Two days had withered since the incident in the Grand Archives, marked by the steady drip of the water clock in my chamber. A small, crumpled note, forgotten until now, surfaced from the depths of my ward-crafting tunic pouch. “Could you convene in the antechamber of dormant wards before Arcane Athletics today?” A fleeting thought, absurd and untethered, brushed my mind: a clandestine declaration. Dismissed it was, almost instantly. This was the Aethelian Scholarium, after all, an institution for young scions of noble houses, exclusively male. Such romantic overtures were an impossibility. My attention drifted from the missive, returning only moments before the fourth period, the designated hour for Arcane Athletics. The call of the drill-field, with its echoing chants and the scent of arcane residue, seemed distant. Having donned the supple leather and reinforced linen of my athletic tunic, I made my way towards the older wing, the repository for forgotten implements and inert enchantments. A flicker of curiosity stirred, a mild interest in the note's author, yet I afforded it no significant weight. Presumed it was nothing of consequence. The sender, however, proved startlingly unexpected. Elaraen Vane. His presence was a quiet shock. He was a junior acolyte, unremarkable in his studies, known for his perpetually downcast eyes and a nervous habit of smoothing his dark, fine hair. “Elaraen?” My voice, a low query, pulled his small, hunched form from where he gnawed at a fingernail. His head snapped up, a flash of nervous energy. He offered a tentative wave, his lips stretching into the same bright, almost saccharine smile he’d worn upon his transfer to our esteemed institution. That particular smile, so guileless, always chafed at my composure. A faint crease deepened between my brows. “What is it, then? Why this sudden summons?” Responded he did, with a nervous twisting of plump fingers, his gaze darting about the dusty antechamber. He was a blur of indecision. “Ah, I… there is something I wish to impart…” “Speak it, then.” An urgent desire to depart consumed me. Candidly, I wished no one to witness us alone. My carefully cultivated anonymity, my unassuming facade, felt perilously exposed. Association with Elaraen Vane, a figure of such meekness, invited unwanted notice. I extended courtesies to Elaraen only to maintain a veneer of propriety—no more, no less. Oblivious to the quickening pulse of my irritation, Elaraen continued to fret, his thumb caught between his teeth, eyes skittering across the shadowed corners of the room. His face betrayed a warring mixture of trepidation and resolve. Just as he seemed poised to utter a word, his mouth would clamp shut, a silent struggle. A spark of ire ignited within me. My antipathy for Elaraen Vane was a long-standing, quiet truth. Every nervous tic, every hesitant gesture, only served to amplify this existing dislike. His small mouth worked soundlessly, a motion that might have been deemed endearing by a more charitable observer, but to me, it was maddening. Perhaps, I conceded, I was overly sensitive. “Look, my apologies, but my presence is required in class. Can you not simply articulate your purpose?” To exacerbate matters, my own constitution was not at its zenith. A knot of frustration and a dull ache throbbed behind my eyes, blurring the edges of my patience. Perhaps my vexation was not truly aimed at Elaraen. Perhaps I merely sought an outlet for the churning unrest within. Lately, my gut had been a tempest, churning anxieties into physical discomfort. The stress gnawed at me, a silent parasite. Lost in these roiling thoughts, Elaraen finally seemed to reach a fragile decision. His voice, a reedy whisper, barely carried through the musty air. “Uh, Lysander… I… you see, I…” “Yes?” I offered a half-hearted reply, my fingers tracing the back of my neck. The break was waning; I yearned for him to simply disgorge his message. A dark impulse, to pry open his hesitant mouth and drag the words forth, stirred within me. Then, with an unfortunate suddenness, the antechamber door creaked open. Both Elaraen and I turned, our gazes snaring upon Kaelen Blackwood, who stood framed in the dim light, gasping for breath. No, not entirely. Kaelen’s eyes were not upon me. They were fixed, burning, upon Elaraen. His labored breaths filled the silence, heavy and ragged. A suffocating ache constricted my chest as I pictured him, racing through the hallowed halls of the Scholarium, seeking Elaraen. A knot of dread tightened. Kaelen let out a long, shuddering exhale, then strode with an unnerving confidence into the antechamber. Unconsciously, my hand, which had been rubbing my neck, dropped. Kaelen’s gaze, sharp as a dueling blade, flickered between Elaraen and me, his expression fierce, almost feral. “Why are you here, with him?” His words hung, ambiguous in their target. His fists, clenched moments before, opened and closed in a silent threat. Beneath my practiced calm, my insides felt as if they were being pummeled. After an agonizing pause, Kaelen’s eyes finally settled upon me. The intensity of that gaze, a raw accusation, was unbearable. It felt as though a branding iron had been pressed to my skin. “What in the Aethel’s name, Kaelen?” Please, I pleaded silently, do not look at me thus. Blame Elaraen for this summons. Why