A week crawled by, each day heavier than the last. Lysander Vance spent his time in the scriptorium, fingers tracing ancient runes, while Kaelen Thorne remained a ghost at the edges of his periphery. Lysander pretended indifference, a master of feigned disinterest. He acted as if Kaelen held no sway over his thoughts, no power over his carefully constructed calm.
He sought the company of Rhylan, and a handful of other students, maintaining the illusion. Their casual chatter served as a flimsy veil, hiding the gnawing emptiness Kaelen’s absence carved.
Most vexing, this distance meant an information drought. Kaelen’s usual circle was now a closed door. Bits and pieces, however, still filtered through Rhylan’s loose-lipped group. Lysander’s pride burned, yet his curiosity raged hotter. He found himself subtly steering conversations, fishing for details, a pathetic angler in a sea of unspoken desire.
One afternoon, Lysander found Rhylan hunched over a flickering scrying mirror, muttering incantations for a trivial game of skill. He nudged a stack of scrolls closer to Rhylan’s elbow.
“Thorne still brooding in the upper archives?” Lysander asked, keeping his voice light.
Rhylan didn't look up. His thumb brushed the mirror's surface, triggering a burst of spectral light. “Oh, him? Left the Citadel again.”
A bitter taste coated Lysander’s tongue. He stiffened, fighting the urge to press further. Kaelen’s volatile temper often led to impulsive exits. It was a familiar pattern.
“To what dark corner of Aerthos this time?” Lysander tried for casual.
Rhylan twisted his body, grumbling at the game’s pixels. “Not a dark corner. A luncheon. Or a ‘blind introduction,’ as the gossips call it.”
Lysander’s breath hitched. His jaw clenched.
“Ariadne arranged it,” Rhylan continued, oblivious to Lysander’s sudden rigidity. “You know, that acolyte from the Emerald Tower, always hounding him. Apparently, they vanished together. Just like that. Mid-conversation, they decided the city market was more interesting than arcane theory.”
Rhylan paused, pressing a button with exaggerated force. “Seriously. But she wasn’t a wallflower either. Agreed without a flicker of hesitation. Like, ‘Oh, a stroll through the merchant’s quarter? Why not!’”
Silence stretched, taut and thin. Lysander swallowed hard.
“Both of them so… unbound,” Rhylan added, a smirk playing on his lips.
His voice held no admiration. It dripped with thinly veiled derision. A strange lightness bloomed in Lysander’s chest. He perched on Rhylan’s desk, a slight, almost imperceptible squeeze to his shoulder.
Rhylan glanced up, then leaned back, creating space. A small, unspoken acknowledgment of gratitude.
Rhylan was the only one who dared to openly critique Kaelen’s brazen social escapades. For that, Lysander found him tolerable, sometimes even invaluable.
“Disgustingly free-spirited,” Lysander remarked, the words tasting like ash.
“Right? I’m quite bound myself, thank the Arch-Magi.”
That boastful cadence, so typical of Rhylan, coaxed a brief, sharp laugh from Lysander.
“Aren’t you supposed to be? We’re scholars here.”
“No 'supposed to' about it. You learn these things as you stumble along. Human impulse is a curious beast,” Rhylan replied, his eyes glued to the scrying mirror. A knowing smirk played on his lips.
“Is that why your romantic ventures are so… quiet?” Lysander teased, a rare moment of levity.
Rhylan finally powered down the mirror. He fixed Lysander with an incredulous look, tapping Lysander’s hand on his shoulder.
“I’m filing a formal grievance, Vance.”
“How is that a grievance?”
“If the recipient feels discomfort, it's a breach of decorum.”
“Rhylan, you are truly insufferable.”
“Prude.”
Lysander’s slipper slid to the floor as he swung his foot idly. He ignored it, nudging Rhylan’s leg with his socked foot. Rhylan feigned a dramatic shove, then casually flipped Lysander an ancient, rude hand gesture. His raised wrist revealed a simple cord of obsidian beads, a rosary, always wrapped around his left hand.
“That doesn’t suit you,” Lysander observed.
“Why not?” Rhylan asked, his voice suddenly grave.
Lysander blinked. Rhylan’s shift in tone was unexpected.
“It just… doesn’t align with your usual presentation.”
“Doesn’t align? Peculiar. Don’t I project an aura of devout piety?”
“No. It looks like a decorative trinket.”
