Alistair Finch cultivated composure with the meticulous care of a master engraver. His life, a sequence of precisely measured moments, had been sculpted by the exacting expectations of his family, hardening his delicate nature. To betray vulnerability felt like a searing brand, an unforgivable lapse. So, even when tides of raw emotion threatened to drag him under, Alistair held himself together, an exquisite, fragile vase resisting gravity.
He had often heard the whispers—a dull boy, devoid of passion, a placid pond incapable of ripples. They misunderstood. Fury, sorrow, desire, these were not absent; they merely calcified, layer upon layer, into an unyielding shell. Each disturbance endured became another stratum, rendering him almost impervious to true provocation.
This rigid self-control extended, predictably, to Lord Kael Beaumont and his turbulent orbit.
His place within the Academy’s gilded hierarchy, a position Alistair had painstakingly burnished, was paramount. He was a dutiful son, a promising scholar, a young man who caused no undue worry. To retain such a coveted, if precarious, perch, one simply endured.
“Finch, a moment.”
“Yes, Master Thorne?”
“Your tone, it grates. Like a rusty hinge.” Cassian Thorne, ever blunt, idly polished a smooth river-stone he habitually kept, his gaze unblinking. He always called Alistair “Finch,” a casual dismissal of intimacy.
“And your face, Master Thorne? It quite outshines any hinge in its… unique geometry.”
Thorne merely chuckled, a low, dismissive sound. An insult, like a dull blade, only cuts if the target feels the wound. Lord Kael, lounging beside Thorne, offered a languid laugh, unaffected by their bickering.
“Thorne, do you ever spend time with suitable young ladies? Your circle is… limited.” Kael’s voice, a velvet rasp, held a sharp, insinuating edge.
“Suitable? Define your terms, Beaumont.” Thorne’s thumb traced the contours of his river-stone.
“Respectable ones, Thorne. Not the usual dregs.” Kael’s eyes, however, were not on Thorne. They drifted across the refectory, fixating with a predator’s intensity on a slight, withdrawn figure at a distant table. “Someone with a delicate cast, perhaps, and an agreeable disposition.”
Lord Kael Beaumont was a force of nature, untamed and unburdened by conscience. Impulsive, his crudeness a badge of honour, his violence a casual accessory. Since the first stirrings of adolescence, he had been enslaved by appetites, a truth too evident to require proof. His torments, unchecked by any subtlety, only grew more flagrant.
By these waning days of August, as the Academy’s autumn term drew near, young Elara Croft had been meticulously isolated. But even that, Alistair knew, would never sate Kael Beaumont.
The hierarchies within the Academy were as rigid as its architecture. Kael’s immediate cohort—Elias Vance, Lysander Crowe, Julian Thorne—would linger for him after the final lecture bells, a silent retinue. But others, from the lesser estates, like Peregrine Ashworth, Gareth Rhys, Duncan Grey, would bolt from the lecture halls the moment the midday repast was announced, eager to escape Kael’s shadow.
Two years prior, Alistair had been amongst Kael’s favoured. But by the second year, a subtle shift occurred. Julian Thorne, Kael’s cousin, had remarked, “Finch eats with Cassian, doesn’t he? Always so slow, Alistair.” Without a single word from Alistair, the quiet exclusion began.
What stung most was Kael’s utter indifference. Alistair’s presence, or lack thereof, meant nothing to him. A bitter shame coiled in Alistair’s gut. He glanced at Kael, his voice barely a murmur. “Am I truly that… deliberate in my eating?”
“Of course, Finch. You sit there, pondering each morsel like a philosopher, while the rest of us are finished in five minutes flat.” Kael’s dismissive wave stung.
“Indeed,” Elias Vance chimed in, “We always miss the better practice pitches because of you.”
“…Ah.” A faint tremor ran through Alistair’s hand.
“We have a wagered match with the lads from North Wing today, so do us a favour. Eat with Thorne.”
Pride, a fragile but potent shield, kept Alistair’s lips sealed. He would not beg. Besides, the lingering indigestion from his first year, a constant companion of rushed meals, felt like a distant, unpleasant memory. The thought of clinging to Kael, a piece of detritus swept along by a stronger current, sickened him. So, he offered no plea, no protest.
And just like that, he was ejected. His will, a feather in a gale, was irrelevant.
To feign nonchalance, Alistair met the eyes of the only other student left behind in the near-empty lecture hall. Cassian Thorne, lounging with his boots on a desk, bounced his river-stone, a languid arch to his brow. “When do you take your repast, Finch?”
“…” Alistair swallowed, a dry, rasping sound.
“My usual is in a tendril of minutes.”
