-lidded, emerald eyes. Roric’s gaze swept over Lysander and Kaelen, slow and deliberate, before he yawned, a wide, theatrical stretch. “I merely told myself I’d master the Celestial Glyphs before sleep. Well.”
Yawns, Lysander noted with a grimace, were indeed contagious. Kaelen mirrored Roric’s stretch, then crinkled his nose in a smug grin. “This one, a veritable delinquent, yet manages to appear more wholesome than half the Citadel Guard.”
“Oh, do hush,” Roric retorted, amusement playing on his lips.
“Such a brute,” Kaelen chuckled, eyes gleaming. Lysander watched, a strange prickle beneath his skin, as Roric casually leaned back, letting out a rich, genuine laugh. Their eyes met, briefly. Roric shifted, looking toward the stained-glass window, then back to Lysander. Lysander scraped his heel against the polished floor, redirecting his attention to Kaelen.
The atmosphere in Kaelen’s chambers, early in the day, held a deceptive charm. These easy exchanges often set the tone for Kaelen’s court. Soon, junior scholars and aspiring magi like Aerion and Tamsyn would drift in, admiring Kaelen, eager to listen to his escapades. The familiar routine would unfold: idle chatter, forced laughter, and eventually, the arrival of a senior acolyte to begin the day’s lessons.
For those considered the brightest and most privileged in the Citadel, it was a surprisingly uncomplicated start. But at heart, they were still young men, steeped in arcane power and privilege. Tales of their wild, often callous pursuits from the night before, especially when Kaelen was involved, left a bitter aftertaste. Yet, Lysander played his part, feigning amusement.
Despite it all, these mornings weren't entirely unpleasant. Lysander found a fragile sense of belonging. But everything changed a month and a half ago. And the reason was entirely Elias Thorne.
“Elias Thorne is here,” a hushed voice drifted from the antechamber.
“Gods, that wretch,” another whispered. “Does he even possess a shred of pride, showing his face after that drubbing?”
Aerion, a lesser scion from a minor house, openly mocked, pointing with exaggerated disdain. At Aerion’s finger stood Elias Thorne, awkwardly stepping into the chamber. Elias’s head was bowed, hair obscuring a raw, fresh bruise near his temple. He shuffled toward a secluded corner, placing his worn satchel on a low table, then immediately slumped onto the bench. Watching his hunched figure, Lysander felt a sigh of irritation well up.
Elias was utterly pathetic. His voice was thin, his frame slight—a pitiful excuse for a scion of even a lesser branch. As the murmurs in the chamber swelled, Kaelen’s eyes, sharp and cold, fixed on Elias’s back. He muttered a low, guttural curse. Lysander hated it. That chilling fixation—it drove him mad.
Kaelen snagged a heavy, leather-bound primer on elementary runes from a nearby shelf. With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed it. It spun through the air, landing with a dull thud against Elias’s head. Elias jolted. His head remained buried in his arms, precisely as Kaelen had instructed with his silent command. Yet Kaelen watched, a cold disdain in his gaze, and tapped his heel against the polished floor.
“Thorne! Will you not offer a proper greeting?”
When Kaelen’s voice, though soft, cut through the chamber like a whetted blade, Elias, still hunched, stammered a trembling response. “Y-yes, Kaelen.”
“Lift your head, look at me, and speak with conviction.”
Did Kaelen even realize the cruel absurdity of his demands? Lysander let out a bitter, silent laugh. Whether or not Kaelen noticed, he rose. He began to approach Elias. With every measured step, the unpleasant feelings inside Lysander grew more vivid, more raw.
Kaelen closed the distance between them. Just that proximity alone made Lysander feel like he was losing control over the volatile emotions he’d worked so hard to suppress. This wasn’t the same kind of jealousy he felt when Kaelen drew close to Roric. Instinctively, he knew. Deep down, he harbored something just as sinister as Kaelen did. That’s why watching Kaelen with Roric, while painful, eventually became bearable. But Kaelen’s interactions with Elias unsettled him more and more. Lysander’s hands started trembling. He clenched them tightly, hiding them in the folds of his robes.
Kaelen delivered a subtle cantrip, a gentle tremor that shook Elias’s bench hard. The bench rattled violently, almost toppling, and Elias jolted upright in alarm. His voice still unsteady, he whispered, “S-sorry.”
Kaelen stood there, silently looking down at Elias’s bruised face. Elias’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, on the verge of breaking down. Yet, in that moment, Lysander felt like he was the one who might burst into tears.
Kaelen didn’t make Elias run pointless errands, but he always kept his eyes on him. If Elias went to the ablutions during a break, Kaelen would still be watching his retreating figure, even while talking with the others. Lysander knew, because he never stopped watching Kaelen.
To be honest, Lysander’s first impression of Elias Thorne was unremarkable. His skin wasn’t the clearest, but his youthful features gave him a face that was easy to look at. When he smiled, it felt genuinely happy, and even his neutral expression carried a certain gentle brightness. Before Kaelen started tormenting him, no one really disliked Elias. He seemed like a scion who had grown up in a warm, loving environment. While he wasn’t exactly sociable, preferring to spend time alone with his scrolls, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor.
Most considered Elias a decent sort. Since he never flaunted the limited affection he’d received, he earned even more quiet praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be around—that was Elias Thorne.
