A full week of muted silence stretched between us, thick as the Conservatory’s morning mist. Alaric Thorne moved with his usual entourage, a storm front of power and indifference. I, in turn, cultivated an air of profound detachment, a silent pronouncement that his presence held no sway over my composure.
Flanking Lysander Vane, occasionally exchanging a clipped word with other casual acquaintances, I maintained the intricate illusion. My gaze remained purposefully fixed on nothing, or on the intricate carvings of the ancient stone walls, anywhere but Alaric.
Most vexing was this imposed distance. It severed the direct channels to whispers of Alaric’s actions, his moods. I had to rely on Lysander’s casual observations, stray comments offered between arcane diagram studies or debates on forgotten composers.
When a specific detail gnawed at me, a question too insistent to ignore, I would approach Lysander. A profound internal battle waged: my burning curiosity against my unyielding pride. It always felt a ridiculous, ignoble surrender.
Lysander, often hunched over a worn tome of ancient runes, or sketching complex sigils onto a grimoire page, would answer with a shrug. He never met my gaze. “Thorne? He left again.”
His nonchalance struck me dumb.
“...Damned fool.”
I understood the violent currents that stirred within Alaric. He was raw, instinct-driven, a creature of intense, untamed emotion. A wild thing cloaked in Conservatory silks.
“Probably to one of those unsanctioned gatherings,” I murmured, a guess that felt too accurate.
“No,” Lysander replied, his pencil scratching on the parchment. He shifted, adjusting his posture. “An arranged introduction, this time. From that Elmswood girl, Calista. She’d been pestering her patrons for weeks to meet him. Apparently, they vanished together. The moment they met. No hesitation.”
My breath caught. “...”
“Both remarkably… unburdened by decorum,” he added, his voice a dry rasp.
Not admiration, not praise. His tone was edged with a refined disdain. For the first time in days, something in my chest loosened. I eased onto the edge of Lysander’s vast mahogany desk, a relic itself, tapping his shoulder lightly. He glanced up, then leaned back, offering me more space.
Lysander, despite his own House’s minor feud with the Thornes, was the only one who openly critiqued Alaric’s boorish social entanglements. For that, I found him, if not agreeable, then at least tolerable.
“Disgustingly… unconcerned,” I corrected, savoring the word.
“Truly,” he agreed. “Unlike myself, burdened by every concern imaginable.”
His feigned self-pity brought a small, private laugh from me.
“Isn’t that the very essence of a Conservatory scholar? To be burdened by thought?”
“A false construct. One learns to embrace the trivial as profound. Human intellect is a malleable thing,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips, his eyes still fixed on his drawing.
“Is that why you’re still solitary?” I countered, a barb delivered with practiced lightness.
Finally, Lysander put down his pencil. He regarded me with an incredulous smile, tapping my hand where it rested on his shoulder.
“I’m filing a formal grievance against you, Elara.”
“How is this a grievance?”
“If the recipient feels discomfort, it is a transgression.”
“Lysander, you are truly insufferable.”
“Lecher.”
One of my soft leather slippers slipped from my foot, dropping silently to the polished stone floor. Ignoring it, I nudged Lysander’s leg with my sock-clad foot. He feigned a dramatic shove, then casually raised a hand, turning his palm towards me. Encircling his left wrist was an ancient, tarnished silver Sigil of Constancy, its intricate lines worn smooth from generations of touch. I nudged his leg again.
“That sigil doesn’t suit you.”
“Oh? Why not?” he asked, a sudden, almost uncharacteristic seriousness entering his voice.
Why such gravity for this?
“It just… clashes with your nature.”
“Clashes? I am a paragon of constancy and steadfastness. A pillar of ancient tradition.”
“No. It looks like an affectation.”
“...It is not.”
Perhaps I should have divined it from the name ‘Lysander’ itself, from the old Veridian scrolls. But I had always assumed it was a shortened form, perhaps for ‘Lysander, be quiet.’ It turned out Lysander was precisely that Lysander, descendant of a founding family devoted to ancient oaths. His family, surprisingly, had guarded the Sigil for centuries, a lineage of austere scholars. More shocking, Lysander himself claimed a profound reverence for its tenets. Yet, he couldn’t recite a single oath with conviction.
