Lysander Stone’s face, swollen from a night spent in clandestine pursuits, reminded Elias of a gorged river fish. Feigning annoyance, Elias tossed a chilled phial of invigorating cordial onto Lysander’s scuffed lectern. It was a ritual. On mornings Lysander’s vanity was thus afflicted, Elias presented the cold draught. Amusingly, it was solely to quell the puffed contours of Lysander’s countenance.
“Cease your dramatic posture and apply that to your distended features.”
“A token of your benevolence, Thorne.”
“Did your esteemed Patron not admonish your late return?”
“Scarcely, thanks to your timely intervention.”
Lysander shrugged, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. Elias merely tightened his own, a flicker of his true thoughts passing unseen. He turned to reclaim his own seat, but his gaze snagged on the expansive, aged parchment spread across the lectern beside Lysander.
Elias did not sit adjacent to Lysander. Riel Vancroft did. Lysander, a head taller than Elias, and Riel, half a head taller than Lysander, naturally claimed the positions of prominence. Elias often cursed his own stature, finding meagre comfort in the second-to-last seat, merely because Lysander’s broad back was directly before him. It was a fragile solace.
Burying the familiar prickle of jealousy deep within, Elias gestured shamelessly toward Riel.
“When did he arrive?”
“No notion. He was thus when I entered.”
“How does one who departed early last eve appear so disheveled?”
As Elias uttered the words, a rustling sound broke the chamber’s quiet. The parchment shifted, revealing Riel Vancroft’s half-lidded eyes. His narrow gaze swept over Elias and Lysander, then he opened his mouth wide, a languid yawn escaping.
“...I vowed to engage but a little longer before seeking slumber, and, well.”
They spoke of yawns being infectious. Lysander followed suit, stretching his mouth wide before scrunching his features into a smug grin.
“This wretch. Appears a wastrel, yet more devoted than Elias Thorne.”
“Your jests are as dull as your intellect, Stone.”
“As you say, my keen-witted friend.”
Whether Riel discerned Lysander’s mockery or not, he leaned back casually, letting out a hearty laugh. Elias watched him for a beat. Their eyes met. Riel’s gaze drifted to the tall, grimy window, then back to Elias. A strange tickle ran under Elias’s skin. He scratched his shoulder, redirecting his attention to Lysander.
These early moments in the lecture chamber held a deceptive pleasantness. Such trivial exchanges often set the cadence for the day. Soon, other students, lesser scions and eager acolytes, would drift over. They would gather, eyes upturned to Lysander, absorbing his embellished tales of daring or debauchery. The familiar rhythm would unfold: whispers, guffaws, and then, the entrance of the Guild Master, commencing the day’s arduous studies.
For those deemed the most favored, the most promising in their cohort, it was a surprisingly wholesome initiation to the morning.
Yet, they were merely nascent adults, caught in the twilight of youth. Stories of wild revelry, of illicit enchantments from the previous night, especially when Lysander was the architect, left a bitter residue in Elias’s mouth. Still, he played his part, feigning amusement.
Despite it all, Elias found these mornings tolerable. But all changed six weeks past. And the catalyst was entirely Alaric Finch.
“See, Alaric Finch approaches.”
“By the Cogwheel. Abominable.”
“Does that pale wretch truly deem it wise to present himself after such a drubbing?”
A student, a sycophant named Kael, openly derided Alaric, pointing with exaggerated disdain. At the tip of Kael’s finger, Alaric Finch shuffled awkwardly into the chamber. He clutched his worn satchel, his face hidden behind lank, dark hair. He moved toward a desk in the front row, placed his tattered bag upon it, and immediately slumped over. Watching his hunched form, Elias exhaled a sigh laden with irritation.
Alaric Finch was utterly pathetic. His voice, a thin reed. His frame, slight. A pitiful excuse for an acolyte. As the murmurs of the chamber swelled, Lysander glared daggers at Alaric’s back, muttering curses beneath his breath. Elias abhorred it. That sensitivity of Lysander’s—it grated upon his very being.
Snatching the discarded parchment that had previously covered Riel’s face, Lysander balled it in one hand. Then, with a light toss, he hurled it at Alaric’s head. *Thud*. With a soft sound, Alaric’s head slumped further onto his desk.
“By the Gears. Do not parade that grotesque visage before us at the morning’s onset.”
Alaric placed his arms upon the desk, burying his face in them, doing precisely as Lysander commanded. Yet, Lysander watched this with disdain, kicking his own desk with a sharp *clack*.
“Hear me! Will you not answer?”
When Lysander abruptly stood and bellowed, Alaric, still hunched, stammered in a trembling voice.
“Y-yes.”
“Lift your head, meet my gaze, and articulate it properly.”
Did Lysander even comprehend the absurdity of his own demands? The sheer senselessness of it all drew a bitter laugh from Elias.
Whether Lysander noticed or not, he rose and approached Alaric. With every step he took, the unpleasant feelings within Elias grew more vivid, more raw.
Lysander closed the distance between himself and Alaric. That alone made Elias feel the reins of his carefully suppressed emotions beginning to fray. This was not the same envy he felt when Lysander drew close to Riel. Instinctively, Elias knew. Deep down, he harbored something just as sinister as Lysander. That was why watching Lysander with Riel had become bearable over time, but his interactions with Alaric unsettled Elias more and more. His hands began to tremble. He clenched them tightly, hiding the tell-tale tremor.
Lysander kicked Alaric’s desk hard. The seasoned timber shook violently, threatening to topple, and Alaric jolted upright in alarm, his voice still unsteady.
“F-forgive me.”
