A week of sterile cordiality drifted through the Athenaeum’s hushed halls. Elias Thorne, ever precise in his movements, navigated the common scriptoria and refectory, ensuring his path never directly intersected Kaelen Valerius’s. He cultivated an air of serene preoccupation, a careful performance meant to convey indifference, as if Kaelen’s presence held no more weight than the dust motes suspended in the morning light. Lysander Rhyon, his current companion, a cynical junior Archivar with a penchant for cryptic pronouncements, became Elias’s anchor in this deliberate estrangement. They shared quiet meals, their conversations a murmuring counterpoint to the distant whispers of the scholarly elite.
Elias, however, found himself drawn into an unspoken vigil. A peripheral awareness of Kaelen's orbit became a silent, gnawing hunger. The formal decorum of the Athenaeum, usually a comfort, now felt like a suffocating cage, preventing any direct inquiry. Pride, a stubborn, brittle thing, held his tongue captive. He would not debase himself by asking Kaelen directly, nor betray the carefully constructed façade of apathy he wore. Yet, the question coiled in his gut, a serpent of restless curiosity.
Occasionally, fragments of Kaelen’s activities would surface, carried on the currents of Lysander’s casual observations. Lysander, often absorbed in abstract arithmancy or the intricate diagrams of celestial mechanics, would offer these insights without lifting his gaze from his scrolls. His voice, usually a dry, measured cadence, betrayed a slight edge of disdain whenever Kaelen's name surfaced. Elias, a silent listener, devoured every syllable.
“Valerius has been… occupied,” Lysander murmured one crisp morning, nudging a stray astrolabe with a polished boot. His eyes remained fixed on the constellations etched into the metal.
Elias waited, a tremor of anticipation barely contained. He traced the delicate carvings on his own stylus, feigning disinterest. “Indeed?”
“He journeyed to the Scholar’s Den again,” Lysander continued, a faint, almost imperceptible scoff in his tone. “Not for any academic pursuit, I imagine. Master Elara of the Sunken Coast House arranged an introduction.”
A cold sensation spread through Elias’s chest. The Scholar’s Den, a less formal, more opulent salon, was known for its clandestine meetings and discreet dalliances, not scholarly discourse. And Elara, a noble scion known for her predatory charm. “An introduction?” Elias’s voice was unnaturally steady.
Lysander finally glanced up, a flicker of something unreadable in his pale eyes. “Apparently, they departed together, quite swiftly. A mutual admiration, it seems. No pretense, no protracted courtship. Simply… a decision made.” His words were clipped, infused with a peculiar distaste.
“A mutual admiration,” Elias repeated, the phrase tasting like ash. A knot tightened in his stomach. Kaelen, ever impulsive, ever seeking immediate gratification. The thought was both sickening and strangely, faintly, relieving. A momentary distraction, perhaps, from Theron, from *him*.
Lysander’s expression shifted, a sardonic twist to his lips. “They are disgustingly uncomplicated, these nobility. Unburdened by the complexities of true sentiment. A true scholar’s pursuit, that is.”
Elias felt a fragile lightness bloom within him. He perched on the edge of Lysander’s desk, a small gesture of camaraderie, and clapped the Archivar lightly on the shoulder. Lysander leaned back, granting him space, a silent acknowledgement of their shared understanding. Lysander, in his cynical honesty, was the only one who articulated the unspoken criticisms Elias himself harbored against Kaelen's capricious affections. For that, Elias found him uniquely tolerable.
“Unburdened, indeed,” Elias remarked, a dry note in his voice.
“Precisely. Unlike us, who bear the weight of thought, of consequence.” Lysander’s gaze drifted to a diagram of the Astral Clockwork, its gears a testament to intricate, deliberate design. He wasn’t boastful, merely stating a perceived truth. “Such burdens are why my own affections remain… unchained.”
Elias allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. “Is that why the Grand Archivarium has not yet seen fit to bestow upon you a companion?”
Lysander finally pushed away from his desk, letting a half-finished text roll closed. He turned to Elias, a glimmer of amusement in his pale eyes. He tapped Elias’s hand, still resting on his shoulder. “A grievous accusation, Elias. I shall petition the Guild for recompense for this harassment.”
“Harassment? How so?”
“If the recipient finds discomfort, it is harassment.”
“Lysander, your sophistry is legendary.”
“And your innocence, feigned.”
Elias nudged Lysander’s leg with his foot, the leather of his slipper brushing against Lysander’s robes. Lysander feigned a dramatic stumble, then offered a casual, dismissive hand gesture. His raised wrist revealed a thin cord of braided Eldorian hemp, a simple charm against ill fortune, not a devotional symbol.
Elias kicked his leg again, gently. “That talisman hardly suits you. You, who dissects all superstition.”
Lysander’s brow furrowed. “Why not? Does it not convey a certain… groundedness? A respect for the unseen forces?”
“No. It looks like a novelty.”
