A labyrinth of polished oak floors, the grand painting studio lay hushed. Thirty easels stood like silent sentinels, each a potential stage for triumph or disgrace. Here, in this esteemed Royal Academy, lives hung by a thread, taut with ambition and the gnawing fear of failure. Every student, for barely a season, had lived under this perpetual strain. Survival was not merely about artistic skill; it was a delicate dance of alliances, a constant calibration of social standing. For Julian, this tension had become a daily rhythm since first setting foot in these hallowed, unforgiving halls. This gilded cage, he knew, concealed a ruthless pyramid. To falter was to descend. “Ah…” A dull ache throbbed in Julian’s arm, stiff from a restless night. He flexed his fingers, the tremor barely perceptible. His stomach, a knot of unease, pressed against his ribs. A shallow breath escaped him. Ahead, hunched backs formed a desolate landscape. Teal-painted walls framed the scene, punctuated by the peach-toned napes of his fellow students. At the central podium, Professor Atherton, our Anatomy instructor, sat absorbed in a folded broadsheet, its newsprint smelling faintly of ink and scandal. Students either toiled over the precise musculature of a cadaver drawing or, defeated, slumped in silent slumber. “Awaken, gentlemen, lest you wish to emulate the marble,” Professor Atherton intoned, his voice raspy as he rustled another page. It was already the fifth hour. Julian had been sketching the intricate vascular system of the forearm, but his hand stilled. He scratched his temple with a fingernail, setting his charcoal stick beside a half-gnawed crust of bread. His gaze drifted, snagging on two vacant spaces. Two untouched easels, stark against the studio’s muted light. As anticipated, neither Elias Vance nor Alistair Thorne had graced the Academy with their presence. They would likely not appear tomorrow either. Unless, of course, Elias’s mercurial temperament shifted, or some new, unimaginable discord erupted between them. Whatever that ‘something’ might be, Julian could only guess, his imagination a cruel canvas of possibilities. He lowered his eyes, fixing them on the intricate lines of the anatomical chart. His mind, however, strayed to a different set of memories. There had been a time when he believed he understood Elias Vance intimately. He had convinced himself he knew Elias better than anyone else in this entire Academy. He had clung to that conviction, even when comparing himself to Lysander Croft, who always seemed to stand closer to Elias than any other. In truth, that quiet, possessive pride had been his shield, helping him endure the sight of Lysander and Elias in easy conversation, their laughter echoing through the halls. Deep down, he’d savored the secret certainty of his superior insight into Elias’s true nature. Propping his chin on a trembling hand, Julian felt a wave of self-loathing wash over him. The very capacity for such thoughts sickened him. What would these gentlemen, these sons of dukes and barons, think if they knew the venomous machinations swirling beneath his quiet demeanor? The answer was chillingly clear. He would be cast out, utterly ruined, pushed to the very bottom of this glittering, brutal pyramid, occupying its widest, most contemptible base. The thought sent a shiver through him. A terrifying prospect, indeed. This insidious ambition, this wretched yearning, a unique affliction of a striving artist, had to remain hidden at all costs. He had to bury it so deep that not even the object of his desire, Elias, would ever sense its foul presence. Ultimately, he needed to conceal it so thoroughly that even he, Julian, might forget it ever existed. But Elias Vance had made no such effort. Everyone in the Academy, it seemed, knew of his desires. And of his downfall. Julian lifted his head, a furtive glance sweeping the studio. All remained hunched, absorbed in their work or their feigned sleep. He pressed his lips into a thin line, looking straight ahead. Lying forlornly between a row of benches, where students occasionally ate their midday meal, was a discarded palette knife, its handle scored with boot marks, its blade bent and smudged with dried, forgotten paint. Suddenly, as if someone might have noticed his prolonged scrutiny, Julian buried his head in his work, mimicking the postures of the others. Then, he turned his neck, subtly shifting his focus. His gaze fell upon the far row of drafting tables. There lay a figure, a face partially obscured by a casually draped arm, as though the owner had succumbed to an elegant collapse. The face, in its serene repose, looked delicate and sorrowful, almost like a death mask crafted in alabaster. “...” Julian found himself staring at Lysander Croft. His eyes drifted to the arm. Had the already imposing Lysander grown further? The uniform coat that had fit him perfectly at the start of the term now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one of those wrists, a heavy signet ring, its dark stone glinting, stood out vividly. It was a substantial, unmistakable symbol, an integral part of Lysander’s unconventional identity. Before