A carefully constructed edifice of academic excellence, Elian Vance’s life within the Grand Collegiate of Obsidian Spire was a study in precise regulation. His parents, pillars of a lesser noble house, had meticulously sculpted his routines, instilling a profound dread of any perceived vulnerability. He loathed the thought of his meticulously guarded inner turmoil spilling forth, betraying the fragile composure he wore like a second skin.
Even amidst the most unsettling social currents, Elian could maintain an almost glacial placidity. This oft-mistaken stillness led many to brand him aloof, perhaps even dull, someone untouched by the passionate angers that animated his peers. They couldn’t fathom the truth: every jolt of indignation, every sting of inadequacy, had merely served to fortify his inner defenses, hardening into an impervious shell. Over the years, the world’s provocations struggled to find purchase, sliding harmlessly across the polished surface of his self-control.
This same principle applied to every interaction involving Lysander Thorne.
Indeed, it was this formidable trait that allowed Elian to remain within Lysander’s orbit at all. He was a proficient scholar, a student whose conduct brought no blemish to his family name, and he occupied a respectable, if secondary, position within the Collegiate’s intricate social hierarchy. This precarious perch was a painstaking achievement, and he intended to preserve it at all costs.
“Elian. Vance.” Lysander’s voice, a smooth tenor that carried an undercurrent of inherent authority, cut through the low murmur of the lecture hall. A casual address, yet it always seemed to carry a weight of casual expectation.
“Lysander.” Elian’s reply was measured, a subtle inflection of deference carefully woven into the single word.
“The way you speak. It grates.” A faint, almost imperceptible curl of Lysander’s lip. He leaned back in his ornate chair, an almost insolent grace in his posture.
“My apologies.” Elian’s eyes remained fixed on the ancient runes etched into the lectern, refusing to meet Lysander’s gaze.
“No wit, Vance. A pity.” Lysander’s laugh was light, dismissive. A playful jab from a figure of such social consequence only truly stung if one harbored a hidden insecurity. Lysander was immune. He often amused himself with such trifles, secure in his unchallenged superiority.
“Vance, do you ever… engage? With anyone beyond the archives?” A deliberate pause. “Someone of consequence, perhaps?”
“My studies consume most of my time.” The standard, truthful evasion.
“A shame. Such dedication. Yet, what is its utility without… broader application?” Lysander’s tone shifted, a subtle prod. “A charming conversationalist. Someone with a… delicate constitution and an agreeable disposition, perhaps.”
Lysander Thorne. Impulsive. Cruel, in his own refined manner. Possessing a casual disregard for others’ sensibilities, honed by years of unchecked privilege. His subtle harassments, lacking the blunt force of common thugs, were far more insidious. He rarely needed to prove his nature; it permeated the very air around him.
By this point, the waning days of the summer term, young Lorien Finch had been effectively ostracized, a silent shadow clinging to the edges of the Collegiate. But even this wasn't enough to sate Lysander's particular brand of amusement.
The social constellations within the Collegiate were intricate. Lysander’s immediate satellites—students like Cassian Draynor and Theron Flint—would linger after the bell, awaiting his departure. Other, less central figures, from the lower tiers of the noble houses, would disperse the instant the luncheon summons chimed across the quad.
During his first year, Elian had been part of Lysander’s broader contingent. By his second year, a shift occurred. It began with a seemingly innocuous comment from Cassian Draynor. “Elian eats with Kaelen, doesn’t he? Gods, the man chews like a glacier.” Without any direct input from Elian, the subtle yet definite exclusion was complete.
The most galling part? Lysander’s utter indifference. Whether Elian remained or departed from the immediate dining circle was of no consequence to him. A knot tightened in Elian’s gut. He glanced at Lysander, then, his voice barely a whisper, posed the question to Kaelen Varr.
“Am I truly so… deliberate in my meals?”
“You dissect your food like an arcane manuscript, Elian,” Kaelen replied, not bothering to look up from the geometric patterns he was idly sketching on a scrap of parchment. “Most of us finish our repast in the time it takes you to contemplate your first morsel.”
“Indeed,” Theron Flint chimed in, overhearing. “We’re always tardy for our afternoon dueling practice because of your… rigorous mastication.”
“Ah.” The sound was a ghost of a breath, an admission of his perceived flaw.
“We have a challenge match against the House of Blackwood today. Perhaps you should dine with Kaelen.”
Elian’s throat constricted. His ingrained pride choked off any plea, any protest. Besides, the chronic indigestion that had plagued him through his first year was undoubtedly a consequence of attempting to devour his meals at their breakneck pace. And, truthfully, the notion of clinging to Lysander’s coattails, like a parasitic spore, disgusted even him. So, he offered no remonstrance, no argument.