“It is not a novelty.” Lysander looked genuinely affronted. “My lineage has long upheld certain… observances. Though I interpret them through a lens of rational inquiry.”
Elias refrained from further comment. Lysander’s family, it was rumored, maintained ancient rites long discarded by the mainstream scholastic guilds. Lysander himself claimed a vague adherence, though he rarely participated in public observances. It was another of his many contradictions.
---
Elias continued his careful avoidance of Kaelen for the remainder of the week. Whenever their paths inadvertently converged in a study hall or a narrow corridor, Elias would offer a fleeting, almost imperceptible glance, then turn his head, fixing his gaze on some distant architectural detail. He lacked the fundamental courage to truly engage. A pathetic, ingrained fear of losing, of betraying the depth of his own longing, held him captive. The notion that affection made one vulnerable was deeply embedded.
In stark contrast, Theron, poor, timid Theron, still often sought Elias’s proximity. Theron was the only one who seemed to elicit any response from Elias in those strained days. Yet, each morning brought new bruises to Theron’s face – a fresh discoloration beneath his eyes, a faint cut on his lip. Kaelen, Elias knew, was marking his territory, a primal assertion of dominance, hidden from the direct scrutiny of the Athenaeum’s Overseers. Elias frowned, a silent protest against the brutality. Theron, catching Elias’s gaze, would quickly avert his head, attempting to conceal the fresh injuries beneath a messy lock of hair.
Four more days crawled by. One pre-dawn morning, alone in the vast silence of a rarely used scriptorium, Elias buried his face in his hands. He wished to absent himself from the wretched drama unfolding. The chasm between him and Kaelen, once a hairline fracture, had widened into an unbridgeable gulf of despair. Opening his eyes felt like risking an engulfment. Theron’s bruised face, as glaringly obvious as a seal on a damning writ, made Elias all the more eager to avoid both of them. He craved only the oblivion of disengagement.
Then, a small, dark mercy. Theron ceased attending his assigned studies. The junior Archivar, Master Elms, a nervous man burdened by the expectations of his office, declared it an absence, but the tremor in his voice betrayed the truth: truancy. A wild, almost inappropriate cheer rose in Elias’s heart, quickly stifled. Perhaps, he thought, a solution. If Theron truly vanished, Kaelen would lose his distraction. Elias’s own meticulously managed return to Kaelen’s favor would then be inevitable.
Kaelen, meanwhile, spent his study hours agitated. He fidgeted with his personal scroll-comm, snapping irritable retorts at anyone who dared approach him, or, on one memorable occasion, delivered a sharp, open-handed blow to a sycophantic junior scribe who dared to mouth off. Part of Elias felt a smug satisfaction. Another part, a strange sense of vindication. Confident in his dark hypothesis, Elias waited. He waited for Kaelen to turn back.
Days continued to bleed into one another. “Valerius seems… disturbed,” Lysander observed offhandedly during a midday meal. Elias’s heart gave a heavy, irregular thud. He yearned to look, to confirm the truth of Kaelen’s distress, but his courage failed him. He remained a coward in the arena of affection, capable only of absorbing Lysander’s oblique observations and constructing a fragile image of Kaelen’s suffering.
No visible shift occurred through the day. Elias reassured himself that tomorrow would bring change. Such things never transpired with haste. He continued to wait. As the final evening chime echoed through the Athenaeum, and Elias slung his satchel over his shoulder, Lysander spoke, his voice unusually pointed.
“You and Valerius,” Lysander began, not a question, but a statement of fact. “A quarrel, was it not?”
Elias turned, a reflexive gesture. “Yes.”
“Do not tell me the rift from the refectory incident persists?” Lysander raised an eyebrow, a rare display of genuine surprise.
Elias said nothing. He avoided Lysander’s knowing gaze. “Indeed,” he muttered, offering an excuse he had rehearsed countless times. “To be frank, Kaelen’s conduct was… extreme. I abhor witnessing such targeted cruelty. It’s simply… unsettling, you understand?”
“Unsettling? How so?” Lysander’s voice was laced with an unnerving lack of inflection.
“Theron is… a fellow acolyte, a junior scribe. To subject him to such… degradation. It felt… improper. I wished it to cease.”
“Remarkable.” Lysander’s single word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.
Elias felt a prickle of discomfort. Lysander’s tone, devoid of sincerity, suggested a deeper understanding, an unmasking. His face burned. He turned abruptly, eager to escape Lysander’s mocking gaze, and made for the corridor.
As Elias hurried along, intent on returning to his quiet cell, a hand fell lightly upon his shoulder. Assuming it was Lysander, following to press his point, Elias spun around, a flash of irritation, and pulled his arm free. But it was not Lysander. Master Elms, the junior Archivar, stood before him, his face etched with an unusual seriousness. Elias quickly composed himself.
“Forgive me, Elias. Did I startle you?” Elms’s voice was apologetic.
“No, Master. A momentary distraction. I am quite well.” Elias forced a polite smile.
