A potent unguent, applied with Rian’s unsettlingly gentle hand, had wrought minor miracles. When Kaelen woke, the lingering ache beneath his jaw had dulled to a persistent throb, and the faint purple discoloration, once stark, now merely suggested a glancing blow. It was a bruise one could attribute to an ill-judged encounter with a library shelf, perhaps. Manageable, if one avoided direct sunlight. He moved through the hallowed corridors of the Lyceum with a lighter step, though his heart remained a stone in his chest. A premonition of disquiet clung to the air, a subtle shift in the arcane currents that usually hummed with studious energy. Approaching the Great Lecture Hall, the atmosphere thickened, heavy and oppressive, silencing even the usual murmur of junior acolytes. His gaze swept the room, instinctively seeking Theron Varkos. The scion of House Varkos was already present, a dark, commanding figure in the first row. Kaelen’s eyes then drifted to the antechamber door, where Lysander Aethel finally appeared, slipping in just before the Arch-Magister’s bell tolled. Lysander’s usually timid posture seemed to shrink further, his shoulders hunched. A sickening lurch twisted Kaelen’s gut. Lysander’s lower lip was split, a thin line of dried blood marking its pale surface. One eye was swollen, a bruised violet that almost matched the faint discoloration Kaelen himself bore. A wave of profound shame washed over him, a cold tide that extinguished the flicker of self-pity he’d nursed. He had, in a moment of childish pique, wished Theron some small reciprocal discomfort. Now, faced with Lysander’s battered visage, Kaelen felt nothing but a suffocating remorse. His imagined slights paled to insignificance. Lysander’s eyes, unfocused and darting, suddenly met Kaelen’s across the hall. A jolt seemed to pass through the smaller boy. He froze, a startled grimace tightening his face, then quickly averted his gaze. He shuffled toward his accustomed seat, avoiding Kaelen entirely. The suddenness of Lysander’s reaction left Kaelen with a strange, hollow feeling. Kaelen felt a prickle at the nape of his neck. Theron Varkos watched him, a silent, predatory glare that promised retribution. Theron’s eyes burned with a cold, possessive fury that made Kaelen’s skin crawl. He should have remained sequestered in his chambers. The thought, bitter and potent, twisted Kaelen’s mouth into a grim line. Regret, sharp and unwelcome, clawed at his throat. After the morning lessons, Lysander, who had once sought Kaelen’s quiet company, remained distant. During the mid-day recess, he vanished with Theron Varkos and a few of Theron’s sycophants, leaving Kaelen alone at his study carrel. Kaelen found Rian Valerius already settled at their usual table in the refectory, idly flicking a silver rune-coin. Part of Kaelen yearned to seek out Lysander, to understand, to perhaps even offer a silent commiseration. But a chilling apprehension held him rooted. He feared what he might witness if he did. Surely, Theron would not inflict further harm upon Lysander. Such blatant cruelty, within the Lyceum walls… Yet Lysander’s bruised face flashed in Kaelen’s mind, a stark refutation of his hopeful thought. It was not Kaelen’s concern, he knew, but the sight of Lysander’s injuries had lodged itself deep within his psyche, impossible to ignore. Rian, ever oblivious to the undercurrents of dread that plagued Kaelen, continued his easy banter. “The Arch-Magister’s lecture on aetheric resonance nearly put me to sleep this morning. A true master of the somniferous arts, that one.” “You seemed quite animated last eve, discussing the merits of spiced wine,” Kaelen replied, a faint, strained smile touching his lips. “A man must find his diversions, Kaelen. And my nerves, let me tell you, were utterly frayed by that Varkos incident. I merely concealed it with my usual panache.” Rian winked, a flash of mischief in his pale eyes. Kaelen nudged Rian’s ankle under the table. “Such modesty, Rian. Truly, you are a paragon of composure.” Rian merely grinned, rubbing his chin with a gesture that Kaelen almost mistook for sheepishness. That couldn’t be right. --- Life possessed a peculiar way of reordering attachments. Kaelen had not sought Rian’s company when they first met, finding the younger man’s superficial charm and easy wit… distracting. Yet now, Rian was the closest thing Kaelen had to a confidant within these daunting walls. Rian’s lighthearted demeanor and often flippant remarks had an uncanny ability to prevent Kaelen from succumbing entirely to the crushing weight of his anxieties. In earlier days, Kaelen had dismissed Rian’s qualities as shallow, evidence of an unserious mind. Now, he leaned upon that very levity to maintain his own fragile equilibrium. Had Kaelen not been… distanced from Theron, he might never have recognized the quiet strength in Rian’s presence. As the weeks wore on, Theron Varkos began to distance himself from the established cliques. Sometimes, he would vanish with Lysander Aethel, and other times, he’d gather a small coterie of his own, students drawn in by the allure of House Varkos’s power. There were even moments when some of his previous associates flatly refused his summons, their faces uneasy, their excuses mumbled. Kaelen encountered Alaric, a