Two days after my quiet victory in the Lesser Arcana examinations, a small, folded parchment materialized in my personal alcove. It sat nestled between my worn grimoire and the small, carved stylus I used for runic precision.
“Could you meet me in the Vault of Whispers before Scriptorium today?”
For a fleeting moment, a foolish thought sparked. But no. The Arcane Citadel of Aerthos maintained strict segregation, its scholars consumed by lineage and lore, not such trivialities. My own existence within its tiered society was too precarious for such flights of fancy. The note was probably a request for a minor favor, a translation of some obscure rune, nothing more. I dismissed it, the memory fading like ink on damp vellum, until the clang of the quarter-chime echoed through the halls, signaling the approach of Scriptorium.
My tunic felt stiff against my skin as I changed into the simpler practice robes. A faint tremor ran through me. It wasn't anticipation, but a familiar anxiety that coiled in my gut. The Vault of Whispers. A forgotten chamber, tucked away in a seldom-used wing of the lower tiers, typically reserved for discarded texts and disused artifacts. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light piercing the grimy windows.
Curiosity, a quiet companion, tugged me towards the Vault. I expected a junior acolyte, perhaps even one of the newer initiates seeking guidance they wouldn’t dare ask from a higher-ranked scholar. Instead, standing amidst stacks of mouldering scrolls, was Kaelen.
Kaelen. His dark hair was perpetually dishevelled, his robes several shades too large, hinting at his humble origins in the outer villages. He was a proficient, if unremarkable, student from one of the lower tiers, known for his nervous fidgeting and a startling lack of confidence. His head, previously bent, snapped up. He waved, a small, bright gesture that immediately pricked my irritation. That forced optimism always grated.
“Kaelen?” My voice held a slight edge, more question than greeting.
His smile wavered. “Lysander… greetings.” His hands, plump and scarred from manual labor before his admission, twisted nervously. He wouldn't meet my gaze.
“What is it? Why here? And why now?” I kept my voice low, glancing at the closed door. Just the thought of being seen with Kaelen, especially in such an out-of-the-way place, sent a fresh wave of unease through me. My carefully maintained image, the quiet scholar whose company was sought by none but disdained by few, felt fragile. My stomach churned.
Kaelen gnawed at a fingernail, his eyes darting around the dim space, lingering on the shadows. He looked caught between indecision and desperate urgency. His mouth opened, then closed again, a goldfish gasping for air.
Moments stretched. The silence, thick with dust and unspoken words, became unbearable. My patience, already thin from a restless night spent wrestling with a particularly stubborn runic sequence, began to fray. I had never truly liked Kaelen. His inherent timidity, the way he seemed to invite pity, only amplified my disdain. His hesitation now felt like a deliberate provocation.
“Look, Kaelen, Scriptorium begins soon. Just say what you need to say.” My words were clipped, sharp. A tension headache throbbed behind my eyes. Today, everything felt wrong. My own anxieties, a gnawing hunger for the approval of those in power, felt like a lead weight in my chest. I wanted to lash out, to exert control over something, anything.
Lost in that simmering frustration, I barely registered Kaelen’s hesitant intake of breath. He finally began to speak, his voice a barely audible murmur.
“Uh, Lysander… I… I have something to…”
“Yes?” I prompted, scratching at my neck. The quarter-chime would toll again soon. I wanted to shake the words from him, to pry open his small, trembling mouth.
Before he could finish, a sudden, jarring sound. The heavy oak door of the Vault of Whispers crashed open. Both Kaelen and I spun around. Standing framed in the doorway, chest heaving, was Lord Alaric Thorne.
Alaric. His dark robes, usually impeccable, were slightly rumpled, his hair disarrayed. His heavy breathing filled the dusty air, a stark counterpoint to the quiet desperation that had preceded him. He had been running. A suffocating pressure seized my chest as I pictured him traversing the citadel, searching. His gaze, usually sharp and assessing, was now a blaze of cold fire. It flickered between Kaelen and me, an unreadable fury etched on his aristocratic features.
“Why are you here?” His voice, a low rumble, cut through the silence. It wasn’t clear to whom he addressed the question. His hands clenched, then relaxed, then clenched again.