---
I spent the week sidestepping Alaric Thorne. Whenever our paths converged in a lecture hall or a practice room, my eyes would flick to him, then instantly away. My gaze would find the ornate cornices, the dusty portraits of long-dead Rectors, anything but his face.
I still lacked the resolve to speak. To initiate. Perhaps I feared to lose. The pathetic, childish notion that the one who cares more, loses—it gnawed at me. Even knowing its absurdity, my voice clung to my throat.
Alaric’s younger brother, Theron, often approached me, a moth drawn to a dim flame. I was likely the only one who consistently offered him a response. But seeing the fresh bruising marring his face daily, a new shade of violet against his pale skin, affirmed Alaric’s ongoing torment. A beast marking its territory, hidden from the masters’ eyes.
When my brow furrowed at the sight, Theron would flinch, turning his head to conceal the damage.
Four more days crawled by. One quiet morning, alone in the vast scriptorium, I buried my face in my hands. The escalating, ugly drama unfolding here felt like a crude desecration of these hallowed halls. I wanted no part of it.
The fissure between myself and Alaric widened, a stark divide. What had been a mere crack had now become a chasm, gaping and dark. Opening my eyes felt like staring into its depths. Theron’s swollen eyelids, the mottled skin, were as blatant as a stamped seal on a parchment. That evidence only fueled my desire to avoid them both. I craved oblivion.
Then, as if fate had momentarily granted a cruel favor, Theron Thorne ceased attending. Master Roric, our arcane composition instructor, murmured ‘absence’ with a hesitation that betrayed the truth: truancy. A small, wicked thrill surged through me.
Alaric, meanwhile, grew restless in class. He fidgeted with a polished geomancy stone, snapped cryptic remarks at his peers, or delivered a sharp, bruising blow to one of his lackeys for a misplaced comment. He was a caged animal.
A part of me felt a cold satisfaction. Another, a strange sense of superiority, bloomed. I convinced myself that once Theron officially transferred, or simply vanished, Alaric would lose his brutal focus. He would turn back to me. Confident in this delusive thought, I waited, a spider in its web.
Several more days drifted past, like dust motes in a shaft of weak light.
“Alaric Thorne seems uncharacteristically subdued,” Lysander observed, his voice soft enough to be swallowed by the high ceilings. My heart gave a heavy, irregular beat. My head yearned to turn, to seek Alaric’s face, to confirm this. But I was a coward in matters of the heart. All I could do was listen to Lysander’s words, conjuring an image.
Yet, nothing shifted. The day wore on, lectures ended, the Conservatory emptied. I rationalized: there would be another chance tomorrow. These things did not change so swiftly. I continued my vigil. When the last lecture concluded, and I was slinging my satchel over my shoulder, Lysander spoke, his voice carrying an unexpected weight.
“You quarrelled with Alaric Thorne, didn’t you?”
I spun reflexively at his words.
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me you still haven’t resolved that incident from the Refectory?”
“...”
“Remarkable. This has protracted beyond my initial estimations,” Lysander said, shrugging, his hands casually tucked into the deep pockets of his robes. I averted his gaze, mumbling an excuse.
“Honestly, Alaric went too far. I despise seeing such… casual brutality. It’s simply… unsettling, you understand?”
“What is?”
“...Well, Theron is his own brother, isn’t he?”
“And?”
“The way Alaric treats Theron… it’s grotesque. His own blood. I wish he would cease.”
“How virtuous.”
“...”
“You are undoubtedly destined for the Elysian Fields.”
Lysander’s response to my carefully constructed moral pronouncement was steeped in acid.
Annoyed by his malicious tone, I glared. He simply smirked, unfazed. Confronted by that knowing expression, I felt utterly exposed, a flush rising to my cheeks. Quickly, I turned my back, ignoring his mocking grin, and strode from the classroom.
As I hurried down the echoing hallway, intent on reaching the Conservatory’s gates, a hand suddenly gripped my shoulder. Assuming it was Lysander, an edge of irritation in my voice, I whirled, pulling my arm free. But it was not him. Master Roric, our arcane instructor, stood there. Startled, I quickly composed my expression.
“My apologies, Caspian. Did I alarm you?”
“Oh, no, Master Roric. Not at all. Merely… surprised.”
“Indeed. I am truly sorry, but… might I trouble you for a brief moment of your time?”
“Master?”
“Just a second. Please.”
