A full week dragged, each day a meticulous exercise in feigned disinterest. Elias Thorne perfected the art of avoiding Lord Kaelan Vespera, his gaze deliberately sweeping past the young noble in the Refectory, his steps meticulously angled away in the crowded corridors of Aethelgard. Elias acted as if Kaelan held no significance, as if the very air Kaelan breathed didn’t prickle his own skin.
Time typically spent observing Kaelan’s coterie, dissecting their conversations for fragments of information, was now a void. Elias gravitated towards Seraphin, a scholar of minor lineage with a mind as sharp as his wit, whose cynical observations often offered a distorted but tolerable mirror to Elias’s own silent anxieties. Seraphin’s presence provided a veneer of casual friendship, a necessary shield against the Collegium’s ever-watchful eyes.
Distance from Kaelan’s inner circle meant an unwelcome drought of direct intelligence. Elias relied on Seraphin, a conduit for Collegium gossip, a reluctant oracle of Kaelan’s movements. His pride remained an unyielding barrier, yet his hunger for knowledge about Kaelan gnawed at him, a constant, low thrum beneath his carefully maintained composure.
Elias would subtly steer conversations, a delicate manipulation of words. Seraphin, absorbed in detailing some intricate runic pattern etched onto a polished obsidian shard, would offer a dismissive wave of a hand. “Ah, Vespera? Heard he’s off on another excursion.”
The simple reply left Elias momentarily breathless. His jaw tightened, a tremor in his hand barely suppressed.
*Damn, insufferable cur.*
Elias understood the raw, untamed current that ran through Kaelan. He moved with the instinct of a predator, his whims as swift and brutal as a storm.
“A hunting party, perhaps,” Elias ventured, his voice carefully neutral.
Seraphin clicked his tongue, twisting a fine mithril wire around the obsidian. “Not this time. Lady Lyra of House Malador arranged a divinatory pairing.”
“Lyra?” Elias’s breath hitched. Lady Lyra. A beauty known for her calculating intellect and ancient lineage. A shiver, not of cold, traced Elias’s spine.
“Indeed. Word suggests they departed the moment the preliminary auguries concluded. A true meeting of minds, or perhaps, bodies. They simply…left.” Seraphin’s lips curled in a wry, almost theatrical sneer. “Honestly, both so utterly unburdened by decorum.”
Seraphin’s words, though laced with patent derision, surprisingly lightened a corner of Elias’s chest. A fleeting moment of levity. Elias approached Seraphin’s work table, his fingers lightly tapping the scholar’s shoulder. Seraphin glanced up, his brow furrowed, then shifted his notes, creating space. Elias perched delicately on the edge of the polished oak, a small, unspoken gesture of gratitude.
Seraphin was the sole voice Elias trusted to articulate such blunt, cutting criticisms of Kaelan’s less-than-chaste social entanglements. For that, Elias found him, if not entirely agreeable, then at least endurable.
“Repulsively cavalier,” Elias murmured, allowing a trace of his true sentiment to colour his tone.
“Wouldn’t you agree?” Seraphin feigned a dramatic sigh. “Myself, I possess far too much self-respect for such displays.”
The boast, delivered with a smirk, elicited a brief, dry chuckle from Elias.
“Is not a scholar’s primary virtue one of restraint?” Elias countered, raising a brow.
“A scholar learns to adapt. Human nature is not so easily compartmentalized.” Seraphin’s eyes remained fixed on his intricate work, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Is that why your quarters remain unvisited by any fair maiden?” Elias teased, a rare spark of playful malice in his gaze.
Seraphin finally abandoned his mithril wire. He fixed Elias with an incredulous look, then tapped Elias’s hand resting on his shoulder. “I shall be filing a formal complaint regarding harassment, Thorne.”
“Harassment? By what measure?”
“If the recipient finds the discourse discomfiting, it constitutes harassment.”
“Seraphin, you are utterly preposterous.”
“And you, a voyeur.”
Elias’s foot, clad in a worn Collegium slipper, swung idly beneath the table. He ignored the slipper’s gentle clatter against the floor, nudging Seraphin’s leg with his sock-covered foot. Seraphin, feigning a dramatic lurch, then casually extended a digit, aimed squarely at Elias. His raised hand revealed a simple silver ward, etched with the symbol of the Watchful Eye, always clasped around his left wrist.
Elias gave his leg another light tap. “That amulet doesn’t quite suit you.”
“Oh?” Seraphin’s expression tightened. “And why ever not?”
*Why the sudden shift to gravity?*
“It simply lacks your… signature,” Elias offered, vaguely.
“Lacks my signature? Curious. Do I not exude an aura of devout piety?”
“No. It appears merely a fashionable accessory.”
“...It is not.”