junior acolyte from a minor House, attempting to surreptitiously scale a low wall near the training grounds. Alaric, a nervous young man, confessed with a mixture of amusement and unease that Theron had been instructing various students to ‘chastise’ Lysander, a single, sharp blow each. Kaelen’s face must have twisted in an expression of undisguised revulsion, for Alaric quickly added that he’d been avoiding Theron’s group for days. He was on his way to the Lyceum’s scriptorium, he explained, with Torvin, and begged Kaelen not to misunderstand. Then, he scrambled over the wall and vanished. Torvin, a scholar of minor renown, had once been closely aligned with Theron Varkos in their first year, but their paths had diverged when they were assigned to different disciplinary circles. During the midday meal, Kaelen and Rian wandered to the inner courtyard, where a vendor offered chilled nectars and spiced pastries. The cool sweetness of the amber nectar spread across Kaelen’s tongue, offering a momentary, fleeting solace. Beneath this transient relief, however, a bitter knot of unease tightened its grip in his chest. Still, he maintained a carefully neutral expression, unwilling to betray his inner turmoil. “Is that palatable?” Rian asked, eyeing Kaelen’s goblet, his own brightly colored nectar already half-drained. “Would you care for a taste?” Kaelen, half-teasing, offered his goblet, the rim still damp from his lips. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rian smirked, lifted one corner of his mouth, and took a generous sip. “Rian! Did you truly?” Kaelen exclaimed, feigning disgust. “You offered,” Rian replied, a theatrical shrug of one shoulder. “And it was merely a single sip.” It was a deceptively peaceful moment. The crisp autumn air of Veridia was clear and calm, a stark contrast to the storm churning within Kaelen’s mind. He wondered, fleetingly, where Theron Varkos and Lysander Aethel were now. A few unsavory locations within the Lyceum came to mind, but Kaelen did not go looking. He suspected, deep down, that he was afraid of what he might uncover. He tried to banish Theron Varkos from his thoughts. Yet, with every conscious effort to dismiss him, Kaelen became more acutely aware of the pervasive space Theron occupied in his mental landscape. How long would it take to excise someone like Theron from his estimations? How much painful effort would such an undertaking demand? Kaelen did not know. The prospect felt like wandering lost in a vast, arid desert, a journey not merely sorrowful and suffocating, but terrifying and unbearable. At times, Kaelen retreated, his mind’s eye struggling to discern the faint impressions left by his own steps. When the burden became too overwhelming, he would occasionally confide a fragmented thought to Rian. And so, the days passed. Suddenly, Kaelen turned to Rian. “Rian,” he began, his voice a low murmur. “Yes, Kaelen?” “Do you believe that ancient glyphs, etched into barren rock, can ever truly bloom?” The question felt raw, embarrassingly sentimental the moment it left his lips. Kaelen awkwardly scratched his temple, but Rian offered no mockery. “They will,” Rian stated, his voice unusually quiet, devoid of its customary levity. Kaelen waited, silent. “They must,” Rian continued, meeting Kaelen’s gaze. “This life, Kaelen, is already wretched enough without such impossibilities.” Hearing those words from Rian Valerius, a man Kaelen had never imagined capable of such earnest profundity, revealed to Kaelen the futile desperation of his own hope. How much more time would he squander, clinging to these meaningless sentiments? “Indeed,” Kaelen murmured, looking away. “Life is wretched.” Theron Varkos. That arrogant scion. Why did he seem so intent on crushing every faint glimmer of loyalty Kaelen had ever harbored? Theron, who now came and went from the Lyceum’s lectures as he pleased, often disregarding even the Arch-Magister’s summons. And always, by his side, Lysander Aethel, a shadow to Theron’s formidable presence. As the situation grew increasingly conspicuous, the study halls began to buzz with a mix of unease and veiled intrigue. It became clear: Theron Varkos’s influence was expanding, and his methods growing harsher. A fog of resentment toward him, slow and insidious, began to spread throughout their cohort. None of it sat well with Kaelen. One afternoon, Kaelen saw Theron dragging Lysander by the wrist down a rarely-used hallway, their figures stark against the ancient stone. Kaelen stopped. He watched them, his gaze flitting between Theron’s taut back and Lysander’s slumped form, before finally speaking. “Your House Head is concerned for your reputation, Theron.” It was neither a plea nor an apology—it was a calculated fabrication. Such was the extent of Kaelen’s bruised pride. Theron, whose relationship with his powerful sire was notoriously strained, would likely dismiss it as an empty warning. Yet, Kaelen could always argue that, given Theron’s escalating behavior, his House Head *would* indeed have ample reason for concern. Kaelen always ensured he possessed an escape route. “If someone must bear the brunt of your displeasure, Theron, let it be only you. What transgression has Lysander Aethel committed?” “Move aside, Thorne.” The moment Kaelen uttered Lysander’s