A week crawled by, each day an elegant torment. Lucien moved through the Conclave’s hallowed halls with a practiced grace, every gesture a calculated deflection of the previous week’s ignominy. His meticulously pressed robes, his quiet stride, the way his gaze skimmed across parchment in the scriptorium – all bespoke a mind undisturbed, a spirit untroubled. Yet, beneath the polished veneer, a fragile pride smarted. Lord Alaric Thorne, a shadow of gilded danger, had abandoned his usual cronies in the Refectory, seating himself with Lucien and Lord Kael. Then the unthinkable: Alaric’s casual cruelty had forced Valerius, timid and quaking, into their orbit. Lucien’s defiant urge for Valerius to flee still echoed in the cold silence that followed, earning Alaric’s dangerous wrath. Now, Lucien spent his hours with Kael in the automatons workshop, or in the hushed archives. He feigned indifference to Alaric’s existence, crafting an elaborate illusion that the incident, and its architect, were inconsequential. He was a master of mechanisms, but an amateur in the art of feigned apathy. Worst, this deliberate distancing from Alaric’s usual retinue meant news of the Lord Thorne became a rare commodity. No more overheard whispers in the courtyards, no casual observations of his comings and goings. The wellspring of information, however minor, had dried. Curiosity, a sharp-toothed beast, gnawed at Lucien. He yearned for snippets of Alaric, a glimpse into the chaotic orbit of the man who had so irrevocably rattled his composure. But pride, a heavier burden than any clockwork contraption, kept his tongue silent. He wouldn’t seek out Alaric. Not directly. Instead, he found himself gravitating towards Kael. Kael, with his perpetually rumpled cravat and irreverent wit, was a safer conduit. One dreary afternoon, whilst Kael was engrossed in polishing a tarnished silver celestial globe in their shared study, Lucien circled the periphery of the topic. “Has Lord Thorne been attending the fencing drills?” Lucien asked, his voice a careful monotone, eyes fixed on the intricate filigree of a bronze astrolabe. Kael, without looking up, gave the globe a final rub. “Alaric? He’s been… otherwise occupied.” A pause. “Again.” Lucien’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the astrolabe. “Otherwise occupied.” The words hung in the air, weighted with unspoken implication. “Indeed,” Kael confirmed, tossing a polishing cloth onto a stack of tomes. “Probably off terrorizing some lesser noble’s garden party.” Lucien turned, his expression carefully neutral. “Or courting a new patron.” Kael scoffed. “Please. He’s been seen with Lady Seraphina Volkov. You know, the one with the family fortune built on imported spices and a laugh like shattering crystal.” Lucien’s breath hitched. Lady Seraphina was a beauty of renown, her allure as sharp as her wit, her reputation for conquest almost on par with Alaric’s own. “Lady Seraphina?” he managed, his voice thin. “Yes. Apparently, they met at the Baroness’s masquerade last week. Took one look at each other, and simply… departed.” Kael flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve. “Quite the spectacle, I hear. No preamble, no protracted dance. Just… gone.” Lucien felt a strange tightening in his chest, a cold knot blooming beneath his ribs. It wasn't admiration. It was something akin to a sour taste. “How… terribly efficient.” “Disgustingly so,” Kael agreed, a hint of his usual derision lacing his tone. He tilted his head, watching Lucien. “But then, Alaric always was one for immediate gratification. A beast of impulse, truly.” For the first time in days, a sliver of the internal tension eased. Kael’s blunt disdain, his open criticism of Alaric’s casual conquests, was a balm. Lucien found Kael’s company, with its lack of pretence, surprisingly tolerable. He perched on a stool beside Kael’s desk, a silent, almost imperceptible gesture of camaraderie. “They’re repellently cool,” Lucien murmured, half to himself. Kael grinned. “And I, for one, am not. One must retain a modicum of decorum.” “One is also a student of the Conclave, not some libertine duke,” Lucien retorted, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Precisely. One learns these things over time. Human rationality is a slow bloom.” Kael’s eyes, bright with