gaze at me, your purported confidant, with such venom? I was dragged into this regrettable entanglement by his timidity. Even as these thoughts raced, Kaelen’s blazing eyes remained locked on mine. I knew, with a chilling certainty, that these were not the eyes of passion or fervent devotion. They were the eyes of one consumed by a terrible rage, by a jealous madness. It was the visage of a man deranged by an obsessive affection—a face I found equally pitiable and despicable. “Why are you here, with him?!” You appear pathetic, Kaelen. So utterly pathetic. I met his glare with a defiance I barely felt. Yet, a chilling realization, a grotesque twist, settled in my gut: the truly pathetic one was not Kaelen. It was I. Before my mind could fully grasp the progression, Kaelen’s long strides had brought him directly before me. The moment I stared into the furious depths of his face, the world lurched, violently. “...!” My mind struggled to process. My body toppled, a graceless heap against the dusty floor. Only then did the event replay itself, a slow, horrifying reel. “Impossible…” He had struck me. Kaelen Blackwood had struck Lysander Thorne. On the floor, I raised a trembling hand to my cheek. The shock was absolute. How could you… How could you inflict such a blow upon me? “L-Lysander!” “You craven! I told you to address me as Kaelen! No, do not address me at all—do not speak my name, you worm!” Elaraen, horror etched on his pale face, started towards me. Kaelen, however, roared like a madman. At Kaelen’s enraged countenance, Elaraen’s expression turned increasingly ashen. “I-I am sorry, truly sorry.” “You pledged! You damned well pledged! Damn it all!” Elaraen recoiled, tears gathering in his eyes. But no, he was not the one who should weep. I was. Tears welled, hot and bitter, threatening to spill over. Mercifully, before my composure shattered completely, Kaelen uttered a guttural curse, then seized Elaraen by the arm and dragged him from the antechamber. It transpired with bewildering speed. Left alone, slumped on the floor, I stared at the half-open door. A shaft of pale sunlight pierced the gloom, illuminating dancing dust motes. Something within me finally gave way. The dam holding back my torrent of emotion burst, and tears flowed freely, hot trails down my bruised cheek. I despised everything. Elaraen Vane, who had drawn me into this ignominy. Kaelen Blackwood, who had struck me. I wished them both to simply vanish, to be erased from existence. A profound misery settled, for I had been reduced to a mere pawn, an unwitting bystander in their twisted, volatile drama. Rising stiffly, I abandoned Arcane Athletics. I proceeded directly to the Master Scholar’s office, requesting an early dismissal. My swollen, reddened face lent credence to my vague excuse of ‘a sudden affliction,’ and my homeroom Master, ever discerning, seemed to understand without prying. --- Returning to my chambers, I collapsed onto my bed, surrendering to a fitful sleep. When I awoke, my face had indeed swollen, a tender bruise blooming on my cheekbone. Out of long-ingrained habit, I accessed my personal Scry-slate. A message awaited from Thane Valerius. We rarely exchanged communiques, but I held a record of his contact, primarily due to his association with Kaelen. Damn it. For any other, I would have ignored the message. But Thane Valerius was not simply ‘any other.’ He stood second only to Kaelen Blackwood in influence, a silent arbiter within the Scholarium’s social hierarchy. To disregard him was an unwise gamble. “Elder Thorne, when did you abscond from the drills?” I clicked my tongue, composing a belated reply to the three-hour-old query. “Haha, felt rather indisposed.” Deliberately, I kept my tone light, almost flippant. The thought of others discovering Kaelen’s violent outburst, that I had been struck, was unbearably humiliating. And all of it, ultimately, because of Elaraen Vane. “Are you quite well?” Thane Valerius, exhibiting concern? A strange current ran through me, unsettling. I powered down my Scry-slate, the glowing script fading into black. Hours later, a wave of profound sadness washed over me. Even Thane’s message, tinged with a detached concern, felt suffocating. Other acquaintances, those with whom I shared study sessions, had also reached out. None of it, however, was what I truly yearned for. No message, no inquiry, came from Kaelen Blackwood. I must be quite mad, I mused, to still harbor such a desperate, foolish hope. Still, I offered myself a hollow consolation, thinking this was the inevitable fate of one consumed by such a maddening, unrequited devotion. Even knowing the bitter truth, I lay there, an utter fool, doing what I did best—closing my eyes, turning a blind gaze upon reality. “...I am not the sole victim.” Perhaps Elaraen Vane and I shared a common plight. That strange, twisted, grotesque thought clung to my mind. A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with it. While staring at the vaulted ceiling of my chamber, another message materialized. An unknown sender. “Lysander, are you gravely unwell?” A frown creased my brow. Which of my peers would presume to address me with such familiarity? Thane? But the sigil on the message was unfamiliar. Before I could ponder further, a subsequent message arrived, relentless and