A faint puffiness softened Lord Alaric Vane’s usually sharp jawline, betraying another night spent in pursuit of diversion rather than slumber. With a feigned sigh of irritation, Elias offered the chilled silver flask. Its polished surface gleamed coolly in the wan morning light filtering into the Collegium study hall.
Alaric accepted the flask, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. “My thanks, Elias. Your foresight is, as ever, invaluable.”
“Did your pater not rail at your tardiness this morn?” Elias asked, his voice carefully neutral, though a subtle tightening in his chest belied his outward calm.
“Not thanks to your swift intervention with the House Guard, my friend,” Alaric replied, shrugging his broad shoulders with an almost insolent ease. Elias merely compressed his lips, a familiar heat stirring beneath his own skin.
He turned to his own meticulously ordered desk, then paused. His gaze drifted to the vacant seat beside Alaric, then to the one beyond it. Lord Kaelen Rhys already occupied the latter, his dark head resting on an arm, a half-finished arithmancy scroll splayed beneath his cheek.
Kaelen, a half-span taller than Alaric in ambition and perceived favor, always seemed to find himself in convenient proximity. Elias had often cursed his own more modest stature, clinging to the small comfort of his designated place, directly behind Alaric. It was his only solace, a spatial arrangement that felt like a fragile claim.
Burying that familiar tendril of unease deep within, Elias subtly gestured towards the dozing Kaelen. “When did Lord Rhys arrive?”
Alaric glanced over. “No notion. He was thus when I slipped in.”
“One who retired early last eve appears equally… dissipated.”
As Elias finished speaking, a rustling sound broke the quiet. Kaelen stirred, the scroll slipping from beneath his arm. His half-lidded eyes, the color of twilight mist, swept over Elias and Alaric before he opened his mouth wide, a languid yawn escaping him.
“…I merely thought to untangle one more theorem before slumber. It seems ‘one more’ became several.”
It was true, yawns were an insidious contagion. Alaric followed suit, stretching his mouth wide before scrunching his face into a smug grin. “This rogue. Appears the dedicated scholar, yet acts the late-night reveler.”
“Indeed. Do cease your prattle, Alaric.” Kaelen’s voice, though thick with sleep, held an edge of dry amusement.
“As you wish, dear Kaelen.”
Whether Kaelen registered Alaric’s veiled mockery, he simply leaned back, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. Elias watched him for a beat, and their eyes met. Kaelen turned his gaze to the tall, arched window overlooking the Collegium’s manicured grounds, then back to Elias. A strange tickle prickled under Elias’s skin. He scratched his shoulder, then redirected his attention to Alaric.
Morning in the study halls often began with such exchanges, setting the day’s tone. Soon, other scions – Lord Cassian, Lord Lysander – would amble over, seeking Alaric’s presence, eager to share their own paltry anecdotes or simply bask in his aura. The familiar routine would unfold: murmured chatter, bursts of muted laughter, and eventually, the arrival of the Arcanist-Provost to initiate the day’s arcane instruction.
For young lords considered the most eminent in their cohort, it was a surprisingly quaint start to the day. Though tales of midnight escapades and veiled dalliances, especially when Alaric was involved, often left a faint, bitter taste in Elias’s mouth, he always played along, feigning mild amusement.
Despite it all, Elias had once found these mornings tolerable. But everything had shifted a moon and a half ago. The catalyst, undoubtedly, had been Lord Valerius Finch.
“Lord Valerius is here.” A hushed whisper rippled through the few early arrivals. “Gods. How utterly… pathetic.”
Lord Cassian openly scoffed, pointing a dismissive finger. “Does that wretch even consider absenting himself after such a drubbing?”
At the tip of Cassian’s finger, Valerius entered the study hall, awkward and hesitant. He shuffled towards a desk in the front row, his threadbare satchel – a stark contrast to the richly embroidered bags of his peers – thudding softly as he dropped it. He immediately slumped over, burying his face in his arms. Observing his hunched figure, Elias released a slow, internal sigh of irritation.
Valerius was utterly lacking. His voice was thin, his frame slight—a pitiful excuse for a scion of a once-noble house. As the murmurs swelled, Alaric’s eyes, usually so lighthearted, hardened into cold slits fixed on Valerius’s back. He muttered a curse Elias couldn’t quite decipher. Elias hated it. That particular, venomous sensitivity of Alaric’s—it grated on Elias’s nerves.
