A venomous antipathy from Lord Caelum now openly shadowed Elian. The incident within the academy's neglected archive chamber had etched itself onto their interactions, a sour, indelible mark. Caelum’s pretense of civility, once a thin veneer, had evaporated completely.
Junior Scholar Seren, a figure of increasing fragility, occupied the carved seat beside Lord Caelum with unnerving regularity. He was a silent fixture, perpetually within Caelum's orbit.
Elian, despite his efforts, found no solace. He might possess a talent for concealing his deeper sentiments, for allowing an unruffled mask to settle upon his features, but he lacked the capacity for true ignorance. Shame was a potent, unwelcome companion. He would not allow himself to be reduced to a quivering supplicant, nor did he possess the audacity to speak with Caelum as though their world had not fractured.
A despondent pall began to settle over his days, a suffocating boredom punctuated by faint, ignoble flares of vengeance. Always, he endured. The weight of his own inaction was a constant pressure.
That brute, Caelum, with his tempestuous humors, bristled with an adolescent envy and resentment directed squarely at Elian. The reason for this simmering animosity was starkly clear: Seren.
Regardless of Caelum's intent, Elian found his ire turning more fiercely against Seren. The younger scholar had never been Elian's to begin with, a fact he acknowledged with a sharp twist of bitterness. Yet, Seren had not merely drawn Caelum away; he had, in Caelum’s distorted perception, made Caelum despise Elian. Seren, in Elian's darkest moments, felt like a malicious catalyst.
Even if Seren's role was entirely unintentional, the distinction mattered little to Elian. Human sentiment often defied the cool logic of the intellect. Blaming Seren became a perverse coping mechanism, a convenient scapegoat upon which to heap the misery of his predicament.
Still, his choices remained rational. He understood, with chilling clarity, that Seren was merely a reed bending in the tempest of Caelum’s will. This comprehension tempered his outward demeanor. He never permitted a hint of hostility to mar his expressions directed at Seren.
Partially, this restraint stemmed from an acute embarrassment at revealing his own base jealousy. More profoundly, he knew that to lash out at Seren would only paint him as a fool. Caelum's disdain would deepen further, and the other scholars would swiftly brand Elian with a far more damning label than mere academic rivalry.
“This is insufferable,” Elian muttered into the stillness of his private study.
A raw hatred burned within him, a desire to shed his very skin. He hated this stasis more than he hated Caelum’s contempt. Then, a peculiar thought surfaced, unbidden: Lord Aeric. Aeric’s sardonic wit, his infuriating presence, had become a constant recently. If Aeric were to glimpse the tangled knot of resentment and shame within Elian, what cutting remark would escape his lips? Likely something dismissive, along the lines of:
‘Turns out Vance is just a petty, self-pitying provincial, then?’
Image of Aeric’s disdainful gaze made Elian’s fists clench. The mental picture was so viscerally repulsive it nearly made him gag. He would rather perish than allow anyone to witness such a weakness.
Acquaintanceships, especially within the volatile currents of the Imperial Court, proved distressingly fragile. As Caelum’s open animosity towards Elian solidified, Elian’s tenuous connections to Caelum’s inner circle frayed. Amusingly, Scholar Denar, a quieter, often overlooked figure from Caelum's former cohort, approached Elian yesterday with an almost apologetic air.
“Vance, Lord Aeric was seeking you earlier.”
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“Did not say. Merely sought your presence.”
Elian’s brow furrowed. It was always like this – exchanges of pointless trivia, devoid of genuine substance. The unspoken consensus among their peers now cast Elian as firmly aligned with Lord Aeric’s eccentric coterie, rather than Caelum’s more established clique.
Of course, the ties to Caelum’s group were not entirely severed. Occasionally, during a brief interlude between lectures, or by chance in the morning, polite, if strained, greetings were exchanged. Mostly, these came from Scholar Denar.
“Hail, Vance. A good morning to you.”
“And to you, Denar.”
Elian recalled one such awkward exchange when Denar had lowered his voice, muttering beneath the murmur of passing scholars.
‘Caelum’s demeanor has shifted recently. His… attention to Seren feels rather unsettling, does it not?’
Elian must have offered an unpleasant grimace, for Denar seemed to interpret it as agreement. Denar then spoke of Caelum’s increasingly possessive gestures—the insistent grip on Seren’s arm, the forced proximity, the refusal to allow Seren to stray.
Elian’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding imperceptibly. He released a tight breath, his voice carefully neutral.
“Such trivialities hold no interest for me, Denar.”
Denar immediately fell silent, his shoulders slumping.
