A curious notion took hold of Elias, a insidious tendril tightening around his heart. He found himself wondering about Lysander and Alaric Finch, specifically the manner of their departure from the Academy each eve. It was a petty, ignoble curiosity, a spark of jealousy kindled in the dark chambers of his own solitude.
He had observed them before. Lysander always departed first, a predatory grace in his stride. Alaric, a shadow in his wake, would follow a respectful distance behind. It never appeared a shared journey, not side-by-side companionship. Yet, the image persisted: Alaric, a fully-grown man, trailing Lysander with an unsettling, almost desperate loyalty.
A bad feeling coiled in Elias’s gut. He recognized the insidious draw, the same grim allure of a forbidden vault, of a Pandora's Box. Not just despair lay within, but the far crueler hope that outshone it. Still, the impulse to gaze into the abyss remained irresistible.
“My mind is addled,” Elias murmured, the words tasting bitter. He knew he wasn't thinking straight. Yet, when the final bell tolled, he found himself following Alaric.
His pursuit did not last long.
Elias kept to the deepening shadows of the narrow thoroughfares, careful to remain unseen by Lysander’s sharp eyes. He watched Alaric, his gaze fixed on Lysander’s retreating back. The ancient city rose around them: peeling render on crumbling guildhalls, rusted iron gates guarding forgotten courtyards, dust-coated gargoyles observing from forgotten heights, dented skiffs moored by the twilight canals. A scene of decay, of forgotten grandeur, surrounded them. Two figures in this desolate tableau: Lysander striding ahead, Alaric a silent echo. And Elias, a silent observer, shrouded in the gloom.
The entire spectacle felt pathetic, utterly idiotic. Elias turned back, a prick of shame crawling over his skin.
---
Later, in the quiet dimness of his chambers, lit only by the faint glow of an arcane lamp, Elias felt a strange satisfaction. His decision to retreat was a wise one. He had been curious, yes, but what horrors might he have unearthed had he continued? Better not to know. He was no fool, he would not pry open that cursed vault for a mere whim.
Alaric’s subdued deference to Lysander grew more pronounced with each passing day. Lysander, in turn, seemed to relish his influence, a possessiveness bordering on the obsessive. Elias detected Alaric's thinly veiled dread, a constant tremor beneath his placid surface. He felt a quiet, almost smug vindication. He had not intervened when Lysander first began his torment of Alaric. Perhaps that had been for the best. To have stepped in would have entangled him further, jeopardizing his precarious distance.
Elias laced his fingers behind his head, staring at the intricate patterns on the ceiling. The elegant clockwork gears embedded in the plaster, a miniature sky-map, reminded him of his own fortunate existence. Born into the gilded cage of the Thorne Guild, an only child, rarely denied anything his heart desired.
“Damn it all,” he breathed, the words a raw whisper. He had once believed himself master of his own desires. Until he fell under Lysander’s intoxicating shadow. That scion of the Blackwood Guild had shown him the cruel reality: not all ambitions, nor all hearts, could be swayed by will alone. He was certain Lysander was learning that bitter truth too, in his own way, regarding Alaric.
Indeed, the world wielded a merciless blade.
Elias, at least, had learned to control his own countenance, to hide the tumultuous seas within. Lysander, conversely, was so consumed by his own fixation that he seemed oblivious to the intensity of his gaze upon Alaric. That sudden, almost feral possessiveness must be unsettling even to Alaric himself.
Elias understood the feeling well. He had tasted it too, that burning, unbidden desire. But while Elias had endured, had suppressed, Lysander seemed incapable. Instead of seeking genuine connection, he acted in ways that only bred resentment, perhaps even fear. For Elias, this suited him perfectly.
“Please, remain oblivious,” Elias murmured to himself, addressing the empty air. Or, better yet, let Alaric, worn down by the pressure, simply vanish from Aethelburg. He did not, in truth, wish for Lysander’s gaze to ever turn upon him. The thought of that kind of intensity, directed at *him*, was terrifying.
He wanted only one thing: for a day to arrive when his own feelings for Lysander had withered, and for Lysander to direct his affections elsewhere. Anywhere else. But of course, the grand clockwork of the world rarely spun to such simple desires.
---
Then came another shift. Lysander, without warning, changed his assigned seat. He moved to sit directly beside Alaric in the main Lecture Hall. Of all places, he chose the bench right in front of the Master’s demonstration stand, a terrible vantage considering his height. He completely obstructed Alaric’s view of the projected runes. Alaric’s original deskmate, a nervous young Guildsman, offered Elias and Cassian an awkward, strained greeting, his face caught between embarrassment and relief.
