A chill had settled between Lord Alaric Thorne and me, deeper and more bitter than any winter. It wasn’t surprising, not after the incident in the Clockwork Atelier. His carefully constructed veneer of cordiality, a performance for his esteemed parents, had shattered entirely. Now, a raw animosity gleamed in his eyes each time our paths crossed. Lord Lysander Finch, with his meek countenance and perpetually downcast eyes, occupied the carved oak chair beside Alaric, a stark replacement for the empty space I once filled. Perhaps a cowardice of spirit resided within me, preventing a seamless masquerade of indifference. I could not, would not, play the pathetic weakling. Pride, however brittle, forbade it. Yet, the courage to address Alaric as if some unspoken chasm hadn’t cleaved us apart eluded me entirely. Melancholy became my constant companion, a grey cloak wrapped tight around my shoulders. Moments of fleeting, petty vengeance would spark, burning with an impotent heat, but always, I endured. Alaric, that petulant lord, indulged in a childish resentment, his jealousy a festering wound. The source was clear, a name whispered through the academy’s polished halls: Lysander. Lord Lysander Finch. Regardless of intention, a venomous hatred for Lysander pulsed through my veins. He was never mine to claim, yet he had usurped my place beside Alaric, and in doing so, poisoned Alaric’s disposition against me. A vicious schemer, I often thought, though my reason knew better. Our feelings, I understood, often defied logic’s cold embrace. Blaming Lysander offered a fragile scaffold, a means to navigate this miserable existence. Still, my choices remained rational. Lysander was a mere pawn, swept along by Alaric’s capricious currents. No hostile emotion escaped me in his presence. To lash out would betray an embarrassing jealousy, marking me as a fool. Alaric’s contempt would only deepen, and the whispers would solidify: Lucien Vane, a deviant, unnatural, tainted. “This is an exquisite torment.” The words tasted like ash. I hated it, a searing, visceral hatred that eclipsed even Alaric’s disdain. Death seemed preferable to this suffocating alienation. Unbidden, the image of Lord Gareth Sterling materialized in my mind. The most irritating of companions, yet currently the most present. What cutting remark would he utter if he unearthed my secret thoughts? Likely something brutal: ‘Turns out Vane’s just a whimpering, unnatural boor, eh?’ The vision of Gareth’s disdainful gaze sent a cold tremor through me, bile rising in my throat. Discovery, even by him, was an unbearable prospect. Friendships at the Conclave were fickle things, as fragile as spun glass. As Alaric and I’s estrangement became an open secret, his coterie naturally drifted away. Amusingly, Lord Evander Ashworth, the most solitary satellite in Gareth’s orbit, had approached me just yesterday with a meaningless query. “Vane, Lord Gareth sought you earlier.” “Indeed? For what purpose?” “He did not say. Merely sought you.” Such was the nature of our new interactions – aimless, devoid of substance. My position had shifted; I was now, by association, aligned with Gareth’s disparate group. Not that the ties to Alaric’s faction were completely severed. Occasional, strained greetings were exchanged in the fencing salles or during morning studies. Mostly by Lord Rhydian Grey, whose pleasantries always felt forced. “Vane! A good morning to you.” “...And to you, Grey.” I recalled one such awkward exchange. Rhydian had leaned closer, muttering beneath his breath. ‘Alaric’s been acting… peculiar lately. The way he clings to Lysander… almost unsettling, wouldn’t you say?’ A sour expression must have contorted my features, for Rhydian seemed to take it as agreement. He spoke then of Alaric’s insistent demands for Lysander to sit beside him, of a hand gripped too tightly, a possessiveness that verged on the grotesque. My fists clenched, teeth grinding behind my lips. “Such unnatural dalliances hold no interest for me, Grey.” The words cut him short, his face paling. Rhydian, I knew, sought to ingratiate himself with Gareth and his companions, quietly charting an escape from Alaric’s volatile shadow. Perhaps his hushed confidences were an attempt to bridge the gap between us. Today, as often now, Gareth and I remained in the vast lecture hall, the other scholars having dispersed. Gareth, leaning against the far wall, regarded me with a gaze that was either dismissive or calculating. Irritation pricked me. I turned my head, adopting his indifference as my own. “Vane.” “Sterling?” “Let us acquire sugared almonds after the bells. The candied ginger from last time was not entirely abominable.” Gareth disregarded my averted gaze. With a practiced flick, he spun a polished worry-stone between his thumb and forefinger, tossing it idly into the air, catching it with casual grace. The stone danced, threatening to strike a passing commoner, yet none dared voice a complaint. He cared nothing for the subtle atmosphere of discomfort he created, selfish and unburdened by social niceties. My frown deepened, and my silence broke. His brazen disregard for decorum sharpened my tone. “The candied ginger you devoured in its entirety, you mean? You purchased it for your own indulgence, Sterling, if I recall.” “Indeed. I find ginger to be a most agreeable flavor.” “My preferences, then, were of no consequence?” “How was I to discern your desires? You offered no pronouncement.” The worry-stone, forgotten, rolled to a stop near a junior apprentice. The boy hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved it, placing it carefully in Gareth’s outstretched palm. Gareth casually shook the stone in his hand, dismissing the retreating student. “My thanks, little boor.” His personality grated. “Boor this, lackey that.” Every word a barb, an affront. It defied logic, Gareth’s continued proximity. Why he chose to linger with me, rather than Alaric, remained a perplexing mystery. He shared my meals, occupied the bench beside me, attended lectures within my vicinity. Alaric’s company was easily accessible, a brief missive or a short walk away. A thought pricked me, and I voiced it without filter. “Why do you not frequent Lord Alaric’s company these days, Sterling?” Gareth, mid-toss of his worry-stone against the rough-hewn wall, froze. A puzzled frown creased his brow as he turned to me. “You quarreled with him,” he stated. “I?” “Aye. You and Alaric Thorne.” “I am aware. It was I who quarreled with him. My query, however, was as to your involvement.” “You speak in riddles, Vane. You are my companion.” Gareth’s gaze swept over me, overtly assessing. Unease tightened my chest. I averted my eyes. “You were also Alaric’s companion, if I am not mistaken.” “Ha! You jest. Are you now denying our bond, Vane?” His tone sharpened, a finger pointing at me, accusatory. “No, I do not deny our bond. But you shared a bond with Alaric. Why, then, do you align yourself with me?” “Because, unlike that volatile fool, I have known you longer.” “Nonsense. Our association blossomed through Alaric, did it not?” “See here. You are truly an ingrate. Preposterous. In our first year, in the communal refectory, our gazes met with consistent regularity!” “Oh… those times.” “So, I was alone in perceiving a friendship? You charlatan. That is why, upon our placement in the same cohort, I approached you first! And you dare not acknowledge it? Unfathomable. I am deeply disappointed.” “Ah.” “Truly, Vane. Unfathomable. How could you inflict such a slight?” “Forgive me, Sterling. I apologize, truly.” I mumbled a hasty retraction, a flicker of memory recalling those awkward, yet frequent, encounters from our first year. Could those hostile stares have been interpreted as camaraderie? I felt a strange sense of being defrauded. Had Alaric not been the first to invite me to dine? The realization struck me with the force of a physical blow. It was unsettling, disorienting. Still, I wished to untangle myself from the burgeoning conversation. I nodded, feigning comprehension. “Indeed. I comprehend. My sincerest apologies.” “My vexation was quite considerable just now.” Gareth regarded me with a brief, piercing glare. The workings of his mind remained a perplexing enigma. “And furthermore, Alaric Thorne’s demeanor has become quite unsettling.” His voice dropped lower. “That man, Vane, he borders on the deranged. Always a touch unhinged, perhaps, but this… this surpasses all prior eccentricity.” He