The morning air in Lysander’s meager cubicle felt heavy, clinging to the damp stone like a forgotten fear. Lysander traced the fading purplish bruise along his jaw with a tentative finger. Seraphin’s balm, a curious unguent smelling faintly of pine resin and crushed moonpetal, had worked its quiet magic. The swelling had receded significantly, leaving only a ghost of the humiliation that had burned through him mere hours before. Others might dismiss it, perhaps attributing the faint discolouration to a clumsy bump in the dimly lit corridors. Manageable, yes. Physically, at least.
Yet, a chill remained in his marrow. The hope, so foolishly nurtured through a sleepless night, that Lord Alaric Thorne might seek him out, might offer a word of concern, dissolved with the rising sun. Alaric’s cruelty was a brand, not a fleeting scratch. Lysander had expected nothing, truly, but a small, desperate corner of his heart had still yearned for a gesture, a flicker of the former camaraderie, however false.
He dressed in his apprentice robes, the coarse fabric scratching at his skin, a minor discomfort compared to the raw ache beneath his ribs. The Arcane Citadel hummed with its usual pre-dawn industry, the hushed footsteps of acolytes echoing on ancient flagstones, the distant chime of an elemental bell. He navigated the labyrinthine passages towards the Scriptorium, a knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach.
Appearing early was a habit born of a need to prove himself, to compensate for his humble lineage. But this morning, a leaden weight settled with each step.
Alaric arrived late, as always, sweeping into the tiered lecture hall moments before Arch-Magus Valerius began the lesson on foundational runic structures. The air, already thick with the scent of old parchment and arcane incense, grew oppressive. Alaric moved with an arrogant grace, his eyes scanning the room, landing briefly on Lysander before flicking away. No acknowledgement, no flicker of anything but disdain.
Then Kaelen entered. Lysander’s breath hitched.
The timid acolyte, usually a nervous shadow, now seemed almost spectral. Kaelen’s lips were split, a faint smear of dried blood clinging to the corner. One eye was swollen to a puffy slit, a bruised violet against his pale skin, mirroring Lysander’s own injury from the night before, yet far more severe. Lysander felt a sickening lurch in his gut, a fresh wave of guilt washing over him. His earlier, childish thought—that Kaelen deserved what he got for his involvement—now felt like a vile blasphemy. Kaelen had merely been caught in Alaric’s violent whim.
Kaelen’s gaze darted around the room, fearful, before it snagged on Lysander. For a long, agonizing moment, their eyes met. Kaelen’s good eye widened, then he flinched, a startled grimace contorting his battered face. He averted his gaze sharply, hurrying to his customary seat near the back, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Lysander.
What just happened? A strange, bitter taste filled Lysander’s mouth. An involuntary glance around the lecture hall provided a chilling answer. Alaric was watching him, a silent, predatory glare that promised retribution.
Damnation. Lysander wished he had stayed hidden in his cubicle. The raw shame, the simmering resentment, the terrifying allure of Alaric’s power – it was a potent, volatile brew. He could feel Alaric’s animosity like a cold draft on his exposed neck.
---
Kaelen, once inclined to seek Lysander out for quiet discussions about forgotten glyphs, now actively avoided him. During the brief breaks between lessons, he vanished, often trailing in Alaric’s wake, or disappearing into the lesser-used study alcoves. Lysander found himself adrift.
At the midday meal, he sat alone. A heavy longing, unacknowledged but persistent, tugged him towards the grand dining hall where Alaric and his favored acolytes usually gathered. But he wouldn’t go. He couldn’t. A part of him, the deepest, most insecure part, feared what he might see. Alaric’s anger, Kaelen’s further degradation. He chose instead to pick at his meager ration of stew in the quieter, student-only refectory, the metallic clang of spoons a discordant rhythm against his internal turmoil.
Seraphin found him there, sliding onto the bench opposite with a lighthearted clatter of his own wooden bowl. “Thought I’d find you skulking.” Seraphin’s smile was easy, his eyes, though bright, held a hint of knowing concern. “Tense in the main hall. You could cut the air with a dulled grimoire.”
“You seemed perfectly content deciphering your dream-runes yesterday.” Lysander mumbled, stirring his stew.
“A skilled scholar adapts.” Seraphin winked, spearing a root vegetable with exaggerated care. “Survival, Lysander. It’s all about survival.”
Lysander merely grunted, a fleeting moment of irritation giving way to a strange sense of relief. Seraphin, oblivious or simply uncaring of the Citadel’s intricate social dances, possessed a peculiar gift for puncturing the gravitas of any situation. Lysander, usually disdainful of Seraphin’s irreverent attitude, found himself leaning into it, finding a fragile anchor in the other acolyte’s unburdened presence.
Lysander once viewed Seraphin as frivolous, his focus on ephemeral dreams and folk-charms a stark contrast to Lysander’s own methodical, academic pursuit of ancient runes. But now, Seraphin’s lack of ambition, his refusal to engage in the constant striving for recognition that defined the Citadel, felt like a clean, open space. If Alaric hadn't become such a poisonous obsession, Lysander might never have realized how much he needed Seraphin’s grounding levity.