hearing the whispers, Julian had assumed Lysander, with his uncommon bearing, lived in the grittier, industrial districts on the far side of the city, much like some of the Academy’s more eccentric patrons. Despite his formidable aura, Lysander did not exude the polished sheen of inherited wealth. His eyes, often shadowed by heavy lids, possessed an unsettling faded quality, giving him a perpetually haunted look. The way the thin sclera showed beneath his pupils added to his sharp, almost gaunt appearance. Lysander’s overall bearing was one of grim intimidation, though it lacked the refined elegance typically associated with old money. Instead, his face seemed marked by a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a kind of melancholic heaviness. Combined with his large frame—he was undoubtedly the tallest student in the Academy—it made him doubly imposing. Fortunately, unlike Elias Vance, Lysander’s sharp features included a classically handsome symmetry. Without that, Julian suspected, people might have actively avoided him entirely. Even so, Lysander’s face was unsettling, intimidating, and perpetually charged with a nervous energy. But Lysander’s personality, Julian knew, couldn’t have been more different from his physical presence. It wasn’t just that he seemed indifferent to everything; it was as if he actively erased events from his memory, whether intentionally or not. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that ironically added to his mystique. Most notably, Lysander didn’t seem to care about money. He never paid attention to how much others spent or how much they asked for. If the mood struck him, he’d casually toss a sovereign to a nearby stable boy without a second thought, as if the concept of currency held no meaning for him. Sometimes he’d lend money and simply forget about it. There were even stories of students returning borrowed sums only for Lysander to ask, puzzled, why they were handing him coin. Still, he didn’t lend money to just anyone. He’d indulge random requests when in a capricious mood but coldly refuse those who were truly desperate. Even with his closest companions, Lysander could be shockingly harsh. Julian once overheard a story about how young Davenport, upon seeing Lysander’s prized carriage—a vehicle Lysander rarely flaunted—excitedly tried to clamber onto the coachman’s perch without permission. Lysander had, without a word, pushed him off, sending the poor boy sprawling into the cobblestones like a startled street urchin. At the pinnacle of the Academy’s social hierarchy, individuals like Lysander Croft and Elias Vance shared one crucial trait: a complete lack of concern for others’ opinions. This profound indifference, in its own peculiar way, was precisely what allowed them to sit at the pyramid’s apex. Why did we, with our own striving hands, hand over the keys to our world to these uncontrollable, untamed predators? No matter how much Julian pondered it, he still couldn’t understand. And yet, Lysander Croft, Julian knew, presented himself as a devout man of God. He was the type of scion who, Julian had heard, slept with a leather-bound Bible beneath his pillow, yet still engaged in public brawls and indulged in gambling. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, was rumored to abstain from dalliances, and certainly didn’t steal or extort money from other students. Yet the doctrine he followed seemed flawed—anyone could tell from the very public rules he flouted. He’d heard that the established church permitted certain indulgences. They said, too, that the church viewed certain affections as a grave sin. Was that why Elias Vance’s actions, now whispered about so openly, had finally disgusted Lysander Croft so deeply? Julian licked his dry lips. He felt a strange, guilty sense of relief that he hadn’t been caught in Elias’s entanglement. If he had, he would have ended up like that discarded palette knife, lying trampled on the studio floor. And yet, even in that moment, he wondered—if Elias and he had remained close, as they were just a few months ago, would Elias have protected him? The thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories Julian desperately wanted to erase. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the meager lunch he’d eaten earlier were threatening to betray him. No, of course not. How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to think he would. To Elias, Julian was nothing. Just a convenient friend, a minor distraction, to pass the time with. He knew this now, because of the way Elias had looked at him when he had… when he had been so cruel. Elias’s eyes had said everything. Julian hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had been staring him in the face, undeniable and cold. Elias sins openly, brazenly. Julian, too, was a sinner—but he hid it. And so, Elias was being punished, his reputation in tatters, while Julian, for now, was spared. A faint, bitter laugh escaped his lips, so soft it was only audible to himself. “...So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.” Perhaps God, or at least the cruel social arbiter of this Academy, possessed a personality not unlike Lysander Croft’s. Julian’s gaze shifted to the table near Professor Atherton’s podium. It was unusual, but today, he felt a pang of pity for Alistair Thorne. Poor soul, caught in the clutches of that devil. He lacked the strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Thorne, despite his noble lineage. He should have fled the moment Julian had hinted at the danger, fool. Julian knew he wasn’t a good person. He was selfish and self-serving, and perhaps that was why he had endured his own subtle punishments. Sometimes, he even thought this: *If one must succumb to such scandalous affections, why not choose someone sly and discreet like me? At least then, life would be simpler, less prone to public ruin. