Lucien. My surname is Vane, my given name Lucien. Yet, among the exclusive circles of the Grand Conclave, only Lord Alaric Thorne ever truly called me Lucien. It settled on the tongue, he’d once observed, with a softness my family name lacked, a whisper that invited intimacy. This casual pronouncement, uttered during our inaugural term at the Conclave, irrevocably shifted the cadence of my days. Others adhered to the formal ‘Vane.’ A few still used the truncated ‘Lu,’ but those stories, like forgotten clockwork springs, await another winding.
Alaric Thorne, a new presence in my designated quadrivium, struck me as an antithesis. His form, sculpted from deeper shadows than my own, carried an effortless grace. His hair, a midnight storm, contrasted sharply with my pale, meticulous coiffure. Academically, we occupied opposite poles; while my treatises on complex automata earned the highest accolades, Alaric’s studies languished, barely clinging to the Conclave’s minimum standards.
Did this disparity invite my disdain? Ordinarily, my instincts aligned with Aethelgard’s rigid social order. I believed implicitly in the hierarchy, in each soul finding its rightful, often predetermined, stratum. Yes, I would have dismissed him. But Alaric Thorne defied such easy categorisation. His eyes, molten amber, fixed upon me with a gravitational pull that rendered my careful prejudices meaningless.
He possessed a curious presence, a subtle current in the air around him. It wasn't a crude perfume, but an elusive warmth, like sun-warmed stone after a rain, a faint, clean note that defied description. Like a moth drawn to a candle’s dangerous flicker, I found myself, quite unconsciously, seeking his address.
Fervently, I sought commonalities between us. We both hailed from the Conclave’s upper echelon, scions of prominent houses, our paths paved with the gilded privilege of Aethelgard. The Conclave itself, a sprawling edifice of polished marble and ancient stone, bridged the chasm between the sprawling estates of the high nobility and the more modest, though still respectable, holdings of lesser lords and master craftsmen.
My own lineage, House Vane, placed me squarely among the former. An only child, nurtured by doting, powerful parents, I’d known no want. My family’s influence within the Conclave was considerable, a polished scepter pressed into my infant hand. Such an upbringing, I admit, sharpened my natural inclinations toward a certain subtle cunning.
Alaric, too, belonged to this exalted sphere. The confirmation settled over me with a thrill I struggled to contain. With that sole justification, my approach was assured, my deference unmarred by any tremor of doubt. Our acquaintance, once kindled, burned with an unexpected, fierce heat.
Where I excelled in scholarly pursuit, Alaric Thorne carved his dominance through sheer force of presence. He quickly drew the most formidable apprentices to his orbit. Within a single lunar cycle, he had ascended, unquestioned, to the apex of the Eastern Ward’s student hierarchy. His name resonated through the Conclave’s vaulted halls, a whispered legend.
---
Seconds stretched into an eternity. My stomach, a knotted fist of unease, pressed against my ribs. I reached to rub the ache, and then, with a soft click, the heavy oak door to Alaric’s private chambers finally gave way. A sliver of light, warm and intimate, spilled into the shadowed corridor. I caught a glimpse of his cheek, flushed, before his hand, reddened from exertion, released the latch. The door began to swing shut once more. Desperate, I slipped through the narrowing gap.
Within the room, Alaric was already lounging upon the rumpled sheets of his bed. He wore only a loose linen tunic, the fabric clinging to the lean planes of his chest. An unlit pipe, its stem bitten, rested between his lips.
“Damn it. My father’s hounds are sniffing again. If he calls, tell him we were discussing the merits of mechanical philosophy.”
He idly clicked the flint of a silver lighter, the sparking light glinting in his eyes. He made no move to ignite the pipe, but his languid posture, the faint sheen on his skin, spoke of a recent, breathless intimacy. My stomach clenched further. I rubbed it, approaching the bed. My hand, almost of its own accord, snatched the pipe from his mouth.
“Why should I?” My voice was tighter than I intended.
His amber eyes, half-lidded, flickered. “Because we are… companions.”
Companions. The word stretched, an echo of hollow metal, in the close air. It tore at something fragile within my chest. My face, however, remained a mask of placid indifference.
“Understand, Alaric, I exact my debts.”
“My thanks.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.
The air hung heavy, thick with the cloying sweetness of jasmine perfume, a scent unmistakably feminine, and another, more subtle, a clean, almost antiseptic note particular to women of certain noble houses. Honestly, I’d only learned to distinguish such nuances because of Alaric.