“It’s not, though.”
Lysander should have known. Rhylan, a name that echoed with ancient, sacred texts. A name tied to the old faiths. Rhylan’s family, it turned out, followed the ancient rites for generations. More shocking, Rhylan himself claimed deep devotion. Lysander couldn't quite reconcile it. Rhylan couldn't recite a single scripture without fumbling the words.
Lysander kept his distance from Kaelen throughout the week. When their paths crossed in the sprawling lecture halls, he allowed himself a fleeting glance, then swiftly averted his eyes.
He lacked the courage to initiate contact. Perhaps he feared losing. This pathetic notion, that whoever desired more, lost more. It chafed, yet he couldn't shake its grip. The words remained trapped behind his teeth.
Conversely, Lorien often spoke to Lysander. Lysander was the only one who responded with any semblance of compassion. Fresh bruises bloomed on Lorien’s face each day, stark evidence of Kaelen’s continued aggression, a beast marking its territory beyond Lysander’s sight.
Lysander’s brow furrowed. Lorien caught his gaze, then quickly turned his head, attempting to hide the violet marks.
Another four days bled into one another. One quiet morning, alone in the classroom, Lysander pressed his face into his hands. He wanted no part of the ugly drama unfolding around them.
The chasm between himself and Kaelen deepened. What had been a hairline fracture now yawned, a terrifying abyss. Opening his eyes felt like inviting the rift to swallow him whole. Lorien’s swollen eyes, ringed with fresh discoloration, were as damning as any sealed decree. They pushed Lysander further away. He wished to vanish from it all.
Then, as if fate offered a twisted reprieve, Lorien ceased coming to the Citadel. Instructor Maeve spoke of an “absence,” but the tremor in her voice betrayed the truth: truancy. Lysander almost cheered aloud.
Kaelen, on the other hand, spent classes agitated. He fidgeted with his arcane slate, snapped irritable remarks, even struck one of his associates for a whispered comment. Part of Lysander felt a smug satisfaction. Another part savored a strange, dark superiority. He convinced himself that soon, once Lorien officially transferred or disappeared for good, Kaelen would lose interest and turn his attention back. Confident in that fragile hope, Lysander waited.
More days drifted by.
“Kaelen Thorne seems quite subdued,” Rhylan remarked offhandedly. Lysander’s heart gave a heavy thud. He yearned to swivel his head, to catch a glimpse of Kaelen’s face, but he couldn’t. When it came to matters of the heart, Lysander was a craven. He could only listen to Rhylan’s words and construct Kaelen’s melancholic image in his mind.
Yet, nothing changed as the day wore on. Classes concluded. Lysander clung to the idea of a tomorrow, another chance. Such shifts weren’t swift, he told himself. He waited, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. Rhylan spoke then, his voice laced with something strange.
“You two had a falling out, didn’t you?”
Lysander spun around, a reflexive movement.
“We did.”
“Don’t tell me you still haven’t resolved things since that cafeteria incident?”
Silence.
“Wow, this is lingering longer than I anticipated,” Rhylan said, shrugging, hands shoved into his pockets. Lysander averted his gaze, mumbling an excuse.
“Kaelen went too far. I despise seeing such… aggression. It’s just… unsettling.”
“What is?”
“Lorien is a young man, yes?”
“And?”
“Kaelen’s treatment of Lorien is… I don’t know, it’s just crude. I wish he’d cease.”
“Remarkable.”
Silence stretched.
“You’ll surely earn favor with the Celestial Scribes.”
Rhylan’s reply, meant to acknowledge Lysander’s “kindness,” instead dripped with sarcasm. Lysander’s irritation flared. He glared at Rhylan. Rhylan merely smirked. That knowing expression made Lysander’s face burn. Something felt exposed. He quickly turned his back, ignoring Rhylan’s mocking grin, and strode out of the classroom.
As he hurried down the corridor, intent on returning to his quiet study, a hand clasped his shoulder. Assuming it was Rhylan, Lysander whirled, irritation bubbling, and yanked his arm free. It wasn’t Rhylan. It was Instructor Maeve. Startled, Lysander quickly composed his expression.
“My apologies, Lysander. Did I alarm you?”
“Oh, no, it’s quite alright. Just surprised.”
“I see. I’m truly sorry, but… could we speak for a moment?”
“Yes?”
“Just for a second. Please.”
