A full cycle of seven days passed, each laden with a strange, brittle silence. Lord Valerius, in the company of his favored acolytes, moved through the Lyceum's echoing halls, a distinct entity. Kaelen, by deliberate artifice, feigned indifference, nurturing the illusion that Valerius’s absence from his immediate orbit held no import. He frequented the shadowed library alcoves with Lysander, or exchanged perfunctory courtesies with other junior scholars, maintaining a veneer of serene scholarly focus. This calculated detachment, Kaelen knew, was a fragile shield, one he braced against the slightest tremor.
Yet, a gnawing curiosity persisted, a small, relentless ember beneath the ash of his pride. To inquire directly of Lord Valerius’s movements would be an admission, a capitulation Kaelen could not countenance. So, Kaelen gravitated toward Lysander, a vessel of casual observation, knowing that scraps of intelligence often drifted through his conversational eddies.
When Kaelen subtly guided the discourse toward Valerius, Lysander, ever languid, would merely tap a rhythmic pattern on Lord Cassian's arcane divination sphere, his eyes fixed on the shifting glyphs within. “Lord Valerius? Departed again.” His tone carried no inflection, no genuine interest. That terse reply, each time, seized Kaelen’s breath.
His jaw tightened. “The insufferable cur.”
Kaelen could easily fathom the raw, untamed force of Valerius’s nature. He was an elemental, a creature of primal instinct, heedless of the finer points of decorum that bound lesser mortals within the Lyceum’s ancient stones.
“No doubt seeking some base amusement,” Kaelen ventured, picturing shadowed taverns or clandestine duels.
“Not so, this time,” Lysander corrected, shifting his weight, his fingers still tracing patterns on the sphere. “A formal engagement. Lady Julianna arranged it, you recall, the one who has long fawned over his lordship. From what was recounted, their connection was instantaneous. They withdrew, almost immediately upon introduction.”
Lysander’s lips twisted in a sardonic curl. “And the lady, by all accounts, was equally… unreserved. A swift consensus, it seems. ‘Why not?’ was her supposed reply.”
A tight knot formed in Kaelen’s chest.
“A remarkably unburdened pair,” Lysander murmured, his gaze finally lifting to meet Kaelen’s. Not admiration, but a chilling disdain underscored his words. For the first time in days, a faint, unexpected lightness settled upon Kaelen. He moved closer, settling onto Lysander’s study table, a gentle pressure of his hand upon Lysander’s shoulder. Lysander leaned back, creating space, a small, silent acknowledgement of Kaelen’s unspoken gratitude.
Lysander alone possessed the audacity to articulate such unflattering critiques of Valerius’s romantic entanglements. For this, Kaelen found him, if not entirely agreeable, then at least tolerable.
“Such… an unseemly casualness,” Kaelen pronounced, mimicking Lysander’s inflection.
“Indeed. A comportment I, fortunately, lack.” Lysander’s pronouncement held a peculiar note of boastful pride, eliciting a dry exhalation from Kaelen.
“Is not a certain lack of ‘casualness’ rather expected of a scholar within these hallowed halls?”
“It is not a matter of expectation, but of cultivation. One acquires these sensibilities through arduous self-governance. Rationality, Kaelen, is a laborious discipline.” A smirk played on Lysander’s lips, his eyes once more fixed on the divination sphere.
“Is that the grand explanation for your persistent… singularity?” Kaelen teased, a rare spark of levity in his voice.
Finally, Lysander deactivated the sphere, its intricate glyphs fading to dull bronze. He turned, an incredulous smile playing on his lips, and tapped Kaelen’s hand, still resting on his shoulder.
“I shall log a formal complaint of scholastic harassment.”
“Harassment? Where is the impropriety?”
“If the recipient finds the utterance discomfiting, it is thus designated, Kaelen.”
“Lysander, you are a singular specimen of vexation.”
“Pervert.”