Whispers, like shadows under the Conclave arches, followed him. From apprentices who had known him in his earlier, less formal years, the tales spoke of clandestine assignations since his third term of junior apprenticeship. He’d reportedly lost his innocence within the secluded alcoves of the Conclave’s library, with a younger noblewoman. The stories painted a vivid picture.
Even then, they said, he appeared far older than his years. Alaric’s mature countenance was hardly typical of a first-tier apprentice. Many mistook him for a fully-fledged Master, or at least a senior student of the Academy. His bold, sharply defined features lent him a brooding, sophisticated aura.
Upon entering the main Conclave, he began openly frequenting the forbidden private salons of the city’s pleasure quarter whenever boredom gnawed at him. With ample coin and, somehow, a flawlessly forged Conclave credential bearing an adult’s birthdate, he’d flash it with an arrogant ease, entangle himself with alluring courtesans, and turn one-night liaisons into a regular diversion. His striking allure, like a masterfully crafted automaton, concealed the intricate, hedonistic machinery beneath.
Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth possessed no singular, breathtaking beauty. Yet, combined, they formed a face of inexplicable, magnetic power. His presence radiated a refinement so potent, none could truly believe him a mere apprentice; most assumed him at least five and twenty.
My gaze drifted, settling on nothing in particular, though I sought some anchor in the chaotic aftermath of his escapade. The oppressive, sweet air made my throat tighten.
“Where is Kael Blackwood?”
“Dismissed. Departed.”
“...”
“That brute is a fool. Truly, a joke, however I turn it over.” Alaric rested his chin on his hand, a soft, dry chuckle escaping him.
My brow furrowed. Kael Blackwood. The second person, after a select few of Alaric’s favored companions, whose presence grated most deeply upon my nerves.
Blackwood had only entered Alaric’s inner circle during our second year. Much as I loathed to concede it, they spent enough time together for the term ‘companion’ to stick, even if begrudgingly. Where Alaric commanded the Eastern Ward, Kael held a similar, if less polished, sway over the Western Ward.
Still, our paths rarely crossed. The only occasions I encountered him were within the grand Refectory, a common ground shared by students from both Wards.
Once, amidst the cacophony of the noon meal, a fellow apprentice nudged my shoulder. “That’s Blackwood,” he whispered, a tremor of awe in his voice.
Curiosity, a rare beast in my usually controlled demeanor, stirred. I rose slightly, craning my neck above the sea of dark-robed students. Among them, a tall, sharply angular figure, his movements precise and economical, stood out. The recognition was immediate.
“He looks to possess a rather unpleasant disposition.” I murmured, more to myself than to my companion.
One of Alaric’s hangers-on, ever eager to please, chimed in. “Indeed. Abrasive. They say he’s utterly self-serving.”
A smirk played on my lips, but I offered only a dismissive nod.
Despite my intense antipathy, I understood the unspoken rivalry that simmered between him and Alaric. This only intensified my dislike, yet I found myself, inexplicably, unable to turn away. A dazzling gloom – that was my first, visceral impression of Kael Blackwood.
Our eyes met across the crowded hall. It was uncanny, his perception of my gaze amidst so many others. His eyes, long and narrow, with pupils like slivers of obsidian, made a striking impression. Instinctively, I flinched, as if struck by a thrown stone.
*What are you staring at?* My lips shaped the unspoken question. He must have read them, for one eye narrowed, a flicker of challenge. Though a prickle of intimidation ran through me, I dismissed it with a contemptuous shrug, turning away. Then, loud enough for the apprentice beside me to hear, I drawled,
“He resembles a snake.”
After that initial encounter, Kael Blackwood and I often found our gazes locking across the Conclave’s vast spaces. We always ignored one another. Each time, he would lower his head, attempting to break the contact, only to lift it moments later, his obsidian eyes finding mine again. Nine times out of ten, he was the first to look away. Yet, on occasion, I found myself following his lead. I ceased counting after the eighteenth such instance.
---
By some decree of the Conclave’s allocation, Alaric and I found ourselves in the same quadrivium once more for our second year. While a secret, fervent thrill bloomed within my chest at this continued proximity, a familiar, unwelcome face greeted me. It was truly surprising – and utterly infuriating. For the first time, I stood in proper proximity to the face behind the infamous reputation: Kael Blackwood.
It was Blackwood who broke the silence, his voice a low, gravelly note. “Vane. Care to break fast with us?”
Damnation.
And just as the collective student body had anticipated, the two of them, Alaric and Kael, formed a peculiar bond. Alaric, a man who luxuriated in his own magnetic influence, found in Kael Blackwood a worthy counterpart. Blackwood was undeniably masculine, held his own among his peers, and commanded a certain rugged respect. Their friendship, it seemed, was an inevitability.
