Two days after the infirmary visit, a folded square of parchment awaited Caspian in the arcane scripts locker. Its presence, tucked between his worn-leather grimoire and a bundle of dried mugwort, was unexpected.
A faint scent of lavender, not his usual ink, clung to the paper. His fingers, usually steady, hesitated before retrieving it.
Could it be an invitation? A summons from the Master Archivist, perhaps? But the delicate script wasn't official. It hinted at something personal.
*“Could you spare a moment in the disused observation chamber before Arcane Theory today?”*
His mind briefly flickered to the ridiculous notion of a confession. Then, a dry, bitter laugh caught in his throat. This was Veridia Conservatory. Expressions of affection were meticulously veiled, if they existed at all, beneath layers of ambition and calculated disdain. Such open sentiment was unheard of, certainly not directed at *him*.
The idea was quickly dismissed, banished to the realm of absurd daydreams. It couldn't be it. He almost forgot about the note, swept up in the intricate composition required for his Arcane Theory module. Only as the bell chimed, echoing through the mist-wreathed cloisters, did the lavender-scented parchment return to mind.
---
After changing into his plain, charcoal study robes – a sharp contrast to the shimmering silks some of his peers favored – Caspian navigated the labyrinthine passages towards the Conservatory’s disused observation chamber. Curiosity was a dull ache, overshadowed by a familiar dread of awkward encounters. He assumed it was nothing significant.
The chamber lay forgotten, its grand astrolabe gathering dust, its leaded-glass windows opaque with grime. Pale light filtered through the vaulted ceiling, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the stale air. A small figure huddled by a tarnished brass telescope, picking nervously at his fingernails.
Elian.
“Elian?” Caspian’s voice, though quiet, seemed to echo too loudly in the silence.
The boy, a junior apprentice in Hermetic Arts, startled. His head, adorned with neatly pressed dark hair, snapped up. A timid, almost desperate smile stretched his lips. It was the same strained cheer he’d worn when Caspian had, out of a momentary lapse of judgment, helped him retrieve a dropped sheaf of rare celestial charts.
That memory alone chafed.
“What is it?” Caspian asked, his tone clipped. “Why the sudden summons?”
Elian’s plump fingers twisted, a nervous habit. He glanced around the chamber, his eyes darting to the shadowed corners.
“Ah, I… I have something I want to say, Caspian.”
“Say it, then.”
Caspian wanted to leave. Urgently. He did not want to be seen alone with Elian, whose very presence seemed to invite whispers. The Conservatory thrived on rumor, dissecting every perceived social misstep. His previous, minor kindness towards Elian had been precisely calibrated to appear 'morally upright,' nothing more, nothing less. Now, it felt like a trap.
Oblivious to Caspian’s mounting discomfort, Elian continued to bite his thumb, his gaze flitting about the dusty room. Indecision warred with a fragile determination on his face. Each time he seemed ready to speak, his mouth clamped shut.
A sigh caught in Caspian’s chest. This irritating hesitation. He’d never particularly liked Elian, finding his meekness a drain on his already-limited social energy. Every nervous tic, every stammer, only deepened Caspian’s exasperation. Perhaps he was overly sensitive today, his own anxieties a raw, exposed nerve.
“Look, forgive me, but my Arcane Theory module begins soon. Can you just state your purpose?”
His head felt a tangled mess of frustrations. He hadn't slept well since Seraphina's chilling visit, his mind replaying Lysander's injured hand, her unsettling words. Perhaps the anger wasn't solely for Elian. Perhaps it was a convenient target. His stomach, always a barometer of his inner turmoil, had been protesting for days.
As Caspian wrestled with these thoughts, Elian seemed to gather himself. His voice was a small, stammering whisper.
“Uh, Caspian… I… uh, you see, I…”
“Yes?” Caspian responded, rubbing the back of his neck, a familiar gesture of unease. The chiming of the first preparatory bell for the next module echoed faintly. He wished Elian would just spit it out. A ridiculous urge to physically pry the words from the boy’s mouth flickered.
