A chill, sharper than usual, seemed to cling to Elias Thorne. It was not merely the autumn air filtering through the Collegium’s ancient stones, but a pervasive cold that settled in his bones. Cassian’s dismissal, delivered with such practiced contempt, had been a calculated blow. Not a shout, not a curse, but a quiet, almost imperceptible tilt of the head, a gesture toward Lysander in his customary place. Elias’s customary place.
His intellect, usually a fortress against emotional upheaval, now served only to dissect his humiliation. Cassian’s disdain had become an open wound, a visible mark on Elias’s carefully constructed facade of scholarly compliance. Lysander’s silent occupancy beside his cousin felt less like an usurpation and more like a cruel replacement, a testament to Elias’s swift fall from grace.
No, it was more than mere replacement. Cassian had, in that single, dismissive glance, declared an open hostility Elias had never anticipated. The obedient facade, carefully cultivated for the Thorne family’s fleeting glances, now felt like a tattered cloak.
Lysander occupied the seat as if born to it, a ghost of Elias’s past self. Elias felt a dull, persistent ache in his chest. His pride, an fragile thing built on academic achievement rather than noble birth, chafed beneath the ignominy. He refused to be a pathetic weakling, yet the courage to confront Cassian, to bridge the sudden chasm, was utterly absent. Each passing hour at the Collegium deepened his melancholy, a simmering boredom punctuated by flashes of petty resentment.
Sometimes, a vengeful heat would coil in his gut, but it always faded, leaving him with the cold ash of endurance. Cassian, with his volatile temperament, now regarded Elias with the petulant scorn of a spoiled child. Lysander, Elias knew, was the catalyst. It was always Lysander.
Lysander, who had never belonged to Elias, had stolen not only Cassian’s favour but also, it seemed, Cassian’s very regard for Elias. A vicious turn of events. He could not shake the thought of Lysander as an unwitting, yet deeply effective, architect of his ruin. Logic dictated Lysander was merely caught in Cassian’s erratic orbit, yet emotions rarely bowed to reason. Blaming Lysander offered a perverse comfort, a desperate scapegoat for this wretched predicament.
Still, Elias’s choices were always rational, even when his thoughts were not. He knew Lysander was a pawn, not a player. To display hostility, to descend into the petty theatrics of jealousy, would be a strategic blunder. It would expose his vulnerability, his deeply hidden covetousness, and only further cement Cassian’s disdain. Worse, it would invite the Collegium’s cruel labels. They would whisper of unseemly ambition, of ignoble sorcery from one of such humble origins. A scholar who forgot his place.
“This is… an untenable position,” he murmured to himself, the words tasting like bitter ash. He hated it, hated it more than Cassian’s open contempt. A deeper, more profound hatred for his own powerlessness.
Theron Vayne’s annoyingly self-assured face swam into his mind. Theron, with his casual disregard for Collegium etiquette. Elias could almost hear him now, a drawl of mock surprise, ‘So Thorne is just a common ruffian, then? Clinging to his betters?’ The image of Theron’s disdainful gaze made Elias clench his fists. The thought of anyone, truly anyone, discerning the depths of his frustrated ambition, the shameful insecurity that fueled it, was horrifying. It was a secret he would carry to his grave.
Friendships in the Collegium were as transient as morning mist. With the abrupt shift in Cassian’s allegiance, the other minor nobles in his circle had subtly distanced themselves from Elias. Amusingly, Kaelen, a quiet scion from a lesser house who often trailed in Theron Vayne’s wake, had sought him out yesterday.
“Elias. Theron was asking after you.” Kaelen’s voice was reedy, uncertain.
Elias raised a brow. “For what purpose?”
“He did not specify. Just inquired.”
Such was the nature of these nascent, awkward overtures. His alignment with Theron’s group was now apparent, a stark shift in his social constellation. The ties to Cassian’s inner circle were not entirely severed, of course. Occasionally, during physical drills in the Collegium yard or by chance during morning salutations, they would exchange terse nods. Mostly Alaric, whose family was keen on maintaining connections.
“Thorne. Morning.” Alaric’s greeting had been unusually subdued that day.
“Alaric. A good morning to you.” Elias kept his tone level. He remembered Alaric’s low murmur later, when they were momentarily out of earshot of the others.