“Greetings,” he managed.
Cassian and Elias exchanged a glance, offering only curt nods. Their silence was a dismissal.
“H-hah…” The awkward laugh hung in the air, but neither Elias nor Cassian offered a response. They were not interested.
Lysander settled beside Alaric without a word, remaining unnervingly silent throughout the Master’s lecture. Elias found himself wishing – no, desperately praying – that this tension, this stifling awkwardness, could be frozen in time. For another year and a half, perhaps. That someday, this moment would dissolve into nothing more than a vague, forgotten dream.
---
Another change emerged from the undercurrents of Guild gossip. Lysander, who had once indulged in wild nights within the city’s pleasure dens, had reportedly curtailed his hobby. Or so it seemed. From the scattered whispers Cassian's acquaintances let slip, he hadn’t ceased entirely. But the boastful recounting of his conquests no longer echoed through the Lecture Halls, nor did the cloying scent of cheap perfumes and illicit spirits cling to his robes.
For Elias, that was something, a small reprieve. He no longer had to endure the stench of Lysander’s debaucheries from such close quarters.
“Hey, Lysander. Not going to mess around anymore? Like this?” Valerius, a loud-mouthed cadet from the Merchant’s Guild, swayed his hips suggestively in front of Lysander, placing his hands near his groin and moving with crude imitation. Lysander’s face twisted with disgust at the vulgar display.
He glanced quickly at Alaric, then shouted angrily. “You oaf! I told you not to do that filth in front of people!”
“Why are you suddenly so modest, eh?” Valerius pressed, emboldened by the attention.
“If you bring that up again, Valerius, you’ll regret it,” Lysander hissed, his voice low and dangerous.
“Hey, Lysander—”
“I said cease!”
“...Fine, whatever.” Valerius subsided, though a disappointed murmur rippled through the group. Lysander, with his imposing height and mature aura, had once been the perfect conduit for the prurient curiosities of Academy cadets brimming with untested energies.
The youths in Lysander’s and Cassian’s circle were not novices; they had all fumbled through clumsy experiences before. Compared to the truly clueless, they were more easily stirred. With Lysander no longer sharing his exploits, their attention drifted to Cassian. But Cassian merely bared his teeth, an expression of pure disdain twisting his features.
“You filthy reprobates.”
“Ah, there he goes again! Cassian and his sanctimonious drivel.”
“He’s just a fanatical prude. Honestly, what a waste of good form.”
Laughter rippled through the hall, loud and fleeting. Most of the young men in their group had ventured into forbidden territories at least once, but for some reason, Cassian had not. While they teased him good-naturedly, calling him ‘the Cloistered Scholar,’ no one actually disrespected him. He was Cassian, after all. At the same time, Cassian possessed a casual, almost indifferent attitude about everything, which made his actions seem less affected, his blunt words easier to stomach. Many found that either charming or approachable, often remarking that his gruff demeanor belied his thoughtful nature.
“Hey, fool, stop glaring at me. You’ll make me spill my alembic.”
“Aye, that one’s got a face to curdle milk.”
“Do you dolts have a death wish?” Cassian scowled, and the group erupted into laughter, though there was little true humor in it. Some younger cadets, perhaps his acquaintances or lesser friends, joined in with their hollow laughs and chatter, adding to the din. As Elias sat among them, he stared blankly at his hands, lost in the quiet confines of his own mind.
---
If memory served, he had never felt a true carnal stirring for a woman. That, he supposed, made him gay by default, from birth. Certainly, he had felt arousal watching images of men and women together, but never once had he fantasized about a woman’s form during his solitary moments. The former seemed to be more about the intensity of the situation, while the latter felt like a simple absence of desire. He had once been dragged to a seedy taverna by Lysander, but he hadn’t even made it past the entrance. He lacked the false documentation. Instead, he had waited outside until Lysander returned. Brothels? Repugnant. He couldn't fathom visiting such a place. He often wondered why anyone would.
Because of all this, the youths in their group jokingly called him “Abstinent Thorne,” but in reality, his abstinence was more or less compelled. Elias let out a small sigh. The others were too busy guffawing at Cassian’s retorts to notice. Seizing the moment, Elias glanced at Lysander, who sat in silent intensity. Lysander was staring fixedly at the back of Alaric Finch’s head as Alaric diligently copied notes from the board across the room.