Young Master Roric’s face held an unusual gravity, so I nodded.
“Today, Alaric asked me for Theron’s residence,” the Master said, his voice low and cautious.
“Alaric Thorne?”
It was clear that, as a Master, he could not be entirely oblivious to the undercurrents of cruelty in his class. Yet, he lacked the fortitude to confront the toxic atmosphere directly. Still, he was not so callous as to completely ignore it. His coming to me about Theron was proof enough of that.
“I am not accusing, nor assigning blame to Alaric, but…”
“No, Master. I understand. It is not unexpected,” I replied swiftly, cutting him off.
“Well, given your… frequent observations of Theron, I wondered if you might accompany Alaric to his brother’s house. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
I could not answer immediately. My jaw ached from the tension.
Alaric’s possessive emotions, his cruel obsession for Theron, began to seep towards me, chilling my feet, anchoring me to the flagstones. My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. I could not remain passive.
“Could I… procure Theron’s private communication number, then?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Here, allow me. Endeavour to reach him first.”
“Certainly. I shall speak with him. Do not overly concern yourself.”
“Very well. I am counting on your discretion, Caspian.”
“Yes, Master.”
On the surface, I presented a calm façade, but internally, a tempest raged. Master Roric handed me Theron’s private number, retrieved from the enrollment registry, then, looking profoundly uncomfortable, departed the hallway. The scent of old parchment and the Master’s lavender cologne lingered.
I had to intercept Alaric Thorne. I absolutely had to prevent his strange, escalating obsession from finding its brutal culmination. The moment Master Roric’s footsteps faded, I extracted my own arcane communicator, my fingers flying to dial Theron’s number. My leg jittered uncontrollably, and I clenched and unclenched my hand as I waited for the connection. Surprisingly, it connected swiftly.
“Hello?”
“It’s Caspian. Theron Thorne, correct?”
As soon as his voice registered, I rushed my words. A sudden clattering noise erupted on the other end—something falling, striking another object, followed by a rustling sound. After a pause, Theron’s voice returned, faint and hesitant.
“C-Caspian? Caspian! W-why… How… how did you obtain my number? Did you… already possess it?”
“No. Master Roric informed me that Alaric asked for your home address today. So I requested your number.”
“...”
“I merely wished to caution you. Be vigilant.”
“W-what of you? Are you well? Even when you attempt to intercede…”
“Do not fret for me. Focus on your own safety. Should you require further leave from the Conservatory, call this number. I will intercede with Master Roric. I am, believe it or not, held in some regard.”
“...Thank you.”
“If Alaric attempts to harass you, or strike you within the Conservatory, inform me immediately. If words fail you, a tap on the shoulder will suffice. It is harder to rectify matters once they have already transpired.”
“Understood…”
“Honestly, a transfer to another institution would be your best recourse.”
I slipped that in, hoping its weight would register.
“...”
“In any case, contemplate it. For now, either pretend you are not present, or remove yourself to a distant location.”
“O-okay…”
“Very well. I am concluding the communication.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Caspian.”
After a long, trembling hesitation, Theron’s voice emerged, soft and wavering. What in the Abyss was that? Honestly, it made me profoundly uncomfortable.
“T-thank you for always… aiding me…”
“It is nothing.”
“I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. I-I shall see you later.”
“Indeed.”
“...Farewell.”
Farewell? What kind of farewell?
I did not bother to respond to his parting words and ended the call. The sound of Theron’s voice, crawling into my ears, was enough to send a cold shiver down my spine, leaving me thoroughly unsettled.
What transpired with Theron that night, I do not know. All I observed was that from the next day onward, Theron began attending the Conservatory once more. And within a week, the faint, youthful pallor of his skin began to regain its natural flush. Theron also ceased his sudden, eager approaches to me, his demeanor subtly but dramatically altered.
This abrupt shift in his behavior planted the seeds of suspicion in my mind. Yet, when all the bruises on Theron’s face finally vanished, I could not help but feel a faint, unlikely sense of hope bloom within me.
Then, two weeks later, Alaric Thorne approached me, without warning.
“Elara.”
“...”
“Caspian Elara.”
“...”
I did not look at him, keeping my gaze fixed straight ahead, on a distant, illusory point. But my lips felt as if they might break open with a choked gasp at any moment.
Could it be that Alaric Thorne was finally weary of Theron?