A peculiar yearning ignited within Lucien, a cold ember of curiosity about the precise manner in which Lord Valerius Thorne and the commoner Alaric Stone traversed the academy grounds each afternoon. It was a simple, yet venomous, curiosity, born of a jealousy he loathed to acknowledge.
From his perch, discreetly tucked behind a crumbling buttress of the ancient dormitory, Lucien observed. Valerius, usually so commanding, followed in Alaric’s wake, a silent shadow. They never walked abreast, the social chasm between them manifest in every careful step.
Still, the image clung: Valerius, a man of such inherent power, trailing Alaric like a devoted hound, unable to tear himself away. A chill snaked down Lucien’s spine. Indulging this morbid fascination felt like prying open a forbidden reliquary, not merely for its despair, but for the insidious hope that surpassed it.
Knowing the danger, he found himself unable to resist.
“...I must be utterly mad,” Lucien murmured, the words barely a breath against the biting wind.
He wasn't thinking straight, a rare and unsettling state. Despite this knowledge, he continued to follow.
He did not go far.
Cautious, ensuring Alaric remained oblivious, Lucien watched Valerius. Valerius’s gaze was fixed on Alaric’s back, a desperate, unspoken plea. The scene unfolded against a backdrop of peeling plaster on old stone walls, gates rusted shut, dusty, forgotten archways, and dented carriages left to rot – a tableau of decay, fitting for such a sordid drama.
Two figures moved within this squalor: Alaric leading, Valerius trailing. And Lucien, a silent phantom, watching from a distance.
Everything about it felt pathetic, utterly foolish. Lucien turned back, the gravel crunching softly beneath his polished boots.
Later, ensconced in his darkened study, the faint scent of lamp oil and aged parchment clinging to the air, Lucien felt a hollow satisfaction. Curiosity had pricked him, yes, but had he persisted, who knew what vile spectacle he might have witnessed? Better this way. Better not to know. He was no fool to shatter a forbidden vessel for mere idle curiosity.
Valerius’s obsession with Alaric intensified with each passing day. Alaric, in turn, seemed to recoil from him – or perhaps despised him outright. Yes, hatred. How could he feel anything less for a fellow student who had, in the past, subjected him to such public humiliation and petty cruelties? A flicker of smug satisfaction warmed Lucien’s chest. His passive indifference to Valerius’s initial aggressions had perhaps been for the best.
Lucien laced his fingers behind his head, his gaze drifting to the vaulted ceiling. The intricate, gilded chandelier hanging above reminded him of the precise, fortunate trajectory of his own life. Born to wealth, cherished as an only child, never denied a single desire.
“...Damn it all,” he breathed, the words heavy with a strange resentment.
He had once believed himself invincible, capable of anything. Until he fell prey to the insidious charm of Lord Valerius Thorne. That accursed man had unveiled the brutal truth: life did not always bend to one’s will. And Lucien suspected Valerius was learning that same bitter lesson.
Ah, the world could be mercilessly cruel, an unfeeling mechanism grinding lives to dust.
At least Lucien had mastered control, perfected the art of concealing his true affections. Valerius, however, remained utterly consumed, oblivious to the raw intensity of his gaze upon Alaric. That sudden, abnormal fervor must have been deeply unsettling for him.
Lucien understood completely, having walked that same precipice. But where Lucien had endured, Valerius faltered. Instead of subtly winning Alaric’s favor, he had acted in ways that only cemented his hatred. For Lucien, this turn of events suited him perfectly.
“Please, just remain so blissfully ignorant,” Lucien murmured to the still air.
Better yet, let Alaric weary of the torment and simply disappear. Lucien did not long for Valerius to turn to him. If anything, this brand of possessive affection terrified him.
He yearned only for one thing: a day when his own heart no longer ached for Valerius, and for Valerius to find solace, or even love, elsewhere. It was a simple, impossible wish. For the world, of course, rarely granted such clemency.
Another unsettling shift occurred. Valerius, despite his prodigious height, abruptly moved his assigned seat to the one directly in front of Alaric’s. The location, right beneath the Arch-Lector’s dais, was abysmal, completely obscuring the instructional slates. Alaric’s former seatmate, a nervous young scion, offered Lucien and Sir Dorian Finch an awkward, apologetic nod, his face a flush of embarrassment and discomfort.
“Good morrow, gentlemen.”
Lucien and Dorian exchanged a fleeting glance, offering curt, almost imperceptible nods.
“Haha…”
The nervous laugh lingered, dying an ignominious death as neither responded. They held no interest in such trivialities.