Alaric snatched a discarded arithmancy primer from a nearby desk, balling its parchment pages in one hand. Then, with a casual flick of the wrist, he hurled it. Thud. With a soft sound, the balled primer struck Valerius’s head, and his slumped form jolted. He remained motionless, face still hidden.
“Blasted wretch. Do not blight this hallowed hall with that wretched visage first thing.”
Valerius placed his arms on the desk, burying his face deeper, doing exactly as Alaric had commanded. Yet, Alaric watched this with undisguised disdain, then kicked his own desk with a sharp crack.
“Hear me, Lord Finch! Are you deaf?”
When Alaric abruptly stood and bellowed, Valerius, still hunched, stammered, his voice trembling. “Y-yes, Lord Vane.”
“Lift your head. Look at me. Speak properly.”
Did Alaric even hear the sheer absurdity of his own demands? The brazenness of it made a bitter laugh catch in Elias’s throat, though he suppressed it.
Whether or not he noticed, Alaric rose and strode towards Valerius’s desk. With every measured step, the unpleasant feelings inside Elias grew more vivid, more raw.
Alaric closed the distance. That alone made Elias feel a creeping loss of control over the emotions he had so painstakingly suppressed. This wasn’t the same kind of gnawing jealousy he felt when Alaric grew close to Kaelen. Instinctively, Elias knew. Deep down, he harbored something just as sinister, just as dark, as Alaric did. That’s why watching Alaric with Kaelen had eventually become bearable. But Alaric’s interactions with Valerius unsettled Elias more and more. His hands began to tremble, and he clenched them tightly, burying them under his desk.
Alaric kicked Valerius’s desk hard. The lacquered wood shuddered violently, almost toppling, and Valerius jolted upright in alarm, his voice still unsteady. “F-forgive me.”
Alaric stood there, silently looking down at Valerius’s face. Valerius’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, on the verge of breaking. Yet, in that precise moment, Elias felt like he was the one who might burst into tears.
Alaric never tasked Valerius with pointless errands, but he always kept his eyes on him. If Valerius excused himself for the privy during a break, Alaric’s gaze would track his retreating figure, even while conversing idly with Elias and Kaelen. Elias knew because he never stopped watching Alaric.
---
To be frank, Elias’s first impression of Lord Valerius Finch had been unremarkable. His complexion wasn't pristine, but his youthful features gave him a face that was easy to observe. When Valerius smiled, it felt genuinely unburdened, and even his neutral expression carried a certain quiet brightness.
Before Alaric had begun his cruel sport, no one truly disliked Valerius. He seemed a young lord who had grown up in a warm, loving household, despite his family’s diminishing influence. While he wasn't overtly sociable, preferring to spend time alone in the Collegium’s quiet alcoves, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor.
Most considered Valerius a decent sort. Since he never flaunted the affection he’d received, he earned even more quiet praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant—that was Valerius Finch.
But Elias hadn’t particularly liked him from the outset. He didn’t hate him either; he simply didn’t care. To say he wasn’t even a flicker on Elias’s radar would be more accurate. Yet, whenever he spoke with his friends, with Alaric or Kaelen’s coterie, and Valerius’s name arose, Elias would find himself casually fabricating, “Oh, him? Quite tolerable. Harmless enough.”
Alaric, much like Elias, had initially paid little heed to Valerius. Alaric was never one to concern himself with the lesser scions of the Collegium. After Valerius had transferred mid-session, he and Alaric hadn’t exchanged a single syllable for weeks. That was how things originally were.
But one day, something shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane flow of events. It happened right after the midday repast, and looking back, Elias didn’t think he’d ever regretted an action as much as what transpired that afternoon.
Valerius, as was his wont, had taken a corner seat in the scriptorium during a break, deeply absorbed in a tome of forgotten lore. He was the kind of person who loved burying himself in books. On the other hand, Elias cultivated a habit of being overly congenial towards those with reputable habits.
That’s why, when he stumbled upon Valerius by chance, Elias struck up a conversation about the ancient text in his hands. Elias was no true bibliophile—pretending to a cultured mind was more his style.
“Lost in the labyrinth of script, Lord Finch?”