“I see. I apologize for the imposition, but… might I trouble you for a brief moment of your time?”
“Of course, Master Elms.”
“Only a second, I assure you.”
The young Archivar’s concern was palpable. Elias nodded, his internal alarm bells already ringing. “Today, Elias, Kaelen Valerius inquired about Acolyte Theron’s family lodgings.” Elms’s voice dropped to a cautious whisper.
“Kaelen Valerius?” Elias felt a chill settle over him. Master Elms, as a junior Archivar, could not possibly be oblivious to the veiled bullying that permeated the Athenaeum. Yet, he lacked the authority or nerve to confront the noble scions directly. But neither was he cold enough to ignore it entirely. His presence before Elias now was testament to that much. “I do not find it so strange, Master Elms. A simple inquiry, perhaps.” Elias replied, his voice a calculated calm.
“I am not accusing, nor laying blame, Elias, but… Given your past, your… protective nature regarding Acolyte Theron, I wondered if you might… accompany Kaelen to his lodgings. Do you comprehend my meaning?” Elms’s eyes pleaded for understanding.
Elias could not respond immediately. His jaw tightened, a hard knot of dread forming in his gut. The possessive, dark energies Kaelen harbored for Theron felt as if they were creeping towards him, seeping into his very being, pinning him in place. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. He could not, *would not*, allow this to transpire.
“Might I… instead procure Acolyte Theron’s personal contact scroll number?” Elias asked, forcing the words out.
“Ah, yes, of course. Here, let me transcribe it for you. Attempt to reach him first.” Elms seemed visibly relieved at Elias’s initiative.
“Certainly. I shall speak with him. Do not distress yourself, Master Elms.”
“Very well. I place my trust in you, Elias.”
“Indeed.”
On the surface, Elias projected an image of perfect composure. Internally, a frantic panic seized him. Master Elms, looking awkward but grateful, scribbled Theron’s contact number from the attendance rolls onto a parchment, then retreated down the hallway. The moment the Archivar was gone, Elias pulled out his own scroll-comm and immediately keyed in the number. His leg jittered nervously, a restless tremor. He clenched and unclenched his hand, waiting for the connection. To his surprise, it linked quickly.
“Hello?” A faint, reedy voice.
“Acolyte Theron? It is Elias Thorne. Is this your personal scroll-comm?” Elias rushed to speak, urgency propelling his words. A sudden clattering echoed from the other end—something falling, hitting a hard surface, followed by a rustling sound. A pause stretched, then Theron’s voice returned, laced with shock.
“E-Elias? Master Thorne! W-why… How… how did you obtain my number? Did you… did you possess it already?”
“No. Master Elms informed me that Kaelen Valerius sought your family lodgings today. I requested your contact for a precaution.”
Silence.
“I wished merely to caution you. To be vigilant.”
“W-what of you? Are you safe? Even though you strive to intercede…”
“Do not concern yourself with my welfare. Focus upon your own. If you require further time away from your studies, communicate through this number. I shall manage the matter with Master Elms. I am, believe it or not, held in some esteem.”
“…Thank you.” The gratitude in Theron’s voice was stark, naked.
“If Kaelen Valerius attempts to harass you or worse, to strike you within the Athenaeum, inform me immediately. If spoken words fail you, a simple touch upon the shoulder will suffice. It is more arduous to mend that which is already broken.”
“Understood…”
“Honestly, Acolyte Theron, a transfer to a less… prominent guild might be your wisest recourse.” Elias let the suggestion hang, hoping it would resonate.
“…”
“In any case, consider it. For now, either feign absence from your lodgings or seek refuge elsewhere, far from the Athenaeum’s reach.”
“O-okay…”
“Very well. I must conclude this communication.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Elias.” After a prolonged hesitation, Theron’s voice came, soft and trembling. A strange disquiet settled over Elias. “T-thank you for your constant aid…”
“It is nothing.”
“I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. I-I shall see you.”
“Yes.”
“…Farewell.”
Farewell? Elias did not bother to respond to the strange adieu. The mere sound of Theron’s voice, worming its way into his ear, sent a shiver down his spine, leaving him thoroughly unsettled. The exact events of Theron’s night remained unknown to Elias. What he did know was this: the following day, Theron resumed his attendance at the Athenaeum. Within a week, the faint, downy peach fuzz characteristic of his youthful skin began to reappear, where bruises had once marred. Theron also ceased his sudden, eager approaches to Elias, his demeanor subtly, dramatically altered. The abrupt shift in his behavior planted seeds of suspicion in Elias’s mind. And when all the bruises on Theron’s face finally vanished, Elias could not help but feel a faint, unlikely stir of hope.
Then, two weeks later, Kaelen Valerius materialized before him, unbidden.
“Elias.” Kaelen’s voice was low, resonant.
Elias kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, on a distant archway. His breath hitched, his lips felt as if they might part in a silent gasp at any moment.
Could it be? Had Kaelen Valerius finally grown weary of Theron?