A faint ache thrummed beneath Lucien’s cheekbone. His fingers, usually so precise, traced the tender skin. Miraculously, the worst of the swelling had receded, leaving only a subtle puffiness and a bruise like a bruised plum. He could face the Grand Conclave today. People might glance, dismiss it as a clumsy fall, nothing more. A fragile truce held within his own skin.
He dressed with his usual meticulousness, each button a small victory against the lingering dread. The starched collar felt tighter than usual, a constriction around his throat. Aethelgard’s grey stone walls seemed to loom taller, colder, as he walked through the archways.
Stepping into the Grand Atrium, the air thickened. It pressed down, heavy with unspoken tension, a silence that hummed louder than any clamor. His gaze sought out the familiar faces, bypassing the usual clusters of students. He looked for Theron Vance.
Theron slipped into the hall just as the Conclave bell chimed its first, sonorous warning. He was late, barely avoiding the Tutor’s ire. Lucien’s breath caught.
He had expected a mark, perhaps another slight discoloration. But Theron’s face was a ruin. A lip, split and crusted, marred his pallor. One eye was swollen shut, a grotesque parody of Lucien’s own injury, only far, far worse. A wave of nausea, cold and sharp, washed over Lucien. He had, in a fit of childish pique, wished a similar fate upon Theron. The guilt was a suffocating weight, a foul taste in his mouth. He felt disgusted with his own petty heart.
“By the Mother...” a whisper escaped his lips.
Theron shuffled, head bowed, towards his usual bench, his eyes darting nervously. Then, as if tugged by an unseen thread, his gaze snagged on Lucien’s. He froze, his remaining visible eye wide with a startled, fearful grimace. Theron averted his face sharply, hurrying to his seat, avoiding Lucien completely.
“What in the Abyssal depths?”
That peculiar recoil left Lucien with a profound unease. Instinctively, his eyes flickered across the room. The reason became a bitter tang on his tongue. Lord Alaric Thorne sat, unmoving, his sapphire gaze pinned to Lucien, alight with a chilling, possessive fury. It promised retribution.
“Damn it all.”
He should have feigned illness. A dark regret, cold as winter iron, settled deep in his bones.
Later that day, Theron Vance, who had once sought Lucien’s polite conversation, made a wide berth around him during recess. At the midday repast, Theron vanished with Lord Alaric, to what shadows and cruelties Lucien could only imagine.
Lucien found himself alone, until Cassian Rooke materialized beside him, a wry smile playing on his lips. They ate in the courtyard, Cassian’s usual irreverent chatter a peculiar balm against the storm raging within Lucien’s mind. A part of Lucien yearned to seek out Alaric and Theron, but a deeper, more primal fear held him rooted. He couldn’t bear to witness what might be unfolding. Surely, Alaric wouldn't resume his savage discipline. Not again. Yet, the memory of Theron’s battered face made such dismissal impossible.
Cassian, ever oblivious to the undercurrents, prattled on.
“See? I told you the air was thick as forgotten incense. Nearly choked on my own anticipation.”
“You seemed quite content devouring those spiced nuts yesterday.”
“Give me some credit, Vane. A master of composure, even in the jaws of boredom.” Cassian winked, a flash of mischief. “Besides, spiced nuts are meant to be devoured.”
Annoyed, Lucien nudged Cassian’s calf with his boot. Cassian merely laughed at his own jest. He rubbed his chin, a flicker of something almost sheepish in his eyes. Or perhaps Lucien imagined it. Impossible.
---
Life possessed a cruel, intricate clockwork. From their first meeting, Lucien had actively disliked Cassian Rooke, finding his boisterousness grating. Yet, here they were. Cassian had become the closest soul to Lucien, an unexpected cog in his meticulously ordered existence.
Cassian’s lighthearted demeanor, his flippant remarks, possessed a unique ability to lift the oppressive weight from Lucien’s shoulders. Once, Lucien had scorned these very qualities, dismissing Cassian as shallow, unserious, a mere wind-up toy without purpose. Now, he found himself relying on that levity, a delicate anchor in a sea of despair. Had Lord Alaric and he remained in their former, twisted proximity, Lucien might never have recognized this strange, desperate need for Cassian’s presence.
After that day, Lord Alaric began to withdraw from their usual circle. Sometimes, he’d disappear with Theron Vance. Other times, he’d draw a few more malleable students into his orbit. There were even instances when students, like Kaelen, flatly refused, their faces etched with unease, shaking their heads with whispered apologies.