Recalling Seraphin’s family name, a minor House known for its adherence to a rather austere, ancient sect, Elias felt a prick of belated understanding. Seraphin was indeed from a line of fervent devotees. Even more surprising, Seraphin himself claimed genuine piety. Yet, Elias had never observed him perform a single proper incantation, his usual invocations mere mumbled pleasantries.
---
The following days became a blur of routine evasion. Elias maintained his distance from Kaelan, allowing his eyes to brush Kaelan’s profile in the lecture halls before quickly diverting them.
He lacked the nerve to confront him directly. A silent, gnawing fear of losing, of revealing the depth of his concern, held him captive. The notion that the one who cares more loses—how childish, how pathetically human. Still, the irrationality of it did nothing to loosen its grip.
Lord Torvin, a lesser noble scion known for his quiet demeanor, often sought Elias out, perhaps because Elias was the only one who offered a polite, if terse, response. Yet, the fresh bruises adorning Torvin’s face each day spoke volumes. Kaelan continued his cruel tutelage, a beast marking its territory in corners Elias could not reach.
Elias frowned, a faint tremor running through his jaw. Torvin, catching his gaze, quickly averted his head, attempting to conceal the blossoming injuries.
Four more days crawled past, each minute steeped in the Collegium’s oppressive quiet. One morning, alone in his cramped cell-like study, Elias buried his face in his hands. He wanted no part of the ugly theatre unfolding around him.
The fissure between Elias and Kaelan widened. What had begun as a slight divergence now spanned an unbridgeable chasm, a desolate void. Opening his eyes felt like risking consumption by the rift. The bruises on Torvin’s swollen eyelids, stark and undeniable as a sealed writ, only amplified his reluctance to face either of them. He craved only oblivion.
Then, as if a minor daemon of fortune had momentarily smiled upon him, Torvin ceased attending lessons. Magister Aethel, the young instructor assigned to their cohort, cited ‘absence,’ but the hesitancy in her voice, the downward cast of her eyes, betrayed the truth: truancy. Elias almost cheered aloud.
Kaelan, in contrast, spent his classes agitated. He fidgeted with his arcane focus, snapped irritable remarks at any who dared meet his eye, even once delivering a sharp blow to a lesser scion who dared voice a dissenting opinion.
A part of Elias felt a surge of smug satisfaction. Another part savored a strange, bitter sense of superiority. He convinced himself that soon, once Torvin officially transferred or simply vanished, Kaelan’s capricious interest would wane. Then, Kaelan would turn his gaze back to Elias. Bolstered by this fragile hope, Elias waited, bated breath held tight.
A few more days drifted by like motes of dust in a sunbeam.
“Lord Kaelan seems uncharacteristically subdued,” Seraphin remarked offhandedly one afternoon. Elias’s heart thumped, a heavy, dull beat against his ribs. He yearned to snap his head around, to fix his gaze on Kaelan’s face, to search for the truth in Seraphin’s words. Yet, he remained a coward where his affections were concerned. He could only listen, forming a phantom image of Kaelan’s purported gloom from Seraphin’s casual observations.
Still, nothing shifted. The day wore on, classes concluded. Elias rationalized: tomorrow would bring a new opportunity. Such grand machinations did not turn on a single moment. He waited. As he slung his satchel over his shoulder, ready to retreat to the Archivium, Seraphin’s voice cut through the clamor.
“You and Kaelan had words, didn’t you?”
Elias spun around, a reflexive movement he immediately regretted.
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still stewing over the Refectory incident?”
“...”
“Gods above, this has dragged on longer than I anticipated.” Seraphin shrugged, his hands deep in his robes. Elias averted his gaze, muttering a strained excuse.
“Frankly, Kaelan overstepped. Such blatant disregard for decorum, for the very fabric of noble conduct…it’s uncouth. Especially towards Torvin.”
“Uncouth? How so?”
“...Well, Torvin is a fellow scholar, of a respectable albeit minor house.”
“And?”
“The manner in which Kaelan treats him…it lacks all sense of proper address between peers. It’s an affront. He should cease.”
“Remarkable.”
“...”
“You are surely destined for the Empyrean, Thorne.”
The response, delivered to Elias’s carefully chosen words, dripped with unadulterated sarcasm.
Annoyance flared. Elias glared at Seraphin. But Seraphin merely smirked, unperturbed. Catching that knowing expression, Elias felt a flush creep up his neck, a searing heat across his cheeks. His vulnerability exposed. Quickly, he turned his back on Seraphin, ignoring the lingering, mocking grin, and strode out of the classroom.
He hurried down the polished hallway, intent on reaching his private study. A hand abruptly gripped his shoulder. Assuming it was Seraphin, Elias spun, irritation bubbling, and tugged his arm free. It was not Seraphin. Magister Aethel stood before him, her young face etched with an unusual gravity. Elias swiftly adjusted his expression.
“My apologies, Elias. Did I startle you?”