Kaelen’s slipper, worn smooth from countless passages through the Lyceum, slipped from his foot as he swung it idly. He ignored it, nudging Lysander’s leg with his sock-clad foot. Lysander feigned a dramatic recoil, then extended a hand, casually flipping Kaelen an irreverent gesture. His raised wrist revealed a heavy, braided cord, wound with curious bone beads—a protective fetish, Kaelen knew, of an obscure arcane tradition Lysander's family supposedly upheld.
Kaelen nudged his leg again. “That relic seems ill-suited to you.”
“Ill-suited? How so?” Lysander’s tone shifted, a sudden, inexplicable gravity settling upon him.
Why such solemnity, now?
“It simply… does not align with your persona.”
“Does not align? Peculiar. Do I not project the image of a devout adherent to the Lumina’s ancient rites?”
“No. It appears more an affectation of fashion.”
“It is not, Kaelen.” A subtle tension tautened Lysander’s jaw.
Kaelen should have discerned it earlier. Lysander’s lineage, though often spoken of with self-deprecating irony, stretched back generations within a peculiar sect devoted to forgotten astral deities. Yet, Lysander, for all his claims of devout adherence, struggled to recall even the simplest cantrip of veneration. It was a contradiction Kaelen found endlessly bemusing.
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Kaelen maintained his careful avoidance of Lord Valerius throughout the week. When their paths converged in the scriptoriums or during communal recitations, Kaelen offered a fleeting glance, then swiftly averted his gaze. He still lacked the resolve to initiate discourse. Perhaps it was the fear of revealing too much, of conceding some unseen, unquantifiable ground. The notion—that the one who cared more was the one who lost—felt pathetic, a base emotion, yet it held him captive.
Lord Alden, by contrast, frequently sought Kaelen’s ear, perhaps because Kaelen was the sole individual who offered a genuine, if reserved, response. But the fresh, deepening bruises that marked Alden’s face each day spoke of Valerius’s continuing, relentless harassment, a beast marking its territory in ways unseen by Kaelen.
Alden, sensing Kaelen’s concerned frown, would duck his head, shielding the fresh injuries with a clumsy hand.
Four more days bled into the next. One quiet morning, alone within a minor lecture hall, Kaelen pressed his face into his hands, the cool wood of the desk a small comfort. He wished to escape the unfolding drama, the unsettling tableau that had taken root within the Lyceum’s venerable walls.
The gulf between Kaelen and Valerius widened daily. What had once been a nuanced tension had solidified into a veritable chasm. To open his eyes, Kaelen felt, was to risk being swallowed whole. The dark smudges beneath Alden’s eyes, the faint but undeniable swelling of his cheekbones, were as legible as a sealed edict. They drove Kaelen’s reluctance to confront either of them. He yearned for escape, for utter obliteration of the circumstance.
Then, as if a benevolent, if fickle, providence had intervened, Lord Alden ceased his attendance at the Lyceum. Magister Elara, during the morning rolls, marked his absence with a peculiar hesitance, a slight tremor in her voice that betrayed the official term: truancy. Kaelen suppressed a small, ignoble surge of triumph.
Valerius, in Alden’s absence, spent his classes fidgeting with a small, inscribed runic device, his temper short, snapping at minor acolytes, even once striking a junior for a whispered impertinence.
A part of Kaelen felt a cold, calculated satisfaction. Another part savored a strange, nascent sense of superiority. He began to persuade himself that soon, when Alden officially withdrew or simply faded from memory, Valerius’s interest would wane, his relentless focus shifting, perhaps, back to Kaelen. Confident in this flawed assumption, Kaelen waited, his patience a thin, stretched thread.
Several more days passed in this manner.
“Lord Valerius seems quite subdued,” Lysander observed idly, later that week. Kaelen’s heart gave a sudden, heavy lurch within his ribs. His head yearned to turn, to seek Valerius’s face, to confirm the observation, but he held rigidly still. In matters of the heart, or perhaps, in matters of pride, Kaelen was a profound coward. He could only absorb Lysander’s words, conjuring an image of Valerius in his mind’s eye.
