Lord Kaelen Vesper's animosity became a chilling reality after the Arcane Disputation. No longer did he bother with the veneer of cordiality. His disdain hung heavy in the air, a palpable frost. The carefully constructed façade of deferential humility, once a convenient cloak for Kaelen, vanished without a trace, revealing the bitter resentment beneath.
Now, Sir Alaric, that unassuming knight, occupied the favored seat beside Kaelen. His presence, once peripheral, was now a constant, gleaming irritant in Lysander’s periphery.
Lysander might be shameless in guarding his true sentiments, but he was not one to feign indifference while shame gnawed at his core. He refused to be reduced to some pathetic weakling. He lacked the audacity to approach Lord Kaelen, to pretend that the chasm between them was not widening with every passing day.
A maelstrom of despondency and anomie began to consume him. Sometimes, a venomous tendril of petty retribution would spark within his chest, but in the end, stoicism always prevailed.
That petulant princeling, Lord Kaelen, so utterly incapable of governing his own temper, now allowed envy and resentment to fester. The reason, clear as a polished scrying orb: Sir Alaric.
Regardless of intent, Lysander loathed Sir Alaric even more. Alaric was never Lysander’s to claim, but it was not enough that he had stolen Kaelen’s attention; he had also poisoned Kaelen’s mind against him. A vicious bastard, that was the only conclusion Lysander could reach.
Even if the slight was unintentional, it mattered little. Human emotions, Lysander knew from countless ancient texts, often defied the cold logic of the Aethelian scholars. Blaming Sir Alaric offered a convenient scapegoat, a means to endure this miserable twist of fate.
Yet, Lysander always made rational choices. He knew, with the precision of a master arcanist, that Sir Alaric was merely swept along by Lord Kaelen’s erratic whims. Therefore, no hostile emotion ever marred his expression when their paths crossed.
Partly, he was too embarrassed to reveal the jealousy that festered within. Partly, he knew that to lash out at Sir Alaric would only make him appear a fool. Such a display would deepen Kaelen's hatred and brand Lysander with the damning whisper of a “pestilent aberration” among his peers.
“...This is vexing beyond measure.”
He hated it. A suffocating hatred that made him wish for a swift descent into the Stygian Void. He hated this more than Lord Kaelen’s open contempt.
Then, for some inexplicable reason, Master Theron came to mind. Theron, that irritating free scholar, was the one Lysander had most frequently endured in recent weeks. What would he say if he knew Lysander’s true thoughts? Probably something akin to:
“So, Lysan’s just a tainted, un-Marked simpleton after all, eh?”
The thought of Master Theron’s disdainful gaze sent a tremor through Lysander. His knuckles went stark white. Such a horrifying image nearly made him gag. He absolutely did not want anyone to uncover his hidden shame.
Expedient alliances often proved flimsy things. When the rift between Lord Kaelen and Lysander became undeniable, his relationships with Kaelen’s inner circle naturally became strained. Amusingly, Seraphim, the most isolated member of Master Theron’s current retinue, struck up a pointless conversation just yesterday.
“Lysander, Master Theron sought you earlier.”
“Oh? For what purpose?”
“Uncertain. He merely did.”
A sigh escaped Lysander. Always these useless topics, devoid of clear purpose. From the looks of it, people now considered him closer to Master Theron’s circle than to Lord Kaelen’s.
Of course, the ties with Kaelen’s group were not entirely severed. Occasionally, during a session in the Practical Arts chamber or by chance in the morning, polite greetings were exchanged. Such cordiality was mostly limited to Seraphim.
“Greetings, Lysan! A fine morn.”
“...A fine morn to you too, Seraphim.”
Lysander recalled one of those strained pleasantries. Seraphim had muttered something under his breath after Kaelen had strode past.
‘Lord Vesper has been… peculiar, of late. His manner with Sir Alaric… does it not seem rather unseemly?’
Lysander must have worn an unpleasant expression, for Seraphim seemed to interpret it as agreement. He went on to describe Kaelen’s insistence on Alaric’s constant proximity, the possessive grip on his arm, the refusal to release him.
Lysander clenched his jaw, teeth gritted, before responding. ‘I possess no interest in such unseemly exhibitions.’
That shut Seraphim up immediately.