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering so profoundly for it?* These days, Julian thought differently. *Yes. Of course no one could ever truly love someone like me.* He knew himself too well to believe otherwise. There was a time when he thought he could have it all—fame, recognition, perhaps even a place among the elite. Arrogant, conceited Julian Finch. Julian, who thought he understood the world at eighteen. Wicked, vile Julian. Pitiful Julian, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone. That day, he couldn’t bring himself to finish the intricate vascular drawing. He used his supposed illness as an excuse to lie slumped over his drafting table, thinking to himself: *Well, at least I’m not as utterly ruined as Elias Vance or Alistair Thorne.* Rumors about Elias and Alistair spread through the Academy like wildfire. Whether they were exaggerated, embellished, or grounded in ugly truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to find out either. Elias’s usual coterie of hangers-on had vanished from the Academy, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances to worry about anything else, inadvertently fueling the scandalous whispers even further. “Mr. Davies, forgive me, but who was closest to young Vance?” “Vance… No, sir. Lysander Croft.” Julian overheard this exchange as he passed by the main lecture hall, heading back to the studio before dismissal. Professor Atherton had asked, and one of his classmates, a nervous young man named Davies, had answered. Pretending he hadn’t heard, Julian walked back into the room. The Professor glanced nervously between Julian and the empty easels, drumming his fingers against the podium. Then, as if giving up on some unspoken thought, he announced: “Let us conclude for the day.” The moment dismissal was announced, Julian grabbed his satchel, his movements stiff. As he slung it over his shoulder, a firm hand clapped him on the back. He turned. Lysander Croft. “Finch. Let’s spend the afternoon together.” Julian looked into his unreadable face. He knew. He had always watched Elias and Lysander’s every move, so he knew that the person Lysander most frequently invited to join him was always Elias. After a brief, almost imperceptible pause, Julian offered an excuse. “I cannot. I have extra studies with Professor Thorne.” “And after that?” “Further studies. Go with one of your other companions.” “No.” Lysander’s tone was flat, unequivocal. “Why not?” “Associating too closely with a losing proposition merely drags one down.” “Ha.” Julian let out a short, incredulous laugh at the sheer audacity, the brutal honesty of it. Right. This was precisely why he found himself able to tolerate Lysander, despite the man’s brusque manner. Their twisted values seemed to align in strange, unsettling ways. “So, young Davenport, the Davies boy—they are ‘losing propositions’? Even the venerable Lord Ashworth?” “If you put it so plainly, then yes, largely so. But you, Finch, you are different.” The backhanded compliment left Julian feeling deeply uncomfortable. A prickle of shame, a flicker of perverse satisfaction. “What is that meant to mean? You are quite awful, Croft.” “No, I am not.” Lysander’s eyes held a strange, unwavering sincerity. “You are profoundly awful.” “Hmm. It is in the Holy Writ, Finch. ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness.’ I am merely being truthful, Julian.” *Honestly, Lysander is worse than I am,* Julian thought. *At least I don’t so blatantly treat my acquaintances like discarded refuse.* “That is why I am a good man.” Lysander finished, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “...Indeed.” Julian managed. “Since I am such a good man, may I accompany you to your lodgings?” Lysander Croft blinked twice, his gaze unwavering. Julian looked at his face for a moment, weighing the implications, the potential risks, the unforeseen advantages. Then, he nodded. “Certainly, why not.” As long as he didn’t interfere with Julian’s meticulously constructed walls, there was no logical reason to refuse. To secure one’s precarious place in the Academy’s shifting hierarchy, one often had to entertain the unpredictable, even the dangerous. There was no denying Lysander held a certain power, a dark, attractive force Julian could perhaps, carefully, leverage. He would not allow himself to be a pawn. He would be the artist, even in this.

A Gilded Cage, A Whispered Shame