A profound, almost rigid self-governance marked Elara’s days. Her temperament, honed by years of her family’s exacting standards, had become a bastion against the chaotic whims of the world. More than any other affliction, she disdained the raw display of vulnerability. Consequently, even amidst the most tumultuous currents of emotion, she maintained an unnerving composure, a placid surface concealing depths of disquiet.
Such an unyielding demeanor often led others to deem her a dull spirit, one incapable of genuine ire. Yet, it was not an absence of feeling. Rather, each emotional tremor she had ever weathered had solidified into a protective shell, layer upon layer of stoicism. Over time, it had become nigh on impossible for anything to truly pierce its hardened surface.
This held true, even for Kaelen and his boisterous retinue.
It was this very trait that anchored her within Kaelen’s orbit, however peripherally. Her parents, influential members of the Guild of Cartographers, rarely fretted over her conduct. And within the sprawling Guildhall’s intricate social hierarchy, she occupied a respectable, if quiet, station. This position, painstakingly carved from diligent labor and careful observation, was one she fiercely guarded.
“Kaelen, you’re prattling again.”
Torvin’s voice, sharp and laced with disdain, cut through the clamor of the common room. Kaelen merely sneered back, his large frame sprawled across a cushioned bench, a half-eaten morningcake crumbling in his grasp.
“A wit like yours could curdle milk, Torvin.”
“Better than a face that could sour a vintage wine, Kaelen.”
A snort of laughter rippled through Kaelen’s sycophants – young apprentices, older journeymen, all drawn to his magnetic, albeit brutal, influence. To call Kaelen’s appearance unsightly was an arrow that found no mark; his features, though coarse, held a certain rugged charm. He merely dismissed Torvin’s jab with a guttural chuckle.
“Torvin, do you not know any maidens? You surround yourself with enough hangers-on.”
“What manner of maiden do you speak of?” Torvin’s eyes, keen and assessing, narrowed.
“Decent ones. Those with some spirit, some fire.”
“What constitutes ‘decent’ in your estimation, Kaelen?”
“Do not play the fool, damn it all.”
Torvin’s fingers, agile and slender, spun a polished obsidian orb between them. He offered no further reply. Kaelen, for his part, did not press the matter, his gaze already drifting across the common room. It settled with predatory intensity upon Lyra, her head bowed low over a scroll in the farthest, shabbiest corner.
“...Perhaps one with a softer face, a timid disposition. Easily led.”
Kaelen was an untamed force: impulsive, crude, and prone to sudden, unthinking bursts of cruelty. His appetites, baser than most, required no further proof of his nature. With each passing cycle, his torment of Lyra, devoid of restraint’s subtle hand, grew only more brazen.
---
Today, as the sun climbed higher, marking the end of the Guildhall’s summer respite, Lyra found herself entirely isolated. Yet, even this bleak solitude seemed insufficient to sate Kaelen’s hunger.
Kaelen’s inner circle and other such groups operated with similar levels of influence, but their customs diverged. His immediate cronies, men like Joris and Faelan and the brutish Garvin, would linger for moments after the bell signaling the midday repast, awaiting Kaelen’s command. Conversely, others from the Western Wing of the Guildhall, such as the quiet Master Cale and the bookish apprentice Ren, would bolt from their posts the instant the meal was announced.
During her first turn of the sun as an apprentice, Elara had been part of Kaelen’s larger group, if only on the fringes. Yet, by the second turn, a subtle shift occurred. It began with Faelan’s flippant remark: “Elara dines with Torvin now, does she? Gods, you are slow to eat, Elara.” Without her input, or even her knowledge, she found herself quietly excluded.
The most stinging truth? Kaelen remained indifferent. Her presence or absence seemed to matter not a whit to him. A bitter taste coated Elara’s tongue. She glanced at Kaelen, her voice barely a whisper.
“Am I truly so slow in my eating?”
“Of course you are. You sit there, chewing like a cow at cud, while the rest of us finish our midday meal in five short breaths.”
“Aye,” Joris chimed in, “we are always late to sparring practice because of you.”
“...Ah.” Elara’s response was a hollow breath.
“We have a challenge bout with the novices from the next ward today, so dine with Torvin.”
Silence stretched, taut and suffocating. Her pride, a stubborn knot in her chest, forbade her from pleading to remain. Beyond that, the churning indigestion she had endured through her entire first turn of the sun, a constant companion from rushing her meals, now seemed a valid excuse. And honestly, the very thought of clinging to Kaelen like a fish’s dregs sickened even her. So, she did not beg, nor did she protest.
Just like that, she was out of their immediate circle. Her own will, her own desires, held no sway.