The young instructor’s face held an unusual gravity. Lysander nodded.
“Today, Kaelen Thorne inquired about Lorien’s residence,” Instructor Maeve said, her voice cautious.
“Kaelen Thorne?”
It was clear Instructor Maeve, as head of the section, could not be entirely unaware of the bullying. Yet, she lacked the resolve to confront the toxic atmosphere directly. Still, she wasn’t cold enough to ignore it completely. The fact she approached Lysander to discuss Lorien proved that.
“I’m not suggesting blame, Lysander, but…”
“No, I understand. It doesn’t seem strange,” Lysander interjected swiftly.
“Well, since you often showed concern for Lorien, I wondered if you might… accompany Kaelen to his house. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
Lysander couldn’t answer immediately. His teeth ground together. The possessive currents Kaelen felt for Lorien began to creep toward him, flooding his feet, rooting him to the spot. Lysander clenched his fists, knuckles white. He could not stand idly by.
“Could I… get Lorien’s contact cipher, then?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Here, let me transcribe it for you. Try reaching him first.”
“Certainly. I’ll speak with him. Do not fret unduly.”
“Alright. I’m relying on you, Lysander.”
“Yes.”
On the surface, Lysander projected calm, but internally, a tempest raged. Instructor Maeve handed him Lorien’s home cipher from the student registry, looking awkward before she retreated down the hallway.
He had to stop Kaelen Thorne from meeting Lorien. He absolutely had to prevent Kaelen’s strange obsession from escalating. The moment Maeve was gone, Lysander pulled out his own arcane slate and immediately activated the cipher. His leg jittered nervously. He kept clenching and unclenching his hand as he waited for connection. Surprisingly, it linked quickly.
“Hello?”
“It’s Lysander Vance. Is this Lorien?”
As soon as he heard the voice, Lysander rushed his words. A sudden clattering sounded on the other end—something falling, hitting another object, followed by rustling. After a pause, Lorien’s voice returned.
“L-Lysander? Lysander! W-why… How… how did you acquire my cipher? Did you… already possess it?”
“No. Instructor Maeve informed me Kaelen Thorne asked for your residence today. So I requested your cipher.”
Silence stretched.
“I merely wished to caution you, to be vigilant.”
“W-what about you? Are you well? Even though you try to intervene…”
“Do not concern yourself with me. Focus on your own safety. If you wish to extend your absence from the Citadel, contact this cipher. I’ll manage the arrangements with Instructor Maeve. I hold some trust, surprisingly.”
“Thank you.”
“If Kaelen attempts to harass or assault you at the Citadel, notify me immediately. If you cannot speak outright, simply tap me on the shoulder or find some subtle signal. It is harder to rectify matters once they have occurred.”
“Okay.”
“Honestly, a transfer to another academy would be the optimal course.”
Lysander slipped that in, hoping it would resonate.
Silence.
“Anyway, consider it. For now, either pretend you’re not home, or venture somewhere distant.”
“O-okay.”
“Alright, I’m severing the link.”
“W-wait.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you, Lysander.”
After a long hesitation, Lorien’s voice came softly, trembling slightly. Lysander felt a prickle of unease. Why the sudden intensity?
“T-thank you for always assisting me.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I just… wanted to utter it. Thank you. S-see you.”
“Indeed.”
“Goodbye.”
Goodbye? Lysander did not bother to respond. He severed the link. Hearing Lorien’s voice, thick with an unfamiliar emotion, had left Lysander thoroughly uncomfortable, a shiver running down his spine.
What transpired with Lorien that night, Lysander never knew. All he observed was Lorien’s return to the Citadel the next day. Within a week, the faint, peach-like down characteristic of youth began to reappear on his cheeks, the last vestiges of bruises fading. Lorien also ceased his sudden approaches, his demeanor shifting dramatically.
This abrupt change in Lorien’s behavior planted seeds of suspicion in Lysander’s mind. And when all the marks on Lorien’s face finally vanished, Lysander couldn’t help but feel a faint sense of hope—however unlikely it seemed.
Then, two weeks later, Kaelen Thorne approached Lysander from out of nowhere.
“Lysander.”
Silence. Lysander did not turn.
“Vance.”
Lysander kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. But his lips felt as if they might part with an uncontrolled gasp at any moment.
Could it be? Was Kaelen Thorne finally weary of Lorien?