A chill had settled in the marrow of my bones since the incident within the Guild Librarium archives. Lysander Vance, once a familiar shadow, now cast a glare laced with undisguised venom. His feigned civility, once a thin veneer for his Guild elders, had crumbled to dust, exposing the raw, childish resentment beneath. Now, Alaric occupied the seat beside Lysander, a new companion where my presence had once been. A strange, bitter alchemy had taken hold. My nature, though outwardly meek, refused to wholly play the part of the oblivious fool. Shame pricked at me, a constant needle. I would not stoop to the level of a pathetic weakling, though the urge to speak to Lysander as if nothing had changed was a courage I simply did not possess. The days spiraled into a melancholic haze, woven with threads of boredom and an occasional, petty spark of vengeance. Yet, I endured. Always, I endured. Lysander, a creature of uncontrolled passions, seethed with an envy and resentment I recognized as his own childish vice. The cause, stark and clear, stood beside him: Alaric. Regardless of intent, a cold, calculated hatred for Alaric bloomed in my breast. He was never mine to possess, yet his presence had not only stolen Lysander’s easy camaraderie but twisted it into open animosity directed at me. A vicious cur, I decided, regardless of his conscious will. Human sentiment often defies logic. My feelings, a tangled knot of spite and humiliation, found an easy scapegoat in Alaric, a means to rationalize this wretched state. Yet, my mind, ever the calculating engine, understood Alaric was but a pawn, swept along by Lysander’s tempestuous whims. Therefore, no outward hostility escaped my control. No sharp word, no disdainful glance. Part of it was a profound embarrassment at the raw, ugly jealousy festering within. Part of it, too, was the cold certainty that any outburst toward Alaric would only render me a greater fool. Lysander would despise me further, and the other scions would brand me with the gravest of stigmas. “This… this is a damnation.” A burning hatred consumed me. Worse than Lysander’s scorn was this internal rot. The thought of being discovered, exposed. The whispering whispers. My fists clenched. Corvus drifted into my thoughts, unbidden. Why him? Perhaps because he was the most frequent, if irritating, presence lately. What would he say if he knew the depths of my shadowed mind? Something cruel, no doubt. ‘So, Thorne’s just another one touched by the Whispering Arts, eh?’ The image of Corvus’s cold, knowing gaze, steeped in disdain, made my gorge rise. I would sooner cease to exist than have that truth unearthed. Friendships among the Guilds were brittle things, often dictated by proximity to power. As Lysander and I drifted apart, his coterie naturally distanced themselves. Curiously, Silas, often an isolated figure within Corvus’s loose collection of hangers-on, had sought me out yesterday, his words a thin, meandering stream. “Elias, Corvus was seeking you earlier.” “Oh? For what purpose?” “He simply… was.” Pointless exchanges, always. The others, I noted, now perceived me as being tethered to Corvus’s irregular orbit rather than Lysander’s inner circle. Not that all ties with Lysander’s group were severed entirely. Polite greetings exchanged in the arcane studies hall, or during the morning chime-chants, were common enough. Though mostly, this was limited to Silas. “Thorne! A good morn to you.” “...A good morn, Silas.” I recalled one such awkward exchange when Silas had lowered his voice, a conspiratorial murmur. ‘Lysander’s demeanor has shifted. The way he clings to Alaric… it verges on the unsettling.’ My face, I must confess, betrayed an unpleasant cast, which Silas seemed to interpret as agreement. He rambled on about Lysander’s possessiveness, his tight grip on Alaric’s arm, his unwillingness to release him. I gritted my teeth, my fists clenching at my sides before I responded, my voice sharper than I intended. ‘I have no interest in such unsavory observations.’ He fell silent instantly. Silas, I’d observed, had been making quiet overtures to Corvus and his companions. He seemed to be seeking an exit from Lysander’s increasingly erratic shadow. Perhaps his shared observations were a clumsy attempt to forge a new connection. Today, as was becoming customary, only Corvus and I remained in the high-arched classroom, apart from the lingering stragglers. Corvus leaned against the cold stone of the rear wall, his gaze, unreadable, fixed upon me. Whether he ignored me or merely assessed, I could not tell. Annoyed, I turned my head, reciprocating his indifference. “Thorne.” “What now?” “After the bells, let us procure those sugared crystalline shards. The verdant ones we consumed last cycle were rather palatable.” Corvus ignored my silent snub. As he spoke, he idly tossed a rubber sphere across the classroom. It bounced erratically, threatening to strike unwary scholars, yet none dared voice a complaint. He cared not for the prevailing mood. He was indifferent, selfish in his absolute self-possession. My frown deepened as I watched the sphere carom, finally breaking my self-imposed silence. My irritation at his brazen casualness sharpened my tone. “The ones you devoured entirely yourself, you mean? You acquired them for your own consumption, did you not?” “Not entirely. I merely favored the hue of green.” “So my own preference held no weight?” “How was I to discern your desires? You offered no pronouncement.” The sphere rolled to a halt near a scholar by the window. Corvus extended a languid hand, a silent command. The scholar hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the sphere, placing it carefully in Corvus’s palm. Corvus, shaking it lightly, dismissed the retreating scholar with a curt nod. “My gratitude, unlettered cur.” An insufferable disposition. ‘Unlettered cur this, witless apprentice that.’ Every utterance grated on my nerves. It defied all reason that Corvus, a creature of such blatant obnoxiousness, chose my company over Lysander’s. He broke bread with me, sat beside me in lectures, endured the rote lessons. Lysander’s presence was often elsewhere, yet a simple thought-link or brief meeting could bridge the distance between them. The thought materialized, unbidden, and I voiced it without much reflection. “Why do you not seek Lysander Vance’s company of late?” Corvus, mid-throw of the rubber sphere against the stone wall, froze. He turned, his expression a mask of puzzlement. “You two had a falling out,” he stated simply. “I?” “Indeed. You and Lysander Vance.” “I am aware. The rupture was mine to endure. How does this concern you?” “You utter the most peculiar sentiments. It concerns me because you are my companion.” Corvus’s gaze swept over me, overtly assessing. Unease prickled my skin; I averted my eyes. “Yet you were also Lysander Vance’s companion, were you not?” “Remarkable. Are you suggesting I consider you no companion of mine?” His tone was incredulous, a finger pointing directly at me. “No, I consider you a companion. But you were also Lysander’s. So why do you align with me?” “Because my acquaintance with you precedes his.” “What nonsense do you speak? Our companionship was forged through Lysander, was it not?” “Hold. What are you even saying? We were close during our first year of schooling!” “When was this?” “Truly, you are an utter scoundrel. Unbelievable. In the refectory, our gazes met with consistent regularity!” “Ah… those instances.” “So, I was the only one who perceived a nascent companionship? You, deceiver. That is why, upon finding ourselves in the same ward-class, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge this? Unconscionable. My disappointment is immense.” “Oh.” “Unfathomable. Truly… unfathomable. How could you inflict such a slight upon me?” “Forgive me. I offer my deepest apologies, is that sufficient?” I mumbled a hasty apology, retrieving those awkward, yet undeniably frequent, first-year encounters from the dusty corners of my memory. So *that* fell within his definition of companionship. I felt… robbed. Those stares had been filled with cold, intellectual appraisal, not nascent friendship. Wait. Had the first suggestion to share a meal not come from Lysander, but from Corvus? The realization struck me with the force of a Guild-hammer, leaving me momentarily breathless. It was unsettling, profoundly so. Still, I wished no further entanglement, so I feigned comprehension, nodding slowly. “Right, right. I grasp it. I am sorry.” “I was profoundly vexed, moments past.” Corvus’s glare was brief, intense. Sometimes, the workings of his mind remained utterly opaque to me. “And moreover, Lysander Vance acts with true peculiarity.” “...” “That one is quite unhinged, truly. He always possessed