Feigning indifference, Elara met Torvin’s gaze. He was the only other apprentice remaining, lounging across his desk, the obsidian orb tracing lazy circles in the air. He looked at her, then spoke with a casual air.
“When do you plan to take your meal?”
“...”
“I usually depart in ten bell-rings or so.”
“Aye, that suits me as well.”
In truth, she had never dined at such an hour. But survival, an instinct as old as Eldoria itself, seized her. If she wished to remain within any apprentice group, even Torvin’s, she must adapt. The first time she ate alone with Torvin, she left half her meal untouched, citing a sudden lack of appetite. Torvin, a brow arched in amusement, remarked.
“What are you, eighteen cycles old and still particular about your provender?”
“What concern is that of yours?”
“Truly, you are like a child sometimes.”
“Even adults do not consume spiced fish cutlets with creamed sauces,” she retorted petulantly, her glare fixed upon him. His meddling irritated her beyond measure.
---
During her first turn as an apprentice, Kaelen and Elara were almost inseparable. Yet, by the second, those moments had dwindled significantly, all due to Torvin’s influence. Still, she possessed no right to complain. Torvin, by dint of his cunning and his family’s ancient lineage, outranked her in the intricate social game.
Torvin and Kaelen’s acquaintances often overlapped, largely consisting of the more unruly apprentices who consistently lagged at the bottom of the Guildhall’s aptitude rankings. These were the sort who would forge false dismissal writs or sneak out of lectures, exploiting the lax oversight of mentors too weary to confirm their whereabouts.
Kaelen, ever mindful of his parents’ watchful eyes, typically remained within his duties until the day’s end. As for Torvin, whose reputation was almost as infamous, Elara had once asked him why he bothered to abide by the Guild’s strictures. His response had resonated with her.
“Do you think me so pathetic?”
“Nay, but all your chosen companions are like that.”
“Companions? What manner of gibberish is that? They are not my companions. They are refuse.”
“What?”
“An apprentice’s duty is to attend his lessons and absorb knowledge, is it not?”
“...That is true.”
“Do not lump me with trash like them. It vexes me.”
“Aye, my apologies.”
“I was not soliciting an apology.”
His declaration, though entirely reasonable, struck Elara as absurd coming from Torvin. This was the same apprentice whose so-called friends abandoned the Guildhall at least once each week.
Regardless, Elara spent most of her second turn of the sun with Kaelen and Torvin. She considered this arrangement a sacred, inviolable space. It would have been perfect without Torvin, yet surprisingly, they found a strange sort of accord. She did not like him, but he was not so intolerable that she would storm off. He was merely... vexing.
But Lyra’s plight turned even those days into a waking nightmare.
---
Today felt subtly different from the usual grim pattern.
“Damn them! Joris and Faelan, those spineless dogs,” Kaelen cursed, clutching his head as the fourth study period drew to a close. His voice, guttural and frustrated, sliced through the air.
Hearing his outburst, Elara immediately turned, a flicker of anticipation stirring within her chest. “They abandoned you again?”
“Fucking curs.”
“That is unfortunate. Who will you dine with, then?” Her fingers, usually steady, trembled slightly as she gripped the back of her chair. A fragile hope, thin as spider silk, began to unfurl.
Kaelen let out a heavy sigh, his gaze settling upon Torvin, who sat beside him, still manipulating his obsidian orb. “Aye, I dine with you two today.”
“Do not. None extended an invitation,” Torvin replied bluntly, not even glancing up.
“Keep that mouth of yours running, and I shall see it sewn shut.”
“Gods, Kaelen, today truly stirs a desire to strike your face.”
“Try it, you dullard.”
“Brave words for one who would otherwise sup alone, eh?”
Elara could no longer restrain herself. She interjected, her voice tight with an urgency she rarely allowed to surface. “Come, let us all dine together. We cannot simply abandon Kaelen to eat alone.”
Her desperation must have been plainly evident. Kaelen’s lips stretched into a triumphant smirk. He shot a sly, knowing glance at Torvin. “You see? I possess true companions.”
Torvin merely scowled, sweeping Kaelen’s stylus case from the desk with a casual flick. It clattered to the floor, scattering quills. Whether Torvin harbored any affection for Elara mattered not a whit. What mattered was that Kaelen would now join them for their midday repast.
It had been an age since they had shared a meal, and Elara found herself so thrilled that she even forced down side dishes she ordinarily disdained, the bitter greens scraping against her tongue.
But Kaelen’s attention was not on his food. His eyes, sharp and restless, scoured the refectory like a predator seeking prey. Elara, too focused on his presence, failed to notice Torvin pilfering a spiced nutcake from her tray. Then, without warning, Kaelen’s chopsticks clattered to his platter, and his free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing by.
Looking up, Elara saw it was Lyra.
