A careful student understood the Lyceum’s unspoken tenets. Resonance, after all, dictated the flow of aether, the success of an enchantment, and, most crucially, the flourishing of one’s standing. One sought companions of like mind, of similar magical inclination, of comparable lineage. Such was the doctrine of harmony. It was the expressway, Kaelen had been taught, to an existence free from dissonance, free from discord. His intellect, sharp and often a solitary comfort, had embraced this principle. He had always believed in its rigorous, almost mathematical, truth. Yet, a silent, persistent rebellion had begun within his own heart, a subversive tremor beneath the very foundations of his carefully constructed world. Now in his eighteenth year, Kaelen found himself caught in the inexorable current of an affection he could not, would not, name. It defied his logic, mocked his principles. He had dismissed it, then, as a fleeting disquiet, a mere anomaly in the otherwise ordered calculations of his youth. A passing fancy, he had told himself, nothing more. Still, the feelings persisted, coiling tightly within his chest, constricting his throat until the very act of breathing became a conscious, painful effort. “Kindly attend the Crimson Sanctum.” Now, the early light of dawn, pale and sterile, painted the ancient spires of Veridia as he moved. A rune-etched fragment, cold against his palm, had stolen his meager sleep, its message abrupt as a fractured spell. Moments earlier, he had sat upon his cot, rigid, before rising with a barely audible sigh. His chambers, deep within the more scholastic wing of the Lyceum, offered perfect solitude. No vigilant mentor, no fellow student, would mark his clandestine departure. Therefore, he had gone. As he slipped through a less-used archway, avoiding the main thoroughfares, his gaze fell upon a Spell-Engine Couatl. It rested, half-forgotten, against the weathered wall of an adjacent, more opulent student dwelling. A year prior, a scion of a minor House had abruptly withdrawn from the Lyceum, their dwelling reallocated to another. This new resident, Kaelen knew, was Lord Alaric Vayne, though they had never formally met. Given the Lyceum’s labyrinthine design, its private courtyards and cloistered studies, such anonymity was not uncommon. The Couatl, a gleaming contraption of polished aetherium and spun electrum, bespoke a considerable pedigree, far surpassing Kaelen’s own humble means. It suggested an occupant of stature, perhaps even a year or two his senior. That magnificent conveyance was either left casually before a grand portal or tucked into the shadowed recess of an alley, its aetheric core still humming faintly. It reminded him, somehow, of himself. He held its powerful form in his vision for a fleeting moment before averting his eyes, continuing his urgent trek. During his hurried passage through the quiet cloisters, Kaelen kept his focus fixed upon the intricate patterns of the flagstones. But, ever susceptible to the subtle hum of the Lyceum’s ambient aether when his nerves frayed, he eventually surrendered, closing his eyes against the faint, shimmering distortions. “...” For nearly a cycle of seasons, a persistent tightness had plagued his stomach, a dull, unsettling ache that resisted all restorative enchantments. A long, shuddering breath escaped him, an attempt to loosen the knot lodged deep within his chest. He cultivated a habit of disregarding emotions that unsettled him, and with sufficient practice, he had managed to maintain a meticulously composed façade all this time—just as he did now, approaching the entrance to the Seclusion Wing. Within the quiet confines of the Wing, Kaelen pressed his lips into a thin line, clenching his fist at his side before relaxing its grip. His attention fixated on the small, rune-etched shard of obsidian in his hand. He located the specific sigil inscribed upon its surface, then turned to the corresponding door. Slowly, with a measured tremor, he rapped three times. “Alaric Vayne. Grant me entry.” Silence, heavy and absolute, greeted him from the other side. A flicker of irritation, cold and sharp, ignited within him. He stared at the unyielding wood for a strained moment before exhaling a short, sharp breath. He pounded upon the door again, this time with a raw, unexpected force. “I said, open the damn door!” This entire circumstance—truth be told, it sickened him. The very notion of what might have transpired within these private chambers through the long, shadowed hours of the night sent a crawl of revulsion across his skin. Yet, he could not still his hand. Alaric Vayne had commanded his presence, and Kaelen found himself enduring this repulsive scene because Alaric was the one who had, inadvertently, inflicted upon him that first, profound ‘illness’. “Why, by the Aether, do you summon me here,” Kaelen hissed, his voice low and tight with suppressed fury, “when you are preoccupied with the worthless dalliances of some minor House scion, you arrogant fool?” Gods above, this was unbearable. The wretched life of an eighteen-year-old scholar.

Aether and Anguish