A stillness, cold and deep, settled within Elias Thorne. It was a practiced art, honed over years in the Guild Academy's austere halls, each whispered slight, each dismissive glance, a hammer blow upon an already hardening shell. Vulnerability, that tender, exposed flesh, was a luxury he could not afford. His parents, rigid as the iron gates of their ancestral estate, had sculpted him into a vessel of composure, every reaction measured, every tremor suppressed.
Such meticulous regulation often led others to deem him insipid, devoid of fire. They mistook his practiced calm for apathy, his internal tempest for a placid pool. Fury, indeed, coiled within him, a viper in the dark, but it rarely struck outward. Instead, it contributed to the growing armature around his spirit, making him, by all outward appearances, impervious. Nothing, it seemed, could truly pierce that hardened surface, not even the casual cruelties of Lysander Stone.
This very trait, this gilded cage of self-control, had secured Elias his precarious perch in Lysander’s orbit. A well-placed student, neither remarkable nor troublesome, he held a respectable, if unglamorous, position within the Guild’s social hierarchy. He clung to it, this fragile construct, born of painstaking effort and silent endurance.
“Thorne. My greetings are met with such eloquence.”
“My apologies, Lysander. My thoughts were elsewhere.”
“Your thoughts are usually in a crypt somewhere, aren’t they? Dulling.”
Lysander’s laugh, a sharp, braying sound, rippled through the shadowed lecture chamber. He found Cassian Blackwood’s jibes amusing, even when they struck close to the bone. Cassian, slumped in his seat like a discarded marionette, merely tossed a small, leaden sphere from hand to hand.
“Blackwood, have you no interesting company? Your circle seems quite… limited.”
“Depends on what you find interesting, Lysander. I find predictable company tedious.”
“Predictable, you say? Not like that one, I suppose.” Lysander’s gaze, heavy and predatory, drifted across the room, past the rows of students scribbling at their scrolls, to land squarely on Alaric Finch. The timid boy, hunched over his work, seemed to shrink further under the unspoken weight.
Lysander Stone, heir to a less reputable but equally potent Guild, was a creature of impulse and crude appetites. His casual brutalities, unbound by restraint, had only grown more flagrant with the passing weeks. From the first frost of winter to the languid days of this late summer, Alaric Finch had withered under Lysander’s relentless attention.
Alaric was a ghost in the Guild halls now, isolated, a charnel house of broken spirit. Yet, even this complete ostracization failed to sate Lysander’s hunger.
Lysander’s coterie, Kael, Bren, and Torvin, typically loitered after the bell, awaiting their master’s whim. Other students, those whose families bore no allegiance to Lysander’s minor Guild, bolted for the refectory the moment the chime signaled release.
Long ago, in his first year, Elias had moved within the outer fringes of Lysander’s immediate circle. But the second year had seen that tenuous connection fray. It began with Bren’s careless remark, a dismissive flick of the wrist. “Thorne eats with Blackwood now, doesn’t he? Always dawdling.” Without a word from Elias, he found himself excised.
Most galling was Lysander’s indifference. His presence or absence mattered not at all. Elias had swallowed the bitter pill of pride, refusing to plead. Besides, the chronic indigestion that had plagued him in his first year, a result of gobbling meals to keep pace with Lysander’s boisterous cronies, had been a constant reminder of the physical toll. The thought of clinging to Lysander like a barnacle, clinging to a vessel he secretly despised, was more repulsive than any social slight.
So he had not protested. He had not begged.
He met Cassian’s eyes across the near-empty lecture chamber. Cassian, still idly bouncing his leaden ball, simply raised a brow. “When do you eat?”
“Soon,” Elias managed, his voice a low rasp.
“I usually go in about ten bell-rings.”
“That suits me,” Elias replied, though he had never once adhered to such a schedule. Survival, he knew, demanded adaptation. The first time he’d shared a meal with Cassian alone, he’d left half his trencher untouched, feigning a lack of appetite. Cassian had merely scoffed.
“Eighteen years old and still picking at your rations? What are you, a child?”
