A week slithered past, marked by an undercurrent of brittle silence between Elias and Lysander. Elias, ever the master of internal theatre, draped himself in a cloak of indifference. He pretended Lysander’s absence from his immediate orbit held no sway, that the chasm between them meant little more than a skipped stone in a forgotten pond. Yet, every ticking cog in Aethelburg’s towering spires seemed to echo with the hollow space Lysander had left.
He sought refuge in the uneasy companionship of Cassian Blackwood, a blunt, unvarnished presence that served as a welcome counterpoint to his own elaborate deceptions. They ate their meals in the Academy refectory, the clatter of cutlery and murmured conversations a thin veil over Elias’s agitated thoughts.
Cassian, oblivious or simply uncaring of the deeper currents, kept him anchored. It was a peculiar anchor, crafted from a gruff sincerity that Elias found both irritating and indispensable. Their table conversations, usually mundane discussions of clockwork schematics or the latest arcane theories, became Elias’s clandestine conduit. If he wanted news of Lysander, he turned to Cassian.
“Has Stone been… about?” Elias asked one afternoon, his voice carefully neutral, eyes fixed on a diagram of a pneumatic lift. He picked at a crumb of flatbread, feigning disinterest. The question, so casual on the surface, felt like a lead weight dragging at his tongue.
Cassian merely grunted, polishing a silver thimble with a frayed cloth. He often fiddled with small, intricate mechanisms even during meals, a habit Elias found both distracting and oddly comforting. “Aye. Heard he’s been ‘socialising’.” The word dripped with a peculiar distaste from Cassian’s lips.
Elias paused, his heart thrumming an erratic beat against his ribs. “Socialising?”
“Guild introductions, I reckon,” Cassian elaborated, not looking up. “His aunt, the one from the Chronomancer’s Guild, she’s been pushing him. Showing him off to potential patrons. Heard he met some scion of the Alchemists’ Guild last eve. A grand affair, apparently.”
A bitter taste, acrid as burnt mercury, coated Elias’s tongue. He imagined Lysander, effortlessly charming, dazzling the Guild elders with that practiced, insincere smile. The thought ignited a slow, simmering heat within him.
“Damn him,” Elias murmured, the words barely audible. His fingers tightened around his fork.
Cassian finally glanced up, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes. “He’s a pureblood. Comes with the territory. They’re all ravenous for new bloodlines to mix with. For their arcane ‘gifts’ to propagate.” Cassian made a soft, dismissive sound. “Like a prized hound paraded at market.”
It was not admiration. Cassian’s tone, laced with a familiar derision for the Guilds’ elite and their convoluted rituals, brought a strange, fleeting lightness to Elias’s chest. He leaned forward, propping an elbow on the scarred refectory table. The small gesture of proximity felt like a quiet pact.
Cassian, almost uniquely, was openly contemptuous of Lysander’s elevated position and the performative dances of the Guild elite. For that alone, Elias found him tolerable, perhaps even… valuable.
“They’re disgustingly… well-suited,” Elias said, the sarcasm sharp, a blade edged with something akin to envy.
Cassian scoffed, setting aside his thimble. “Aye. And I, for one, am glad to be a cog in the machine, not a gilded ornament on the Grand Automaton.”
The way he spoke, almost boastful in his plainness, pulled a reluctant laugh from Elias. A genuine sound, rare and startling, that momentarily cut through the gloom.
“Shouldn’t you be aspiring to something more, Blackwood? You’re a student of the arcane, after all.”
“Aspire?” Cassian’s dark brows rose. “One learns these things as they go. Aethelburg’s rationality is a peculiar beast, Thorne.” He smirked, a quick, fleeting expression before his face settled back into its usual stoicism.
“Is that why you’re so perpetually… unattached?” Elias teased, a boldness he rarely allowed himself.
Cassian’s eyes narrowed. He pushed his plate away, a decisive motion. “Thorne, I’m filing a formal grievance for harassment.”