Lucien encountered Kaelen scaling the rear wall of the Conclave grounds, clearly avoiding a Tutor. Kaelen, a mix of nervous amusement and outright fear, recounted how Lord Alaric had been ordering them to strike Theron, one blow at a time. Lucien’s face twisted in disbelief. Kaelen, sensing Lucien’s horror, quickly explained he’d been avoiding Alaric’s contingent for weeks. He was headed to the Chronomancer’s Guild archives with Rhys, he added, hoping Lucien wouldn't misunderstand. Then, Kaelen vanished over the wall.
Rhys, once a shadow to Lord Alaric in their first year, had since drifted, their paths diverging with different courses.
Midday, Cassian and Lucien sought out the Conclave’s small confectionary, purchasing sugary tarts. The sweet, crumbling pastry spread across Lucien’s tongue, a momentary balm. But beneath that fleeting relief, a bitter, iron knot of unease tightened in his chest. He held his ground, forcing his features into a mask of indifference.
“Is it palatable?”
“Care for a bite?”
Cassian, munching on his own brightly frosted cake, eyed Lucien’s tart with blatant hunger. Half-teasing, Lucien brought his tart, sticky with his own salivation, close to Cassian’s mouth. Without hesitation, Cassian smirked, a corner of his lip lifting, and took a substantial bite.
“By the Ancestors! You actually partook?”
“You offered.”
“Repugnant… And why such a prodigious bite?”
“Merely a single taste.”
Grinning, Cassian shrugged. The moment was deceptively peaceful. In stark contrast to Lucien’s internal turmoil, the crisp autumn air was clear, the sky an impossibly calm cerulean.
Where were Lord Alaric and Theron now? Several dark possibilities clawed at Lucien’s mind, but he did not seek them out. Perhaps he feared what he might uncover.
He tried to expel Lord Alaric Thorne from his thoughts, to dismantle the intricate clockwork of his obsession. But the harder he strove, the more he realized the vast, encompassing space Alaric occupied within him.
How long before this corroded affection would dissipate? How much effort, how many grinding gears, would it require? He simply didn’t know. It felt like wandering lost in an endless, barren automatarium, not merely sad and suffocating, but terrifying, unbearable. Sometimes, he retreated, like a spring-wound mechanism struggling to re-align its internal balance. When the weight became too overwhelming, he would occasionally speak with Cassian. And, well, that was that.
He turned to Cassian, the question emerging unbidden.
“Cassian.”
“Hm?”
“...Do you believe a timepiece, long abandoned in the desolate wasteland, can ever truly run again?”
It was such a raw, emotional query that Lucien felt a flush of embarrassment the moment the words left his mouth. He scratched his head awkwardly. But Cassian did not mock him.
“It can.”
“...”
“It must. Our existence is wretched enough without such desperate hopes.”
Hearing those words from Cassian — a person Lucien never thought capable of such profound melancholy — underscored the futility of his own desperate hope. How much time would it take to abandon these meaningless feelings, this broken mechanism of his heart?
“...Yes. Our existence is wretched.”
Lord Alaric Thorne. That useless, gilded brute. Why did he seem so intent on dismantling the loyal, tail-wagging automaton Lucien became every time Alaric deigned to glance his way? Alaric, who seemed to have cast aside all the basic tenets of academic conduct, now came and went from the Conclave as he pleased. And always, a pale, trembling shadow, Theron Vance walked by his side.
As the situation grew increasingly ominous, the Conclave’s halls buzzed with a mix of unease and morbid fascination. It became clear — Alaric’s cruelty was escalating. And so, a creeping fog of resentment towards him slowly spread throughout the student body. None of it felt right.
So, when Lucien saw Lord Alaric dragging Theron by the wrist down the hushed hallway, he stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes flickered between Alaric’s imperious face and Theron’s terrified one before he finally spoke.
“Your father has expressed... certain concerns.”
It was neither apology nor flattery — it was a lie. Such was the extent of Lucien’s fragile pride. But since Lord Alaric rarely spoke with his estranged father, he likely wouldn’t discern the falsehood. And even if he did, Lucien could always argue that, at this rate, his Lordship would soon have ample cause for worry. He always made sure to leave himself an escape route, a hidden door in his verbal architecture.
“If punishment is due, let it fall only upon you. What has Theron Vance ever truly done?”
“Move, Vane.”
The moment Lucien uttered Theron’s name, Alaric’s gaze locked onto him, sharp as a duelist’s blade. Lucien’s chest constricted, a drumbeat against his ribs. He hated Alaric. And yet, pitiful, pathetic Theron stood glued to Alaric’s side, his tear-filled eyes wide, as if on the verge of shattering.