---
Then, the heavy oak door of the observation chamber swung inward. Its sudden creak ripped through the oppressive quiet.
Both Elian and Caspian turned. Their eyes met Lysander Thorne’s, who stood framed in the doorway, chest heaving. His breathing was ragged, betraying a frantic run through the Conservatory’s labyrinthine corridors. His elegant jacket was askew.
A suffocating ache tightened Caspian’s own chest. The image of Lysander tearing through the halls, searching for *him*, for Elian, was a disturbing tableau.
Lysander exhaled, a long, drawn-out sound, and strode confidently into the chamber. Caspian’s hand, still at his neck, dropped. Lysander’s gaze, a cold, predatory blue, flickered between Elian and Caspian. His expression was fierce, possessive.
“Why are you here with him?”
The words were low, clipped, aimed at no one and everyone. Lysander’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, then slowly unclenched.
Beneath Caspian’s carefully constructed outward calm, a tremor started, rattling his bones. After a prolonged, excruciating silence, Lysander’s eyes finally settled on Caspian.
It was unbearable. The weight of that stare pressed down, crushing.
“What in the blazes, Lysander?”
*Please, don’t look at me like that.* Blame Elian for calling him here. Why was Lysander staring at *him*, Caspian, his designated caretaker, with such raw, seething resentment? He had been dragged into this sordid mess.
Even as the thought formed, Lysander’s burning eyes remained locked. Caspian, with his keen emotional intelligence, felt the heat emanating from them, a roiling tempest of rage, jealousy, and something deeper, more insidious. Madness. It was the face of a man consumed by an aberrant love – a face Caspian found both pitiable and utterly despicable.
“Why are you here with him!” Lysander repeated, his voice rising, reverberating off the dusty walls.
*You look pathetic, Lysander.* So utterly pathetic. Caspian met his gaze, a defiant spark in his own eyes. Yet, a chilling thought whispered: *the pitiful one isn't you, it's me.*
Before Caspian could react, Lysander’s long strides had brought him inches away. The world tilted, a sudden, blinding flash.
“...!”
He couldn’t even register the impact. His body crumpled, limbs tangling, hitting the grimy stone floor with a jarring thud. Only then did his mind re-construct the split-second sequence of events.
“No…”
Lysander had struck him.
Lysander Thorne had just struck Caspian Elara.
Lying there amidst the dust and forgotten arcana, Caspian touched his throbbing cheek with trembling fingers. Disbelief warred with a sickening realization. How could Lysander... How could he do this to *him*?
“C-Caspian!” Elian gasped, scrambling forward.
“You wretched boy! I told you to stay away from him! Get out, now!” Lysander screamed, his voice raw, unhinged. Elian, horrified, froze. Lysander’s face was a mask of furious contempt.
“I… I’m sorry, Lysander, I’m so sorry.”
“You swore! You promised me! Damn you!”
Elian stumbled back, tears welling in his wide eyes. But no, Caspian thought, he wasn't the one who should be crying. *I was.*
Tears pricked at Caspian’s own eyes, hot and threatening to spill. Before the dam broke, Lysander cursed, a choked, guttural sound, and seized Elian by the arm, dragging him violently from the chamber. The heavy door slammed shut, plunging Caspian into a sudden, echoing silence.
---
Left sitting alone on the cold, hard floor, Caspian stared at the crack beneath the half-closed door. A sliver of pale light, like a malicious whisper, streamed through the gap. Something inside him finally gave way. The carefully constructed walls of his composure, his pride, shattered. Tears, hot and shameful, flowed freely.
He hated everything. Elian, who had so foolishly summoned him here, dragging him into this disgrace. Lysander, who had struck him, revealing the terrifying depths of his obsession. He wished they would both simply vanish from the Conservatory, from his life. He felt utterly miserable, reduced to a mere pawn in their twisted, clandestine drama.
