A peculiar calm, cold and enduring, often settled upon Elias Thorne. It was a practiced stillness, honed by years of quiet observation and the relentless self-regulation his parents had instilled. They had sculpted him into a vessel of scholarly diligence, meticulous in his duties, utterly devoid of the messy emotional turbulence that plagued lesser men. To display vulnerability, even the slightest tremor of his inner self, felt like an existential failure. This composure often rendered him invisible. Colleagues, mistaking his quietude for apathy, would describe him as dull, unflappable. They did not grasp that every slight, every gnawing anxiety, every flicker of frustration, had been meticulously filed away, transmuted into another layer of the protective scrim that veiled his heart. Over time, it had become an almost impenetrable barrier, shielding him from the rawer edges of the Athenaeum’s harsh realities. This held true even for the tempestuous presence of Kaelen Valerius. It was this very trait that had, for a time, allowed Elias to orbit Kaelen’s volatile sphere. Elias occupied a respectable, if quiet, niche within the junior scribes’ ranks – a position he had painstakingly carved out for himself through sheer, unyielding effort. His acumen for obscure texts was undeniably useful to Kaelen, who preferred grand pronouncements to gritty research. Yet, the precariousness of his standing was never far from his thoughts. “Thorne, are you even listening?” Kaelen’s voice, sharp as fractured glass, sliced through the hushed reverence of the Grand Refectory. Its echo bounced off the vaulted stone ceiling, momentarily silencing the murmurs of the other scribes. Elias looked up from the illuminated manuscript he was meticulously collating, his spine stiffening imperceptibly. “I am, Valerius. My attention is… entirely focused.” “Focused on what? That archaic tome? We finished that collation three bells ago. You’re still fussing with the folio numbers like an aged archivist with failing sight.” Kaelen’s lip curled. “It’s tiresome, Thorne. We’ve missed the early light for the scriptorium for two cycles now because you’re still counting your gilded lilies.” Lysander Rhyon, who sat across from them, lazily turning the pages of his own codex, merely chuckled. “Indeed. We miss the opportunity to claim the quietest desks.” Kaelen leaned back, surveying Elias with a predatory gaze. “Your meticulousness is a vice, Thorne. You cling to every detail, while the rest of us move on. We need a steady pace, not the pace of a sloth deciphering hieroglyphs.” “A sloth deciphering hieroglyphs,” Kaelen repeated, savouring the words. “It's precisely why you’re always a half-hour behind. We can’t wait for you.” Elias’s jaw tightened. He offered no protest. What was there to say? The indictment was delivered with such casual finality that any plea would have been an admission of weakness, a shameful display of the very vulnerability he so despised. And so, without ceremony or even a direct word, Elias was excised from Kaelen’s immediate retinue. The most humiliating part? Kaelen did not care. Whether Elias accompanied him or remained in his quiet corner of the Refectory made no discernible difference to the scion of House Valerius. Damn it. Elias stared at the faded ink of his manuscript, its intricate patterns blurring before his eyes. He hadn’t asked to be so precise. He simply *was*. Trying to project an air of complete indifference, Elias met Lysander’s gaze across the polished Refectory table. Lysander, ever the unperturbed observer, merely arched a brow, then returned to his text. “You usually join the early procession to the Archives, Thorne,” Lysander remarked, his voice a low, even cadence. Elias cleared his throat. “Circumstances have… shifted. I find the mid-morning hour to be equally conducive to study.” He had never sought the mid-morning quiet before. It was a new adaptation, a necessary recalculation to avoid utter solitude, even if Lysander’s presence was a cold comfort. The first time they had shared a table in the Refectory in this new configuration, Elias had left half his noon meal untouched, claiming a sudden lack of appetite. Lysander had watched him, then, with that unnervingly astute gaze. “Eighteen cycles old, and still as particular as a fledgling scholar, Thorne?” “My dietary