‘Cassian has been acting… strange, lately. With Lysander. Almost… possessive.’ Alaric’s eyes had darted to Elias, seeking a flicker of recognition, a shared understanding. Elias must have maintained an impassive expression, for Alaric continued, speaking of Cassian’s intense scrutiny of Lysander, the way he would pull Lysander closer, an almost unsettling fixation.
Elias had bitten down hard on his lip, a silent battle raging within. “That,” he had finally managed, his voice sharper than intended, “is of no concern to me.” Alaric had instantly retreated, his expression closing off. Park Dongchul was likely testing the waters, looking for a discreet exit from Cassian’s increasingly erratic shadow. Perhaps he’d hoped to forge a fragile alliance with Elias, sensing a new power dynamic.
Today, after the morning’s arcane theory lecture, the vast hall gradually emptied, leaving only Elias and Theron. Theron leaned against an ancient, moss-draped pillar at the back of the lecture theatre, his gaze fixed on Elias. Whether it was indifference or casual assessment, Elias couldn't discern. Annoyed by the scrutiny, he turned his head, feigning engrossment in a dusty tome.
“Thorne.” Theron’s voice cut through the quiet. “A specific alchemical reagent for a new experiment. We should acquire some after the afternoon seminar. The last batch was quite potent.”
Theron ignored Elias’s attempts at disinterest. As he spoke, he idly spun a polished obsidian sphere between his fingers. The sphere glinted, threatening to slip from his grasp and shatter on the flagstones, yet no one dared to comment.
Theron cared little for the prevailing mood. He was selfish, indifferent, a force unto himself. Elias watched the obsidian spin, a frown creasing his brow, and finally broke his silence. His irritation at Theron’s brashness sharpened his tone.
“The reagent you consumed entirely yourself, you mean? You procured it for your own research, did you not?”
Theron gave a shrug. “I find certain properties fascinating.”
“And my needs? My own inquiries?”
“How was I to know your requirements? You offered no request.”
By then, the obsidian sphere had rolled under a vacant bench. Theron extended a hand, a silent command. One of the lingering junior students hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the sphere, placing it carefully in Theron’s outstretched palm. Theron nodded, nonchalantly twirling the sphere. “My thanks, uninitiated.” The student scurried away.
Such an infuriating personality. ‘Uninitiated this, academician that.’ Every utterance from Theron was insufferable. It made little sense that someone so obnoxious should seek Elias’s company, rather than Cassian’s. Theron had begun sharing meals with Elias, taking an adjacent seat in lectures, even joining him on brief excursions. Cassian was now distant, true, but Theron could easily send a missive or seek him out if he wished.
The thought flickered, and Elias, without much deliberation, voiced it. “Why do you no longer seek Cassian’s company?”
Theron, mid-spin of the obsidian sphere, froze. He turned a puzzled gaze upon Elias. “You had a conflict with him,” he stated, as if stating the obvious.
“I?”
“Indeed. You and Cassian.”
“I am aware. The conflict originated with him. But why does that concern you?”
“You utter the strangest pronouncements. Because you are my companion.” Theron’s eyes swept over Elias with an uncomfortably direct scrutiny. Elias shifted, avoiding the gaze. “You are also Cassian’s companion, are you not?”
“Ah, you jest. Are you implying you are not my companion?” Theron’s tone was incredulous, a finger pointing at Elias.
“No, I am your companion. But you were also Cassian’s. Why do you then align with my position?”
“My acquaintance with you precedes my acquaintance with him.”
“What are you speaking of? We became companions through Cassian, did we not?”
“Thorne. You truly are an ungrateful wretch. We shared significant moments in our first year!”
“When?”
“Seriously, your memory is abysmal. Back in the Collegium’s Grand Library, we often exchanged glances across the stacks!”
“Ah… those instances.” Elias vaguely recalled competitive stares over obscure tomes, not friendly overtures. He felt a profound sense of bewilderment. Was he the only one who had interpreted those silent encounters as intellectual rivalry? Had Theron genuinely believed they were forming a bond? The realization hit him, a jarring shock. He felt, in some inexplicable way, defrauded. He had dismissed Theron’s early attempts as mere annoyance.
“So, I was the sole individual who perceived a burgeoning camaraderie? You deceiver. That is precisely why, upon our placement in the same cohort, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge this? Unbelievable. I find myself profoundly disappointed.”
“Indeed.” Elias mumbled a hasty apology, those awkward, yet surprisingly frequent, library encounters flashing through his mind. “My apologies. I am sorry.”