Pushing himself up, he ignored the throbbing pain in his cheek. He wouldn't attend Arcane Theory. He wouldn't show his face. Instead, he made his way to the Master of Studies’ office, requesting an early dismissal. His swollen, reddened face, though he tried to hide it, made his excuse of a sudden "sick headache" tragically believable. The Master, a stoic woman with sharp eyes, seemed to understand without prying. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment too long, a subtle shift in the air that suggested she knew more than she let on.
---
His secluded chambers, usually a sanctuary, felt like a prison. He collapsed onto his bed, the velvet drapes pulled tight against the afternoon light, and slipped into a fitful, dreamless sleep.
When he woke, hours later, his face felt a swollen, tender mess. The faint bruise was already blooming on his cheekbone. Out of habit, he reached for the small, heavy slate he used for Conservatory communications – its runic interface displayed any urgent messages from professors or official summons. It wasn't designed for casual chatter, but some students had found ways to route personal messages through it.
A new message blinked, not from a professor, but from Lord Alaric. They rarely exchanged private messages. Damn it. Alaric, a scion of a powerful House and a favorite of the Headmaster, possessed an alarming amount of influence amongst the student cliques. Caspian couldn't afford to ignore him.
*“Elara. Heard you vanished. Everything alright?”*
Caspian clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The message was almost three hours old.
*“Alaric. Just a sudden malaise. Resting.”*
He kept his reply deliberately vague, light. The thought of anyone discovering that Lysander Thorne had struck him, and worse, *why*, was an unbearable humiliation. All because of Elian, of all people.
*“Malaise? Uncommon for you. Are you truly well?”*
Lord Alaric, showing concern? What in the Blazes? A strange unease coiled in Caspian’s gut. He shut down the slate’s interface, plunging the small screen into darkness.
Hours bled into twilight. A wave of profound sadness washed over him. Even Alaric’s message felt suffocating, intrusive. Other, less influential peers had also sent brief, formal inquiries through the network, but none of it was what he craved.
No one searching for him included Lysander. He must be out of his mind, expecting it. Still, he consoled himself with the familiar, bitter thought: this was the fate of someone consumed by maddening, destructive love.
Even knowing the stark truth, Caspian lay there, face pressed into the pillow, doing what he did best – closing his eyes, turning a blind eye to the stark, ugly reality.
*“...I’m not the only one,”* he whispered to the silence.
Perhaps Elian and he shared a similar fate. A strange, twisted, grotesque thought, clinging to a selfish, wicked, childish hope. As he stared at the ornate ceiling, another message pulsed on the slate’s dormant interface. It was from an unknown proxy.
*“Caspian, are you feeling very unwell?”*
Caspian frowned. Who among his peers would address him so informally, especially through an unlisted proxy? Alaric? No, this wasn't his usual channel. Before he could ponder further, a follow-up message arrived, relentless, infuriating.
*“I am truly sorry. Terribly sorry. It is all my fault.”*
*“I am sorry.”*
*“Please, forgive me.”*
Whether three words or four, each one stoked the coals of his fury. He hurled the slate across the room. It struck the wall with a dull thud, fortunately unharmed. How had Elian acquired his proxy address? The boy supposedly had no access to such advanced arcane communication.
Then it hit him. Oh. He had used his private channel to contact Elian weeks ago, to return a borrowed scroll. Cursed his own idiocy. He let out an angry sigh. To vent his frustration, he pounded his fists against the mattress until exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted into sleep. Just before his thoughts completely faded, one last message, unread, echoed in his mind.
*“Please, do not hate me.”*
*Funny,* he thought. *I’ve already hated you for months.*
---
The next morning, Caspian woke to a face swollen like a grotesque pastry. The bruise on his cheekbone was now a vivid, sickening violet.
He skipped his arcane studies. No matter how meticulously he strove for academic excellence, he wasn’t so lost to pride that he would expose himself to the Conservatory’s merciless scrutiny with a face like this.