“Yes, that suits me as well.” The lie felt like ash on his tongue. He had never eaten at that hour. But survival, a primal instinct beneath his polished exterior, demanded adaptation. The first time he shared the refectory with Thorne alone, Alistair left half his plate untouched, citing a sudden lack of appetite. Thorne watched him, an eyebrow raised.
“Still picky, Finch? At your age? You’re like a mewling child.”
“And what business is it of yours?” Alistair snapped back, the sharp edge of his insecurity showing.
“Honestly, you’re an impertinence.”
“Even adults don’t consume savory pies of dubious origin with such… gusto.” His petulance, unbidden, broke free. Thorne merely shrugged. What right did he have to judge? It chafed Alistair, acutely.
In their initial year, Kael and Alistair had been inseparable shadows. But the second year saw those moments dwindle to almost nothing, primarily due to Thorne’s proximity. Yet Alistair held no right to complain. Thorne’s lineage, his influence, outranked Alistair’s own, albeit by a subtle margin.
Thorne and Kael’s circles were an unsettling Venn diagram, often comprising the more dissolute students, those who occupied the lower echelons of academic distinction. These were the youths who would forge dismissal chits, slipping away from their lessons, confident in the lax oversight of indifferent tutors. Kael, mindful of his parents’ pervasive scrutiny, typically remained until the final bells. Thorne, whose own reputation carried a similar notoriety, once surprised Alistair with his answer to a casual question.
“Do you truly believe me so pitiful, Thorne?”
“Your companions, they are all… of a certain temperament.”
“Companions? What nonsense. They are mere refuse.”
“What?” Alistair blinked, startled.
“A student’s obligation is to attend his lectures and imbibe knowledge, is it not?”
“…That is true.”
“Then do not lump me with that refuse. It offends.”
“My apologies.”
“I sought no apology.” Thorne’s statement, in isolation, was perfectly reasonable. Yet, from the lips of Master Cassian Thorne, whose so-called acquaintances skipped their duties with scandalous regularity, it sounded utterly absurd. Regardless, Alistair found himself spending most of his second year in the company of Lord Kael Beaumont and Master Cassian Thorne. He had come to view their arrangement as a hallowed space, impenetrable to others. It would have been perfect without Thorne, yet, surprisingly, they had endured each other. Alistair found him tolerable, if irksome. But Elara Croft, in her quiet suffering, turned even those days into a harrowing landscape.
---
The air within the lecture hall felt different today, heavier, as the final bells of the fourth lecture echoed.
“Damn it. Elias Vance and Lysander Crowe, those blighters,” Kael Beaumont cursed, raking a hand through his dark hair as the last student departed. His voice, a low rumble, drew Alistair’s attention instantly. Anticipation, a tiny, nervous flicker, sparked within him.
“They abstained again?” Alistair asked, his tone tinged with a hope he dared not name.
“Worthless dogs.”
“How inconvenient. With whom will you take your midday repast, then?” Alistair’s fingers, hidden beneath the desk, tightened around the polished wood of his chair. A tremor passed through them.
Kael let out a heavy sigh, turning his predatory gaze to Thorne, who still sat, stone in hand. “Thorne, I shall join you two today.”
“Do not. No one issued an invitation,” Thorne replied, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
“Keep that insolent mouth running, and I shall shut it for you.” Kael’s fist clenched, a casual threat.
“Gods, Beaumont, today is truly testing my patience. I might just oblige that offer.”
“Try it, dolt.”
“Brave words for a lord who would otherwise dine in solitary splendour.”
Alistair could no longer contain himself. He felt a desperate urgency, a need to bridge the gap. “Come now, let us all dine together. We cannot leave Lord Kael to eat alone.” His desperation, a raw thing, must have been evident.
Kael smirked, a triumphant gleam in his eyes, casting a sly glance at Thorne. “You see? I possess truly devoted companions.” He paused, allowing the words to hang in the air. “What say you, Thorne? Finch proves quite useful, does he not?”
Thorne merely scowled, sweeping Kael’s ornate writing case from the desk. It clattered to the polished floorboards, a sharp, jarring sound. Whether Thorne found Alistair agreeable was irrelevant. What mattered was Kael’s agreement to join them.
It had been so long since they had shared a table. Alistair felt a peculiar thrill, forcing down side dishes he ordinarily disdained, the food tasting like ashes and triumph.
Kael, however, paid scant attention to his plate. His eyes, sharp and restless, scanned the bustling refectory, a hunter searching for prey. Alistair, too fixated on Kael’s presence, failed to notice Thorne pilfering morsels from his own tray. Then, without warning, Kael’s silver chopsticks clattered, his free hand snaring the arm of a passing student.
