Two days later, a small, folded scrap of parchment lay tucked within the brass grille of my cog-boots locker. An uncommon sight, to be sure.
A hurried script, narrow and precise, read: “Could you seek the Archive Annex ere the Pneumatic Transference Drills today?”
For a fleeting moment, a foolish thought fluttered. Perchance, a declaration of admiration? Yet, quickly, reason asserted itself. An all-apprentices collegium, save for the rare, seasoned Guild-master. Such sentimentality was not countenanced here. A jest, then, or perhaps a task from some forgetful senior initiate. My mind, ever cataloging, dismissed the notion with clinical precision.
Indeed, the peculiar summons vanished from my active memory until the pre-drill chime echoed through the Collegium’s vaulted halls. Only then did the missive resurface, a forgotten detail amidst schematics and formulae.
Changing into the stiff, reinforced gear for the drills, a flicker of curiosity stirred. Who, pray tell, would pen such a note? No matter. Assuredly, nothing of import. My path led through dusty corridors, past dormant clockwork constructs, toward the older, seldom-used sections of the Collegium.
Within the Annex, a faint mustiness clung to the air. Cobweb-draped gears stood silent. A figure, slight and nervous, turned from a shelf of brittle scrolls, his dark hair pressed neatly against a timid brow. Finnian Vane.
“Finnian Vane?” My voice, an unwitting question, hung in the gloom.
His small head, previously bowed in contemplation, snapped up. He offered a quick, bright smile, much like the one he’d worn when first admitted to our ranks. A familiar annoyance prickled, furrowing my brow.
“What brings you here? Why the sudden summons?”
Responding to my query, Finnian nervously twisted plump fingers. His gaze darted about the room, avoiding mine.
“Ah, Elias… I… I have something I wish to impart…”
“Well, speak it, then.” A low hum of impatience thrummed beneath my ribs. Time pressed. Discretion demanded I depart this secluded space swiftly. Unwanted scrutiny, the whispers of idle apprentices, were vexations to be avoided. I afforded Finnian only enough courtesy to maintain an impeccable façade, nothing more, nothing less.
Finnian, oblivious to my growing unease, chewed upon his thumb. His face, etched with a peculiar mix of indecision and resolve, was a sight of frustrating inertia. Every nascent attempt to speak met with a clamped jaw, words swallowed whole.
Silence stretched, heavy and cloying. My irritation, a slow-burning ember, flared. Never had Finnian held my particular favor. Each hesitant gesture, each aborted attempt at speech, only served to amplify my disdain. His small, perpetually moving mouth might be deemed endearing by some. To me, it was maddening.
Perhaps, I conceded, a touch of oversensitivity plagued me this cycle.
“Listen, I crave your pardon, but the Drills commence soon. Can you not simply articulate your purpose?”
A throbbing ache pulsed behind my eyes. Today, a tangle of frustration, confusion, and a persistent unease settled within my gut. My mind felt a disordered tangle of gears and springs.
Likely, my ire was not truly directed at Finnian. A raw, unchanneled urge to lash out, to find some outlet for this internal disquiet, gnawed at me. Lately, my digestive humours had been in a constant state of rebellion, a constant source of stress.
Lost in these self-indulgent currents, Finnian finally gathered his fleeting courage. A small, stammering voice, barely a murmur, began to weave itself into the still air.
“Elias… I… uh, you see, I…”
“Yes?” A noncommittal sound escaped me. A scratch found my neck. The interval before drills dwindled. I wished, with a sudden, desperate fervor, he would just spit it out. A grotesque impulse to pry open his small mouth, to drag the words forth myself, briefly surfaced.
Then, with a jarring suddenness, a storage door groaned open. Both Finnian and I pivoted, gazes locking with Kaelen Varrick. His chest heaved, breath coming in ragged gasps. Not at me, I noted. His eyes, burning with an unholy fire, fixed solely upon Finnian.
“Hmph, hmph…” A heavy panting filled the Annex. Kaelen had run. A suffocating tightness gripped my own chest, picturing his desperate dash across the Collegium in search of Finnian.
Kaelen released a long, drawn-out exhalation. His stride, purposeful and dominant, carried him into the Annex. Without conscious thought, my hand dropped from my neck. Kaelen’s gaze flickered between Finnian and me. His expression, a mask of fierce accusation, brooked no argument.
“Why are you with him?”
Unclear was the target of his query. His fists, clenched and then released, seemed to vibrate with suppressed violence. Outwardly composed, my insides churned, a frantic mechanism pounded by an unseen force. After an eternity of silence, Kaelen’s eyes finally settled on me. A specific, intolerable quality in his stare made my stomach clench.
“What in Aethelburg, Kaelen Varrick?”