Lately, Scholar Denar had been attempting to ingratiate himself with Lord Aeric and his companions. Denar seemed a soul quietly seeking an escape from Caelum’s overbearing shadow. Perhaps his overtures to Elian, the shared confidences, were merely a means to that end.
Today, as was becoming customary, only Lord Aeric and Elian remained in the common study chamber, the last vestiges of the morning’s lessons lingering in the air.
Lord Aeric leaned against a tall scroll cabinet, his gaze sweeping over Elian. Whether he ignored Elian’s presence or merely assessed him, Elian could not discern. Annoyed, Elian turned his head, choosing to ignore Aeric in turn.
“Vance.”
“What is it, Aeric?”
“Sugared apricots after our studies. The kind we had last time. Rather excellent.”
Lord Aeric disregarded Elian’s attempt at aloofness. As he spoke, Aeric lazily tossed a polished divination stone from hand to hand. The stone arced erratically through the chamber, threatening to strike an unsuspecting scroll, yet no one dared speak against him.
Aeric remained utterly unconcerned with the atmosphere, indifferent, almost selfish in his casual disregard. Elian watched the stone’s trajectory with a frown, finally breaking his own silence. His irritation at Aeric’s sheer brazenness sharpened his tone.
“You mean the ones you consumed entirely by yourself? You acquired them for your own pleasure, did you not?”
“Not entirely. I merely prefer the hue of apricot.”
“So my preferences were of no consequence?”
“How was I to discern your desires? You offered no counsel.”
The divination stone, by then, had rolled beneath a heavy oak table. Aeric extended a hand, beckoning. A younger scholar, near the table, hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the stone and placed it in Aeric’s palm. Aeric idly spun the stone, then called after the retreating scholar,
“My thanks, witless.”
A truly insufferable personality.
‘Witless this, provincial that.’ Every utterance from Aeric's lips grated upon Elian’s nerves.
Honestly, it defied all reason that someone as persistently irritating as Lord Aeric found himself in Elian’s company, rather than Lord Caelum’s. Aeric now routinely dined with Elian, studied beside him, and attended classes with him. Caelum might be otherwise occupied, but Aeric could easily send a missive or arrange an audience if he wished.
The thought bloomed abruptly in Elian’s mind, and he voiced it without preamble.
“Why do you not frequent Lord Caelum’s company these days?”
Lord Aeric, in the midst of tossing and catching the divination stone against the wall, froze. Then he turned to Elian, a puzzled expression creasing his features.
“You quarreled with him,” Aeric stated simply.
“I?”
“Indeed. You and Caelum.”
“I am aware. I was the one involved in the disagreement. How does that concern you?”
“You utter the strangest things, Vance. It is because you are my companion.”
Lord Aeric’s gaze swept over Elian, an oddly blatant scrutiny. Feeling a prickle of unease, Elian avoided his eyes, retorting,
“You were also companions with Lord Caelum, however.”
“Remarkable. You are truly amusing. What, are you implying you are not my companion?”
Aeric’s tone had shifted, now laced with incredulity, as he pointed a finger at Elian.
“No, I am your companion. But you also numbered Caelum among your companions. Why, then, do you align yourself with me?”
“Well, I have known you longer.”
“What nonsense is this? Our acquaintance began because of Caelum, did it not?”
“Observe yourself, Vance. You are truly a disingenuous fellow. We were acquainted, quite closely, in our first year!”
“When was this?”
“Seriously, you are a brute. Unbelievable. Back in the refectory, we exchanged glances all the time!”
“Ah… back then.”
“So, what, was I the sole individual who perceived a bond of companionship? You trickster. That is why, the moment we shared a lecture hall, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge such a truth? Unconscionable. I am quite disappointed.”
“Oh.”
“Unbelievable. Merely… unbelievable. How could you inflict such an slight upon me?”
“Very well, I apologize. My apologies, then?”
Elian mumbled his concession, a faint memory stirring of those awkward yet strangely frequent encounters from their initial year at the academy. Aeric’s insistent stares, always unsettling, now filtered through a new lens.
So that, for Aeric, constituted a ‘bond of companionship.’ Elian felt strangely swindled. How could anyone interpret those wary, almost hostile glances as friendly overtures? Plainly, they were not. Wait, did that mean the first to propose shared meals was not Caelum, but… Aeric?
The realization landed upon him with the force of a plummeting ledger, leaving him momentarily stunned. It was both disquieting and oddly revelatory. Yet, unwilling to become further entangled in Aeric’s labyrinthine logic, he feigned understanding, offering a clipped nod.
“Alright, alright. I comprehend. My apologies.”
“I was genuinely quite vexed moments ago.”
Lord Aeric briefly fixed Elian with a piercing glare. Sometimes, Elian found Aeric’s internal machinations utterly inscrutable.