In our quadrivium discussions, the whispered question often arose: should Alaric Thorne and Kael Blackwood truly clash, who would prevail? From my perspective, such an outright confrontation was unthinkable. While Alaric and I were stark opposites on the surface, Alaric and Kael shared a remarkable, almost unsettling, number of similarities.
Yet, a crucial difference separated them.
Kael Blackwood possessed a strange, almost puritanical streak. Despite the multiple, ragged piercings that adorned his ears, he sometimes adopted the air of a self-righteous scholar.
For instance, when Alaric was seized by a familiar restlessness, he would simply select a young noblewoman and arrange an overnight assignation. When queried about his nightly escapades, he would recount his early morning adventures with a casual, almost boastful, pride. In contrast, Kael Blackwood would merely scoff at the typical lewd remarks about illicit desires. Sometimes, he would even mock them outright, grabbing the corpulent jowls of a particularly boorish apprentice, squeezing until the poor victim yelped.
“This swine has more flab than most market wenches. Groping him would be more productive. And you, fellow, look abominable. Conceal that porcine girth with a proper tunic, would you? Stop parading such an offense to the eye.”
Even his crude pronouncements were laced with a biting, almost philosophical, sarcasm.
Yet, when the opportunity arose, Kael Blackwood would utter something baffling, such as, “My affections are reserved, untouched, for the Lady of my future.” That was the undeniable, singular difference.
Alaric once offered to procure him forged Conclave passes – an offer he’d never extended to me – but Kael Blackwood dismissed it as a frivolous pursuit, refusing outright.
Alaric’s other companions found Kael’s eccentricities endlessly entertaining. I did not. The reason was simple: Blackwood was too close to Alaric. They moved through the Conclave like inseparable shadows. That alone was sufficient fuel for my simmering animosity. It was a potent, bitter jealousy.
Still, I managed to navigate my interactions with Kael Blackwood. One of my honed abilities was to mask my true sentiments, regardless of the circumstance. Besides, his proximity to Alaric, however unwelcome, was a fact of my daily existence. Indeed, every aspect of my social sphere, I realised with a pang, orbited Alaric Thorne.
Truthfully, there were more days I felt a sharp, self-inflicted frustration for my own unwavering devotion than I spent in quiet contemplation of Alaric himself. I often perceived myself as a witless fool. Yet, despite this harsh self-appraisal, my course remained unchanged.
Alaric tossed a few casual words my way before retreating to his private ablutions. I remained seated, lost in thought. A few minutes later, the faint chime of his communication device broke the silence. Fresh from his wash, Alaric retrieved it from the bed, tossing it to me. I caught the cool metal. On the other end, I heard the stern, familiar voice of his father, the Lord Regent.
I cleared my throat, adopting a tone of composed dignity. Why did I even bother with such an act?
“Lucien Vane speaking, my Lord.”
“Vane? You are with Alaric now?”
“Indeed, my Lord.”
“Ah, I see. My concern was unfounded. I feared Alaric might be indulging in another one of his frivolous diversions. You possess such a refined voice, Vane.”
“Thank you, my Lord.”
“No, truly. How fares your day?”
“Exceedingly well, thank you. And yourself, my Lord?”
“Likewise. You speak with such elegance. If only Alaric possessed a fraction of your decorum. The boy has no regard for propriety. So, you were engaged in joint studies?”
“Yes, my Lord. Alaric must have simply forgotten to apprise you. He has been thoroughly immersed in preparations for the upcoming Conclave examinations.”
“You have been studying together this entire duration?”
“Yes, my Lord. He has remained in my company without interruption.”
“Well, that is a profound relief. If he is with you, Vane, I can rest assured.”
“It is truly nothing, my Lord.”
“No, it is significant. With you, he is incapable of true mischief.”
“My Lord, it is my pleasure. I shall ensure his safe return to his own chambers.”
“Good. Watch over him. Maintain your companionship, and do not quarrel.”
“Of course, my Lord. Fare well.”
Lies, expertly spun, flowed from my lips with effortless grace.
After ending the call, I returned the device to Alaric. He mumbled a brief “My thanks,” as he pulled on a fresh tunic. Without another word, I turned for the door. Alaric made no move to detain me.
“Until next time, Vane.” That was all he offered.
It was precisely as expected. This was the precise measure of our relationship, no more, no less. The vast, unbridgeable chasm between us yawned, painfully evident. Perhaps that realisation lent urgency to my steps.
As I walked the silent corridor back to my own chambers, an inexplicable tightness constricted my throat. My hurried pace quickened to a near run, eager to escape the lingering essence of Alaric’s gilded cage.