Looking up, Alistair saw it was Elara Croft.
“Sit here,” Kael commanded, inclining his head towards the empty seat beside him. His voice held no room for argument. “You have no one else with whom to share your repast, in any case.”
Elara’s face flushed scarlet. Her eyes darted, briefly meeting Alistair’s, before she bit her lip, slowly sinking into the indicated seat. Alistair felt a sickening lurch. Stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Kael concern himself with Elara Croft’s companionship? The very reason for her isolation was Kael’s own doing. He loathed any who dared approach her.
A bitter, metallic taste rose in Alistair’s throat. A cold sweat pricked his skin.
His spoon, heavy in his grasp, clattered against his pewter tray, the sound unnaturally loud. Only Elara reacted, flinching, her eyes wide and nervous. Kael remained fixated on her, oblivious to the noise. Damn it. Alistair felt the protective shell, so carefully constructed over years, begin to crack. He clawed at the edges, desperately trying to hold it together, but the fissure widened. A breaking point, long denied, pressed against his fragile composure.
Clinging to a desperate denial, Alistair snapped at Elara. “Croft. Depart.”
“H-huh?” Her voice was a terrified whisper.
“Heed not Lord Kael. Simply go. It is permissible.”
“Finch,” Kael interjected, his voice dangerously low, a silken threat.
When Alistair told Elara she could leave, Kael, who had ignored the jarring clang of the spoon, finally ground his teeth, fixing Alistair with a glare that promised retribution. That potent stare, rather than crushing him, hardened Alistair’s resolve. He met Kael’s gaze, unblinking.
“I shall manage it. You are free to go.”
“Uh, o-okay.” Elara’s eyes were wide with uncertainty.
“And Kael, cease this nonsense.”
“Yes, I concur,” Thorne chimed in, his words muffled by a mouthful of food. His interjection felt utterly misplaced, yet wholly characteristic. He chewed, deliberately, slowly, before glancing between Alistair and Kael, an irritating smirk playing on his lips. “What are you gaping at? You are quite spoiling my appetite.”
Thorne’s unnecessary provocations, as always, grated on Alistair’s frayed nerves. The man was insufferable. Alistair ignored him, turning back to Kael. “Leave Elara Croft be.”
“Who are you, Finch, to issue commands?” Kael shot back, his face darkening.
“It is tiresome for the rest of us to observe.” Alistair did not blink, holding Kael’s furious gaze. Kael slammed his fist on the table, the impact rattling the pewter trays. Elara, sitting awkwardly, flinched, her eyes squeezing shut. Thorne, however, merely chuckled, raising a hand in a lazy gesture of surrender. “Count me out of this particular fracas.” He licked a bead of water from his lips. “Let us decide by a majority. I am neutral. Finch desires her departure, and Kael insists upon her stay.”
Thorne was one of the few who called Alistair “Finch,” and the informality always pricked him. That irritation bled into Alistair’s tone. “Cease your meddling. Your vote holds no weight.”
“Why not? There stands another individual, does there not?” Thorne, unfazed, smirked, gesturing towards Elara with a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Croft not a person?”
“You are unhinged.”
“Why is she so silent? Let her voice her own wishes.” As if Elara could possibly utter a sound in this suffocating tension. Alistair sighed at Thorne’s thoughtless antics, picking up his spoon, stirring his rice with pointless precision. Just then, Kael tapped a finger on the table, the sound a soft drumbeat of menace.
“If you declare your departure, Croft, you are dead to this Academy from this day forward.”
Tears began to well in Elara’s large, luminous eyes. They glimmered as she looked at Alistair, a silent plea for salvation. Damn it. Alistair pressed his lips together, a thin, white line.
“It is well. I shall deter him,” Alistair said, his voice low, aiming to reassure Elara. He felt a sickening lurch in his stomach.
“Finch,” Kael growled, his voice tight with barely contained fury.
Alistair forced himself to meet Kael’s gaze, affecting a calm he did not feel, battling an overwhelming urge to shatter. To suppress it, he lifted his eyes to the high, vaulted ceiling for a brief moment, then lowered his head, feigning nonchalance. “What is it?”
“You…” Kael clenched his fist, glaring with an intensity that threatened to immolate Alistair. Still, Alistair had to endure. Every instinct screamed that he could not abandon Elara to Kael.
But Kael’s focus, a tangible force, shifted back to Elara. “I-I shall go,” Elara stammered, her voice trembling, almost imperceptible.
“…” Alistair’s breath hitched.
“Th-thank you, Finch.” Elara rose abruptly, her movements unsteady, and fled the refectory. As soon as her slender form vanished through the archway, Kael turned, his glare settling on Alistair, a silent promise of future torment.