Pale light filtered through the leaded panes, painting the stone walls in muted silver. Caspian stirred, a dull throb behind his jaw. He probed his cheekbone with a tentative finger. The swelling had receded, leaving only a tender bruise, a faint violet ghost against his pale skin.
He caught his reflection in the polished surface of his washbasin. A lingering puffiness, a bluish tinge near his temple. It was the kind of mark that could be dismissed with a casual, “Clumsy, aren’t we?” Manageable. A sigh slipped past his lips, carrying a sliver of relief, though the humiliation from Lysander’s strike still burned.
He dressed in the prescribed dark robes, the heavy wool a familiar weight. The corridors of Veridia Conservatory were hushed, oppressive. Each footfall echoed, a ripple in the stillness, carrying whispers of forgotten secrets and unspoken hierarchies. In the central study hall, the air hung heavy, thick with the scent of aged parchment and latent magic.
Caspian’s gaze swept the room, searching. His breath hitched when he found Milo. Milo, usually so meticulous, looked utterly undone. One eye was swollen nearly shut, a grotesque purple bloom. His lower lip was split, crusted with dried blood. A jagged bruise blossomed along his jawline, mirroring Caspian’s own, yet magnified, brutalized.
An unexpected wave of nausea churned in Caspian’s gut. Guilt, sharp and acrid, clawed at his throat. He had thought, half-jokingly, that Lysander’s anger might have found another target. But seeing Milo now, so visibly broken, Caspian felt a profound self-loathing. His own fleeting, childish malice twisted his stomach.
Milo shuffled through the arched entrance, his eyes darting, fearful. He moved with a hesitant gait, as if expecting another blow. Then, his gaze snagged on Caspian. A flicker of something — fear? recognition? — before his eyes widened, locking into a startled grimace. He recoiled, turning sharply, and practically fled to his usual alcove, avoiding Caspian entirely.
What in the Void was that?
Caspian’s head snapped up. Across the silent hall, Lysander Thorne sat at his accustomed lectern, his dark eyes fixed on Caspian. A cold, murderous intensity burned in their depths. The air around him seemed to crackle with an unspoken threat.
Damn it all. He should have feigned illness. Regret, cold and heavy, settled in his chest.
During the mid-morning repose, Milo, who usually orbited Lysander with a desperate eagerness, vanished. He avoided the common rooms, the refectory. At the midday repast, Lysander departed early, Milo a shadow at his heels. They disappeared into the labyrinthine depths of the Conservatory, to some secluded nook known only to Lysander and his coterie.
Caspian found himself alone at a table usually teeming with other apprentices. A familiar pang of rejection pricked at his heart. He picked at a chilled sun-berry, the sweetness tasting like ash.
“Mind if I join this wake?” A voice, light and almost irreverent, broke the oppressive silence. Rhys settled opposite Caspian, a faint, lopsided grin on his face. He plucked a candied moon-petal from Caspian’s plate without asking. “Looks like someone sucked all the cheer out of the refectory.”
Caspian merely grunted, pushing the plate closer to Rhys. A part of him yearned to seek out Lysander and Milo, to understand what fresh cruelty had unfolded. But a deeper, colder fear held him captive. He dreaded what he might discover if he dared to look.
Lysander wouldn’t... not again, right? He tried to dismiss the thought. Milo’s plight wasn't his concern. Yet, the image of Milo’s battered face persisted, a haunting specter.
Rhys, oblivious to Caspian’s internal tempest, kept up a stream of easy banter. “See? I told you this place was thick with bad humors. I nearly choked on my own arcane wards just walking in.”
“You seemed perfectly fine yesterday, devouring those sweetbreads.” Caspian’s voice was flat.
“Give me some credit,” Rhys said, feigning offense, then winked. “I maintain a strong constitution. My inner alchemist demands it.” He laughed at his own jest, a bright, jarring sound in the hushed hall. Caspian offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Rhys’s relentless levity, once an irritant, now felt like a fragile shield.
---
Life possessed a peculiar, twisting logic. From their very first encounter, Caspian had wanted nothing to do with Rhys. He’d found him loud, unserious, a jarring note in the solemn symphony of Veridia. Yet now, after the sting of Lysander’s cruelty, Rhys was the only person with whom he felt anything resembling ease.
Rhys’s irreverent wit, his penchant for lighthearted mischief, had a way of cutting through the dense, oppressive weight of Veridia. Caspian had once viewed these qualities as shallow, a sign of intellectual sloth. But now, he clung to that levity, a tether against the insidious gloom that threatened to consume him. Had Lysander not become so cold, so cruel, Caspian might never have recognized how desperately he needed Rhys’s grounded presence.
