Lysander Vance moved through the Arcane Citadel with practiced deference. His life, meticulously observed by the whispers of Aerthos, had forged within him an enduring composure. More than anything, he loathed to reveal the tremor beneath his skin, the gnawing hunger for a respect that lineage and raw magical aptitude had always denied him. So, even when Kaelen’s cruelties sharpened, Lysander endured, his thoughts a quiet, contained storm. People often found him unmemorable, perhaps even dull. He rarely flared in anger, never openly challenged the established order. It wasn’t an absence of feeling, but a deep-seated vulnerability transmuted into a formidable, protective shell. Each slight, each humiliation, had only served to thicken it. Over time, little could truly breach that hardened surface. This trait, he knew, was his currency. It allowed him to hover at the periphery of Kaelen Thorne’s orbit, a useful shadow in the court of Aerthos’s most mercurial scion. He had a respectable, if quiet, place. He would guard it fiercely. “Lysander, fetch me another goblet.” Kaelen’s voice, a casual command from his perch on a carved stone bench, cut through the low murmur of the Hall of Whispers. Lysander had barely set down the last one. “Immediately, Kaelen.” His tone remained level. He knew the drill. Kaelen snorted, eyes flicking towards a new arrival. Roric Ashwood, a favored presence this cycle, leaned against a crumbling archway, idly polishing a silver signet ring. Roric merely raised an eyebrow at Kaelen’s petulance. “What’s that look for, Ashwood? Want to trade places?” Kaelen’s sneer was half-jest, half-threat. Roric shrugged, dismissing the challenge. “Hardly. I prefer to maintain my own… independent schedule.” Kaelen laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Still too good for our company, eh?” “Some company is more… stimulating than others,” Roric drawled, his gaze sweeping over Kaelen’s usual sycophants—Seraphim, a gaudy acolyte from a merchant house, and Jaren, whose ambition always outstripped his talent. Both shifted uncomfortably. Lysander remembered the sting of his own quiet exclusion. In his first cycle, he’d often found himself amidst Kaelen’s inner circle, even if only as an observer. Then, a careless word from Seraphim: “Lysander always pores over those dusty runes. Slows us down.” Kaelen had barely noticed. His pride had prevented him from pleading. The thought of clinging like a desperate vine to Kaelen’s disdainful approval had sickened him. So, he had not protested. And just like that, he was out. His will, his presence, meant nothing. Lysander’s meals shifted. He started joining Roric Ashwood. He hated the thought. Roric’s bluntness, his almost brutal honesty, grated. Yet, Roric, for all his infuriating composure, was still a step above Lysander in the Citadel’s subtle hierarchy, a favorite of Kaelen’s even if he didn’t quite play the courtier. Lysander adapted. “Lysander. You taking Midday Nourishment soon?” Roric asked him once, without looking up from a worn grimoire. “In a few minutes,” Lysander replied, forcing his voice even. He’d never eaten at Roric’s preferred, later hour. But survival demanded it. “Good. I don’t abide dawdling.” Roric’s words then, as now, were sharp, edged with an irritating superiority. Lysander had once questioned Roric’s tolerance for Kaelen’s hangers-on. “They’re not friends,” Roric had scoffed, flicking a page. “They’re lesser acolytes. A student’s duty is to engage in arcane study, yes?” Lysander had nodded, perplexed. “That’s true.” “Then don’t group me with their aimless pursuits. It offends.” Roric’s gaze, brief and cutting, had dismissed him. Such a proclamation from Roric, known for his own defiant streaks, had been absurd. But Lysander had learned to navigate the irritation. Today, the Hall of Whispers pulsed with a different undercurrent. Fourth period neared its close, the air thick with anticipation of Midday Nourishment. “Blast it all!” Kaelen’s voice boomed, rattling the ancient shelves. “Seraphim and Jaren—those worthless curs!” He slammed a fist on a nearby table, startling a junior acolyte. Lysander, his heart giving an illicit lurch, turned. “Did they… abandon you?” he asked, the words barely a whisper. A spark of treacherous hope flickered. “Craven cowards. Off to some illicit gathering, no doubt.” Kaelen glared at the empty space beside him. “How inconvenient. Who will you join for Midday Nourishment, then?” Lysander’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the back of his chair. He fought the urge to smile. Kaelen sighed, a dramatic exhalation, then fixed his gaze on Roric Ashwood, who was packing his satchel with infuriating slowness. “Ashwood. I’ll join you two today.” “No one issued an invitation,” Roric replied, not looking up. His voice held a flat, infuriating neutrality. “Keep that insolence, and I’ll break your nose.” Kaelen’s threat was casual, yet chilling. “Try it, Thorne. You’d look a fool, begging for company.” Roric finally met Kaelen’s gaze, a challenging glint in his eyes. Lysander couldn’t bear it. His chance, so fragile, would dissipate. “Come, Kaelen. It would be… unseemly for you to dine alone.” His voice, though carefully modulated, betrayed a hint of desperate eagerness. Kaelen’s lips curled into a triumphant smirk, his eyes flickering towards Roric. “See? Some of us have loyal company.” Roric merely snorted, pushing Kaelen’s quill case off the table with a