“Harassment? How so?”
“If the recipient experiences discomfort, it constitutes harassment.” Cassian’s voice was dry, almost theatrical.
“Blackwood, you are truly insufferable.”
“And you, Thorne, are a snoop.”
Elias’s foot, still encased in his Academy boot, swung idly beneath the table. He nudged Cassian’s leg with his heel. Cassian feigned a dramatic recoil, then extended a hand, palm up, revealing the dark, polished obsidian charm always wrapped around his wrist. It was etched with the flowing, angular symbols of the forgotten Silent Order, a relic from an older, more hushed faith.
Elias kicked his leg again, a little harder. “That charm doesn’t suit you.”
Cassian lowered his hand, his expression suddenly serious. “Why not?”
Why the sudden gravity? Elias frowned. “It just… doesn’t align with you.”
“Doesn’t align? Peculiar. Do I not strike you as a devout follower of the Silent Brethren?”
“No,” Elias stated. “It looks like a curiosity. An antique bauble.”
“...It is not,” Cassian replied, his voice softer, almost defensive. The charm, Elias knew, was more than mere adornment. Cassian’s family, a line of pragmatic engineers, harbored a quiet, enduring devotion to the ancient, suppressed faith of the Silent Order. Yet, Cassian himself rarely spoke of it, and Elias often wondered if it was inherited duty or true belief. He couldn’t quite reconcile the blunt, cynical student with the whispered tales of piety.
---
Elias continued his careful dance around Lysander for the rest of the week. Whenever their paths converged in the Academy’s bustling corridors, he would steal a glance, then quickly avert his gaze. He didn’t possess the courage to speak first, or perhaps, the pride to risk being dismissed. The pathetic notion that whoever yearned more, lost more, gnawed at him, even as he recognized its absurdity.
Alaric Finch, by contrast, frequently sought Elias’s attention, a shadow seeking light. He was the only one who seemed to offer Alaric a moment of quiet acknowledgement. Yet, the fresh bruises blossoming on Alaric’s face each day spoke a clearer language than any words. Lysander, like a predatory beast, was still marking his territory, somewhere beyond Elias’s sight.
One afternoon, Elias noticed a particularly nasty contusion darkening Alaric’s temple. He frowned, a flash of genuine anger stirring in his gut. Alaric, catching Elias’s gaze, flinched and quickly turned his head, trying to hide the injury with a shy hand.
Four more days crawled by. Then, one quiet morning, the classroom felt strangely vacant. Elias sat alone at his desk, burying his face in his hands. He wanted no part of the grim play unfolding before him.
The distance between Elias and Lysander widened, becoming stark and undeniable. What had been a narrow fissure now felt like an unbridgeable chasm, threatening to swallow him whole. Alaric’s absence, announced by Master Aegis as a mere “extended leave” but clearly whispered truancy, was a jarring sign. The bruising on Alaric’s face, etched like a grim seal, made Elias recoil from both of them. He craved escape from the entire noxious affair.
Then, as if fate had granted a small, dark mercy, Alaric Finch simply stopped appearing. Master Aegis’s strained explanation of “family matters” did little to disguise the truth. Elias felt a surge of unbidden relief, a cheer rising in his throat that he swallowed down with effort. He felt guilty, then resolute. This was for the best.
Lysander, however, grew restless. During classes, he fidgeted with a brass compass, snapped at his cronies, or delivered sharp, wordless glares that silenced any burgeoning chatter. His temper, usually kept carefully sheathed, flickered with an unsettling intensity.
A part of Elias felt a smug satisfaction. Another part, a strange, dark sense of superiority. He convinced himself that soon, with Alaric gone for good, Lysander’s peculiar obsession would wane. Then, the Guild Heir’s gaze would inevitably drift back to him. Confident in this thought, Elias waited, a coiled spring of expectation.