Lysander’s behavior grew increasingly erratic. He drifted from their usual circle, often disappearing with Milo for hours. Sometimes, a few other junior apprentices, like Kaelan or Seraphin, would follow, their faces etched with unease. There were even times when some flat-out refused, shaking their heads with tight-lipped expressions.
Caspian stumbled upon Kaelan near the outer wall, clambering over a low parapet, apparently evading a Master-scholar. Kaelan, a normally boisterous boy, looked oddly subdued. He gestured vaguely toward the inner courtyards. “Lysander... he’s been ordering them. One strike each, against Milo.” Kaelan’s voice was barely a whisper, a mixture of amusement and genuine discomfort.
Caspian’s face twisted in horror. Kaelan, sensing his reaction, quickly added, “I’ve been... avoiding that whole mess lately. Headed to the Scriptorium Annex with Seraphin. Don’t misunderstand.” He scrambled over the parapet and was gone. Seraphin, who had been close to Lysander in their first year, had since distanced himself, finding a place in a different study group.
At midday, Caspian and Rhys sought refuge in a secluded courtyard. They shared small, frosted nocturnes, the chilled confection spreading a fleeting sweetness across Caspian’s tongue. Beneath the ephemeral relief, a bitter knot of unease tightened in his chest. He held his ground, determined not to let his turmoil show.
“Is that good?” Rhys, already halfway through his own brightly hued treat, eyed Caspian’s with a playful glint.
“Want a taste?” Caspian, half-teasing, offered his nocturne, sticky with melted sugar, towards Rhys’s mouth. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rhys smirked, lifted one corner of his lip, and took a surprisingly large bite.
“Hey! Did you actually do that?” Caspian exclaimed, genuinely startled.
“You told me to,” Rhys said, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
“That’s... unsanitary. And why such a huge bite?”
“Just one bite,” Rhys shrugged, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. It was a peaceful moment, incongruous with the storm raging within Caspian. The crisp autumn air, the ancient stones, all seemed impossibly calm.
Where were Lysander and Milo now? A few desolate corners of the Conservatory came to mind, places where shadows clung and echoes died. Caspian didn’t go looking. Maybe he was afraid of what he might find.
He tried his best not to think of Lysander. Yet, the harder he tried, the more Lysander’s image dominated his thoughts, a constant, painful presence.
How long would it take to excise someone like him from his heart? How much effort would it demand? He didn’t know. It felt like being lost in a vast, sun-baked desert, not just sorrowful and stifling, but terrifying and unbearable.
Sometimes, Caspian retreated into himself, like a deep-sea creature shying from the light. When the weight became too much, he’d occasionally speak with Rhys. And, for now, that was enough.
“Hey, Rhys.” Caspian’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant.
“Hm?” Rhys paused, his last bite of nocturne hovering near his lips.
“Do you think aethyr blooms can flourish in a drained ley-line?” The question, laden with raw emotion, felt foolish the moment it left his mouth. Caspian scratched at his temple, awkward.
Rhys, to his credit, didn’t mock him. “They will.”
Caspian waited, his breath held.
“They have to,” Rhys continued, his voice unexpectedly soft. “Life’s already unforgiving enough.”
Hearing those words from Rhys—a person Caspian had never thought capable of such gravity—struck him with a peculiar sense of defeat. How much longer would he cling to these futile feelings? How much more pain before he let go?
“...Yeah. Life’s unforgiving.”
Lysander Thorne. That callous brute. Why did he seem so intent on breaking the loyal, tail-wagging creature Caspian became every time he crossed his path? Lysander, who seemed to have abandoned all the basic tenets of a Conservatory scholar, now came and went as he pleased. And always, a pathetic shadow, Milo remained at his side.
The situation grew increasingly suspicious. Whispers, dark and resentful, spread through the junior apprentices like creeping mist. Lysander’s cruelty, it seemed, was escalating. And so was the quiet, simmering hatred towards him within the class. None of it felt right.
So, when Caspian saw Lysander dragging Milo by the wrist down the echoing corridor, he froze. He watched them, his gaze flitting between Lysander’s rigid back and Milo’s tear-streaked face. Then, words spilled from him, unbidden.
“Lord Alaric... he mentioned a concern.” It wasn’t an apology, nor flattery. It was a calculated lie. His pride, the last shard he clung to, demanded it. Lysander, famously estranged from his father, would likely not know the truth. And even if he did, Caspian could always argue that, at this rate, Alaric would eventually have plenty to worry about.
