Lysander Thorne, by contrast, possessed an unyielding self-control. His life had been meticulously sculpted by House Thorne’s exacting standards, forging his very nature. He loathed the thought of baring vulnerability, a weakness in the unforgiving courts of Aethel. Thus, even when confronted by emotionally searing moments, he navigated them with an unsettling composure.
This trait often earned him the quiet designation of ‘unremarkable,’ ‘cold,’ or ‘unruffled.’ He was not immune to fury; rather, every emotional upheaval he’d endured had merely reinforced the protective shell encasing his spirit. With each passing year, it became increasingly arduous for anything to genuinely breach his carefully constructed serenity.
This held true for every interaction involving Cassian Vesperus as well.
Such measured detachment allowed Lysander to persist within Cassian’s orbit. He was a dutiful scion, never a cause for concern to his parents, and occupied a respectable, if understated, position within the Lyceum Arcanum’s intricate social hierarchy. He clung fiercely to that position, a fragile edifice he had painstakingly erected.
“Lysander, you’re still dawdling?” Valerius Croft’s voice cut through the hum of the Scholars’ Spire study hall. Valerius leaned back in his ornate chair, a sapphire carved from some ancient leviathan’s eye spinning between his fingers.
Lysander glanced up from his parchment. “My pace suits me.”
“Ah, that ponderous pace. It’s an affliction, really. Like watching treacle drip.” Valerius’s smile held too much teeth.
“Perhaps you prefer the frantic rush of a gutter rat?” Lysander retorted, his voice even, though a thread of annoyance tightened in his chest.
“Clever. For you, anyway.” Valerius merely chuckled, unbothered. A crude jest about Lysander’s academic demeanor would only sting if Lysander doubted his own intellect. Cassian, seated nearby, offered a guttural laugh, dismissing Valerius’s jab.
“Valerius, have you no mind for maidens? Your reputation is… vast.” Cassian stretched, his muscles flexing beneath expensive silk.
“What kind of maidens?”
“Suitable ones. Not the kind you typically entertain.”
“Define ‘suitable,’ Cassian.” Valerius arched a brow, the sapphire catching the light.
“Don’t play the scholar, damn you.”
Valerius’s smile widened, but he offered no answer. Cassian’s gaze, however, already drifted. It fixed, with unnerving intensity, on a hunched form at the far end of the hall, near the dusty, forgotten archives. Theron Ashworth.
“…Someone quiet, perhaps. A gentle spirit. Pliant.”
Cassian was a storm, unchecked, his temperament a maelstrom of impulse and crude ambition. Since the onset of his arcane awakening, his actions had been guided by the most base of urges, a fact Lysander hardly needed to prove. Thus, Cassian’s harassment of Theron Ashworth, devoid of any pretense of restraint, had only grown more blatant, a vile stain upon the Lyceum’s polished halls.
---
Today, with the lingering heat of summer’s end clinging to Aethel, Theron Ashworth stood utterly isolated. Yet, even this complete ostracization failed to sate Cassian’s appetites.
Cassian’s coterie, though varied, followed distinct patterns. His immediate cronies, Kael and Seraphina, would linger moments after the chime, awaiting his lead. Others, from the Lyceum’s West Wing, those of lesser Houses or ambition, would scatter at the first announcement of the midday meal, vanishing like shadows.
In Lysander’s first year, he had been a fixture within Cassian’s closest circle. But the second year brought a subtle shift. It began with Seraphina’s offhand comment: “Lysander eats with Valerius, doesn’t he? Gods, you chew like an elder wyrm.” Without a direct word, without any input from Lysander himself, he found himself excluded.
Most galling was Cassian’s indifference. Whether Lysander stayed or departed meant nothing to him. A bitter taste, cold and sharp, coated Lysander’s tongue. He glanced at Cassian, his voice a low, careful murmur.
“Do I truly eat so… slowly?”
“Of course. You sit there, contemplating each morsel like it’s a riddle, while the rest of us finish in five blighted minutes.” Cassian scoffed, not looking up.
“Aye, we’re always late for our sparring practice because of you,” Kael added, a sneer in his tone.
“…Ah.”
“We’ve a wager with the Upper Acolytes today, so eat with Valerius. He’s more your speed.”
Lysander’s pride, a brittle thing, prevented any plea, any protest. Besides, the chronic indigestion that had plagued him through his first year was likely due to the forced pace of those meals. And honestly, the very thought of clinging to Cassian, like a barnacle to a leviathan’s hide, disgusted him. So, he said nothing.
Just like that, he was out. His will, his desires, were utterly inconsequential.