gripped the worry-stone with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The gesture brought to mind Rhydian and the other students who had approached me, hesitant in their warnings about Alaric. From their unease alone, one truth emerged: Alaric Thorne’s reputation was in precipitous decline. “Deviant.” The word, a most damning stigma within the hallowed, yet unforgiving, walls of Aethelgard, sent a profound chill through me. My body trembled, almost imperceptibly. Simultaneously, a wave of cold relief washed over me. No one knew my own unspoken truths. Did this solace betray a valuing of my own reputation over Alaric’s? Uneasy, I met Gareth’s gaze, feeling akin to a blasphemous cleric, hiding a sacred secret before the Lord High Inquisitor. “Truly,” I whispered. Then, a laugh escaped me – a brittle, strangled sound, a morbid fusion of fear and derision. To others, I was Gareth’s chosen confidante. Yet, in truth, I was no different. A criminal branded with an unholy stigma. Only a few months prior, I had been Alaric Thorne’s closest companion. Now, I found myself in this wretched hiding place, barely having escaped the trap. I had merely evaded discovery. Nothing more. --- Dawn bled across the eastern sky, painting the dormitory window in bruised purples and greys. An unexpected missive arrived, delivered by a junior page, tapping softly at my door. The early hour, barely past four, imbued the moment with a dreamlike quality. Though I had consciously retreated from Alaric’s orbit, a frantic hope seized my heart: perhaps, impossibly, the message was from him. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, reaching for the folded parchment. My emotions warred. Part of me wished it were merely some frivolous invitation to a duel, easily ignored. But as my gaze fell upon the elegant script, I knew it wasn’t from Alaric. ‘Lucien, my deepest apologies for this imposition. Might you spare a moment, and step outside your dwelling? Forgive me. I am truly sorry.’ ‘Just this once. I beg you, just this once.’ Alaric Thorne would never utter such words, never offer an apology to me. Of all my peers, only two were privy to the familiar address ‘Lucien.’ Of those two, only one possessed such a pitiful, pleading tone. How had Lord Lysander Finch obtained my private address? A scowl twisted my features. I wanted nothing to do with him, never to see his placid, unsettling face. Despite my thoughts, I pushed aside the heavy covers, buttoned my simple dressing gown, and rose. I reached the door, but paused, resting my forehead against the cool, dark wood of the frame. A deep sigh escaped me, ragged and broken. “Curse it all.” An overwhelming knot tightened in my gut, a physical manifestation of the turmoil. No other description sufficed. I clutched at my chest, breath shallow. I, who prided myself on a vast lexicon, gleaned from countless tomes, found no words adequate to express this intricate, tangled mess of emotion. It was simply… complicated. My hatred for Lysander, the indelible image of his bruised face from that day, the desperate, lonely days spent trying to sever their burgeoning connection – all swirled into a nauseating vortex. I bit my lip, fingers idly tracing the cold brass of the doorknob. Then, I closed my eyes, and with a decisive twist, turned the handle. The garden air, clinging with cold morning dew, whispered of autumn’s imminent arrival. To avoid the sodden grass, I picked my way carefully across the cool, smooth marble flagstones that paved the path. The pre-dawn chill made me pull my dressing gown tighter around my slender frame. My slipper-clad feet carried me to the heavy wrought-iron gate. I paused there, a soft click of my tongue breaking the silence. My hand gripped the cold handle. The faint creak of the hinge made me flinch. Even more slowly, I pulled the gate open. Beyond, illuminated by the guttering gaslight on the cobbled lane, stood Lord Lysander Finch. He wore the formal academy robes, their dark wool incongruous at this hour. His head was hung low, his shoe idly scuffing invisible patterns into the damp asphalt. “...Lord Lysander.” At the sound of my voice, Lysander’s head snapped up, startled. “Lucien! Lucien, my friend!”

A Conclave of Ghosts