A servant, a quiet young man named Silas, brought him a light luncheon: soft mushroom broth and artfully arranged slivers of cured ham. Silas, observing the subtle discoloration around Caspian’s eye, offered a quiet admonition to "exercise greater caution on the grounds." Caspian swallowed the broth without much appetite.
As Silas cleared the tray, a discreet knock sounded at the chamber door.
“Master Elara,” Silas said, a soft ripple of surprise in his voice, “You have a visitor.”
“A visitor?”
“Shall I admit them?”
A visitor. A strange flutter ignited in Caspian’s chest. Before he could even identify the emotion, his mind, foolish and hopeful, began to conjure images.
Could it be… Lysander Thorne?
It seemed a wild, improbable fantasy, yet not entirely impossible. Few students from the Conservatory ever visited another’s private chambers. Among his peers, only a select few even knew the location of his secluded alcove within the sprawling complex. If it were Lysander, then perhaps he had finally come to offer some semblance of an apology, now that his anger had cooled, now that guilt had finally pricked at him. Lysander had never struck him before, not once. Yes, he must be worried. He must be upset by his own actions.
“Yes,” Caspian managed, his voice a little hoarse. “Please, admit them.”
The fantasy solidified into a fragile certainty. Even as he chastised himself for such naive longing, a small, undeniable sense of satisfaction bloomed within him. Despite everything, despite the violence, he was still important to Lysander in some profound, if twisted, way. That thought, unsettling as it was, filled him with an inexplicable, fleeting warmth. He turned towards the heavy oak door, his pace quickening with a treacherous anticipation.
But the figure framed in the doorway wasn't who he had desperately imagined.
“Elara. Quite a sight you are.”
Lord Alaric stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe, a small, intricately carved wooden box tucked under one arm. As soon as his sharp eyes took in Caspian’s bruised face, the playful smirk vanished. His expression hardened.
“What in the blazes happened to your face?”
Caspian’s knees almost buckled. The sudden, brutal crash of his hopes left him feeling hollowed out, utterly bereft. How did Lord Alaric even know where his chambers were, let alone dare to simply appear?
“I… took an unfortunate tumble,” Caspian replied, his voice flat, devoid of inflection.
Alaric frowned, twisting his lips in that characteristic way he did before delivering a pointed, sarcastic remark.
“You truly are an idiot, aren’t you, Elara?”
Caspian didn’t bother to argue. He merely rubbed his throbbing cheek, a dull ache blooming beneath his skin. Embarrassment, hot and furious, surged through him as he recalled his earlier, pathetic anticipation. He was such an idiot. Lysander Thorne didn’t care for him. Not in the way he foolishly, desperately longed for. And here he was, wagging his tail like a hopeful, desperate dog – like a complete moron.
“Here. Thought you might need this.”
Alaric extended the wooden box. Caspian accepted it, his fingers brushing against the cool, smooth wood. He opened the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of cool moss, lay a single, perfectly ripe starfruit, its pale green skin glistening, its sweet, citrusy scent wafting faintly. A rare delicacy, known to soothe discomfort.
“...Starfruit?” Caspian murmured, surprised.
“Is it? Didn’t much notice the specifics.”
“Figures. Why would you care?”
“Damn, that’s quite cutting, Elara.”
“What are you even doing here?”
“What do you imagine? Came to check on your… malaise. Mind if I enter properly?”
“Hey, wait!”
Without waiting for an answer, Alaric’s long legs carried him across the threshold and into Caspian’s private space. He surveyed the chamber, his gaze sweeping over the stacks of grimoires, the arcane instruments, the small, unlit hearth.
“Where is your study?”
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?”
“Where else? There’s nowhere else to retreat to in your small haven, is there?”
Caspian had no comeback. Alaric was right. His chambers were compact, designed for study and solitary reflection, not for visitors. Feeling awkward, a familiar sense of violated privacy prickling at him, Caspian followed Alaric, who seemed oddly intent on inspecting the interior of his carefully curated, intensely private world.