---
Alaric’s presence became a festering wound in the Citadel’s daily rhythm. He began to drift away from the core group of high-born acolytes he usually commanded, often taking Kaelen with him, sometimes a few others. Whisperings followed, hushed and uneasy. Lysander overheard snippets, fragments of fear and reluctant compliance.
“He made Brother Goran blast a harmless ‘forgetfulness’ cantrip at Kaelen for misspelling a glyph,” a junior acolyte murmured to another, eyes wide with fear, “and then made him do it again until Kaelen cried.”
Brother Goran, usually a boisterous youth, had begun to actively avoid Alaric. Lysander, confronting Goran by the restricted Arcanum Archives, saw the distress in his usually cheerful face. Goran, breath ragged from climbing over a forbidden partition, confided with a shiver that Alaric had been demanding increasingly cruel ‘lessons’ for Kaelen – trivial hexes that stung or confused, minor physical shoves. Goran, sensing Lysander’s disbelief, quickly added that he’d been avoiding Alaric’s company, seeking refuge in the archives with Acolyte Jareth. “Don’t misunderstand, Lysander,” he’d pleaded, before vanishing into the shadows.
Jareth, a silent, studious acolyte from a minor house, had been a frequent companion of Alaric’s during their initial apprenticeship, but their paths had diverged when they were assigned to different runic study groups.
Later, Seraphin and Lysander shared a spiced cider from a street vendor in the Lower Ward, the sweet warmth momentarily soothing Lysander’s raw throat. Yet, beneath the fleeting relief, a bitter knot of unease tightened in his chest. He held his ground, determined not to let his turmoil show.
“Is it good?” Seraphin asked, eyeing Lysander’s cup, his own already half-empty.
“Want a sip?” Lysander offered, holding the mug, still warm from his hands, towards Seraphin. Without hesitation, Seraphin grinned, lifted one corner of his lip, and took a deep draught.
“Hey! Did you just…?” Lysander sputtered, surprised.
“You offered.” Seraphin shrugged, a casual gesture.
“Disgusting…” Lysander mumbled, but a small, unwanted smile touched his lips. He watched Seraphin, a strange calm settling over him, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within. The crisp autumn air of the Lower Ward, usually so vibrant, felt unusually still.
Where were Alaric and Kaelen now? Lysander could guess a few places—the dueling grounds, the shadowed training cells, perhaps even some forgotten annex of the Citadel where Alaric could act unchecked. But he didn’t go looking. Maybe he was afraid of what he might find if he did. He tried his best not to think of Alaric, but the harder he tried, the more vividly Alaric’s face, his sneer, his casual cruelty, bloomed in the desert of Lysander’s thoughts.
How long would it take to tear out such a deeply rooted attachment? How much effort would it require to untangle the poisoned threads of yearning and resentment? Lysander didn't know. It felt like being lost in a vast, arid wasteland, not just sad and suffocating, but terrifying and unbearable. He often retreated into the solitude of his mind, trying to make sense of the tangled mess, occasionally sharing a burdened thought with Seraphin. And that, for now, was all he could manage.
Suddenly, he turned to Seraphin.
“Seraphin.”
“Hm?”
“Do you think the Elder Runes, after centuries of silence, can ever truly re-ignite?” It felt like an overly dramatic question, tinged with a self-pity he instantly regretted. He scratched his head awkwardly, but Seraphin didn’t mock him.
“Of course they can.”
Lysander waited.
“They have to,” Seraphin continued, his voice unexpectedly quiet. “The world’s too barren not to have that hope.”
Hearing those words from Seraphin, usually so flippant, hit Lysander with an odd poignancy. It made him realize the fragility of his own desperate hope, the meaninglessness of his clinging emotions. “Yeah,” Lysander murmured, “the world’s barren enough.”
Alaric Thorne. That ruthless, beautiful bastard. Why did he seem so intent on breaking the loyal, tail-wagging dog Lysander became every time he saw him? Alaric, who now came and went from the Citadel’s lessons as he pleased, often accompanied by a perpetually trembling Kaelen.
As Alaric’s behavior grew more egregious, a palpable disquiet spread through the acolyte ranks. His violence was escalating, a chilling undertone that turned the bustling corridors into tense passageways. Lysander felt the resentment towards Alaric, thick and suffocating, spreading like a blight.
So, when Lysander saw Alaric roughly dragging Kaelen by the wrist down a deserted hallway, he froze. He watched them, his gaze flitting between Alaric’s rigid back and Kaelen’s terrified, bruised face. A desperate impulse seized him.
“Lord Alaric,” Lysander’s voice, though quiet, cut through the tense silence. “Arch-Magus Thorne has expressed… concerns regarding your recent attendance.” It was a lie, a risky gamble. Alaric’s relationship with his formidable father, the Arch-Magus, was notoriously strained. But it was the only leverage Lysander could conjure. He left himself an escape route: if challenged, he could argue that, at this rate, the Arch-Magus would indeed have plenty to worry about.