Feigning indifference, Lysander’s gaze met Valerius’s, the only other soul left behind. Valerius, still lounging, caught the sapphire between his teeth, then dropped it to his palm. He lifted a brow, a casual inquiry.
“When do you intend to partake?”
“…”
“I usually venture forth in ten minutes, or so.”
“Yes. That suits me.”
In truth, Lysander had never eaten at such an hour. But instinct, sharp and cold, asserted itself. If he wished to maintain any semblance of a social circle, even Valerius’s, he must adapt. The first time he shared a meal with Valerius alone, he left half his rations untouched, citing a sudden lack of appetite. Valerius merely raised his brow again.
“What are you, Lysander, an elderling still fussy about his gruel?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“Frankly, you’re like a ward of the nursery.”
“Even Archons do not consume raw Kelpie roe with sweet spice paste.” Lysander snapped back, a petulant edge to his voice. What did Valerius care? It pricked a nerve.
In their first year, Cassian and Lysander had been almost inseparable. By the second, those shared moments had dwindled significantly, largely due to Valerius’s growing proximity. Still, Lysander held no right to complain. Valerius, though not of a Great House, commanded a different, undeniable deference within the Lyceum’s intricate politics.
Valerius and Cassian’s circles overlapped often, comprised mostly of boisterous acolytes—those who consistently scraped the bottom of the academic rankings. They were the sort who would forge dismissal writs or vanish during lessons, exploiting the lax oversight of tutors too weary to confirm their whereabouts.
Cassian, ever mindful of his parents’ scrutiny, typically remained until the final chime. As for Valerius, whose reputation was almost as storied, Lysander had once pressed him on his adherence to class. Valerius’s response had echoed in his mind ever since.
“Do you take me for such a fool?”
“No, but your… associates are hardly exemplary.”
“Associates? What meaningless prattle. They are not my ‘friends.’ They are dregs.”
“What?”
“A scholar’s duty is to attend lessons and glean knowledge, is it not?”
“…That is true.”
“Do not lump me with such dregs. It offends.”
“Yes, my apologies.”
“I was not seeking contrition.”
It was a perfectly reasonable statement, yet hearing it from Valerius Croft felt utterly absurd. This was the same acolyte whose so-called friends absconded from the Lyceum at least once a week.
Regardless, Lysander spent the majority of his second year in the company of Cassian Vesperus and Valerius Croft. He considered it a sacred space, a carefully guarded corner that no one else could intrude upon. It would have been perfect without Valerius, yet, surprisingly, they found a strange accord. Lysander did not like Valerius, but he was not so intolerable that Lysander would storm away. He was merely… vexing.
But Theron Ashworth turned even those days into a creeping nightmare.
---
Today, however, carried a subtly different current.
“Damn it. Kael and Seraphina, those craven bastards,” Cassian cursed, gripping his head as the fourth period neared its end. Lysander felt a tremor of anticipation ripple through him.
At the sound of Cassian’s voice, Lysander immediately turned. “They abandoned you again?” he asked, his tone laced with a carefully feigned concern.
“Fallen skalds.”
“Unfortunate. Who will you share your repast with, then?”
Lysander could not suppress the sudden flicker of hope. His fingers, unseen beneath the table, trembled slightly, gripping the back of his chair. Cassian sighed, a heavy, theatrical sound, and looked at Valerius, who sat beside him.
“You two. I’m joining you today.”
“Don’t. No one extended an invitation,” Valerius replied, his voice flat.
“Continue your insolence, and I’ll seal your lips for you.”
“Gods, today truly tempts me to bruise your handsome face, Cassian.”
“Try it, dolt.”
“Big talk from an acolyte who would otherwise break bread alone.”
Lysander could hold back no longer. He interjected, his voice carefully modulated. “Come, let us all break bread together. We cannot leave Cassian to dine in solitude.”
His desperation must have been evident. Cassian smirked, a triumphant gleam in his eyes, and glanced at Valerius.
“See? I possess loyal companions.”
“…”
“What say you, Valerius? Lysander is quite… useful, isn’t he?”
Valerius scowled. He swept Cassian’s stylus case from the desk, sending it clattering to the floor. Whether Valerius held any particular regard for Lysander was immaterial. What mattered, in that moment, was that Cassian would rejoin their table.
It had been so long since they had shared a meal. Lysander was so thrilled he even forced himself to consume a portion of spiced mushroom stew, a dish he abhorred.
But Cassian’s attention was not on his plate. His eyes, sharp and predatory, scoured the Refectory, like a hunting hawk searching for prey. Lysander, too engrossed in the renewed dynamic, barely noticed Valerius plucking the choicest morsels from his own tray. Then, without warning, Cassian’s chopsticks fell with a soft clatter. His free hand snaked out, seizing the arm of a passing acolyte.