My carefully constructed composure crumbled internally. My throat tightened. After a long, agonizing pause, Alaric’s eyes settled on me. The intensity of that gaze, a furious accusation, was unbearable.
“Alaric, what in the Cit-”
Please, I begged silently. Don’t look at me like that. Blame Kaelen. He called me here. Why fixate on me, on someone you’ve deigned to acknowledge, with such raw resentment? I was merely a pawn in whatever drama was unfolding.
But his burning eyes remained locked on mine. I recognized that look. It wasn’t the intensity of passionate study, nor the fervor of magical discovery. It was the consuming fire of rage, jealousy, and a madness I found both pathetic and terrifying. The face of a man deranged by obsession.
“Why are you here with him?” His voice rose, a dangerous tremor beneath the surface.
*You look pathetic, Alaric*, I thought, my gaze hardening. *So utterly pathetic*. Yet, a cold dread whispered within me: *no, Lysander, the pathetic one is you*.
His long strides brought him close. Too close. My world tilted. A sudden, jarring impact. My head snapped back, a sharp crack echoing in the small room. My body crumpled to the cold stone floor. Only then did my mind register the impossible.
*He struck me*.
Lord Alaric Thorne, the scion of a powerful lineage, had just struck Lysander Vance, the quiet scholar from the lower tiers. The indignity of it. My hand, trembling, went to my cheek. A dull ache bloomed, quickly followed by a searing pain. How could he? To me?
“L-Lysander!” Kaelen cried, his voice a choked gasp. He stumbled forward, but Alaric roared, a sound I’d never heard from him before, raw and guttural.
“You worm! Stay away from him! Stay away from both of us, you insignificant little fool!”
Kaelen recoiled, his face paper-white, tears threatening to spill. But no, he shouldn’t be the one crying. I should. The dam holding back my own grief and humiliation strained. Thankfully, before I could break, Alaric seized Kaelen’s arm with brutal force. He swore, a stream of curses unlike anything I’d ever heard from his refined lips, then dragged Kaelen out of the Vault, the door slamming shut behind them.
Alone in the dim, dusty chamber, I slowly pushed myself up. Sunlight streamed through the crack in the door, illuminating the dust motes still dancing in the air. Something inside me snapped. The carefully constructed walls of my composure shattered. Hot, angry tears streamed down my face.
I hated everything. Kaelen, who had dragged me into this humiliating mess. Alaric, who had struck me down without a second thought. I wished they would both vanish, dissolve into nothingness. My own role in their twisted drama, a mere casualty, felt suffocating. I felt utterly miserable.
Scriptorium was forgotten. My face, swollen and stinging, provided a convincing excuse for early dismissal. Master Elms, a kindly scholar, simply nodded, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment longer than comfortable.
---
My modest chamber in the lower-tier dormitories felt cold and empty. I collapsed onto my cot, the rough spun sheets doing little to comfort me. Sleep claimed me, a merciful oblivion. When I woke, the bruise on my cheek had darkened, a puffy purple bloom against my skin. My eyes felt gritty. Habitually, I reached for my comm-rune.
A message blinked from Seraphin. He and Alaric were inseparable, Seraphin the sharp-eyed second, privy to all of Alaric’s movements. His influence extended through the student body, a quiet undercurrent of power. I couldn’t afford to ignore him.
“Lysander, where did you disappear to?” His message, three hours old, carried a hint of accusation. I bristled.
“Haha, wasn’t feeling well.” I forced a lightness into my reply. The thought of anyone knowing Alaric had struck me, especially because of Kaelen, was a humiliation I couldn’t bear.
“Are you well?” Seraphin’s concern, however brief, felt like a smothering cloak. My comm-rune felt heavy in my hand. I shut it off.
Hours later, a profound sadness settled over me. Seraphin’s messages, even those from other less influential scholars checking in, felt hollow. None of them were from Alaric. *I must be mad*, I thought, pressing my face into the worn fabric of my cot. This, I told myself, was the fate of those consumed by a maddening, blind obsession. But even as I tried to rationalize, a part of me, the part that craved recognition above all else, hoped desperately.
