Two days hence, a slip of parchment awaited Kaelen in his designated scroll cubby, nestled amongst the well-worn volumes of ancient Runescript. His fingers, habitually cold, brushed against the smooth, unfamiliar vellum.
“A brief audience in the arcane requisitions chamber, prior to the astral projection session?”
For a fleeting moment, a foolish notion flickered—a secret admirer, perhaps. Yet, the Lyceum of Veridia admitted no such frivolities between its scholars. He dismissed the thought, a prickle of discomfort already forming. The summons felt less like an invitation and more like a summons to an unwanted duty.
He quite forgot the missive until the chimes signaling the fourth hour, the prelude to the astral projection session, echoed through the Lyceum’s ancient halls.
After donning his lighter, un-enchanted tunic, Kaelen made his way toward the arcane requisitions chamber. A faint curiosity stirred, though he lent it little credence. Such clandestine meetings seldom yielded anything of significance.
However, the supplicant proved unexpected: Lysander Aethel, his usually placid countenance now a mask of agitation, his dark hair disheveled from nervous pacing.
“Lysander Aethel?” Kaelen’s voice, though quiet, carried a faint inflection of surprise. Lysander’s small head, previously bowed in contemplation of his bitten nails, snapped upwards. A fleeting, almost frantic smile touched his lips, reminiscent of his arrival at the Lyceum terms ago. The sight, for reasons Kaelen could not quite articulate, chafed at his already frayed nerves.
“What matter compels this sudden summons?”
Lysander’s plump fingers twisted together, a tell-tale sign of his unease, as he prepared to speak. “Ah, Kaelen… I… there is something I must impart…”
“Speak it, then.” Kaelen wished to depart with all haste. His unease heightened; a private colloquy with Lysander Aethel was precisely the sort of circumstance that invited unwanted speculation, an entanglement Kaelen could ill afford. He had always calibrated his interactions with Lysander to maintain a veneer of decorum, nothing more, nothing less.
Oblivious to Kaelen’s growing impatience, Lysander gnawed upon his thumb, his gaze darting about the chamber. A tumultuous war of indecision and resolve played out upon his features. Each time his lips parted as if to speak, they would snap shut once more.
His ceaseless prevarication stoked Kaelen’s latent irritation. Lysander, from their initial acquaintance, had always been a source of vexation for Kaelen, and his present actions only served to deepen this sentiment. The small, hesitant movements of his mouth, which might have appeared endearing to a more sympathetic observer, struck Kaelen as profoundly annoying. Perhaps, he conceded, his own sensibilities were stretched thin.
“Forgive my bluntness, but the chimes for the session approach. Pray, articulate your purpose without further delay.”
His internal disquiet was not solely Lysander’s doing. A tempest of frustration and confusion had churned within him since the encounter with Elara Lyra. Perhaps, Kaelen reflected, his nascent anger sought any convenient target.
Lately, the knot of apprehension in his gut had tightened considerably, a constant, low thrum of anxiety that eroded his composure.
Amidst Kaelen’s introspective turmoil, Lysander seemed to gather his scattered courage. His voice, small and stammering, finally broke the silence.
“Uh, Kaelen… I… you see, I…”
“Yes?” Kaelen replied, his interest flagging, a hand unconsciously rising to rub the nape of his neck. Break time neared its end. He yearned for Lysander to simply utter his piece. A wicked impulse suggested forcing the words from the boy’s reluctant throat.
Then, the chamber door swung open abruptly. Both Kaelen and Lysander turned, their gazes meeting that of Theron Varkos, who stood panting, his chest heaving. Or rather, Theron’s eyes were not upon Kaelen. His furious stare was fixed solely on Lysander.
A strangled gasp escaped Theron’s lips. His heavy breathing betrayed his exertion; Kaelen could almost visualize Theron’s frantic search throughout the Lyceum’s labyrinthine corridors. A suffocating pressure tightened Kaelen’s chest.
Theron let out a long, ragged exhalation before striding into the room. Kaelen’s hand, which had been rubbing his neck, dropped without conscious command. Theron’s gaze flickered between Lysander and Kaelen, his expression fierce, bordering on feral.
“Why are you here, with him?”
His words hung in the air, the target of his query unclear. Theron’s fists clenched, then relaxed, a dangerous rhythm.
Beneath Kaelen’s outwardly composed facade, his very core felt pummeled. After an agonizing pause, Theron’s gaze finally settled upon Kaelen. Kaelen found the intensity of that stare unbearable, a violation of his guarded sanctuary.
“What is the meaning of this, Theron?”