“Unless you wish to be reminded of your place, as before, move.”
“A-Alaric, please,” Theron stammered, his voice trembling as he clutched at Alaric’s arm. Only then did Alaric cease speaking. His frigid gaze fixed solely on Theron, a silent conversation passing between them. Lucien saw only the severe line of Alaric’s back as he turned away.
“As I said, your father is worr—”
“...”
Theron, on the brink of tears, clung desperately to Alaric, attempting to restrain him. Watching that pitiable scene unfold was unbearable, an exquisite torture. Lucien squeezed his eyes shut.
After a drawn-out moment, Alaric looked at Theron, then spun on his heel and walked back into the classroom. For the remainder of the day, Alaric stayed there — a temporary, inexplicable reprieve, just as he had done weeks ago.
---
The long-anticipated day of the Excursion had arrived. A carriage, far larger than usual, had been chartered to convey them to the Grand Automaton Gallery, far across the city. While a few students grumbled about being torn from their advanced studies, most reveled in the chance to escape the Conclave’s confines for even a single day.
No provisions were needed; they would return by evening. The Tutors gave only a few half-hearted admonishments before dismissing them. They were not mere initiates anymore. There was no giddy excitement keeping Lucien awake the previous night. He considered it simply another day — leave without a satchel, return without a satchel. He had no premonition that today would be the day his carefully bottled frustrations would finally fracture. He’d expected the inevitable, but not so suddenly.
As was tradition, Lucien occupied the bench beside Lord Alaric whenever they ventured outside the classroom’s rigid structure. He was, after all, Alaric’s closest, most trusted confidant. He hadn’t even considered where Cassian Rooke would sit; he had never taken such a journey with him before.
At first, Lucien felt a prickle of wariness, afraid Cassian might claim the coveted spot nearest Alaric. Looking back, it felt pathetic. Neither Lucien nor Cassian would ultimately occupy that seat.
Upon reaching the Conclave courtyard, Lucien found their carriage awaiting, its dark wood gleaming. He climbed aboard, seeking their designated seats. The rear five benches were already claimed by a boisterous group of students, including Kaelen, who waved at Lucien, then hesitated, pointing vaguely towards Alaric’s bench.
“Vane! There’s a space here!”
“...Right.”
Of course. He had always been the one to sit beside Alaric. But today, a strange hesitation gripped him as he approached Alaric’s bench. A sigh of relief escaped him when he saw the space beside Alaric was still empty. He swallowed hard, a flicker of desperate determination in his heart.
It was his place. His pride — the single, stubborn thing he clung to — compelled him to sit there, even after Alaric’s strike, provoked by Theron Vance.
He nervously touched the smooth wood of the bench for a moment, glanced around the carriage, then quietly asked,
“Alaric... This space...”
“It is not for you. Seek elsewhere, Vane.”
Before Lucien could finish, Alaric cut him off, his voice like chipped obsidian, his gaze fixed on the carriage entrance. Following his line of sight, Lucien saw Theron Vance timidly making his way towards them, pale and hesitant. Lucien’s fists clenched. He swallowed the bitter retort that clawed at his throat.
“...Fine. As you wish.”
He tried to sound indifferent, though his heart felt as if it had been shredded by a thousand tiny gears.
He quickly retreated from the bench, scanning the carriage for another spot. He found an empty space near Cassian’s group, directly in front of where Cassian sat. Relieved, Lucien hurried over, collapsing into the seat. He spoke without waiting for a response.
“Cassian. Sit with me.”
No answer came. When Lucien looked closer, he realized Cassian was already asleep. He always seemed to doze in the mornings, and today was no exception. His head rested against the window, bouncing gently with every rumble of the carriage. Shaking his head at Cassian’s ridiculous sleeping posture, Lucien retrieved a folded cravat from his pocket and carefully wedged it between Cassian’s head and the glass. He leaned back into the uncomfortable seat, the silence now a profound chasm.
Across the aisle, he caught a glimpse of dark, aristocratic hair. It was Alaric’s — taller than most of their peers, making him easy to distinguish. Though Lucien couldn’t see clearly, he could sense the intimacy of the space. Theron Vance now occupied the seat beside Alaric, a small, hunched figure, utterly subsumed by the shadow of the man beside him.
Lucien’s gaze remained fixed, unblinking. The bitter truth settled within him, cold and hard as a dropped weight. The gilded cage of his devotion had been broken, not by his own hand, but by Alaric’s cruel, deliberate rejection. He was not Alaric’s closest friend. He was merely an abandoned automaton, its springs unwound, its purpose irrevocably lost.