“No, Magister. Merely surprised…”
“Indeed. I am truly sorry, but…might I impose upon a moment of your time?”
“Magister?”
“Just a second. Please.”
The young Magister’s earnestness compelled Elias. He nodded.
“Today, Lord Kaelan requested Torvin’s residence details,” Magister Aethel began, her voice cautious.
“Lord Kaelan?”
Magister Aethel, as their instructor, could not possibly be blind to the undercurrents of power and fear within the cohort. Yet, she lacked the authority, or perhaps the courage, to confront Kaelan directly. Still, she was not so cold-hearted as to ignore Torvin’s plight entirely. Her seeking out Elias, a scholar of humble origins but known for his quiet intellect and occasional assistance to others, proved as much.
“I am not accusing Lord Kaelan, but…”
“No, I understand, Magister. It is not an unexpected development,” Elias replied quickly, his mind already racing.
“Well, given your past instances of looking out for Torvin, I wondered if you might consider accompanying Lord Kaelan to his house. Do you grasp my meaning?”
Elias could not answer immediately. His teeth clenched, a desperate internal struggle waging. Kaelan’s strange, obsessive interest in Torvin began to creep, an icy tendril around Elias’s ankles, holding him immobile. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. He could not, would not, remain passive.
“Could I…acquire Torvin’s scrying-crystal number, then?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Here, let me provide it. Perhaps you might attempt to contact him first.”
“Certainly. I will speak with him. Do not overly concern yourself.”
“Very well. I rely upon you, Elias.”
“Yes, Magister.”
Outwardly, Elias presented a façade of calm. Internally, a frantic alarm blared. Magister Aethel handed him Torvin’s scrying-crystal number, transcribed from the attendance scrolls, her expression still fraught with awkwardness, before departing down the hallway.
He had to prevent Kaelan from reaching Torvin. He absolutely had to sever this peculiar, toxic bond before it could escalate further. The moment the Magister was out of sight, Elias pulled his own scrying-crystal from his robes, his fingers fumbling. He immediately dialed Torvin’s number. His leg jittered, a nervous tic. He clenched and unclenched his hand, waiting for the connection. To his surprise, it linked quickly.
“Hello?”
“It is Elias. Is this Lord Torvin?”
As Torvin’s voice echoed, Elias rushed to speak. A sudden clatter erupted from the other end—something falling, hitting an unseen surface, followed by a rustling. After a strained pause, Torvin’s voice returned, laced with shock.
“E-Elias? Elias! W-why… How… how did you obtain my number? Did you… have it already?”
“No. I learned from Magister Aethel that Lord Kaelan requested your residence details today. I then requested your number.”
“...”
“I merely wished to caution you.”
“W-what of you? Are you well? Even though you attempt to intervene…”
“Do not concern yourself with me. Focus on your own safety. Should you require further absence from the Collegium, contact me on this number. I possess enough standing to manage the Magister. Believe it or not.”
“...Thank you.”
“If Kaelan attempts to accost you, or strike you within Collegium grounds, inform me immediately. If words fail, merely a tap on the shoulder. Preventing harm is simpler than mending it after the fact.”
“Understood…”
“Frankly, seeking transfer to another Collegium would be the wisest course.” Elias inserted the suggestion, hoping it would take root.
“...”
“At any rate, reflect upon it. For now, either feign absence from your residence or depart for a more distant location.”
“O-okay…”
“Very well. I shall end the connection.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Elias.”
After a prolonged hesitation, Torvin’s voice came, soft and trembling. *What was that?* Honestly, it left Elias deeply unsettled.
“T-thank you for always offering me aid…”
“It is nothing.”
“I just… wished to articulate it. Thank you. S-see you later.”
“Yes.”
“...Farewell.”
*Farewell?*
Elias offered no reply to the strange valediction. He simply severed the connection. The lingering echo of Torvin’s voice, worming into his ears, sent a shiver down Elias’s spine, leaving him thoroughly disquieted.
What transpired for Torvin that night, Elias never knew. All he observed was Torvin’s return to Collegium the following day. And within a week, the faint, unblemished glow of youthful skin began to reappear on his face. Torvin also ceased his sudden approaches to Elias, his demeanor shifting dramatically, becoming more self-contained.
The abrupt alteration in his behavior planted seeds of suspicion within Elias’s analytical mind. Yet, when the final bruise faded from Torvin’s face, a faint, undeniable sliver of hope, however unlikely, pierced Elias’s careful composure.
Then, two weeks later, Lord Kaelan Vespera approached him, unbidden.
“Thorne.”
“...”
“Elias.”
“...”
Elias did not turn, his gaze fixed straight ahead, but his lips felt ready to part with a soft, involuntary gasp at any moment.
Could it be? Had Lord Kaelan Vespera finally tired of Lord Torvin?.