name, Theron’s gaze snapped toward him, blazing with an almost lethal fury. Kaelen’s chest tightened, a suffocating pressure. He despised Theron’s cruelty. Yet, pitiful and pathetic, Lysander stood glued to Theron’s side, his tear-filled eyes wide, looking at Kaelen as if on the verge of collapsing into sobs. “Unless you desire another lesson, Thorne, remove yourself from my path.” “T-Theron, please,” Lysander stammered, his voice a reedy tremble as he clutched at Theron’s arm. Only then did Theron cease speaking. His fierce gaze fixed solely on Lysander. Kaelen watched Theron’s back, a wall of indifferent power, as he turned away from him. “A-As I said, your House Head—” Lysander, on the verge of tears, clung desperately to Theron, attempting to physically halt his movement. Witnessing that excruciatingly pitiful scene was almost unbearable. Kaelen closed his eyes, a sharp ache behind his eyelids. After a prolonged moment, Theron looked down at Lysander, then, with a curt nod, turned and walked back toward the Lecture Hall. For the remainder of the day, Theron remained confined within the Lyceum’s academic chambers, just as he had for a few weeks prior. --- The long-anticipated day of the Scholar’s Pilgrimage had arrived. A chartered conveyance, imbued with a calming stasis charm, awaited to transport them to an ancient Exhibition of Arcane Lore. A few elder students grumbled about the disruption to their specialized studies, but most were simply eager for a day’s respite from the Lyceum’s rigorous schedule. No provisions were necessary, as they would return before vespers. The Arch-Magisters offered only a few half-hearted admonishments before dismissing them. They were not first-year initiates. The giddy excitement of childhood excursions no longer kept them awake at night. Kaelen regarded it as merely another day—leave without a satchel, return without a satchel. He had no premonition that this would be the day his carefully bottled frustrations would finally fracture. Habit dictated Kaelen’s movements. He was, by unspoken custom, Theron Varkos’s closest associate within their cohort. The seat beside Theron, wherever they gathered outside the lecture halls, was implicitly Kaelen’s. He hadn’t even considered where Rian Valerius might sit, as they had never before traveled by a chartered conveyence together. Initially, Kaelen felt a faint wariness toward Rian, a baseless fear that Rian might usurp the coveted seat closest to Theron. Reflecting upon it now, the thought seemed utterly pathetic. Neither Kaelen nor Rian would ultimately occupy that particular spot. Upon arrival, Kaelen located their assigned conveyance in the vast Lyceum courtyard. He boarded, seeking their designated seating. The rearmost five seats were already claimed by a boisterous group of classmates, among them Alaric, who waved at Kaelen, then hesitated, pointing vaguely toward Theron Varkos’s usual area. “Kaelen! There’s a space here!” Alaric called out, his voice slightly strained. “Ah, yes,” Kaelen murmured, his response automatic. It had always been his place. But today, he paused, a strange reluctance gripping him as he approached Theron’s seat. He sighed, a faint exhalation of relief, when he saw the space beside Theron remained empty. Swallowing hard, a flicker of determined pride ignited within him. It was his rightful place. His pride—the last, stubbornly guarded remnant of his self-worth—compelled him to claim it, even after the humiliating assault, even after Theron’s cruelty toward Lysander. He nervously touched the polished armrest of the seat for a moment, his gaze sweeping the interior of the conveyance, before he quietly spoke. “Theron… this seat…” “It is not yours, Thorne. Find another.” Before Kaelen could finish, Theron cut him off, his voice flat, his gaze fixed intently on the entrance of the conveyance. Following Theron’s line of sight, Kaelen saw Lysander Aethel timidly making his way up the steps. Kaelen’s fists clenched, his unspoken words dying in his throat. “Very well. As you wish.” He tried to infuse his voice with an indifferent tone, though his heart felt as though it had been cruelly rent into countless fragments. Kaelen quickly retreated from the contested seat, scanning the conveyance. He found an unoccupied space near Rian Valerius’s group, directly in front of where Rian was already settled. Relieved, Kaelen rushed over, sinking into the seat, and spoke without waiting for acknowledgment. “Rian, join me.” No reply. When Kaelen looked closer, he realized Rian had already succumbed to slumber, his head resting against the window, bouncing gently with every subtle sway of the conveyance. Rian always seemed to drift off in the early hours. Kaelen shook his head at his friend’s ridiculous posture, then gently slid his own worn grimoire between Rian’s head and the cold glass, before leaning back into the uncomfortable cushioning of the seat. Across the aisle, Kaelen caught a glimpse of dark, precisely cut hair. It was Theron Varkos’s—Theron, taller than most of their cohort, was easily identifiable. Though Kaelen could not see clearly, his mind painted the picture: Lysander Aethel, finally settled in the seat beside Theron, his small figure once again eclipsed by Theron’s formidable presence.

Of Scars and Silences