Valerius settled beside Alaric, a silent sentinel, his presence a heavy weight. Lucien wished—no, he desperately prayed—that this tableau of tense silence, this fragile, awkward dance, might endure for another year and a half. That someday, this agonizing moment would dissipate, becoming a vague, forgotten dream.
Yet another change unfurled. Valerius, who had once revelled in the boisterous, illicit pursuits of weekend revelry, seemed to curtail his scandalous hobbies. Or so it appeared. Whispers, gleaned from Dorian’s more dissolute associates, suggested he hadn’t ceased entirely. But at least the proud boasts of conquest no longer echoed through the common rooms, nor did the cloying scent of cheap perfume cling to his raiment.
For Lucien, it was a minor reprieve. He no longer had to endure the stench of Valerius’s sordid escapades at close quarters.
“Still not going to… ‘cavort’ again, Valerius? Like this?”
Lord Kaelen Blackwood swayed his hips suggestively before Valerius, mimicking an obscene gesture with his hands near his crotch. Valerius’s face twisted, a flicker of disgust. He shot a quick glance towards Alaric, then roared, his voice dangerously low.
“You imbecile! I told you not to parrot that vulgarity in front of people!”
“Why the sudden modesty, my lord? A sudden attack of decorum?”
“Utter that again, Kaelen, and you’ll regret it.”
“Come now, Valerius—”
“I said, silence!”
“...Fine. Your loss.”
The others clearly harbored disappointment. Valerius, with his towering frame and worldly aura, had once served as a tantalizing outlet for the burgeoning curiosities of boys brimming with untamed appetites.
The young lords and scions in Valerius and Dorian’s coterie were no novices; they had all fumbled through clumsy experiences. Compared to unseasoned virgins, they were more easily stirred. With Valerius no longer sharing his exploits, their prurient attention now shifted to Dorian. But Dorian merely bared his teeth, a scowl of pure disgust marring his otherwise agreeable features.
“You foul perverts.”
“Ah, there he goes again! Dorian with his pious prattle.”
“He’s merely a prude. Honestly, such a waste.”
Laughter rippled through the common room, loud and fleeting.
Most of the young men in their circle had, at least once, ventured into forbidden territories. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, Sir Dorian Finch had not. While they teased him good-naturedly, calling him a celibate, none truly disrespected him. He was Dorian Finch, after all, a scion of a formidable house. Moreover, Dorian carried himself with a lighthearted, almost reckless charm, which rendered his cutting remarks surprisingly easy to absorb. Many found him either endearing or approachable, often remarking on the stark contrast between his intimidating visage and his easy manner.
“Cease that glaring, you brute. You’ll make me soil my breeches.”
“Indeed, his face is quite terrifying.”
“Do you oafs possess a death wish?”
Dorian scowled, and the group erupted in further laughter, though the jest itself held little humor. A few stragglers at the back, perhaps his acquaintances, or even less, joined in with their forced mirth and aimless chatter, adding to the cacophony. As Lucien sat amidst them, his gaze drifted vacantly to his lap, lost in thought.
He recalled, with a meticulous precision characteristic of his mind, that he had never once felt a stirring for a woman. By default, it made him what the clerics would condemn as ‘unnatural,’ from birth. He had felt arousal, certainly, observing certain illustrations depicting men and women in intimate acts, but never had his fantasies during solitary moments involved a woman’s form. The former seemed a response to raw intensity, the latter a stark absence of desire.
He had, on one occasion, been dragged to a disreputable establishment by Valerius. He hadn’t even made it past the threshold, lacking the necessary credentials. Instead, he had waited outside, a statue of polite disapproval, until Valerius emerged. Brothels? Disgusting. The very notion turned his stomach. He often wondered what warped impulse drove men to such places.
Because of this unspoken truth, the men of their circle playfully dubbed him “Abstinent Vane.” In reality, his abstinence was less a virtue, more a cold, inescapable truth.
Lucien released a faint sigh, almost imperceptible.
The others, engrossed in Dorian’s tales, remained oblivious. Seizing the opportunity, Lucien glanced at Valerius, who sat in stark silence. Valerius’s eyes remained fixed on the back of Alaric Stone’s head, as Alaric diligently reviewed his lessons across the room.
And, as always, Lucien regretted it. Why did he look? Why did he allow the serpent of curiosity to coil around his heart? To distract himself, he posed a seemingly pointless question to Dorian.
“Tell me, Dorian, do you truly intend to remain celibate until the marriage vows bind you?”
Dorian, lounging in his chair with an air of careless proprietorship, suddenly fixed his gaze directly upon Lucien’s lap. His stare was so unsettlingly direct that Lucien instinctively crossed his legs, a futile shield against the intrusive gaze. What in the name of the Saints?