He pleaded silently. *Not at me. Do not look at me so. Lay blame upon Lysander, for he called me here. Why fix your wrath upon me, a supposed companion, with such venom? I am but a unwilling participant in this entanglement.*
Even as these thoughts churned, Theron’s burning eyes remained locked on Kaelen. He recognized the look: not one of passionate fervor, but of consuming rage, of jealousy, of madness. It was the visage of a man deranged by an obsessive affection—a sight Kaelen found both pitiable and repulsive.
“Why are you here with him!”
*You appear pathetic, Theron. So utterly pathetic.* Kaelen returned the glare. Yet, a disquieting thought insinuated itself: perhaps the truly pathetic one was not Theron, but Kaelen himself.
Before Kaelen could brace himself, Theron’s long strides had closed the distance between them. The moment Kaelen focused on his face, the world tilted violently.
“...!”
The abruptness of the impact left Kaelen reeling. His body crumpled to the flagstones. Only then did his mind reassemble the fractured seconds.
*Impossible.*
He had been struck. Theron Varkos had struck him.
Lying prostrate, Kaelen’s trembling fingers touched his cheek. Disbelief warred with a searing shame. *How could you… How could you do this to me?*
“K-Kaelen!” Lysander cried, his voice laced with horror, rushing toward him. But Theron let out a primal scream, a madman unleashed.
“You craven! I bade you call me Theron! No, do not speak my name—do not speak at all, you parasite!”
Lysander froze, his face draining of all color as he witnessed Theron’s unbridled fury.
“I-I am sorry, I am truly sorry.”
“You pledged! You damned well pledged! Blast you!”
Lysander stumbled backward, tears welling in his eyes. But he was not the one deserving of tears—Kaelen was.
A tide of bitter tears threatened to overwhelm him. Yet, before he could fully succumb, Theron unleashed a final, violent curse, then seized Lysander’s arm, dragging him from the chamber. The confrontation concluded with bewildering speed.
Left alone, a crumpled heap on the stone floor, Kaelen stared at the half-open door. A slender shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom through the gap, and something within him finally gave way. The fragile dam holding back his emotions shattered, and tears flowed freely, hot and raw.
He detested everything. Lysander Aethel, who had ensnared him in this sordid affair. Theron Varkos, who had delivered the blow. He wished them both banished from his sight. The humiliation, the indignity of being reduced to a mere pawn in their twisted drama, was suffocating.
Rising stiffly, Kaelen forewent the astral projection session. Instead, he made his way to the Proctor’s office, requesting an early dismissal. His swollen, reddened face lent credence to his excuse, and the head Proctor, discerning his distress, granted leave without further inquiry.
---
Upon reaching his private quarters, Kaelen collapsed onto his divan, seeking oblivion in sleep. He awoke hours later, his face puffy and a distinct bruise coloring his cheek. Instinctively, he reached for his communication slate. A message from Rian Valerius awaited him. They did not often exchange communiqués, yet Kaelen knew Theron often communicated through Rian. *Damn him.*
Were it any other, Kaelen would have ignored the message. But Rian Valerius was no ordinary acquaintance. He stood second only to Theron in influence amongst their peer group, holding sway over the various scholastic factions. Kaelen could not afford to disregard him.
“Pray tell, to where did you abscond?”
Kaelen clicked his tongue, replying belatedly to the three-hour-old query.
“Ah, felt somewhat indisposed, regrettably.”
He deliberately kept his response light, evasive. He harbored no desire for anyone to discern his present predicament. The very thought of it—of others discovering Theron had struck him—was an unbearable humiliation. And all for Lysander Aethel, of all people.
“Are you quite well?”
Rian Valerius, demonstrating concern? A strange disquiet settled over Kaelen. He shut off his slate, the questions too jarring for his bruised state.
Hours later, a wave of profound sorrow washed over him. Even Rian’s message, ostensibly kind, felt suffocating. Other scholars with whom he studied had also reached out, but none offered the solace he craved.
Not one among them inquired after Theron. *I am surely losing my faculties,* Kaelen thought. Still, he consoled himself, attributing it to the fate of one consumed by a maddening, irrational affection.
Despite knowing the truth, Kaelen lay there, an inert figure, doing what he did best: closing his eyes, averting his gaze from the stark reality.
“…I am not the sole one ensnared.”
Perhaps Lysander and Kaelen shared a similar plight. The bizarre, twisted, grotesque thought lingered. A selfish, wicked, childish hope entwined itself with it. As he lay on his divan, staring at the ceiling fresco, another message arrived. The sender: an unknown cipher.
“Kaelen, do you feel greatly unwell?”