infuriating. “My deepest apologies. Truly sorry. This is all due to my fault.” “I am sorry.” “Please, forgive me.” Whether three words or four, each one stoked a growing inferno of rage. With a frustrated cry, I flung my Scry-slate across the room, the impact muffled by the thick chamber rug. How had this craven, this boy who purportedly possessed no such device, acquired my private sigil? A sudden, unwelcome memory surfaced. Ah. I had called him once, had I not? Weeks ago, a query about a forgotten textual reference. A moment of intellectual weakness. I cursed my own idiotic mind, letting out a frustrated sigh that felt too thin for the depth of my anger. To vent my frustration, I pounded my fists against the yielding mattress for a time, until exhaustion claimed me and I drifted into another fitful sleep. Just before my thoughts entirely dissolved, one final, insistent message echoed in the fading recesses of my awareness. “Please, do not hold hatred for me.” Humorous. I had harbored hatred for you for months already. The next morning, I awoke to a face swollen grotesquely, resembling a poorly-formed bread bun. --- I absented myself from the Scholarium. No matter my reputation as a diligent acolyte, my passion for arcane studies was not so profound as to face the student body with such a countenance. The House Majoris, ever efficient, prepared my mid-day meal. As I ate, she could not resist a gentle scolding, urging me to exercise more caution. The meal itself was simple fare—a soft, bland porridge, accompanied by limp, seasoned greens. I swallowed it all without much mastication, the flavors indistinct. Setting down my spoon, I reached for a goblet of spiced water. The House Majoris moved to clear the dishes. With a plate held delicately in one hand, she spoke. “Lysander, a visitor awaits you.” “Who?” “Shall I permit entry?” A visitor. The word, simple and mundane, sent a strange flutter through my chest. Before I could even identify the emotion, my mind had already begun to conjure an image of who might stand beyond my family’s formidable outer wards. Could it be… Kaelen Blackwood? It seemed a wild, improbable fantasy, yet not entirely impossible. Few from the Scholarium had ever crossed the threshold of my family’s estate. Among my acquaintances, only a handful even knew its exact location. If it were he, then surely he had come to offer an apology, consumed by guilt for his unprecedented violence. Kaelen had never before raised a hand against me, not once. Yes, he must be riddled with worry, with regret. He had finally felt the sting of conscience. “Yes, House Majoris, please, usher them in.” The fantasy solidified into a fragile certainty. Even as I chastised myself for such naive hope, I could not suppress a small, shameful thrill of satisfaction. Despite all, I still held some significance to him. The thought, foolish and self-deceptive as it was, suffused me with an inexplicable, fleeting warmth. I turned towards the grand entrance, my pace quickening with an excitement I dared not acknowledge. But the figure waiting there was not the one my desperate heart had imagined. “Yo, what arcane mischief have you been brewing?” Thane Valerius. His sharp, angular face greeted me with a playful smirk, a leather satchel, likely containing rare tinctures or arcane devices, slung over his shoulder. He held aloft a small bag of candied grubs, a common Scholarium treat. His eyes, however, snagged upon my swollen face, and his carefree demeanor evaporated. He stopped abruptly, his voice unusually serious. “What in Aethel’s name happened to your face?” My knees almost buckled from the sudden, profound letdown. How, I wondered, did Thane Valerius even know the location of my family’s hidden manor? “...I merely stumbled,” I replied, my voice flat, devoid of inflection. Thane’s brow furrowed, his lips twisting into that familiar, sardonic sneer he reserved for moments of disbelief. “You are truly an idiot, are you not, Thorne?” I offered no argument. Instead, I rubbed my swollen cheek, a dull ache throbbing beneath my fingertips. A fresh wave of embarrassment surged, thinking of my earlier, foolish anticipation. I was indeed an idiot. Kaelen Blackwood did not consider me important. And here I was, wagging my tail like a hopeful, idiotic hound, desperate for scraps of his attention. “Here, take this.” Thane extended a small, chilled block of frozen fruit sorbet. I accepted it, immediately prying open the lid to inspect its contents. “...It is moon-petal saffron.” “Is it? Did not notice.” “Figures. Why would you care?” “Damn, that is rather cutting, Thorne.” “What, precisely, are you doing here?” “What do you surmise? Came to ascertain your well-being. Do you mind if I enter?” “Hey, wait!” Without an ounce of hesitation, his long legs carried him across the threshold, past the House Majoris, into the heart of the manor. “Where is your study?” “Hey, where do you believe you are going?” “Where else? There is no other destination of interest in your residence.” “...” I had no retort. He was correct. All residences, in their fundamental structure, were alike, were they not? A wave of awkwardness washed over me. I followed Thane, who seemed oddly intent on inspecting the interior of my carefully secluded home, a place rarely touched by outside eyes.

The Weight of a Gaze