amusement, met Lucien’s. He paused his polishing, a new thought dawning. “Is that why your own romantic pursuits remain so… theoretical?” Lucien teased, a boldness he rarely allowed himself around others. Kael’s playful demeanor vanished. He set down the celestial globe with a soft thud. A mock-offended expression settled on his face. “I shall file a formal complaint with the Head Master regarding harassment, Lord Vane.” “Harassment? How so?” “If the recipient of such inquiry feels discomfort,” Kael declared, his voice rising in dramatic pitch, “it is harassment.” He tapped a finger against the silver ring on his left hand – a plain signet ring, a family heirloom, surprisingly stark against Kael’s often-flamboyant attire. “Kael, you are truly incorrigible.” “And you, Vane, are a fiend.” Lucien nudged Kael’s leg with his foot, a small, familiar gesture. Kael feigned an exaggerated stumble, then righted himself, winking. “This ring,” Lucien observed, pointing at the signet, “it seems… out of place on you.” Kael’s playful expression softened. “Why do you say that?” His tone had become surprisingly serious. “It simply does not align with your… disposition.” “Does it not? Strange. Do I not strike you as one deeply connected to ancestral traditions?” “No. It looks like an affectation. A prop.” “It is not, I assure you.” Kael picked up his polishing cloth again, his gaze distant. His family, though prominent, was steeped in generations of rigid, almost monastic, adherence to obscure scholarly orders. Kael, for all his rebellious exterior, often carried subtle markers of this legacy, like the simple signet ring – a counterpoint to his otherwise casual disregard for convention. For the remainder of the week, Lucien avoided Alaric. Their paths inevitably crossed in the grand lecture halls, in the busy Refectory, or during the outdoor drills. Each time, Lucien’s eyes would flicker to Alaric, a swift, almost involuntary movement, before snapping away, fixing on some distant architectural detail or the binding of a book. He lacked the courage, or perhaps the foolishness, to address Alaric directly. A pathetic internal struggle, he knew, to be so concerned with who held the upper hand in this silent, simmering conflict. Valerius, the timid scion of a minor house, also remained a frequent, though shrinking, presence. He still approached Lucien sometimes, a hurried word of gratitude, a shy query about some arcane mechanism. But the fresh, livid bruises on Valerius’s face, hidden poorly beneath his collar or the sleeve of his tunic, were a stark testament to Alaric’s continued cruelty. A predator marking his prey, even when out of sight. Lucien’s brow would furrow. Valerius, sensing his gaze, would quickly turn his head, the nascent swell of a black eye disappearing behind a curtain of pale hair. The sight fueled Lucien’s unease. --- Four more days passed, marked by the rhythmic chiming of the Conclave’s central clock tower. Then, a peculiar quiet descended. One morning, the lecture hall felt strangely hollow. Valerius was absent. Master Elara, their homeroom instructor, announced it as a simple indisposition, but a faint hesitancy in her voice betrayed the truth: truancy. Lucien felt an unbidden surge of relief, almost a cheer, that he quickly suppressed. Alaric, meanwhile, grew increasingly agitated. He fidgeted with his ornate quill during lectures, snapped at the lesser nobles who attempted to curry his favor, and once, in a sudden burst of temper, punched a crony for a minor slight. His usual, dangerous charisma seemed to fray at the edges, replaced by a restless, brooding energy. A strange smugness settled over Lucien. A part of him reveled in a quiet sense of superiority. He convinced himself that soon, with Valerius removed from the equation, Alaric would exhaust his volatile distractions and inevitably turn his attention back to Lucien. He waited, patiently, confidently. Days stretched into a second week. Kael approached Lucien in the library, a stack of scrolls tucked under his arm. “Alaric seems rather sullen lately,” he remarked, an almost casual observation. Lucien’s heart gave a heavy thump against his ribs. He wanted to swing around, to scan Alaric’s familiar, imposing figure across the rows of ancient tomes, but his feet remained rooted. He was a coward, where this