Lysander looked up. It was Theron Ashworth.
“Sit here,” Cassian commanded, nodding towards the empty seat beside him. His voice carried a chilling undertone. “You have no one else to eat with, anyway.”
Theron’s face flushed crimson. His eyes darted, landing briefly on Lysander before he bit his lip and slowly, reluctantly, settled into the indicated seat.
Lysander was stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Cassian care whether Theron had companions? And the reason Theron had no companions was entirely Cassian’s doing. Cassian had made it his personal decree that no one approach Theron Ashworth.
A bitter, metallic taste rose in Lysander’s throat.
Unconsciously, Lysander slammed his spoon onto his tray, the sharp clang echoing in the suddenly quieter space around them. Only Theron reacted, flinching and looking at Lysander with wide, nervous eyes. Cassian, however, remained fixated on Theron.
Damn it. In that precise moment, the protective shell Lysander had painstakingly constructed over the years began to fissure. He tried to halt the cracking, but the effort was futile. Perhaps he had reached a breaking point he had refused to acknowledge.
Clinging desperately to denial, Lysander snapped at Theron.
“Theron. Leave.”
“W-what?” Theron stammered.
“Do not heed Cassian. Just go. It is… permitted.”
“Lysander,” Cassian’s voice, dangerously low, cut through the din.
Lysander had told Theron to leave. Cassian, who had ignored the jarring clang of the spoon, now ground his teeth, glaring at Lysander with an icy intensity. That glare, far from deterring him, merely solidified Lysander’s resolve. He fixed his gaze stubbornly on Theron.
“I shall manage this. You may go.”
“Uh, o-okay.” Theron pushed his plate away.
“And Cassian, desist from this charade.”
“Aye, I concur,” Valerius chimed in through a mouthful of roasted fowl, his words barely intelligible. His sudden interjection felt utterly out of place. He chewed and swallowed with deliberate slowness, then glanced between Lysander and Cassian, a truly irritating smirk playing on his lips.
“What are you two staring at? You’re spoiling my appetite.”
As always, Valerius’s unnecessary provocations grated on Lysander’s nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter how Lysander viewed him. Ignoring Valerius, Lysander returned his attention to Cassian.
“Leave Theron Ashworth alone.”
“Who, by the Archons, are you to issue commands?” Cassian shot back, his eyes narrowing.
“It is… tiresome for the rest of us to witness.”
Lysander did not blink. He held Cassian’s stare. Cassian slammed his fist on the table. The sudden impact made Theron, who sat awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Valerius, on the other hand, merely chuckled, raising a hand as if in surrender.
“Count me out of this particular skirmish.”
He licked a drop of water from his lips, then added, “Let us decide by majority. I am neutral. Lysander desires his departure. Cassian insists he remains.”
For the record, Valerius was one of the few who addressed him simply as ‘Lysander,’ not ‘Thorne.’ Each instance chafed. That irritation often leaked into his tone, as it did now.
“Cease your meddling. Your vote holds no weight.”
“Why not? There stands another person right there.” Valerius, unfazed, smirked and pointed at Theron, a casual flick of his hand.
“What? Is Theron not a person?”
“You are unhinged.”
“Why is he silent? Let him voice his preference.”
As if Theron could possibly speak in this tense, charged atmosphere. Lysander sighed at Valerius’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his rice. It was then that Cassian tapped a single finger on the table, a chilling rhythm.
“If you utter a word of leaving, Theron, you are dead to me from this moment forth.”
Tears began to well in Theron’s large eyes, which glimmered as he looked at Lysander, a silent, desperate plea for succor. Damn it. Lysander pressed his lips together, a hard, firm line.
“It is fine. I shall deter him,” Lysander said, his voice low, intended to reassure Theron.
“Lysander,” Cassian growled, his voice tight with barely contained rage.
Lysander forced himself to meet Cassian’s gaze, feigning a calm he did not possess. He felt the overwhelming urge to fracture, to crumble. To suppress it, he looked up at the vaulted ceiling of the Refectory for a moment before lowering his head, replying with forced nonchalance.
“What is it?”
“You…”
Cassian clenched his fist, glaring at Lysander with an intensity that felt like a searing brand. Still, Lysander had to endure. His instincts screamed that he could not abandon Theron to Cassian’s capricious cruelty.
But Cassian’s focus, abruptly, shifted back to Theron.
“I-I will go,” Theron stammered, his voice a reedy tremor.
“…”
“Th-thank you, Lysander.”
Theron hurriedly rose, his footsteps unsteady, a blur of motion as he fled. As soon as he was gone, Cassian turned abruptly, his gaze hardening.