“If an acolyte must suffer the Arch-Magus’s displeasure,” Lysander continued, forcing a measured tone, “let it be you alone. What has Kaelen done to warrant such… tutelage?”
Alaric stopped, turning slowly. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, narrowed on Lysander, a silent warning. “Move, Vance.” His voice was a low growl. Lysander’s chest tightened, a drumbeat of fear against his ribs. He hated Alaric, hated the power he held. Yet, pitiful Kaelen stood glued to Alaric’s side, his tear-filled eyes wide with a terror that seemed to accuse Lysander.
“A-Alaric, please,” Kaelen stammered, his voice a reedy whisper, tugging faintly at Alaric’s arm. Only then did Alaric’s attention shift. His gaze, still burning, now fixed solely on Kaelen. Lysander could only see the back of Alaric’s head as he turned away from him.
“L-like I said, the Arch-Magus is quite concerned…” Lysander tried again, but his words trailed off.
Kaelen, on the verge of tears, clung to Alaric, trying to stop him. The pathetic scene was unbearable. Lysander squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, the image seared into his mind.
After a prolonged silence, Alaric looked at Kaelen, then turned and, without another word, walked back into the main Scriptorium. For the rest of the day, Alaric remained in his seat, attending lessons, a strange stillness settling over him. Lysander felt a hollow, momentary triumph.
---
The long-awaited annual Expedition of Ancient Lore was upon them. A series of enchanted conveyances had been arranged to transport the acolytes to the Whispering Spire, a crumbling tower rumoured to house primordial runes. While some senior apprentices grumbled about the disruption to their specialized studies, most junior acolytes embraced the chance to escape the Citadel’s routines for a day.
No need for elaborate preparations; they would return by evening. The Arcane Masters gave only a few perfunctory warnings about straying from the designated paths, about respecting the ancient spirits of the Spire, before dismissing them. Lysander, having no particular affinity for the Whispering Spire’s faded glyphs, viewed it as just another obligation. Leave without a pouch, return without a pouch. He had no idea this day would be the catalyst for the frustration he’d bottled up for so long, a sudden, brutal eruption.
Custom dictated that Lysander, as Alaric’s unspoken chief rival in the runic studies, and once his closest confidant, would share a conveyance with him. Lysander hadn’t even considered where Seraphin would sit, never having travelled with him before. A flicker of possessiveness, pathetic and deeply insecure, flared in Lysander. He didn’t want Seraphin, or anyone, usurping that perceived place next to Alaric. He needn't have worried. Neither he nor Seraphin would occupy that space.
Reaching the staging grounds, Lysander spotted the assigned arcane carriage, its ethereal glow pulsing faintly. He climbed aboard, scanning for Alaric’s familiar, arrogant posture. The back five seats were already claimed by a noisy group of acolytes, including Brother Goran, who waved at Lysander, then hesitated, pointing discreetly towards Alaric’s usual bench.
“Lysander! There’s space here!” Goran called out.
Oh. Right. That was *his* spot. Lysander’s pride, the one stubborn thing he clung to, compelled him to approach the empty seat next to Alaric, even after the humiliating blow. A surge of relief, foolish and fleeting, washed over him as he saw the seat still vacant. Swallowing hard, he felt a twinge of desperate determination.
He nervously touched the smooth, enchanted wood of the bench for a moment, glancing around the conveyance, then quietly asked, “Lord Alaric… this seat…”
“It’s taken, Vance. Seek another.” Alaric cut him off, his gaze fixed on the entrance. Lysander’s heart plummeted, shattered into a thousand shards. Following Alaric’s line of sight, he saw Kaelen timidly making his way towards them, his eyes wide with apprehension. Alaric had reserved the seat for him.
“Fine,” Lysander said, the word a brittle crack. He tried to sound indifferent, though his heart felt like it had been shredded to pieces.
He quickly retreated from the bench, his eyes frantically searching the crowded conveyance. He spotted an empty space near Seraphin’s group, just in front of where Seraphin was already settled. Relieved, he rushed over, slumping into the vacant seat. “Seraphin,” he muttered, without waiting for a response, “sit with me.”
There was no answer. Lysander looked closer. Seraphin was already asleep, his head resting against the enchanted glass window, bouncing gently with every subtle undulation of the conveyance’s arcane suspension. Seraphin always seemed to doze off in the mornings, and today was no exception. Shaking his head at the ridiculous posture, Lysander gently nudged a soft leather scroll-case between Seraphin’s head and the glass, then leaned back into the uncomfortable seat. Across the narrow aisle, he caught a glimpse of dark hair, the rich brown of Alaric’s thick mane. Alaric, taller than most acolytes, was easy to spot. Though Lysander couldn’t see clearly, he knew Alaric and Kaelen were now side-by-side, occupying the seat that Lysander had once believed was his by right. A bitter seed of resentment, freshly planted, began to sprout.