Lately, Seraphim had been attempting to ingratiate himself with Master Theron and his companions. He seemed like a junior acolyte quietly seeking an escape from Lord Kaelen’s shadow. Perhaps his sharing of those observations was merely a bid for closer proximity to Lysander.
Today, as usual, only Master Theron and Lysander remained in the classroom after the others departed. Theron leaned against the grimoire-laden wall, his gaze dissecting Lysander. Whether he ignored him or merely appraised him, Lysander could not discern. Annoyed, Lysander averted his gaze, deciding to reciprocate the silence.
“Lysan.”
“What now, Theron?”
“Let us acquire sugar-spun delicacies after the afternoon session. Those we had last time were quite palatable.”
Master Theron ignored Lysander’s attempt at dismissal. As he spoke, he idly tossed a polished scrying orb across the chamber. The orb bounced erratically, threatening to strike various forgotten scrolls, but no one dared address him. Theron cared nothing for the subtle currents of atmosphere. He was indifferent, selfish even. Lysander watched the orb’s unpredictable trajectory, a frown deepening on his brow, finally breaking his silence. His irritation over Theron’s brazen disregard sharpened his tone.
“You refer to the confection you consumed entirely yourself? You acquired it solely for your own palate, did you not?”
“Well, not entirely. I simply favor the emerald hue.”
“So my preference was not even a consideration?”
“How was I to divine your desires? You offered no pronouncement.”
By then, the orb had rolled to a stop near a junior scholar. Theron extended a hand, motioning for it. The scholar hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the orb and placed it in Theron’s open palm. Theron casually spun the orb, addressing the retreating student.
“My gratitude, serf-born dullard.”
What an utterly exasperating personality.
‘Serf-born dullard this, un-Marked simpleton that.’ Every word from his mouth was insufferable.
Honestly, it defied logic that someone as obnoxious as Master Theron chose to linger with Lysander rather than Lord Kaelen. He always broke bread with Lysander, sat beside him during lectures, and attended sessions with him. Certainly, Kaelen was not around, but Theron could easily send a communication glyph or arrange a meeting if he wished.
The thought materialized unexpectedly. Lysander asked without much deliberation.
“Why do you not frequent Lord Kaelen’s company these days?”
Master Theron, mid-act of tossing and catching the scrying orb against the wall, suddenly froze. He turned to Lysander, a puzzled expression clouding his face.
“You quarreled with him,” he stated.
“I?”
“Yes. You and Lord Kaelen.”
“I am aware. I am the one who contended with him. So, why does this matter to you?”
“You utter the strangest pronouncements. It is because you are my companion.”
Master Theron scanned Lysander from head to foot with an oddly blatant gaze. Feeling a prickle of unease, Lysander averted his eyes and retorted.
“You were also a companion to Lord Kaelen, however.”
“Astonishing. You are quite amusing. What, are you implying you are not my companion?” Theron’s tone became incredulous as he pointed a finger at Lysander.
“No, I am your companion. But you were also companions with Lord Kaelen. So why do you align yourself with my cause?”
“Well, because I have known you for a longer span.”
“What manner of absurdity is this? We became companions because of Lord Kaelen, did we not?”
“Hark. What are you even uttering? We were close even in our first year of studies!”
“When was this?”
“Truly, you are an utter bastard, Lysan. Unbelievable. Back in the Grand Refectory, we exchanged glances constantly!”
“Ah… back then.”
“So, what, was I the sole one who perceived us as companions? You deceiver. That is why, as soon as we were assigned to the same scholastic cohort, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge that? Unconscionable. I am profoundly disappointed in you.”
“Oh.”
“Truly. Unconscionable. Simply… truly. How could you inflict such an insult upon me?”
“Very well, I offer my apologies. I apologize, is that sufficient?”
Lysander mumbled his apology hastily, recalling those awkward yet strangely frequent encounters from their initial year. So that fell within Theron’s “friendship category.” Lysander felt robbed. How could anyone interpret those hostile stares as amicable? They were imbued with antagonism, plain and simple. Wait, did that mean the first one to suggest sharing a meal was not Lord Kaelen, but… Theron?
The realization struck Lysander like a ton of granite, leaving him stunned. It was unsettling, even shocking. Still, he wished to avoid further entanglement, so he feigned comprehension and nodded.
“Alright, alright. I grasp it. My apologies.”
“I was profoundly vexed just now.” Master Theron glared at Lysander briefly. Sometimes, Lysander truly could not comprehend the workings of his mind.