“And besides, Caelum’s current deportment is truly peculiar.”
Elian remained silent, simply observing Aeric.
“That fellow is utterly unhinged at present. He has always possessed a certain eccentricity, but this? This has surpassed all bounds.”
Aeric grasped the divination stone with four fingers, idly spinning it about his temple with an index finger. The sight brought to mind Scholar Denar and the other academy pupils who had awkwardly attempted to converse with Elian regarding Caelum’s escalating behavior.
From that alone, Elian gleaned a single, undeniable truth: Lord Caelum’s standing, his carefully cultivated reputation, was in precipitous decline.
“Tainted.”
The word – the most feared and damning stigma within the rarefied atmosphere of the Imperial Court – sent a chill through Elian. His body trembled almost imperceptibly at the thought. Simultaneously, a wave of profound relief washed over him that his own veiled inclinations remained undiscovered. Did that relief imply a self-preservation that outweighed any loyalty to Caelum?
Uneasy, Elian met Aeric’s gaze, feeling akin to a blasphemous priest guarding a forbidden secret before the Imperial Divines.
“Truly, myself,” he murmured, the words barely audible.
Then he released a dry laugh, a strange concoction of fear and derision.
It was almost laughable that, to the observing eyes of the academy, Elian was now Lord Aeric’s closest confidant. In truth, Elian was no different from any perceived pariah – a transgressor branded with an unholy stigma, one he fiercely concealed. Only months prior, he had been Lord Caelum’s closest associate. Yet, here he now stood, hiding within a sordid snare from which he had barely managed to escape.
He had merely avoided exposure. That was all.
---
Dawn had barely broken. A missive from an unmarked courier arrived at his modest estate with unexpected haste. A summons at the fourth hour of the morning. Half-asleep, Elian for a fleeting moment allowed himself to believe that the recent tumult was but a dream. Though he had steadfastly avoided seeking out Lord Caelum, a foolish leap of hope made his heart quicken, imagining the message might somehow be from him.
He rubbed his eyes with frantic haste, checking again the sealed note’s origin. His feelings warred within him. A part of him wished it were merely one of those unsolicited invitations to dubious clandestine gatherings. But as his gaze scanned the terse lines of the message, he knew with certainty it was not from Caelum.
‘Elian-ah, forgive this intrusion at such an unseemly hour. Might you step beyond your gates for a moment? I beg your indulgence. Truly, my apologies.’
‘Just once. Just this one time.’
There existed no conceivable world in which Lord Caelum would ever humble himself to offer Elian an apology. Among his peers, only two individuals ever dared to address him with the familiar ‘Elian-ah,’ and of those two, only one was quite so pitiable. How had Junior Scholar Seren even discovered his familial residence? The moment Elian recognized the hand, his features twisted into an involuntary scowl. He wished nothing more than to avoid Seren – to never again witness his increasingly haunted countenance. Seren was perpetually a discordant note.
But despite his fervent wishes, Elian swung his legs from the silken covers, buttoned his tunic, and rose. He walked to his chamber door but paused, resting his forehead against the cool, polished frame, releasing a deep, weary sigh.
“Damn this predicament.”
An overwhelming constriction seized his gut, a tangled knot of sensation. That was the sole descriptor that came to mind. He clutched at his chest. He had always prided himself on his academic prowess, on his vast lexicon culled from countless ancient scrolls, yet none of the words he knew could fully articulate this intricate, unyielding mess of emotions.
It was simply… complicated.
The bitterness he held for Seren, the vivid memory of the younger scholar’s bruised and discolored face that fateful day, and the desperate energy he had expended creating distance between them all swirled into a disorienting vortex. Biting his lip, Elian fiddled with the ornate doorknob, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive, if reluctant, twist.
Beyond his door, the chill of dawn clung to the air within the private courtyards, a harbinger of the coming cooler months. To avoid the dew-laden flagstones, Elian stepped carefully onto the cool marble pathway leading from his modest dwelling. The early morning crispness made him pull his tunic tighter around him. His soft-soled slippers carried him steadily towards the wrought-iron gates.
He paused there for a moment, clicked his tongue lightly in exasperation, and gripped the cold metal handle. The faint creaking of the hinges made him flinch, and he opened the gate even more slowly, with deliberate caution.
Beyond the gates, illuminated by the solitary lamplight upon the cobbled avenue, stood Junior Scholar Seren in his Academy robes. His head was bowed low, and he idly traced invisible patterns on the ground with the tip of his polished leather shoe.
“...Junior Scholar Seren.”
At Elian’s voice, Seren’s head snapped up with the swiftness of a startled gazelle.
“Elian, Elian-ah!”