Oh, please. Not that look. Blame Finnian for this. Cast your wrath upon him. Why, then, do your eyes, usually filled with a strange possessiveness, now brim with such resentment? I merely stand here, an unwilling participant in your peculiar drama. Caught between two converging cogs, ground to dust.
Even as these bitter thoughts brewed, Kaelen’s eyes remained seared upon me. Not the gaze of passion, not fervor. Rather, it was a gaze consumed by rage, by an ugly jealousy, by a nascent madness. A face disfigured by twisted affection—a sight I found equally pitiful and contemptible.
“Why are you with him!”
Pathetic, Kaelen. Utterly so. My glare, a silent retort, met his. Yet, a chilling realization pierced through my contempt. Perchance, the pitiful one was not Kaelen, but I.
Before I could process the thought, Kaelen’s long strides closed the distance. My world tilted, then slammed. A sharp, searing pain.
“...!”
No conscious thought formed. My body toppled to the ground, a clumsy marionette with severed strings. Only then did my mind replay the brutal mechanics of the moment.
“Impossible…”
He struck me. Kaelen Varrick struck me.
Lying amidst the dust and forgotten tools, my trembling hand rose to my cheek. Unbelief warred with the raw throb. How could he? How could you inflict such a blow upon me?
“E-Elias!”
“You worm! I commanded you to use my full name! No, do not even speak it! Do not address me at all, you craven fool!” Kaelen screamed, a sound of raw fury. Finnian, horrified, scrambled toward me, but Kaelen’s visage, contorted by wrath, drove Finnian’s face to an ashen pallor.
“I-I crave your pardon, I crave your pardon.”
“You swore! A sworn promise, you craven wretch! Damnation!”
Finnian recoiled, tears gathering in his eyes. But no, he was not the one to weep. The right to tears was mine.
Within me, a wellspring of sorrow threatened to overflow. Mercifully, before I could shatter, Kaelen cursed violently. He seized Finnian by the arm, dragging him out into the corridor. The abruptness of their departure left me stunned, utterly alone.
Still seated on the cold floor of the Archive Annex, I gazed at the half-open door. A sliver of twilight, filtered through the smog of Aethelburg, pierced the gloom. Something within me finally fractured. The dam, holding back a torrent of emotion, burst. Hot tears, unbidden and unwelcome, streamed down my face.
Hate, a bitter ash, filled my mouth. Finnian Vane, for his foolish summons. Kaelen Varrick, for his cruel hand. May they both vanish into the perpetual twilight. A wretched, miserable bystander, trapped in the twisted web of their affections. So I felt.
I rose, a phantom ache blooming on my cheek. Pneumatic Transference Drills forgotten, I sought the Prefect’s office. An early dismissal was my only desire. My face, swollen and red, lent a believable honesty to my pretense of sudden illness. The Prefect, a man of few words, granted my request without further inquiry.
---
At home, a private sanctuary, I collapsed onto my cot. Sleep, a blessèd oblivion, claimed me. Waking hours later, my face felt puffy, a dull bruise blooming beneath my skin. By habit, my aether-gram sender, an antique contraption of brass and polished wood, drew my gaze. A message from Alaric Kael awaited.
Rarely did we exchange such missives, yet a record of our contact existed, a lingering echo of Kaelen Varrick’s orbit. Damn his influence.
Were it any other, I would ignore it. But Alaric was not merely any other. Second only to Kaelen in subtle power, his influence permeated the Collegium’s social stratifications. To disregard him was an act of folly.
“Elias, where did you abscond?” His missive, three hours past, contained a hint of chiding.
A click of my tongue. “Haha, not feeling my best.”
A deliberate lightness in my reply. No one must discern my true predicament. The thought of whispers, of the Collegium discovering Kaelen had struck me, filled me with unbearable humiliation. All, it seemed, because of Finnian Vane.
“You are well?” Alaric asked. Concern? An odd sensation. I powered down the sender, the brass casing cooling under my fingertips.
Hours later, a wave of profound melancholy washed over me. Even Alaric’s measured concern felt suffocating. Other Collegium acquaintances, those with whom I shared studies, had also sent brief inquiries. None offered the balm I craved.
No message from Kaelen Varrick. None seeking my welfare. A foolish hope, a deluded expectation. This, I told myself, was the bitter fruit of a love warped by madness. Even knowing the truth, I lay upon my cot, a pathetic fool. My eyes remained shut, my gaze averted from the stark reality of my situation.
“...I am not alone in this, am I?”
Perchance, Finnian and I shared a similar, wretched fate. A strange, twisted, grotesque thought. A selfish, wicked, childish hope, intertwined with it. Staring at the darkened ceiling, a fresh message arrived. From an unknown number.