“...I’m not the only one,” I whispered to the ceiling. A strange, twisted thought surfaced. Kaelen and I, perhaps, were trapped in the same gilded cage. A selfish, wicked hope intertwined with the thought. Another message chimed, its unfamiliar sender making me frown.
“Lysander, are you feeling very ill?”
Who among my peers would address me so informally, and from an unknown comm-rune? It couldn’t be Seraphin. Before I could process the thought, another followed, then another, relentless, maddening.
“I’m sorry. Truly sorry. It was all my fault.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please, forgive me.”
Three words, four words, a torrent of frantic apologies that made me want to scream. I threw the comm-rune onto the floor. How had that wretched boy obtained my contact glyph? Kaelen, who reportedly barely possessed a working comm-rune himself.
Then it hit me. I had called him, hadn’t I? Weeks ago, a minor runic translation, a moment of fleeting utility. I cursed my own idiotic memory. I pounded my fists into my cot, a frustrated, angry rhythm, until exhaustion finally claimed me. Just before sleep dragged me under, one last message flickered in my mind.
“Please, don’t hate me.”
*Funny*, I thought, a bitter taste in my mouth. *I’ve already hated you for months*.
---
The next morning, my face felt like a swollen, bruised gourd. Skipping the day’s lectures was not a question of passion for study, but simple self-preservation. I couldn’t face the scrutiny.
Aunt Elara, my caregiver since childhood, prepared a restorative broth. She clucked her tongue as I ate, her gaze gentle but firm, advising more caution in my endeavors. The broth was bland, comforting, served with soft, stewed roots. I swallowed it without much chewing.
As I set my spoon down, reaching for a mug of water, Aunt Elara appeared to clear the dishes. “Lysander,” she said, her voice soft, “you have a visitor.”
A visitor. My heart fluttered, a ridiculous, unbidden hope taking root. Before I could even identify the emotion, my mind raced, conjuring an image. Could it be… Alaric?
It seemed a wild fantasy, a desperate reach, but not entirely impossible. Few scholars visited my humble chamber. Only a handful even knew its location. If it was him, then he must have finally felt remorse. Alaric had never laid a hand on me before. He must be worried. Distraught. My fantasy solidified into certainty. I chastised myself for such naivety, yet a small, treacherous satisfaction bloomed within me. Despite everything, I still mattered to him. That thought, intoxicating and dangerous, filled me with an inexplicable warmth. I rose quickly, my steps quickening towards the door.
But the figure waiting was not Alaric.
“Lysander. Rough morning?” Seraphin’s sharp features were arranged in a playful smirk. He held a small, woven pouch, undoubtedly filled with sweets or some potent restorative tonic. His smirk faltered the moment his eyes landed on my face. An unusual gravity settled over him.
“What in the Arcana happened to your face?”
My knees nearly buckled with the crushing disappointment. The lingering warmth inside me turned to ash. Seraphin. How did he even know where I lived?
“I… fell,” I replied, my voice flat.
Seraphin’s brows furrowed, his lips twisting in that way that always preceded a cutting remark. “You truly are an idiot, aren’t you?”
I didn’t argue. I simply rubbed my throbbing cheek. The sting of embarrassment, the bitter taste of my own foolish hope, was almost worse than the physical ache. I was an idiot. Alaric Thorne saw me as nothing more than a convenient target for his rage. And here I was, wagging my metaphorical tail, a pathetic, desperate creature.
“Here. Take this.” Seraphin extended a chilled restorative balm, its glass container cool against my palm. I opened it, my eyes scanning the label.
“...This is a calming agent.”
“Is it? Didn’t notice.”
“Figures. Why would you care?”
“Damn, Lysander, that’s harsh.”
“What are you even doing here?”
“What do you think? Came to check on you. Mind if I come in?”
“Wait, Seraphin!”
Without hesitation, his long legs carried him past Aunt Elara, into my small chamber. He surveyed the sparse furnishings with a detached air.
“Where’s your study?”
“Where are you going?” I demanded, following him.
“Where else? There’s nowhere else to go in this… abode.” His gaze swept over my cot, my small table, the meager shelf of texts.
I had no retort. He was right. My dwelling was simple, utilitarian. Feeling awkward, I watched Seraphin, who seemed intent on cataloging every detail of my private space.