“And furthermore, Lord Kaelen acts with grave peculiarity.”
A shiver traced Lysander’s spine.
“That one is utterly unhinged presently. He has always possessed a slight eccentricity, but this? This is merely… well.” Theron gripped the scrying orb with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The sight brought to mind Seraphim and the other junior acolytes who had awkwardly attempted to discuss Lord Kaelen with Lysander.
From that alone, one truth emerged: Lord Kaelen Vesper’s reputation was in freefall.
“Unnatural inclinations.”
The words – the most feared and damning stigma in the rigidly stratified world of the Scholasticum’s eighteen-year-olds – sent a chill through Lysander. His body trembled slightly at the thought. At the same time, a perverse relief washed over him, knowing that no one knew his own hidden truths. Did that relief mean he valued his own preservation above Lord Kaelen’s fate?
Uneasy, Lysander met Master Theron’s gaze, feeling like a heretical scholar guarding a forbidden cipher before the High Conclave’s unyielding scrutiny.
“Truly, me,” he muttered.
Then he let out a laugh—a strange mix of fear and derision.
It was almost farcical that, to others, he was Master Theron’s closest confidante. In truth, he was no different—a criminal branded with an unholy stigma. Just a few seasons past, he had been Lord Kaelen’s closest companion. And yet, here he was, hiding within a noxious snare he had barely managed to escape.
He had only managed to avoid being caught. That was all.
---
It was the fourth bell of the dawn watch. A minor spirit-familiar, bearing a glyph from an unregistered source, arrived unexpectedly. A summons at 4 a.m. Half-asleep, Lysander thought for a moment that everything occurring now was but a dream. Though he had meticulously avoided seeking out Lord Kaelen to shield himself from further hurt, his heart gave a wretched leap at the thought that the glyph might be from him.
He rubbed his eyes hurriedly and checked again who had sent it. His feelings were conflicted. A part of him hoped it was merely one of those vexing summons from disreputable loan-mages. But as soon as he deciphered the content, he knew it was not from Lord Kaelen.
“Lysan, I regret contacting you at this untimely hour. Could you present yourself outside your residence for a moment? I apologize. I truly apologize.”
“Just this once. Only this one time.”
There was no conceivable way Lord Kaelen would ever offer him an apology. Among his peers, only two individuals addressed him by the familiar ‘Lysan,’ and of those two, only one was so utterly pitiful. How did Sir Alaric even know his residence? The moment he comprehended the message, Lysander’s face twisted into a mask of displeasure. He did not wish to see him—never wished to see him. Sir Alaric was always an unpleasant presence.
But despite his internal protest, he rose from his bed, buttoned his scholar’s tunic, and stood. He walked to his chamber portal but stopped short of stepping through, resting his forehead against the cool frame with a deep sigh.
“...Damn it to the Void.”
It was all so overwhelming, like a churning vortex in his gut. That was the only way to describe it. He clutched his chest. He had always prided himself on his stellar grades, on his vast lexicon gleaned from countless ancient tomes, but none of the words he knew could fully express this intricate and tangled mess of emotions.
It was simply… complicated.
The hatred he harbored for Sir Alaric, the memory of the knight’s bruised countenance from that fateful day, and the desperate seasons he had spent trying to establish distance between himself and Kaelen’s obsessive attachment, all swirled together. Biting his lip, Lysander’s fingers traced the cool brass of the portal handle, then he closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist.
In the manicured courtyard, the frigid mist of the pre-dawn clung to the air, heralding the arrival of the deep autumn. To avoid the wet grasses, Lysander stepped carefully onto the cool, polished basalt flagstones between the lawns. The chilly gloaming made him pull his tunic tighter around him. His toes, poking out from the front of his house sandals, carried him all the way to the wrought-iron portal.
He paused there for a moment, clicked his tongue lightly, and grasped the handle. The low creaking of the hinge made him flinch. He opened the portal even more slowly.
Beyond the portal, illuminated by the ever-burning arcane lantern on the asphalt path, stood Sir Alaric in his simple scholar’s tunic. His head hung low as he idly scrawled invisible sigils on the ground with the tip of his worn boot.
“...Sir Alaric.”
At Lysander’s voice, Sir Alaric’s head snapped up like lightning.
“Lysan, Lysan!”