He always left himself an escape route.
“If someone must suffer a reprimand, let it be you. What has Milo ever done?”
“Move.” Lysander’s voice was a low growl. The moment Caspian mentioned Milo’s name, Lysander’s head snapped around, his gaze locking onto Caspian. Daggers, honed and sharp, seemed to pierce Caspian’s chest. He hated him. And yet, pathetic, tear-filled Milo stood glued to Lysander’s side, his eyes wide with desperate pleading.
“Unless you wish to feel my fist again, as you did last eve, move.”
“L-Lysander, please,” Milo stammered, his voice trembling, a pitiful whimper. Only then did Lysander’s eyes soften, his focus shifting entirely to Milo. All Caspian saw was the back of Lysander’s head as he turned away.
“Lord Alaric… he truly is concerned—” Caspian tried again, desperate.
Milo, on the verge of collapsing, clutched at Lysander’s sleeve, trying to hold him back. The scene was unbearable. Caspian closed his eyes, a wave of profound sorrow washing over him.
After a long moment, Lysander looked at Milo, a silent understanding passing between them. Then, he turned and walked back into the study hall. For the rest of the day, he remained there—a ghost from a few weeks past.
---
The long-anticipated Archival Expedition had arrived. A sturdy carriage, carved from dark oak and lacquered against the persistent mist, stood waiting to transport them to the Elderwood Galleries. A few senior apprentices grumbled about being pulled from their studies, but most junior scholars buzzed with excitement at the chance to escape the Conservatory’s confines for even a single day.
There was no need for satchels; they would return shortly. The Master-scholars gave only a few half-hearted warnings about decorum and arcane safety before releasing them. They weren’t novices anymore. There was no giddy, sleepless excitement. Caspian viewed it as merely another day—leave without a burden, return unburdened. He had no idea this day would be the fulcrum, where his bottled-up frustration would finally shatter. He had expected it to break, eventually, but not so suddenly.
As was tradition, Caspian had always taken the seat beside Lysander whenever they ventured outside the study hall. He was, after all, Lysander’s closest companion. He hadn’t even considered where Rhys might sit, having never shared a Conservatory transport with him.
Initially, a flicker of apprehension pricked Caspian. He was wary Rhys might claim the coveted seat closest to Lysander. Reflecting on it now, such a thought felt pathetic. Neither he nor Rhys would end up in that spot.
When the carriage arrived, Caspian climbed aboard. The rearmost five seats were already claimed by a noisy group of apprentices, including Kaelan, who waved, then hesitated, pointing vaguely toward Lysander’s usual seat.
“Caspian! There’s a space here!” Kaelan called, a nervous energy in his voice.
“...Right.”
Of course. He had always been the one. But today, a tremor of hesitation ran through Caspian as he approached Lysander’s empty side. He swallowed hard, relief mixed with a fierce determination. The seat beside Lysander was indeed vacant.
It was his place. His pride—the last, fragile bastion he stubbornly clung to—compelled him to sit there, even after Lysander’s violent outburst, even after Milo’s shattered face. He touched the polished back of the seat, his fingers tracing the carved wood. He glanced around the carriage, then quietly murmured,
“Lysander... This seat...”
“It is not yours. Find another.” Lysander cut him off, his gaze fixed intently on the carriage entrance. Following his line of sight, Caspian saw Milo, small and timid, making his hesitant way toward them. Caspian’s fists clenched. His words died in his throat.
“...Fine. Whatever.” He tried to infuse his voice with indifference, but his heart felt as though it had been meticulously shredded.
He quickly retreated from the seat, his gaze sweeping the carriage for another spot. Near Rhys’s group, directly in front of where Rhys was settled, an empty space beckoned. With a surge of relief, Caspian hurried over, collapsing into the worn velvet seat.
“Rhys. Sit with me.” He spoke without waiting for a response. There was no answer. He looked closer. Rhys was already asleep, his head resting against the cold window pane, bouncing gently with every subtle sway of the carriage. Caspian shook his head at the ridiculous posture. He slid his folded scarf between Rhys’s head and the glass, a small, unsolicited comfort, and leaned back into the uncomfortable seat. Across the narrow aisle, he caught a glimpse of dark, neatly braided hair. Lysander’s. He was taller than most of their apprentices, easily identifiable. Though Caspian couldn’t see clearly, he knew Milo was seated there, a silent sentinel by Lysander’s side.