He frowned. Who amongst his peers would address him so familiarly? Rian? But this was not Rian’s cipher. Before Kaelen could ponder further, a follow-up message arrived, relentless and infuriating.
“I am sorry. Truly sorry. It is all my fault.”
“I am sorry.”
“Please, forgive me.”
Whether three words or four, each hammered at him, igniting a silent scream within. Kaelen hurled his communication slate onto the floor in a fit of frustration. *How did this craven procure my cipher? And how does one who purports to possess no such device send communiqués?*
Then, a realization struck him. Ah. He had called Lysander once, had he not? An errant act of compassion, long ago.
Kaelen cursed his idiotic memory and let out an angry sigh. To vent his frustration, he pounded his fists against the padded divan for a time, until exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted back into sleep. Just before his thoughts completely faded, one final message from the unknown cipher echoed in his mind.
“Please, do not despise me.”
*Amusing. I have harbored such sentiment for you for months.*
The next morning, Kaelen awoke, his face swollen and tender, resembling a steamed brioche.
---
He absented himself from the Lyceum that day. No matter his standing as a diligent scholar, Kaelen possessed insufficient devotion to present himself with such a disfigured countenance.
The household guardian, an elderly majordomo named Master Elms, prepared his midday meal. As Kaelen ate, Master Elms could not resist a gentle chiding, urging more caution in his affairs. The luncheon itself was unremarkable—a mild porridge and thinly sliced, seasoned dream-root. Kaelen swallowed it all in quick, unchewed gulps.
As he set down his spoon, reaching for a goblet of spring water, Master Elms arrived to clear the dishes. With a plate in one hand, he announced,
“Master Kaelen, a visitor awaits.”
“A visitor?”
“Shall I admit them?”
A visitor. His heart fluttered, a strange, unbidden tremor. Before he could even identify the emotion, his mind had already begun to conjure an image of who might stand at his threshold.
Could it be… Theron Varkos?
It seemed a wild fantasy, yet not entirely beyond the realm of possibility. Few from the Lyceum had ever visited his family estate. Among his acquaintances, only a handful knew its precise location. If it were Theron, then he must have come to offer apologies, his guilt at last overwhelming him. Theron had never struck Kaelen before, not once. Yes, he must have been consumed by worry and regret.
“Yes, pray admit them.”
The fantasy solidified into a certainty. Though he chastised himself for such naivety, Kaelen could not help but feel a nascent satisfaction. Despite everything, he still held some measure of importance to Theron. That thought filled him with an inexplicable warmth. He turned swiftly toward the main entrance, his pace quickening with an unfamiliar eagerness.
But the figure awaiting him was not the one he had anticipated.
“Yo, what’s the difficulty?”
Rian Valerius, his sharp features arranged in a playful smirk, greeted Kaelen, holding aloft a small, enchanted satchel of crystalline confectionaries. As soon as Rian’s gaze fell upon Kaelen’s face, however, his lighthearted demeanor vanished, replaced by an unusually serious query.
“What in the nine hells happened to your visage?”
Kaelen’s knees almost buckled from the sudden, crushing disappointment. *How did Rian Valerius even know the location of his family’s estate?*
“...A minor stumble,” Kaelen replied flatly.
Rian frowned, twisting his lips in that characteristic way he always did before delivering a sarcastic remark.
“You are truly a blunderer, are you not?”
Kaelen did not bother to argue. He merely rubbed his swollen cheek, a dull ache reverberating through the bruised flesh. Embarrassment surged as he recalled his earlier, foolish anticipation. *What an imbecile he was.* Theron Varkos did not consider him important. And here Kaelen stood, wagging his tail like a hopeful cur—a complete dolt.
“Here, consume this.”
Rian handed him a chilling orb of ice cream. Kaelen accepted it, immediately prying open the lid to ascertain the flavor.
“…It is of the green tea essence.”
“Is it? Scarcely noticed.”
“Predictable. Why would you?”
“Blast, that is rather cutting.”
“What, precisely, is your purpose here?”
“What do you surmise? Came to ascertain your well-being. May I enter?”
“Stay, wait!”
Without hesitation, Rian’s long legs carried him across the threshold and into the receiving hall.
“Where are your private chambers?”
“Pray tell, where are you proceeding?”
“Where else? There is no other destination of consequence within your domicile.”
“…”
Kaelen found no suitable retort. Rian was correct. Domiciles, in their essential configuration, were all much the same, were they not? Feeling an acute sense of awkwardness, Kaelen followed Rian, who seemed oddly intent on inspecting the interior of his ancestral home.