“My dietary preferences are hardly your concern, Blackwood.”
“Honestly, you’re like a fledgling.”
“Adults, I assure you, do not pair salt-cured fish with sweetened berry paste.” Elias glared, a flicker of irritation, rare and sharp, escaping his carefully constructed facade. What did Cassian care?
In his first year, Elias and Lysander had been near-constant companions. By the second, those moments had dwindled to near nothingness, all thanks to Cassian. Yet, Elias held no right to complain. Blackwood, though coarse, occupied a stratum just above him, his lineage rooted in the lesser but ancient families that held sway in Aethelburg’s shadowed alleyways.
Cassian’s social orbit, like Lysander’s, gravitated towards the unruly and unscholarly, students content to forge leave passes or disappear into the city’s labyrinthine byways. Teachers, too weary or too indifferent to verify their whereabouts, simply let them fade.
Lysander, ever mindful of his parents’ scrutiny, generally stayed until the final bell. Cassian, whose reputation was equally tarnished, often lingered. Elias once asked him why. His response, blunt as a blunted axe, had stayed with him.
“Do you take me for a fool?”
“Your companions suggest otherwise.”
“Companions? They are dregs. Not friends.”
“Dregs?”
“A student’s duty is the acquisition of knowledge. Yes?”
“Indeed.”
“Then do not lump me with that refuse. It chafes.”
“My apologies.”
“Apologies are for fools.”
The pronouncement, reasonable enough in isolation, was utterly absurd coming from Cassian Blackwood, whose associates skipped lessons with the regularity of the city’s grinding clockwork.
Nevertheless, Elias had spent most of his second year in their uneasy company. He had come to regard their shared table as a sort of sacred, if irritating, space, one into which no other dared intrude. It would have been perfect without Cassian, but, to Elias’s surprise, their uneasy truce had proven more tolerable than expected. He did not like Cassian, but neither did he find him so insufferable as to flee. He was merely… vexing.
But Alaric Finch, through no fault of his own, threatened to turn even this fragile peace into a nightmare.
Today, a subtle shift disturbed the usual rhythm. “Damn Kael and Bren,” Lysander growled, clutching his head as the fourth period’s chime reverberated through the vast chamber. “The bastards.”
Elias turned, a faint tremor of anticipation stirring in his chest. “They abandoned you?”
“Fools.”
“That is unfortunate. With whom will you break bread?” A sliver of hope, sharp and illicit, pierced Elias’s composure. His fingers tightened on the rough wood of his desk, the ancient carvings digging into his skin. Lysander sighed, a theatrical exhalation, and glanced at Cassian.
“I shall join you two today.”
“Do not. No invitation was extended,” Cassian countered, without lifting his head.
“Continue with that insolence, Blackwood, and I shall shut that mouth for you.”
“By the Guild’s bones, Lysander, today I truly yearn to put my fist through your face.”
“Attempt it, you fool.”
“Brave words for a wretch who otherwise eats alone.”
Elias could not contain himself. “Come, let us all eat together. We cannot leave Lysander to dine in solitude.” His desperation must have been palpable. Lysander smirked, a cruel triumph gleaming in his eyes, and cast a sidelong glance at Cassian.
“See? I possess loyal companions.”
Cassian’s only reply was to sweep Lysander’s ink pot from the desk, sending it clattering to the flagstones. Whether Cassian liked Elias or not was inconsequential. Lysander would join them for the midday meal.
It had been so long since they’d shared a table. Elias, so thrilled by this unexpected reprieve, even forced himself to consume a portion of spiced kale, a dish he abhorred. His focus, however, remained solely on Lysander, a hawk watching its prey. He failed to notice Cassian deftly pilfering salted wafers from his own trencher. Then, without warning, Lysander’s utensils clattered against his plate, and his free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing by.
Elias looked up. It was Alaric Finch.
“Sit here,” Lysander commanded, indicating the empty seat beside him. “You have no other company, after all.”