“You are not my intended, Vane, so why does it concern you? Or do you perchance offer yourself?”
“...”
Of course. That rogue always favoured malicious jests. The others laughed. Lucien kicked Dorian sharply in the shin.
Thus, his days unfolded – a repetition of veiled desires, agonizing observations, and brittle composure.
---
Alone in his private chambers, surrounded by the whirring, clicking mechanisms of his incomplete automatons, Lucien often found himself lost in contemplation. Inevitably, his thoughts drifted into the treacherous currents of fantasy.
Today, he mused on what might have transpired had his heart chosen Sir Dorian Finch instead of Lord Valerius Thorne. It seemed a less harrowing fate, surely. Had he loved Dorian, he would have been spared the agonizing torment wrought by Valerius’s entangled affairs.
Even so, heartbreak would still have been his constant companion.
Neither Valerius Thorne nor Dorian Finch would ever return his affections, after all. But at least his soul wouldn’t ache with the bitter jealousy provoked by Alaric Stone.
This melancholic train of thought inevitably led to feelings of inadequacy, then a cold, quiet anger. In the end, he simply wished for graduation to come swiftly, to become a stranger to Valerius Thorne.
---
At some indeterminate point, Lucien found himself unconsciously slipping his hands beneath the desk whenever he sat. This habit, a silent confession, had begun in his second year at the academy, and the root cause remained disturbingly consistent – men.
His fingers toyed with the delicate buckle of his breeches, his thoughts a tumultuous swirl. Should he? Or should he not? The faint, rhythmic click of metal against his nails filled the quiet room. Just as his thumb applied hesitant pressure to release the fastening, a sharp rap sounded at the door.
“Lucien! Are you diligently studying?”
“...Ah, no! I mean, yes! Indeed, I am!”
He nearly leapt from his seat, heart hammering against his ribs. Today was clearly not the day. Mortified, Lucien buried his face in his arms, a wave of shame washing over him. Damnation.
---
Lately, Lord Valerius Thorne had become an unbearable irritant.
Sometimes, when Alaric dared to glance in Lucien’s direction, Valerius would deliberately interject, engaging Alaric in forced conversation. Alaric, caught between two powerful currents, would flick his eyes towards Lucien, his lips parting as if to speak, only to press them shut. Then, as if wary of Valerius’s simmering presence, he would lower his head, answering in the barest whisper.
“Y-yes, my lord…”
Just like that.
Alaric, in his subtle defiance, began to seek Lucien out more frequently, and, to Lucien’s astonishment, started addressing him as “Lucien.” Aside from his immediate family and a handful of tutors, scarcely anyone used his given name; the shift was profoundly noticeable. Alaric believed himself to be discreet, yet he was painfully transparent. The worst part was Valerius’s inability to conceal his profound discomfort whenever Alaric committed these small, daring acts of familiarity.
“Alaric Stone, cease bothering Vane while he is engaged in his studies.”
“Pardon?”
“Do not bother him. Is that so difficult to comprehend?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes, my lord…”
When Alaric stammered, avoiding his gaze, Valerius, with an astonishing immaturity, slammed his fist against the leg of the desk beside him. Lucien pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, Alaric, with his guileless nature, seemed to believe no one truly cared about his use of “Lucien” anymore. He grew bold, using the name with a casualness that pricked Valerius’s temper.
“Uh, Lucien… my apologies for interrupting your studies.”
Lucien stiffened, staring at him in disbelief. Was he insane? Valerius sat mere inches away.
Predictably, Valerius pounded his fist on the desk again, the sharp thud reverberating through the hushed room. Damnation.
“You! Alaric Stone!”
“...Huh?”
The atmosphere curdled instantly, thick with suppressed rage.
“I warned you.” Valerius’s anger was blatant, a dark storm brewing behind his eyes. “I instructed you not to call him ‘Lucien,’ did I not?”
“...W-well…”
“His name is Vane. Address him as Vane.”
His gaze, sharp and almost predatory, swung to Lucien. Lucien abhorred that look, instinctively lowering his head, his fragile pride stinging. At that precise moment, Dorian Finch, seated beside him, casually draped an arm over Lucien’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured close to Lucien’s ear.
“Valerius Thorne, persist in this folly, and you will assuredly condemn yourself.”
“What insolent drivel are you uttering?” Valerius’s voice was a low growl.
“I am merely stating you will come to regret it.” Dorian smirked, and Lucien felt a flicker of irritation. For one reason only.
“Valerius Thorne, your obsession blinds you.”