Lysander stood there, silently looking down at Alaric’s face. Alaric’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, on the verge of breaking. Yet, in that moment, Elias felt like he was the one who might burst into tears.
Lysander did not make Alaric run pointless errands, but he always kept his eyes upon him. If Alaric departed for the privies during a recess, Lysander would still watch his retreating figure, even whilst conversing with them. Elias knew, because he never ceased watching Lysander.
To be candid, Elias’s first impression of Alaric Finch was unremarkable. His skin was not the clearest, but his youthful features gave him a countenance that was easy to observe. When he smiled, it seemed genuinely radiant, and even his neutral expression carried a certain brightness.
Before Lysander’s torment began, no one truly disliked Alaric. He seemed a youth reared in a warm, doting environment. While not overtly sociable, preferring solitary study, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor.
Most considered Alaric a decent sort. Since he never flaunted the affections bestowed upon him, he garnered even more praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be near—that was Alaric Finch.
But Elias had not particularly liked him from the outset. He did not hate him either—he simply did not care. To say Alaric was not even within his purview would be more accurate. Yet, whenever he conversed with his companions, Lysander, or Riel’s coterie, and Alaric’s name arose, Elias would find himself casually fabricating, saying, “Ah, Finch? He is adequate. Agreeable enough.”
Lysander, like Elias, had paid little heed to Alaric at first. Lysander was never one to concern himself with mundane Guild affairs. After Alaric transferred in May, he and Lysander did not exchange a single word until June. That was how things had originally been.
But one day, something shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane current of events. It happened immediately after the midday repast, and looking back, Elias had never regretted an action as profoundly as what transpired that day.
Alaric, as was his wont, had taken a secluded corner seat during the recess to immerse himself in a volume. He was the sort who found solace in the arcane pages of texts. Elias, conversely, possessed a habit of cultivating an overly cordial air toward individuals of good repute.
Thus, when he chanced upon Alaric, Elias struck up a discourse concerning the tome Alaric held. Elias was no avid reader himself—pretending to be learned was more his style.
“You possess a marked fondness for books, it seems?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, I suppose.”
At that time, Alaric and Elias were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made the approach easier.
“Have you concluded that particular work?”
“Well, I approach the final pages.”
“Then close it now. The culmination will disappoint you. It is one of those tomes where the ending sullies the entirety.”
“You have perused it before?”
“Indeed, some time past.”
To satisfy his intellectual vanity, Elias always sought out scholarly reviews and critiques of any texts he feigned familiarity with, ensuring he possessed an informed opinion for future discourse. Drawing upon those memories, he offered a critique—not a genuine one, merely enough to sound knowledgeable. Alaric smiled brightly, appearing genuinely pleased. It caught Elias unawares.
“You are the sole individual I have encountered who has read this volume besides myself.”
“Oh... truly?”
“Yes, but I shall still conclude it. Pondering why the ending unfolded as it did forms part of the enjoyment.”
“Well, certainly. Opinions diverge.”
“To hear you articulate that makes me anticipate it all the more.”
That smile still lingered, an uncomfortable memory. Was it some instinctive unease he felt even then?
After that day, Alaric Finch began to seek Elias out with frequency. Though Elias found it somewhat irksome, often pondering, *Why me?*, he did not outright reject him. Alaric, with his unblemished reputation, was not the worst person to cultivate an acquaintance with.
After all, ancient texts—save for prescribed Guild scrolls and rote manuals—were practically anathema to most youths their age. Even if one possessed the leisure, such tomes were little more than glorified cushions to them. For Alaric, Elias was likely the only one capable of discussing such esoteric matters.
That particular day was one of those routine encounters. Yet, it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days among them.
Riel Vancroft was to blame. To this very hour, Elias could not fathom why he acted as he did. Why he, a soul who never meddled in others’ affairs, chose to insert his presence where it did not belong. Why Riel, of all things, had left his scroll of ancient rune-scripts wide open for every passing gaze.
Elias, who detested having his own deciphering progress revealed, naturally assumed Riel would desire his concealed as well. So, he flipped the parchment over to hide it. That was when he saw it: Riel’s progress. Eighty-one percent complete.
Elias blinked in disbelief and checked again. It was undeniably eighty-one. Considering the labyrinthine complexity of these elder scripts, that would barely scrape into the fourth tier of mastery. But still, it was at the higher echelon of that tier.
It was the first time one of his preconceptions had been shattered. It was a minor shock to realize Riel was not as much of a lost cause as Elias had initially surmised. Naturally, that led him to contemplate Lysander’s own abysmal scores. Now, Lysander was the true dross. A scion who would mark every question with a facile guess and slumber through the remainder of the deciphering trials; Lysander had never once achieved a respectable result.
Perhaps that was why Elias felt such a commingling of emotions—like he had discovered something salvageable among the refuse. A youth he had once dismissed proved more capable than the one he admired. That strange realization must have unsettled him, for he did something he normally never would have contemplated.
It was nothing grand. He merely seized a nearby stylus and scribbled a short note at the top of Riel’s parchment.
*“Focus on the esoteric sigils. You’ll decode the Lesser Rune-scripts soon enough. Well done. —E. Thorne.*
*P.S. My apologies for intruding upon your work. I merely sought to shield it and beheld your progress.”*
The arrogance of evaluating someone’s progress and offering unsolicited counsel made Elias feel a pang of embarrassment, so he rambled to justify himself.
He could not articulate why he had even inscribed it in the first place. At the time, he must have been utterly beyond reason. Looking back, it was clear this was the inaugural misstep in what would become a skein of entanglements. Every mess began with a poorly fastened first button.