preferences are hardly your concern, Rhyon.” Elias’s tone was sharper than he intended. It annoyed him, Lysander’s casual probing, the way he seemed to see through the thin veneer of Elias’s affected indifference. “Indeed,” Lysander had murmured, returning to his parchment. “Though one would expect a more robust constitution from an aspiring Arch-Scribe.” Lysander and Kaelen’s circles, though distinct, often overlapped, a tangled web of powerful families and ambitious students. Elias had no right to complain. Lysander, despite his quiet demeanour, held a position of far greater influence than Elias could ever aspire to. --- Today, the end of the summer recess drawing near, felt different. A restless hum filled the Refectory as the bells for the fourth period neared their close. Elias, engrossed in a particularly challenging translation, felt the tremor of Kaelen’s frustration before he even heard the words. “Damn it. Valerius Minor and the Archival Proctors,” Kaelen cursed, running a hand through his dark hair, his voice carrying clearly above the din. Elias turned, a flicker of something he dared not name stirring within him. “They’ve departed prematurely again?” he asked, his tone a carefully modulated query. “Fools. Claiming a family summons to the capital.” Kaelen scowled. “Who am I to endure this dreary meal with, then?” A nascent, treacherous hope blossomed in Elias’s chest. His fingers, usually steady, trembled slightly as he gripped the edge of his table. Kaelen let out a heavy sigh and looked towards Lysander, who sat opposite him. “Rhyon, it seems I shall be joining your company today.” “Uninvited, Valerius,” Lysander replied, not even glancing up from his text. “Maintain that insolence, and I shall ensure your next manuscript bears my corrections across every page.” “Ah, the charming wit of House Valerius.” Lysander’s voice was dry, laced with a subtle amusement that grated on Elias’s nerves. “Today truly compels one to consider physical violence.” “Attempt it, then, fool.” “A bold challenge from one facing solitary repast.” Elias could not restrain himself. The words slipped out, tinged with a desperation he instantly regretted. “Come, Valerius. It is hardly seemly for a scion of your house to eat in solitude. We shall make room.” His eagerness was palpable, a wretched admission. Kaelen smirked, a flash of triumph in his eyes, and glanced at Lysander. “You see? Some of us understand the necessities of companionship.” “…” “What do you think, Rhyon? Thorne’s utility is quite apparent, isn’t it?” Lysander merely scowled and, with a flick of his wrist, nudged Kaelen’s inkwell onto the stone floor, where it shattered with a soft clatter. Whether Lysander appreciated Elias’s intervention was irrelevant. What mattered was Kaelen’s presence. He was *back*. It had been so long since they had shared a table. Elias, thrilled by this unexpected reprieve from his quiet isolation, even forced himself to consume a dish of pickled roots he typically abhorred. But Kaelen paid little attention to his own meal. His eyes, dark and restless, scanned the Refectory like a predator assessing its domain. Elias, too focused on Kaelen’s every nuance, barely registered Lysander absently pilfering a few of Elias’s preferred dried fruits. Then, without warning, Kaelen’s goblet clattered, his free hand reaching out, snaring the arm of a passing junior scribe. Elias looked up, his breath catching in his throat. It was Theron, the same meek scribe Kaelen had so casually humiliated a few days prior. “Sit here,” Kaelen commanded, nodding to the empty space beside him. “You have no one else to burden with your presence, do you?” Theron’s face flushed a mortified crimson. His eyes darted frantically, landing briefly on Elias, then quickly away, before he slowly, reluctantly, sank into the offered seat. Elias felt a cold shock. Since when did Kaelen Valerius concern himself with Theron’s friendships? The very reason Theron suffered such isolation was entirely Kaelen’s doing. Kaelen abhorred any who dared to show kindness to the quiet, unassuming scholar. A bitter taste, acrid and metallic, rose in Elias’s throat. Unconsciously, his spoon clattered against his pewter plate, the sound jarring in the sudden, tense silence. Only Theron reacted, flinching and looking at Elias with wide, frightened