“Elias, are you gravely ill?”
A frown creased my bruised brow. Who among my peers would address me with such familiarity, and from an untraceable sending conduit? Alaric? But this number was unfamiliar. Ere further thought could form, another message, relentless and infuriating, followed.
“I crave your pardon. Truly, I am deeply sorry. This is all my fault.”
“I am sorry.”
“Please, forgive me.”
Three words or four, each hammered at my composure. I wished to scream. My sender, a victim of my rage, clattered to the floor. How did this callow wretch obtain my conduit code? And how did one supposedly devoid of a personal sender transmit such missives?
Then, a sudden, mortifying realization. Oh. I had contacted him, had I not? Weeks past, a forgotten query regarding an arcane text. My own foolishness.
I cursed my idiotic brain, a furious sigh escaping my lips. To vent this churning frustration, my fists pounded against the cot’s mattress. Until exhaustion claimed me. Just as consciousness ebbed, a final message lingered, an unwelcome ghost in my fading thoughts.
“Pray, do not despise me.”
How amusing. Despised you for months, I have.
Next morning, waking, my face remained swollen, like an over-steamed yeast bun.
---
I eschewed the Collegium. My vaunted status as a model initiate, my intellectual fervor, proved insufficient to brave its halls with a face such as this.
A housekeeper, a woman of kind but stern demeanor, prepared my midday meal. As I ate, her gentle scolding, a lament about my perceived carelessness, reached my ears. Nothing of grand design presented itself for lunch—a soft porridge, accompanied by limp, seasoned greens. I swallowed it all, barely chewing, a hollow ache residing within.
Setting down my spoon, I reached for a glass of water. The housekeeper returned, hands outstretched to clear the dishes. Plate in one hand, she spoke, her voice a soft murmur:
“Elias, a visitor has arrived.”
“What?”
“May I permit their entry?”
A visitor. My heart, an erratic clockwork mechanism, fluttered. Before I could identify the fragile emotion, my mind, a stage set for fantasy, conjured an image. Could it be… Kaelen Varrick?
An extravagant fantasy, perhaps, but not entirely beyond the realm of possibility. Few Collegium associates had ever darkened my threshold. Among my small circle of acquaintances, a bare handful even knew my residential coordinates. If it were him, then he must have arrived to offer apologies, guilt finally consuming him for his transgression. Kaelen had never struck me before. Not once. Yes, he must have been consumed by worry, by remorse.
“Yes, permit their entry, please.”
The fantasy solidified into an unshakeable certainty. Even as I chastised myself for such naivety, a small, illicit satisfaction bloomed. Despite all, I held some measure of importance to him. This thought, a fragile warmth, spread through my chest. I turned, a quickening pace carrying me toward the receiving chamber, an absurd excitement building within.
But the figure awaiting me was not the one I had so desperately anticipated.
“Yo, what tidings, Thorne?”
A sharp-featured face, framed by dark hair, greeted me with a playful smirk. A small satchel, perhaps containing confections from the Guild Square, hung from his hand. Yet, upon beholding my face, his mirth abruptly ceased. His voice, unusually serious, cut through the quiet air.
“By the Guilds, what in Aethelburg happened to your visage?”
My knees, suddenly bereft of strength, almost buckled. The abrupt collapse of my hopeful fiction was a physical blow. How, by the Silent Gears, did Alaric Kael even know my dwelling place?
“...I merely stumbled,” I replied, the words flat and devoid of life.
Alaric frowned. His lips twisted, a familiar prelude to some dry, cutting remark. “Verily, a clumsy fool, are we?”
No retort sprang forth. I merely rubbed my swollen cheek, a dull ache reverberating through the bone. Embarrassment, a searing heat, suffused me. My earlier anticipation, my ludicrous hope, felt like a public humiliation. A fool, indeed. Kaelen Varrick did not deem me of such importance. And here I stood, wagging my tail like a hopeful cur, a pitiful spectacle.
“Here, accept this.”
Alaric extended a small, chilled ceramic pot. I accepted it, immediately prying off the lid to discern its contents.
“...It is aer-mint.”
“Is it? Noted it not.”
“Of course. Why would you care?”
“Damn, that is a harsh truth.”
“What purpose brings you hither?”
“What else? To ascertain your well-being. May I enter?”
“Hold, a moment!”
Without hesitation, his long legs carried him across the threshold, into my private domain.
“Where lies your chamber?”
“Where are you going, I ask?”
“Where else? No other destination presents itself in your abode.”
…No logical comeback formulated. He spoke a truth. All dwellings, in their essential layout, were much alike, were they not? An awkward discomfort prickled. I trailed after Alaric, who seemed oddly intent on scrutinizing the interior of my home, a predator surveying new territory.