Alaric’s face flushed scarlet. His eyes darted about, meeting Elias’s for a fleeting, desperate moment, before he bit his lip and slowly, reluctantly, sank into the offered chair. Elias was stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Lysander care for Alaric’s social plight? It was Lysander, after all, who had engineered Alaric’s isolation. Lysander detested anyone who approached Alaric.
A bitter taste, like verdigris on his tongue, rose in Elias’s throat. Unconsciously, he slammed his spoon onto his own metal trencher, the sound echoing harshly in the vaulted refectory. Only Alaric reacted, flinching, his gaze nervously flicking towards Elias. Lysander, however, remained fixated on Alaric.
Damn it. At that moment, the formidable shell Elias had so painstakingly constructed began to fissure. He tried to halt the burgeoning cracks, but found himself powerless. Perhaps he had reached a breaking point, one he had never acknowledged.
Clinging desperately to denial, Elias snapped at Alaric. “Alaric. Leave now.”
“H-huh?” Alaric whispered, his eyes wide.
“Do not heed Lysander. Go. It will be well.”
“Thorne,” Lysander rumbled, his voice perilously low. Lysander, who had ignored the jarring clang of Elias’s spoon, now turned, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing. That furious glare only hardened Elias’s resolve. He fixed his gaze on Alaric.
“I shall handle this. You may go.”
“U-uh, v-very well.”
“And Lysander, cease this charade.”
“Aye, I concur,” Cassian interjected, his words muffled by a mouthful of roasted fowl. His sudden interruption felt utterly misplaced. He chewed and swallowed, slowly, deliberately, before glancing between Elias and Lysander, a faint, irritating smirk playing on his lips. “What are you gaping at? You quite ruin my digestion.”
Cassian’s pointless provocations, as ever, grated upon Elias’s nerves. The man was insufferable. Elias ignored him, turning back to Lysander. “Leave Alaric alone.”
“Who are you, Thorne, to issue commands?” Lysander shot back. His fist slammed onto the rough-hewn table. The sudden impact made Alaric, perched awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Cassian merely chuckled, raising a hand in mock surrender.
“Count me out of this.” He licked a drop of water from his lips, then added, “Let us decide by consensus. I am neutral. Thorn wishes him gone, Lysander desires him to stay.”
Cassian was one of the few who called Elias “Thorn,” and Elias found it vexing every single time. That irritation, sharp as a sliver of glass, permeated his tone now. “Cease your meddling, Blackwood. Your vote bears no weight.”
“Why not? There is another soul present.” Cassian, unfazed, smirked and pointed at Alaric, a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Alaric not a person?”
“You are unhinged.”
“Why his silence? Let him speak his will.” As if Alaric could utter a single word in this suffocating atmosphere. Elias sighed at Cassian’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his barley-rice. Lysander tapped a finger on the table, a slow, deliberate rhythm.
“If you depart, Alaric, consider yourself marked. Your life will become a living purgatory.”
Tears welled in Alaric’s large, luminous eyes, shimmering as he looked at Elias, a desperate plea for succor. Damn it. Elias pressed his lips together, a tight, grim line. “It is well. I shall intercede,” he said, trying to reassure Alaric, though his voice felt distant and hollow.
“Thorne,” Lysander growled, his voice thick with burgeoning rage. Elias forced himself to meet Lysander’s glare, feigning a composure he did not possess. He felt an overwhelming urge to collapse, to surrender. To suppress it, he lifted his gaze to the soaring, gothic arches of the refectory ceiling, then lowered it, replying with a nonchalance that felt utterly false. “What, Lysander?”
“You…” Lysander clenched his fist, glaring at Elias with an intensity that promised searing pain. Still, Elias had to endure. His instincts screamed that he could not abandon Alaric to Lysander’s mercy.
But Lysander’s focus, for a moment, shifted back to Alaric. “I-I will go,” Alaric stammered, his voice a frail reed in the tense air. “Th-thank you, Thorn.”
Alaric scrambled to his feet, his movements unsteady, and fled the refectory. As soon as he was gone, Lysander turned abruptly, his grimace fixed on Elias, a cold fury settling in his eyes, promising retribution. The gilded cage around Elias’s heart felt colder than ever.