“Sit here,” Kaelen commanded, nodding towards the empty seat beside him. “You possess no one else to dine with, in any case.”
Lyra’s face blanched. Her eyes darted about, briefly landing on Elara, before she bit her lip and slowly, reluctantly, settled into the indicated seat. Elara felt a profound shock, a dumbfounded horror. Since when did Kaelen care whether Lyra had companions? And the reason Lyra had no companions was entirely Kaelen’s doing. Kaelen despised it when anyone so much as spoke to Lyra.
A bitter bile rose in Elara’s throat, acrid and raw.
Unconsciously, her spoon clanged against her platter, the sound jarringly loud in the sudden hush. Only Lyra reacted, flinching visibly, her gaze flickering to Elara with nervous apprehension. Kaelen, however, remained fixated on Lyra, oblivious to the noise.
Damn it. In that moment, the protective shell Elara had so meticulously constructed over the turns of the sun began to fracture. She tried to stem the tide, to reinforce the crumbling walls, but she could not. Perhaps she had reached a breaking point she had never acknowledged.
Clinging desperately to denial, she snapped at Lyra, her voice sharp.
“Lyra. Just depart.”
“H-huh?” Lyra’s eyes widened, shimmering with fear.
“Do not heed Kaelen. Just go. It is permissible.”
“Aye, Elara,” Kaelen growled, his voice dangerously low, a viper’s hiss. He had ignored the loud clamor of her spoon, but her defiance drew his full ire. His teeth ground together, and he glared at her with chilling intensity. That glare, far from weakening her resolve, ignited it. Elara fixed her gaze stubbornly on Lyra.
“I shall handle him. You are free to go.”
“Uh, o-okay.” Lyra stammered, her hands clutching the edges of the table.
“And Kaelen, cease this already.”
“Aye, I concur,” Torvin chimed in, his mouth full of food, his words barely discernible. His sudden interjection felt jarringly out of place. He chewed and swallowed with deliberate slowness, then glanced between Elara and Kaelen, a maddening smirk playing on his lips.
“What are you staring at? You are spoiling my repast.”
As always, Torvin’s unnecessary provocations grated on Elara’s nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter how she viewed him. Ignoring him, she turned back to Kaelen.
“Leave Lyra in peace.”
“Who in the blazes are you to dictate my actions?” Kaelen shot back, his face darkening.
“It is vexing for the rest of us to observe.”
Elara did not blink, meeting his stare with unwavering resolve. Kaelen slammed his fist upon the table. The sudden impact made Lyra, still perched awkwardly, flinch and squeeze her eyes shut. Torvin, on the other hand, chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender.
“Count me out of this.” He licked some water from his lips, then added, “Let us decide by majority. I am neutral, Elara desires her departure, and Kaelen insists she remains.”
Torvin was one of the few who called her “Elara” instead of her full name, and she found it irritating every single time. That irritation, a subtle tremor in her voice, escaped her now.
“Cease your meddling. Your vote holds no weight.”
“Why not? There is another person right there.” Torvin, utterly unfazed, smirked and pointed at Lyra, motioning toward her with a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Lyra not a person?”
“You are bereft of reason.”
“Why is she so quiet? Let her speak her mind.” As if Lyra could possibly utter a single word in this tense, charged air. Elara sighed at Torvin’s thoughtless antics, picked up her spoon, and idly stirred her rice. Then Kaelen tapped his finger upon the table, the sound a soft, ominous drumbeat.
“If you declare your departure, you are dead to me from this day forth.”
Tears began to well in Lyra’s large, brown eyes, glimmering as she looked at Elara, her gaze a silent plea for succor. Damn it. Elara pressed her lips into a thin line.
“It is well. I shall prevent him,” Elara said, attempting to reassure Lyra, her voice a strained whisper.
“Aye, Elara,” Kaelen growled, his voice tight with barely contained fury. Elara forced herself to meet his blazing gaze, feigning a calm she did not possess, but she felt an overwhelming urge to collapse. To suppress it, she looked up at the refectory’s vaulted ceiling for a fleeting moment, then lowered her head, replying with forced nonchalance.
“What?”
“You...”
Kaelen clenched his fist, his glare burning with an intensity that threatened to immolate her. Still, she had to endure it. Her instincts screamed that she could not abandon Lyra to Kaelen’s capricious whims.
But Kaelen’s focus, for a moment, shifted back to Lyra. Lyra stammered, her voice trembling, “I-I shall go.”
“...”
“Th-thank you, Elara.”
Lyra hastily rose, her footsteps unsteady, a blur of motion as she fled. As soon as she was gone, Kaelen turned abruptly, his face contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated rage, fixed entirely upon Elara.