eyes. Kaelen, however, remained fixated on his newest acquisition, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Damn it. At that moment, Elias felt the protective scrim he had meticulously woven around his heart begin to fray, a hairline fracture appearing in its carefully constructed surface. He tried to halt the descent, to reassert control, but the tremor was profound. Perhaps he was nearing a breaking point he hadn’t known existed. Clinging desperately to denial, Elias spoke, his voice clipped and sharp. “Theron. You may depart.” “H-huh?” Theron stammered. “Do not heed Valerius. You are excused. It is perfectly acceptable.” “Thorne,” Kaelen said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, silken whisper. The change in tone was instant, palpable. Kaelen, who had ignored the clang of Elias’s spoon, now fixed him with a glacial stare. That glare, far from quelling Elias’s resolve, solidified it. He met Theron’s eyes, unwavering. “I shall manage this. You may leave.” “Uh, o-okay.” “And Valerius, cease this charade at once.” “Yes, I concur,” Lysander interjected, his words muffled by a mouthful of some unidentifiable pastry. He chewed and swallowed with deliberate slowness, then glanced between Elias and Kaelen, an irritating smirk touching his lips. “What is this spectacle? It is detrimental to digestion.” As always, Lysander’s unnecessary provocations grated on Elias. The man was infuriatingly detached. Ignoring him, Elias turned back to Kaelen. “Release Theron from this obligation.” “Who grants you the authority to issue such directives?” Kaelen shot back, his voice no longer silken but edged with steel. “Your petty games disrupt the Refectory.” Elias did not blink, holding Kaelen’s furious gaze. Kaelen slammed his fist on the table. The sudden impact made Theron, who had been sitting rigidly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Lysander, on the other hand, merely chuckled, raising a hand as if in surrender. “Count me as an abstention from this particular academic debate.” He licked a bead of water from his lips. “Let us resolve this by scholarly consensus. I am neutral. Thorne advocates for Theron’s departure. Valerius insists on his presence.” Lysander was one of the few who called him Thorne, a formality Elias usually appreciated, but now found utterly infuriating. “Do not interject, Rhyon. Your counsel is not required.” “Why not? There is another participant present, is there not?” Lysander, unfazed, smirked and gestured lazily towards Theron. “What? Is Theron not a person?” “You are incorrigible.” “Why does he remain silent? Let him voice his preference.” As if Theron could possibly speak in this oppressive atmosphere. Elias sighed at Lysander’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred the gruel in his bowl. Then Kaelen tapped his finger on the table, a slow, deliberate rhythm. “If you depart, Theron, you shall find yourself without quarter in this Athenaeum. Consider yourself utterly ostracized from this day forth.” Tears began to well in Theron’s large eyes, glistening as he looked at Elias, a silent plea for help. Damn it. Elias pressed his lips together, his heart a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. “It is fine. I shall intercede,” Elias said, trying to infuse his voice with a calming reassurance he did not feel. “Thorne,” Kaelen growled, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage. Elias forced himself to meet Kaelen’s gaze, projecting a calmness he was far from experiencing. To suppress the overwhelming urge to break, to scream, he looked up at the vaulted ceiling for a brief moment before lowering his head and replying, his tone unnervingly nonchalant. “What is it, Valerius?” “You…” Kaelen clenched his fist, glaring at Elias with an intensity that felt like a searing brand. Elias knew he had to endure it. His every instinct screamed that he could not abandon Theron to Kaelen’s capricious cruelty. But Kaelen’s focus, for a moment, shifted back to Theron. “I-I will depart,” Theron stammered, his voice trembling. “…” “Th-thank you, Thorne.” Theron hastily rose, his movements clumsy, and scurried away, his footsteps echoing faintly on the stone floor. As soon as he was gone, Kaelen turned abruptly, his predatory gaze locking onto Elias, a cold, unyielding fury burning in his eyes.

The Cracks in the Scrim