---
Several more days passed in this tense quiet. “Stone seems… off,” Cassian remarked one afternoon, his voice low. Elias’s heart lurched, a heavy thud against his ribs. He longed to turn, to search Lysander’s face for confirmation, but a stubborn pride held him captive. In matters of the heart, or what felt like it, Elias was a coward. He could only listen to Cassian’s words, conjuring an image of Lysander’s unrest in his mind.
Yet, nothing overtly changed throughout the day. Classes ended. Elias clung to the belief that tomorrow would bring a shift. Things rarely moved so quickly, after all. He waited, his impatience a fever beneath his skin. Then, as he slung his satchel over his shoulder, Cassian’s voice cut through the Academy’s departing chatter.
“You fought with Stone, didn’t you?”
Elias turned, a sudden jolt going through him. “Aye.”
“Still haven’t settled things since the refectory incident?” Cassian’s brow furrowed, a rare show of concern.
“...”
“Gods, this has lasted longer than I thought,” Cassian muttered, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Elias avoided his gaze, muttering a strained excuse.
“Truth be told, Lysander went too far. I despise seeing such… casual cruelty. It’s just… unsettling, you understand?”
“Unsettling, how?”
“...Well, Alaric is a fellow student, isn’t he?”
“And?”
“The way Lysander treats Alaric… it’s not merely roughhousing. It’s too… possessive. Like a dog with a bone. It’s unsettling. He should cease it.” Elias’s voice was taut, betraying the turmoil within him.
Cassian let out a low whistle. “Wow.”
“...”
“You’re destined for the highest tier of the Blessed Mechanists, Thorne.” Cassian’s response, drenched in sarcasm, pricked at Elias’s exposed nerves.
Annoyed by Cassian’s malicious tone, Elias glared. But Cassian merely smirked, his eyes glinting with knowing amusement. That expression, so piercing and insightful, made Elias’s face burn. He felt as if a hidden part of himself had been laid bare. Quickly, he turned his back on Cassian’s mocking grin and strode out of the classroom.
He hurried down the hallway, intent on escaping the Academy’s oppressive atmosphere. A hand suddenly clamped onto his shoulder. Assuming it was Cassian, come to further needle him, Elias spun around, irritation flaring, and wrenched his arm free. But it wasn’t Cassian. It was Master Aegis, the homeroom instructor. Startled, Elias quickly composed his features.
“My apologies, Thorne. Did I alarm you?” Master Aegis’s voice was soft, his expression etched with a peculiar gravity.
“Oh, no, Master Aegis, it’s quite alright. Merely surprised, I was…”
“I see. I’m truly sorry, but… might I trouble you for a brief moment of your time?”
“Indeed, Master?” Elias felt a chill crawl up his spine. The young instructor’s face was unusually solemn, a rare sight for the usually placid man. Elias nodded, a knot tightening in his stomach.
“Earlier today, young Lysander inquired about Master Finch’s home address,” Master Aegis began cautiously. He wrung his hands, a nervous tic.
“Lysander Stone?” Elias’s voice was barely a whisper.
Master Aegis, as the homeroom instructor, could not possibly be ignorant of the cruel dynamics at play. Yet, he lacked the boldness to confront Lysander directly. Nor was he heartless enough to ignore Alaric’s plight entirely. The fact he sought Elias out now spoke volumes of his unease.
“I am not accusing, nor do I lay blame upon Master Stone, but…”
“No, Master, I understand. I find it… unsurprising,” Elias interjected quickly, a lie. He found it deeply disturbing.
“Well, given your… consistent kindness towards Master Finch, I wondered if you might… perhaps accompany Master Stone to his residence. Do you grasp my meaning?” Master Aegis’s eyes, usually mild, were wide with a plea.
Elias couldn’t answer immediately. His teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. The emotions Lysander harbored for Alaric—raw, possessive, dangerous—began to creep toward him, flooding his feet, holding him in place. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. He could not stand idly by.
“Could I… procure Master Finch’s private com-number, then?” Elias managed, his voice strained.