precarious dance was concerned. He could only listen to Kael’s words, a solitary ear straining for details, imagining the cast of Alaric’s expression. But the day progressed, lessons concluded, and nothing shifted. He clung to the hope of tomorrow. Such profound changes did not occur so swiftly, he reasoned. He waited. As the final bell tolled, and Lucien slung his leather satchel over his shoulder, Kael spoke again, his voice laced with a pointed curiosity. “You had a disagreement with Alaric, didn’t you?” Lucien turned, his movement stiff. “Yes.” “Do not tell me you still haven’t resolved that… incident in the Refectory.” Kael’s eyebrows arched in surprise. Lucien remained silent, tracing an invisible pattern on his worn satchel. “By the Lady’s grace, this has endured longer than I anticipated,” Kael murmured, shoving his hands into his pockets. Lucien avoided his gaze, offering a carefully constructed excuse. “Honestly, Alaric went too far. Such blatant displays of… intimidation. It’s simply… unsettling.” “What is?” “The manner in which he treats Valerius. They are both… gentlemen of the Conclave. To see such open contempt, such violence… it’s unseemly. I wish he would desist.” Kael let out a soft whistle. “Remarkable.” Lucien felt his cheeks warm, a sudden, inexplicable heat rising in his face. He knew his concern, though genuine, was wrapped in a selfish desire to control Alaric’s orbit. He waited for Kael’s retort, a cutting observation of his true motives. “You are destined for the highest echelons of the Celestial Choir, Lord Vane,” Kael declared, his voice dripping with an almost sickly sweetness. The sarcasm was palpable. Lucien glared, annoyed by the malicious tone. Kael merely smirked, utterly unconcerned. The raw, exposed feeling in Lucien’s gut intensified. He spun on his heel, ignoring the mocking glint in Kael’s eyes, and walked out of the classroom. As he hastened down the echoing hallway, intent on reaching the sanctuary of his personal study, a hand fell upon his shoulder. Assuming it was Kael, coming to deliver another barb, Lucien spun around, a flash of irritation flaring, and shrugged off the touch. It was not Kael. It was Master Elara, her usually serene face etched with an unfamiliar gravity. “My apologies, Lucien. Did I startle you?” “Oh, no, Master Elara. Merely surprised.” He quickly adjusted his expression, smoothing away any trace of annoyance. “I see. Forgive me, but… might I speak with you for a moment?” “Of course, Master.” “Just a brief word. If you please.” Her solemnity was disarming. Lucien nodded, his earlier irritation receding into a vague sense of foreboding. He felt a shift in the air, a tightening of the subtle threads that bound the Conclave’s inhabitants. “This morning,” Master Elara began, her voice cautious, “Lord Thorne inquired about Valerius’s private lodgings.” “Lord Thorne?” A jolt went through Lucien. Of course, Master Elara, as their instructor, could not be entirely blind to the undercurrents of Alaric’s bullying. Yet, she lacked the authority, or perhaps the will, to confront the toxic dynamic directly. Her seeking him out now was telling. “I am not accusing or laying blame upon Lord Thorne, but…” “No, Master. I understand. Such a request is not entirely… without precedent.” Lucien cut her off, a desperate urge to control the narrative seizing him. “Well, as you have often displayed a particular… solicitude towards Valerius, I wondered if you might consider accompanying Lord Thorne. Do you comprehend my meaning?” Lucien could not respond immediately. His jaw tightened, a hard clench. Alaric’s strange, obsessive emotional currents, previously focused on Valerius, now felt as though they were creeping outwards, snaking towards Lucien, threatening to hold him in place. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. He couldn’t remain passive. “Could I… perhaps procure Valerius’s direct communication number, then?” he asked, his voice strained but steady. “Ah, yes, of course. Here, I have it. It would be prudent to reach out to him first.” Master Elara retrieved a small, leather-bound register from her desk. “Certainly. I will speak with him. Please do not trouble yourself unduly, Master.” “Very well. I rely upon your discretion, Lucien.” “Indeed.” On the surface, Lucien presented a facade of calm, but internally, a frantic scramble began. Master Elara handed him Valerius’s private communication number, recorded meticulously in the attendance register. Her expression was still faintly troubled as she departed the hallway, leaving Lucien alone with his mounting panic. He had to intercept Alaric. He had to prevent Alaric’s unsettling fascination from escalating into a direct confrontation with Valerius. The moment Master Elara’s footsteps faded, Lucien retrieved a small, intricately carved automaton bird from his satchel – a communication device of his own design – and swiftly input Valerius’s number. His leg jittered, an involuntary tremor, and he repeatedly clenched and unclenched his hand, waiting for the connection. The small bird’s chest glowed faintly, connecting with surprising speed. “Hello?” Valerius’s voice, tentative and reedy, whispered from the automaton. “It is Lucien. Valerius, is that you?” Lucien rushed his words, a sense of urgency propelling him. A sudden clattering sounded on the other end – something falling, striking another object, followed by a rustling. After a strained pause, Valerius’s voice, now laced with alarm, returned. “L-Lucien? Lucien! W-why… How… how did you obtain my number? Did you… already possess it?” “No. Master Elara informed me that Lord Thorne inquired after your lodgings today. So I requested your number from her.” Valerius’s breath hitched, a faint gasp. “I merely wished to caution you. To be vigilant.” “W-what of you? Are you safe? Even though you attempt to intervene…” “Do not concern yourself with my welfare. Focus on your own. If you desire further leave from the Conclave, transmit a message to this device. I will manage the explanation with Master Elara. I possess a certain… influence, believe it or not.” “...Thank you.” Valerius’s voice was barely a whisper. “If Lord Thorne attempts to harass you or inflict injury within the Conclave, notify me immediately. If you cannot speak outright, a discrete signal, a tap on the shoulder, will suffice. It is always more arduous to mend what has already been broken.” “Understood…” “Honestly, a transfer to another academy would be the most prudent course.” Lucien injected the thought, hoping its gravity would sink in. “...” “In any case, consider it. For the present, either feign absence from your lodgings or seek refuge elsewhere.” “O-okay…” “Very well. I will terminate the connection.” “W-wait.” “...?” “Thank you, Lucien.” After a prolonged hesitation, Valerius’s voice came, soft and trembling. It struck Lucien as peculiar, almost unsettling. “T-thank you for always… aiding me.” “It is nothing.” Lucien felt a prickle of discomfort. “I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. Until we meet again.” “Yes.” “...Farewell.” Farewell? Lucien did not bother to respond to the overly formal parting. He simply terminated the connection. Valerius’s voice, clinging with such desperate gratitude, sent a distinct shiver down Lucien’s spine, leaving him thoroughly unsettled. What precisely transpired with Valerius that evening, Lucien could not say. He only knew that from the following day onward, Valerius resumed his attendance at the Conclave. And within a week, the faint, unblemished peach fuzz characteristic of youth began to reappear on his cheeks, where bruises had once bloomed. Valerius also ceased his sudden approaches to Lucien, his demeanor shifting dramatically, becoming more self-contained, almost wary. This abrupt change in Valerius’s behavior planted the first seeds of suspicion in Lucien’s meticulous mind. And when all traces of Alaric’s violence finally vanished from Valerius’s face, Lucien could not help but feel a faint, fragile sense of hope – however improbable it seemed, however fleeting. Then, two weeks later, as Lucien was supervising the polishing of the Conclave’s grand astronomical clock, Lord Alaric Thorne approached him, unbidden. “Vane.” Lucien froze, a tremor running through his carefully composed posture. He kept his gaze fixed on the intricate gears of the clockwork, his breath held captive in his lungs. “Lucien.” Alaric’s voice, a low rumble, was closer now. Lucien still did not look. His lips felt as though they might split open with a gasp at any moment. Could it be? Had Lord Thorne finally tired of Valerius?

A Chasm of Obsidian Dust