But Lysander hadn’t particularly liked him from the start. He didn’t hate him either—he just didn’t care. To say Elias wasn’t even on his radar would be more accurate. Yet, whenever he was talking with his fellow junior scholars, or Kaelen, or Roric’s group, and Elias’s name came up, Lysander would find himself casually lying, saying, “Oh, him? He’s alright. A diligent sort.”
Kaelen, like Lysander, hadn’t paid much attention to Elias at first. Kaelen was never the type to care about the mundane affairs of lesser acolytes. After Elias joined Kaelen’s study group in the spring term, they didn’t exchange a single word until early summer. That was how things originally were.
But one day, something changed. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane flow of events. It happened right after the mid-day meal. Looking back, Lysander didn’t think he’d ever regretted something he did as much as he regretted what happened that day.
Elias, as usual, had taken a corner seat in the library to pore over ancient texts. He was the kind of acolyte who loved burying himself in obscure runic lore. On the other hand, Lysander had a habit of being overly friendly toward those with a reputation for intellectual curiosity, especially when it might elevate his own standing.
That’s why, when Lysander stumbled upon Elias by chance, he struck up a conversation about the ancient runic tablet Elias was studying. Lysander wasn’t much for mere casual reading—pretending to be intellectually superior was more his style.
“You must truly enjoy these archaic glyphs, don’t you?”
“Huh? Oh, yes, I suppose so.”
At the time, Elias and Lysander were still distant acquaintances. Maybe that’s what made approaching him easier.
“Have you deciphered that particular sequence yet?”
“Well, I’m almost at the end of the foundational readings.”
“Then just close it for now. The traditional interpretation of the final binding rune will only disappoint you. Many scholars find the accepted conclusion to be… lacking.”
“You’ve read this tablet before?” Elias asked, wide-eyed.
“Yes, a while ago. It’s a rather archaic glyph, isn’t it? The final sequence often perplexes scholars; many find the traditional interpretation of the ‘binding’ rune to be… lacking.” Lysander drew on his unique talent, weaving a critique based on his deep understanding of rune-craft, not a real one from memory, but enough to sound informed. Elias smiled brightly, looking genuinely pleased. It caught Lysander off guard.
“You’re the first person I’ve met who’s truly understood this particular tablet, besides me.”
“Oh… really?”
“Yes, but I’m still going to finish it. Thinking about why the ending—the binding—turned out the way it did, considering the preceding sequences, is part of the fun.”
“Well, naturally. Everyone’s interpretations differ. Perhaps the true power isn’t in the binding, but in the unraveling.”
“Hearing you say that makes me look forward to it even more.”
That earnest smile still lingers as an uncomfortable memory. Was it some instinctive unease Lysander felt even then? After that day, Elias Thorne started seeking Lysander out frequently. Though Lysander found it a bit annoying, and often wondered, *Why me?*, he didn’t outright reject him. Elias, with his reputation for quiet diligence, wasn’t the worst acolyte to keep close.
After all, ancient runic texts—outside of standard magical primers—were practically off-limits for most of Kaelen’s circle. Even if someone had the time, such texts were little more than glorified doorstops to them. For Elias, Lysander was probably the only person around who could talk about such things, and with genuine insight.
That day was one of those routine encounters. But it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days among them. Kaelen Thorne was to blame. To this day, Lysander couldn’t fathom why he acted the way he did. Why he, someone who never meddled in others’ academic pursuits, chose to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. Why Kaelen, of all things, had left a stack of academic scrolls, presumably results from a recent assessment, wide open for everyone passing by to see.
Lysander, someone who guarded his own grades fiercely, naturally assumed Kaelen wouldn’t want such things exposed either. He moved to tidy the stack. That’s when he saw it: Roric Ashwood’s score. Eighty-one percent in Advanced Arcane Theory. Lysander blinked in disbelief and checked again. It was definitely eighty-one. Considering the notoriously high-grade thresholds for this assessment, it would barely scrape into the Fourth Tier. But still, it was on the higher end of that tier. It was the first time one of his preconceptions was shattered. It was a small shock to realize Roric wasn’t as much of a lost cause as Lysander had thought. Naturally, that made Lysander think of Kaelen’s own grades. Kaelen was the true academic wasteland. A scion who’d mark every question with a random glyph and sleep through the rest of the exam, Kaelen had never once managed a respectable score.
Perhaps that’s why Lysander felt such a mix of emotions—like he’d found a glimmer of truth among the dross. A scion he’d once loathed as merely a hedonistic distraction turned out to be more salvageable, academically, than the scion he worshipped. That strange realization must’ve thrown him off, because Lysander did something he normally never would’ve done.
It wasn’t anything grand. He just grabbed a nearby stylus and scribbled a short note at the top of Roric’s scroll. “A commendable grasp of elementary wards. Focus on the foundational principles of elemental channeling, and your mastery of the Art will ascend rapidly. —A fellow Seeker. P.S. Forgive my trespass; I merely sought to tidy the table and glimpsed your impressive progress.”
The arrogance of evaluating someone’s grade and offering unsolicited, anonymous advice made Lysander feel a bit embarrassed, so he rambled to justify himself. He couldn’t say why he even wrote it in the first place. At the time, he must’ve been out of his mind. Looking back, it was clear this was the first mistake in what would become a series of entanglements. Every mess starts with a poorly fastened first button. If Lysander hadn’t written that note, he wouldn’t have run into Elias Thorne, carrying a newly translated ancient rune tablet, down the corridor.