“I was genuinely quite vexed just now.” Theron fixed him with a brief, intense stare. Elias often found Theron’s thought processes utterly impenetrable.
“And regardless, Cassian is behaving most erratically.”
Elias remained silent.
“That one is quite unhinged at present. He has always possessed a degree of… theatricality, but this? This is beyond the pale.” Theron grabbed the obsidian sphere, lazily spinning it around his temple with an index finger. The image brought to mind Alaric and the other minor nobles who had awkwardly attempted to broach the topic of Cassian’s behavior. From their hushed tones alone, Elias could discern one truth: Cassian’s reputation, once unassailable, was in precipitous decline.
“Unnatural.” The word, a feared condemnation in the rigid hierarchy of noble Aethelgard, sent a cold shiver through Elias. His body trembled imperceptibly. At the same time, a surge of relief washed over him that no one knew of his own deep-seated, forbidden ambitions, his willingness to delve into obscure and often maligned arcane theories. Did that relief signify he valued his own survival above Cassian’s ruin? Unsettled, Elias met Theron’s gaze, feeling like a scholar who harbored forbidden texts, hidden from the Magisterium itself.
“Indeed, me,” he muttered, a strange, hollow laugh escaping him. It was almost ironic that, to others, he was now Theron’s closest confidante. In truth, he was no different from any other outcast, marked by a silent, unholy stigma. Only a few months prior, he had been Cassian’s chosen companion. Yet here he was, hiding in a fragile, gilded cage he had barely escaped.
He had merely avoided capture. That was all.
---
It was the deep quiet of dawn. A missive arrived, its sigil unrecognised. A chime at four of the clock. Half-asleep, Elias momentarily wondered if the entire ordeal was a dream. Though he had carefully avoided seeking out Cassian, striving to shield himself from further hurt, his heart gave an involuntary lurch at the thought that the message might be from his cousin.
He rubbed his eyes with a hasty motion, checking the sender once more. His feelings were conflicted. A part of him hoped it was merely a stray notification, an error. But as his gaze landed on the content, he knew it was not from Cassian.
‘Elias, my deepest apologies for intruding upon your rest. Could you emerge from your quarters for a moment? I am truly sorry. Profoundly sorry.’
‘Just once. This one solitary instance.’
Cassian would never offer such an apology, not to Elias. Among his peers, only two used his given name, and of those, only one was capable of such desperate pleading. Lysander. How had Lysander even known his precise location within the vast Collegium dormitories? The instant Elias recognized the sender, his face twisted into a scowl. He did not wish to see him—never wished to see him. Lysander was a constant, unwelcome reminder of his failure.
Yet, despite his powerful aversion, Elias rose from his cot, buttoned his Collegium tunic, and stood. He walked to the door of his private chamber but paused before crossing the threshold, resting his forehead against the cool frame with a deep, shuddering sigh. “Damn it.”
The emotions were overwhelming, a tight knot in his stomach, as if drawn by a thousand invisible threads. That was the only way to describe it. He clutched his chest. He had always prided himself on his precise vocabulary, on the vast lexical range gleaned from countless texts, yet no word he knew could fully articulate this intricate, tangled mess of feelings.
It was simply… complicated.
The resentment he felt for Lysander, the stark memory of Lysander’s bruised face from that brutal day, and the desperate strategies he had employed to distance himself from the unfolding drama—all swirled together into a bitter draught. Biting his lip, Elias fiddled with the heavy brass doorknob, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist. The latch gave a soft click.
In the narrow, cobbled lane outside his quarters, the cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding the deepening autumn. To avoid the damp stones, Elias stepped carefully onto the cool marble flags that bordered the path. The pervasive chill of dawn made him pull his tunic tighter around him. His slippered feet, barely visible beneath his robes, carried him past the muted lanterns and towards the outer gates of the Collegium.
He paused there for a moment, clicking his tongue lightly against his teeth, then grasped the wrought-iron handle. The mournful creak of the hinge made him flinch, and he opened the gate even more slowly, a tiny tremor in his hand.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the solitary streetlamp on the ancient asphalt, stood Lysander. He wore his Collegium robes, disheveled and slightly damp, his head hung low as he idly scrawled invisible shapes on the ground with the tip of his worn boot.
“Lysander.”
At Elias’s voice, Lysander’s head snapped up with a frantic swiftness. “Elias, Elias!”