But nothing overtly shifted as the day progressed, as the final bells tolled for evening dismissal. Kaelen reassured himself. Tomorrow would bring its own revelations; these things rarely resolved with such precipitous speed. He waited, gathered his satchel, and prepared to leave. Lysander, however, spoke, his voice carrying an unexpected, pointed edge.
“You quarrelled with Lord Valerius, did you not?”
Kaelen, turning reflexively, met Lysander’s gaze.
“It would seem so.”
“And the breach persists, since that… incident in the refectory?”
Kaelen offered no reply.
“Remarkable,” Lysander stated, a slight shrug to his shoulders, hands tucked into his robes. “A protracted silence. Longer than I would have prognosticated.” Kaelen avoided his eyes, muttering a carefully constructed excuse.
“Truthfully, Valerius overstepped. Such blatant intimidation of a fellow scholar… it is uncouth. Unsettling, in a fundamental way.”
“Unsettling? How so?”
“Well, Alden is… a man, is he not?”
“And?”
“The manner in which Valerius accosts him… it is, for two men, grotesque. He should cease.”
“Remarkable.” Lysander’s tone was flat, devoid of genuine emotion.
Kaelen’s lips thinned.
“Indeed, Kaelen. A most direct route to the Astral Elysium for you.” The response to Kaelen’s carefully phrased concern was drenched in sarcasm, a bitter draught.
Irritated by Lysander’s malicious inflection, Kaelen fixed him with a sharp glare. Lysander remained unperturbed, a smirk lingering on his face. Seeing that expression, Kaelen felt a prickle of heat upon his cheeks, as though some hidden, less noble motive had been unmasked. He turned abruptly, walking from the lecture hall, leaving Lysander’s mocking grin in his wake.
As Kaelen hastened through the corridor, intent on returning to his quiet chambers, a hand suddenly rested upon his shoulder. Assuming it was Lysander, Kaelen spun around, irritation bubbling, and roughly dislodged the hand. But it was not Lysander; it was Magister Elara, her usually serene face etched with an unusual gravity. Startled, Kaelen swiftly composed his features.
“My apologies, Kaelen. Did I cause you distress?”
“No, Magister. Merely surprised me.”
“I see. Forgive my presumption, but… might I speak with you for a moment?”
“Magister?”
“A brief moment. Please.”
Magister Elara’s expression was uncharacteristically serious. Kaelen nodded.
“Today, Lord Valerius requested Alden’s residing address,” the Magister began, her voice carefully modulated.
“Lord Valerius?” Kaelen’s breath hitched.
It was evident that Magister Elara, as a senior scholar, could not be entirely blind to the subtle currents of discord that rippled through the Lyceum’s junior ranks. Yet, she lacked the overt authority, or perhaps the inclination, to directly confront the toxic atmosphere. Still, she was not so cold as to utterly disregard it. Her appeal to Kaelen, about Alden, proved this.
“I cast no aspersions, Kaelen, nor do I lay blame upon Lord Valerius, but…”
“No, Magister, I comprehend. His request does not strike me as peculiar,” Kaelen interjected, his mind already racing.
“Given your past… considerateness toward Alden, I wondered if you might… accompany Lord Valerius to his residence. Do you discern my implication?”
Kaelen found himself unable to articulate an immediate response. His teeth clenched, an almost painful pressure in his jaw. The unsettling implications of Valerius’s fixation upon Alden began to creep toward Kaelen, a cold tide rising around his ankles, immobilizing him. He balled his hands into tight, rigid fists. He could not, would not, remain passive.
“Might I… instead procure Alden’s contact rune?”
“Ah, yes, certainly. I shall provide it. Endeavor to reach him first.”
“Indeed, Magister. I shall speak with him. Do not fret unduly.”