a certain eccentricity, but this? This transcends… yes.” He caught the rubber sphere with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with an index digit. The sight evoked memories of Silas and other scions who had attempted to speak of Lysander’s strange turn. From their scattered anxieties, one truth emerged: Lysander Vance’s reputation was in freefall. “Touched by the Whispering Arts.” The phrase, the most feared and damning stigma within the rigid hierarchy of Aethelburg’s younger scions, sent a glacial shard through me. My body trembled, barely perceptible. Yet, a vile wave of relief washed over me: no one knew *my* true inclinations, the secrets I held. Did that relief signify I valued my own skin above Lysander’s ruin? Unease gnawed. I met Corvus’s gaze, feeling akin to a blasphemous priest concealing a dark secret before the Divine Architect. “Truly, me,” I muttered, the words tasting like ash. Then, a laugh escaped me—a strange, brittle sound, a concoction of fear and derision. It was almost a cruel jest that, to others, I was Corvus’s closest companion. In truth, I was no different than the man I feared to be perceived as—a criminal branded with an unholy stigma. Only months prior, I was Lysander’s confidant. Yet here I was, clinging to the grimy walls of a trap from which I had only narrowly escaped. I had merely avoided capture. That was all. --- Dawn broke, or rather, the perpetual twilight of Aethelburg merely lightened from deepest indigo to bruised violet. A message, from an unknown scryer-code, arrived unexpectedly. A call at four bells past midnight. Half-asleep, I pondered if this whole wretched affair was but a fever-dream. Despite my deliberate avoidance of Lysander, my heart seized, a traitorous leap, at the possibility the message might be from him. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, hurrying to discern the sender. My emotions were a discordant chime. Part of me hoped for a mundane Guild missive or a spam-glyph offering shady credit. But the content, once deciphered, instantly dispelled any thought of Lysander. “Thorne, my apologies for this untimely contact. Could you step beyond your threshold for a moment? I am sorry. Truly, I am sorry.” “Just this once. Only this once.” Lysander Vance would never offer me an apology. Never. Among my peers, only two uttered my given name, ‘Elias.’ And of those two, only one possessed such a pitiful, desperate cadence. How did Alaric even know the precise coordinates of my family’s dwelling? A scowl twisted my face the moment I finished reading. I did not wish to see him—never wished to see him. His presence was always an imposition. Yet, despite my internal clamor, I rose from my bed, buttoned my night-tunic, and moved. I reached the carved oaken door, pausing, resting my forehead against the cool, rough wood, a deep sigh escaping me. “...Damn it all.” An overwhelming knot tightened in my stomach. No other phrase sufficed. I clutched my chest. I, who prided myself on superior grades, on a vast lexicon gleaned from countless ancient texts, found myself utterly devoid of words to describe this intricate, tangled mess of emotions. It was simply… complicated. The hatred for Alaric, the memory of his bruised countenance from that fateful day, the desperate weeks I’d spent erecting a wall between myself and Lysander’s circle—all swirled together, an acrid vortex. I bit my lip, my fingers fiddling with the cold brass doorknob, then closed my eyes and turned it with a decisive twist. In the small, enclosed garden, the cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding the arrival of the season of turning leaves. To avoid the damp moss, I stepped carefully onto the cool, polished marble flagstones between the trimmed hedgerows. The dawn’s chill made me draw my tunic tighter. My slipper-clad feet, toes peeking out, carried me toward the wrought-iron gate. I paused there, a soft click of my tongue, and gripped the handle. The hinges groaned, a sound that made me flinch. I opened the gate with agonizing slowness. Beyond, illuminated by the guttering gaslight on the cobbled street, stood Alaric in his simple scholar’s tunic. His head hung low, tracing invisible patterns on the asphalt with the scuffed toe of his boot. “...Alaric.” At my voice, Alaric’s head snapped up with startling speed. “Thorne! Elias!” “What is t

The Weight of Twilight