“Ah, yes, of course. Here, let me provide it. Try to reach him first, if you would.” Master Aegis fumbled in his satchel, producing a small parchment with the number scribbled upon it.
“Certainly. I will speak with him. Do not trouble yourself unduly, Master.” Elias took the paper, his fingers trembling ever so slightly.
“Alright. I am counting on your discretion, Thorne.”
“Aye.”
On the surface, Elias projected a semblance of calm. Internally, a frantic panic seized him. Master Aegis, looking immensely relieved, handed over Alaric’s home com-number from the Guild registry, then departed the hallway with a hurried step. Elias had to stop Lysander. He absolutely had to prevent Lysander’s strange, burgeoning obsession from escalating.
The moment Master Aegis was gone, Elias pulled out his personal speaking-tube. His fingers, despite his best efforts, shook as he dialled Alaric’s number. His leg jittered nervously, and he kept clenching and unclenching his free hand as he waited for the connection. Surprisingly, the call engaged swiftly.
“H-hello?” A timid voice, barely a whisper, answered.
“It is Elias Thorne. Is this Master Alaric Finch?” Elias rushed to speak, urgency propelling his words. A sudden clattering echoed from the other end—something falling, hitting wood, followed by a rustling sound. After a strained pause, Alaric’s voice returned, higher-pitched now.
“E-Elias? Elias! W-why… how… how did you acquire my number? Did you… already possess it?”
“No. I heard from Master Aegis that Lysander Stone inquired for your home address today. So I requested your number.”
“...”
“I merely wished to caution you. Be wary.”
“W-what of you? Are you safe? Even though you sought to intercede…” Alaric’s voice trailed off, laced with an unnerving anxiety.
“Do not fret for me. Focus on your own welfare. If you wish to extend your leave from the Academy, ring this number. I will intercede with Master Aegis on your behalf. I hold some trust, believe it or not.” Elias injected a practiced calm into his voice, a performance for Alaric’s sake.
“...Thank you.”
“If Lysander attempts to harass you or assail you at the Academy, inform me at once. If you cannot speak it aloud, merely tap me on the shoulder, or some such signal. It is far more difficult to mend things once they are irrevocably broken.”
“Understood…”
“Honestly, a transfer to another Guild Annex would be the wisest course.” Elias let the suggestion hang in the air, hoping it would sink in.
“...”
“At any rate, reflect upon it. For now, either pretend you are not at home, or absent yourself entirely.”
“O-okay…”
“Alright, I am disconnecting now.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Elias.” After a long, drawn-out hesitation, Alaric’s voice came, soft and trembling. The sincerity of it, the deep, raw gratitude, made Elias profoundly uncomfortable.
“T-thank you for always… aiding me…”
“It is nothing.” Elias’s voice was curt, almost cold.
“I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. S-see you soon.”
“Aye.”
“...Farewell.”
Farewell? Elias didn’t bother responding to the awkward parting. He ended the connection. Just the sound of Alaric’s voice, crawling into his ears, was enough to send a shiver down his spine and leave him thoroughly disquieted.
What transpired with Alaric Finch that night, Elias did not know. All he did know was that from the next day onward, Alaric returned to the Academy. And within a week, the faint, peach-like flush characteristic of his youthful skin began to reappear. Alaric also ceased his sudden approaches to Elias, his demeanor shifting dramatically, becoming more self-contained.
The abrupt change in Alaric’s behavior planted tiny, insidious seeds of suspicion in Elias’s mind. Yet, when all the bruises on Alaric’s face finally faded, leaving only clear skin, Elias couldn’t help but feel a faint, insidious sense of hope—however unlikely, however dangerous it seemed. This might truly be over.
Then, two weeks later, Lysander Stone approached him out of nowhere.
“Thorne.”
“...” Elias kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, feigning deafness. But his lips felt as if they might part, betraying a gasp at any moment.
Could it be? Was Lysander finally tired of Alaric Finch?