flick of his wrist. It clattered to the stone floor. Lysander felt a surge of triumph, quickly suppressed. Roric’s approval meant little. Kaelen’s presence at their table was all that mattered. Lysander found himself forcing down scorched greens, usually unbearable, as they made their way to the grand Refectory. Kaelen’s eyes, however, were not on his plate. They scoured the vast hall, predator-like, for a different kind of prey. Then, Kaelen’s utensils clattered. His hand shot out, grasping the arm of a passing figure. Elias Thorne. Kaelen’s half-brother, moving with a defeated slump. “Sit here,” Kaelen commanded, indicating the empty seat beside him. The words were not an invitation. They were an order. “You have no one else, do you?” Elias’s face flushed a deep crimson. His gaze flickered around the bustling Refectory, landing for a terrifying moment on Lysander, before he bit his lip. He sank slowly into the designated seat, a tremor running through his slight frame. Lysander felt a cold dread, a bitter taste rising in his throat. Since when did Kaelen care about Elias’s loneliness? It was Kaelen himself who had orchestrated it all. Lysander’s mind flashed to the seemingly innocuous interaction from weeks ago, his subtle instigation, and the subsequent ruin of Elias’s reputation. A dark empathy, a sickening mirror of his own insecurities, twisted in his gut. Unconsciously, Lysander slammed his goblet onto the polished obsidian table. The clang echoed, jarringly loud amidst the din. Only Elias flinched, his eyes wide and fearful, darting to Lysander. Kaelen, however, remained transfixed by Elias. Damn it. The protective shell Lysander had so meticulously constructed, the one designed to endure all, felt a terrifying crack. He fought it, a desperate internal struggle. A breaking point he hadn’t known existed was upon him. “Elias,” Lysander snapped, his voice rougher than intended. “Leave.” “H-huh?” Elias stammered, startled. “Don’t heed him. Go. It will be fine.” Lysander’s voice firmed. “Lysander Vance.” Kaelen’s voice, low and dangerous, finally turned to him. Kaelen, who had ignored the loud clang of the goblet, now ground his teeth, glaring with an intensity that promised pain. That glare, far from deterring, hardened Lysander’s resolve. He met Elias’s gaze, unwavering. “I will handle this. Go.” “Uh, o-okay.” Elias pushed back his chair, already half-rising. “Kaelen, desist.” Lysander’s voice held a challenge he rarely dared. “Yes, I agree,” Roric chimed in, through a mouthful of something unidentifiable. His interjection, as always, was unexpected, almost flippant. He chewed, swallowed with deliberate slowness, then glanced between Lysander and Kaelen, a faint, irritating smirk playing on his lips. “What are you glaring at? You’re spoiling my appetite.” Roric’s provocations never ceased to annoy Lysander. Insufferable. He ignored him, turning back to Kaelen. “Leave Elias alone.” “Who are you to command me?” Kaelen shot back, his voice rising. “It’s tiresome to witness,” Lysander replied, his eyes locked on Kaelen’s. Kaelen slammed his fist on the table, making Elias, still awkwardly perched, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Roric, however, merely chuckled, raising a hand in a gesture of surrender. “Count me out. Let’s decide by majority. Lysander wants him gone. Kaelen wants him to stay.” Roric licked a drop of water from his lips, then added, “I am neutral.” Roric’s habit of using Lysander’s shortened name, ‘Lys’, always grated. It slipped into his tone now, sharp with irritation. “Stop meddling, Ashwood. Your vote is irrelevant.” “Why so? There is another right there.” Roric, unfazed, smirked and gestured towards Elias with a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Elias not a person?” “You are absurd,” Lysander muttered, a vein pulsing at his temple. “Why is he silent? Let him speak his mind.” As if Elias could possibly articulate anything in this suffocating tension. Lysander sighed at Roric’s thoughtless antics, picking up his spoon and idly stirring his bland gruel. That’s when Kaelen tapped his finger on the table, a slow, deliberate rhythm. “If you leave, Elias, you will be utterly ruined. Starting today.” Tears welled in Elias’s large, brown eyes, glistening as he looked at Lysander, a silent plea. Damn it. Lysander pressed his lips together, a cold resolve settling in. “It is fine. I will stop him,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady, trying to reassure Elias. “Lysander Vance,” Kaelen growled, his voice tight with barely contained fury. Lysander forced himself to meet Kaelen’s glare, feigning a calm he didn't possess. He felt an overwhelming urge to succumb, to break. To suppress it, he lifted his gaze to the vaulted ceiling for a brief moment before lowering it, answering Kaelen with an almost nonchalant air. “What?” “You…” Kaelen clenched his fist, his stare burning, threatening. Lysander had to endure it. His instincts screamed that he could not abandon Elias to Kaelen’s relentless torment. But Kaelen’s focus, for a dangerous moment, shifted back to Elias. “I-I will go,” Elias stammered, his voice trembling. Lysander’s breath caught. “Th-thank you, Lysander.” Elias scrambled up, his movements uncoordinated, and fled the Refectory, his footsteps echoing his desperate escape. As soon as Elias was gone, Kaelen’s head snapped towards Lysander, his eyes burning with a renewed, terrible rage.

A Crack in the Façade