“Very well. I place my trust in you, Kaelen.”
“Yes, Magister.”
Beneath Kaelen’s composed exterior, panic raged. Magister Elara, her brow furrowed with a mixture of relief and lingering concern, consulted a slim arcane tablet for Alden’s personal communication rune, then departed the corridor, leaving Kaelen alone with his churning thoughts. He had to intercede. He absolutely had to prevent Valerius’s strange, obsessive pursuit from further escalation. The moment the Magister was out of sight, Kaelen retrieved his own rune-carved communicator and swiftly dialed Alden’s number. His leg began a nervous tremor, his hand clenching and unclenching as he awaited connection. Surprisingly, the call connected with abrupt immediacy.
“Yes?” A cautious voice.
“Alden? It is Kaelen Thorne. This is your personal rune, is it not?” Kaelen spoke with hurried urgency as soon as he recognized the voice. A sudden clatter echoed from the other end of the line—something falling, then a rustle of movement. After a brief, tense pause, Alden’s voice returned, strained.
“K-Kaelen? Kaelen! Wh-why… How… how did you obtain my rune? Did you… already possess it?”
“No. I learned from Magister Elara that Lord Valerius sought your residing address today. I then requested your contact rune.”
A beat of silence stretched.
“I merely wished to caution you. Be vigilant.”
“W-what of you? Are you unharmed? Even as you attempt to restrain him…”
“My welfare is not your concern. Focus upon your own safety. If you require further leave from the Lyceum, use this rune. I shall intercede with the Magister. My counsel, believe it or not, carries a certain weight.”
“T-thank you…”
“If Valerius attempts to harass you or use force within the Lyceum, inform me immediately. If you cannot speak directly, a subtle gesture—a touch upon my shoulder, perhaps—will suffice. Rectification becomes far more arduous once the transgressions are complete.”
“Understood…”
“Honestly, a transfer to another Lyceum might be your most prudent course.” Kaelen inserted the suggestion, hoping its stark finality would resonate.
Another silence.
“Consider it carefully, regardless. For now, either feign absence from your quarters or seek refuge far from the Lyceum grounds.”
“O-okay…”
“Very well. I shall conclude the communication.”
“W-wait.”
“Alden?”
“Thank you, Kaelen.” After a lengthy hesitation, Alden’s voice, soft and trembling, reached Kaelen. A sudden, inexplicable unease settled upon Kaelen. What was this? He shifted uncomfortably.
“T-thank you for your constant aid…”
“It is nothing of consequence.”
“I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. U-until we meet again.”
“Indeed.”
“Farewell…”
Farewell? Kaelen offered no rejoinder to the parting salutation, abruptly severing the connection. The lingering echo of Alden’s voice, imbued with that peculiar tremor, continued to prickle Kaelen’s senses, leaving him thoroughly discomfited.
What transpired with Alden that night remained unknown to Kaelen. All he observed was that, from the following day onward, Alden resumed his attendance at the Lyceum. And within a week, the faint, unblemished complexion of youth began to reappear upon his face, all traces of injury erased. Alden, too, ceased his direct approach to Kaelen, his demeanor shifting dramatically, becoming more guarded, almost deferential.
This abrupt metamorphosis planted seeds of suspicion within Kaelen’s mind. And when every bruise upon Alden’s face had finally vanished, Kaelen could not help but feel a faint, precarious surge of hope—however improbable it seemed.
Then, two full weeks hence, Lord Valerius, without preamble, directly addressed Kaelen.
“Kaelen.”
Kaelen’s gaze remained fixed straight ahead, but his lips felt suddenly parched, as if a gasp might tear them open at any moment.
“Kaelen Thorne.”
Could it be? Had Lord Valerius, at long last, exhausted his perverse interest in Alden? The thought, illicit and potent, sent a shiver through Kaelen’s frame. He dared not move, dared not breathe. This was it.