“Ah? Oh, yes, I suppose so, Lord Thorne.”
At the time, Valerius and Elias were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made the initial approach easier.
“Have you quite deciphered that volume?”
“Well, I am almost at the penultimate chapter.”
“Then close it now. The denouement will disappoint you. It is one of those tomes where the final revelation diminishes the entire journey.”
“You have read this before, Lord Thorne?”
“Indeed, some time ago.”
To satisfy his intellectual vanity, Elias always sought out reviews and critiques of the books he *claimed* to read, ensuring he had some informed-sounding opinion for future conversations. Drawing on those fabricated memories, he offered a critique—not a genuine insight, but just enough to sound discerning. Valerius smiled brightly, looking genuinely pleased. It caught Elias off guard.
“You are the first person I have encountered who has read this book besides myself.”
“Oh… truly?”
“Yes. Yet, I shall still finish it. Contemplating why the ending unfolded as it did is part of the pleasure, I find.”
“Well, naturally. Perspectives differ.”
“Hearing you say that makes me anticipate it even more.”
That smile still lingered as an uncomfortable memory, even now. Was it some instinctive unease Elias felt back then? A premonition?
After that day, Lord Valerius Finch began seeking Elias out more frequently. Though Elias found it a touch tiresome and often wondered, *Why me?*, he didn’t overtly reject him. Valerius, with his unblemished reputation, was not the worst person to keep within one’s orbit. After all, books—outside of Collegium primers and scholastic ledgers—were practically anathema to most scions their age. Even if one had the leisure, tomes were often little more than decorative props. For Valerius, Elias was likely the only soul around who could discuss such esoterica.
That day was one of those routine encounters, but it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days among them. Lord Kaelen Rhys was to blame. To this day, Elias could not fathom why he had acted as he did. Why he, a soul who never meddled in others’ affairs, chose to insert himself where he did not belong. Why Kaelen, of all things, had left his theoretical arcanum assessment, a complex magical examination, wide open for any passerby to observe.
Elias, who loathed having his own academic marks revealed, naturally assumed Kaelen would desire his shielded. So, he flipped the parchment over to conceal it. That’s when he saw it: Kaelen’s score. Eighty-one points. A Tier IV Distinction. A surprisingly high mark for a noble often lauded for his martial prowess and charisma rather than his scholarly diligence.
Elias blinked in disbelief, checking again. It was unmistakably eighty-one. Considering the rigorous standards for this assessment, it would barely scrape into the highest echelons of the fourth tier. But still, it was undeniably on the higher end of that bracket. It was the first time one of Elias’s preconceptions had been so utterly shattered. A small shock to realize Kaelen was not as academically unredeemable as Elias had privately presumed. Naturally, that made Elias think of Alaric’s marks. Now, *he* was the true academic refuse. A young lord who would mark every glyph with a “two” and doze through the rest of the examination, Alaric had never once achieved a respectable score.
Perhaps that’s why Elias felt such a peculiar mix of emotions—like he had discovered a recyclable fragment among the discard. A peer he had once disdained proved to be more salvageable than the one he admired. That strange realization must have thrown Elias off his usual meticulous equilibrium, because he did something he normally never would have contemplated.
It wasn’t anything grand. He merely picked up a nearby quill and scribbled a short note at the top of Kaelen’s parchment.
“Focus on the foundational principles, Lord Rhys. You shall achieve a Tier III Mastery soon enough. Commendable effort. — Elias Thorne.
P.S. Forgive my trespass; I merely sought to shield your work from idle gazes and happened to see your score.”
The sheer arrogance of evaluating another’s academic achievement and offering unsolicited counsel made Elias feel a sudden flush of embarrassment. He rambled to justify himself, a frantic attempt at self-absolution.
Elias could not say why he had even composed it in the first place. At the time, he must have been utterly beyond himself. Looking back, it was unequivocally the first mistake in what would become a series of entanglements. Every mess, every intricate knot, began with a poorly fastened first button.
If he hadn’t written that note, Elias wouldn’t have turned from Kaelen’s desk only to collide with Lord Valerius Finch, clutching a heavy, leather-bound tome, his perpetually innocent smile still lingering on his lips. Elias wouldn’t have glimpsed that expression, a sight that still twisted something cold and heavy in his gut.