And, as always, Elias regretted it. Why did he look? Why was he ever curious? To distract himself, he asked Cassian a deliberately pointless question.
“So, are you truly going to remain celibate until you join the Order of Scholars?”
Cassian, who was lounging in his chair as if he owned the entire Lecture Hall, suddenly looked directly at Elias’s hands. His gaze was so persistent that Elias instinctively crossed his legs to shield himself. What in the blazes?
“You’re not my betrothed, so why the devil do you care? What, are you offering?”
Elias said nothing. Of course. This lout always resorted to such malicious jests. The others laughed, and Elias gave Cassian a swift, pointed kick to the shin.
That was how his days unfolded—over and over again, the same repeating pattern, day after weary day.
---
When alone in his chambers, Elias often found himself lost in thought, contemplating all manner of scenarios. Inevitably, those thoughts sometimes drifted into strange, morbid fantasies.
Today, he wondered what it would have been like had he fallen into a longing for Cassian instead of Lysander. It seemed it would have been a less agonizing plight. If he had harbored such feelings for Cassian, he would not have to endure the particular ache caused by Lysander’s unsettling fixation on Alaric, nor the vulgar recounting of his fleeting liaisons. Even so, he would still be heartbroken. Neither Lysander nor Cassian would ever return his affections, after all. But at least his heart would not ache specifically because of Alaric Finch.
That train of thought eventually led to familiar feelings of inferiority and impotent anger. In the end, he simply wished he could graduate swiftly from the Academy and become a stranger to Lysander, to put this bitter chapter behind him.
---
At some unconscious point, Elias began placing his hands beneath his desk whenever he sat. This habit truly began in his second year of apprenticeship, and the cause was always the same—men. As he fiddled with the buckle on his belt, his mind wandered. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? The faint clicking sound of metal tapping against his nails filled the quiet room. Just as he applied pressure with his thumb to undo the buckle, a knock sounded at his door.
“Master Thorne! Are you engaged in your studies?” A Guild attendant’s voice, muffled through the thick oak.
“Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!” Elias nearly had a seizure. Today was clearly not the day for such indulgences. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damn it.
---
Lately, Lysander had been getting on Elias’s nerves more than usual. Sometimes, when Alaric glanced Elias’s way, Lysander would deliberately strike up a conversation with him, monopolizing his attention. Alaric, caught in the middle, would flick his eyes toward Elias, his lips parting as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if wary of Lysander’s presence, he would lower his head and answer in the faintest voice.
“Y-yes…” Just like that.
Alaric subtly sought Elias out more, and lately, had even begun calling him “Eli.” Aside from his closest family, almost no one addressed him by that familiar shortened name, so the change was quite noticeable. Alaric seemed to think he was being careful, but he was not. The worst part was how Lysander couldn’t hide his discomfort whenever Alaric did anything remotely familiar.
“Alaric Finch, stop bothering Elias Thorne while he’s studying.”
“What?” Alaric’s brow furrowed.
“Stop bothering him. Do you not comprehend?” Lysander’s voice was laced with an unspoken warning.
“Oh… uh, y-yes…” When Alaric stammered and avoided Lysander’s gaze, Lysander immaturely slammed his fist against the bench leg beside him. Elias pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, clueless Alaric seemed to believe no one cared about him calling Elias “Eli” anymore. He grew bold, casually using it as if it were the most natural thing.
“Uh, Eli… forgive me for bothering you whilst you study.”
Elias stiffened, staring at Alaric in disbelief. Was he mad? Lysander was sitting right there.
Sure enough, Lysander pounded his fist on the desk again. Damn it.
“Hey! Alaric Finch!”
“…Huh?” The atmosphere curdled instantly.
“I instructed you.” Lysander’s anger was blatant, barely contained.
“I told you not to call him ‘Eli,’ did I not?”
“…W-well…”
“Call him Elias Thorne. That is his name—Elias Thorne.” His gaze turned sharp, almost predatory, as he looked at Elias. Elias hated that look and instinctively lowered his head. At that moment, Cassian, seated beside him, casually draped his arm over Elias’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Elias’s ear.
“Lysander, if you keep this up, you’re truly going to ruin yourself.”
“What in the nine hells are you speaking of?” Lysander snapped, his eyes flashing.
“I am saying you will come to regret it.” Cassian smirked, and Elias felt a flicker of irritation, for one reason alone. He did not need Cassian’s veiled protection, nor his knowing gaze.