And just like that, he was ejected from the immediate circle. His own desire, his silent yearning for inclusion, held no sway.
Attempting to project an air of nonchalant acceptance, Elian found his gaze meeting Kaelen Varr’s. Kaelen was sprawled across his desk, idly levitating a small obsidian scrying orb, his expression a mixture of detached amusement and mild curiosity. He regarded Elian for a moment before asking, his tone utterly devoid of judgment.
“When do you typically break your fast?”
“…” Elian paused, his mind racing. He had no “typical” time, not anymore. His schedule had been dictated by Lysander’s group.
“I usually venture forth in approximately ten minutes.”
“That… would suit me as well.” A lie, of course. But primal survival instincts had kicked in. If he wished to remain part of *any* group, even Kaelen’s unconventional one, he had to adapt. The first time he shared a meal with Kaelen alone, Elian left half his portion untouched, feigning a sudden lack of appetite. Kaelen merely arched an eyebrow, his gaze analytical.
“Still picky at, what, eighteen cycles? Pathetic.”
“What concern is it of yours?” The retort was sharper than intended, a flicker of his inner frustration escaping.
“Truly, Elian, you are but a child.”
“Even adults do not consume spiced griffin tongue with a sweet berry reduction,” Elian shot back petulantly, fixing Kaelen with a glare. The man’s bluntness always chafed.
In their first year, Elian and Lysander had been almost inseparable—or, rather, Elian had been a constant shadow in Lysander’s wake. By the second year, those moments had dwindled, largely due to Kaelen’s influence, who occupied a similar but distinct orbit to Lysander. Still, Elian had no right to complain. Kaelen Varr, with his sharp intellect and ancient family lineage, occupied a higher station than Elian, even if his social graces were, at times, lacking.
Kaelen’s circle, much like Lysander’s, overlapped with many of the less diligent students, those whose academic records languished at the lower end of their year’s rankings. These were the types who would forge permission chits for early dismissal or simply vanish from lectures, exploiting the casual indifference of professors who rarely bothered to verify their whereabouts.
Lysander, ever mindful of his parents’ watchful eyes, typically remained in lectures until the bitter end. As for Kaelen, whose reputation for cynical detachment was almost as infamous as Lysander’s for calculated charm, Elian had once ventured to ask why he bothered to remain.
“Do you truly perceive me as… that pathetic?” Kaelen had asked, his voice low and dangerous.
“No, but many of your associates behave as such.”
“Associates? What preposterous notion is that? They are not my friends. They are merely… convenient background noise.”
“What?”
“A scholar’s duty is to attend lectures and absorb knowledge, is it not?”
“…That is accurate.”
“Then do not conflate me with such intellectual detritus. It offends my sensibilities.”
“My apologies, Kaelen.”
“I was not seeking contrition.”
Logically, his statement was entirely sound. Yet, hearing it from Kaelen Varr, whose so-called “background noise” frequently vanished for entire academic cycles, struck Elian as utterly absurd. Regardless, Elian found himself spending most of his second year in the uneasy company of Lysander Thorne and Kaelen Varr. He’d come to view their combined presence as a peculiar, almost sacred, space that no one else could easily penetrate. It would have been utterly perfect without Kaelen, of course, but surprisingly, they coexisted with more ease than anticipated. He harbored no affection for Kaelen, but neither was he so intolerable as to provoke an outburst. He was simply… a persistent irritant.
Then, Lorien Finch arrived, transforming even those days into a quiet nightmare.
Today felt subtly different from usual. A strange tremor in the Collegiate’s usual rhythms.
“Damn it. Cassian Draynor and Theron Flint, those imbeciles,” Lysander muttered, rubbing his temples as the fourth period drew to a close. A flash of irritation crossed his usually placid features.
At the sound of his voice, Elian immediately turned, a fragile flicker of anticipation stirring within him. “They have… absented themselves again?”
“Utterly useless.” A sigh of disgust.
“That is… unfortunate. With whom will you dine, then?” Elian couldn’t help the surge of faint hope, a delicate butterfly fluttering in his chest. His fingers, gripping the back of his chair, trembled almost imperceptibly. Lysander exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting to Kaelen, who was meticulously polishing his scrying orb beside him.
“Kaelen, Elian. I shall grace your table today.”
“Unnecessary. No one extended an invitation,” Kaelen replied, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
“Continue with such impertinence, and I shall ensure your silence.” Lysander’s eyes narrowed, a glint of steel in their depths.
“Gods, Lysander. Today’s antics truly make me contemplate physical violence.” Kaelen’s lips thinned into a sardonic smile.
“Attempt it, then, fool.”
“Grand words for one who would otherwise be relegated to solitary dining.”
Elian could hold back no longer. His desperation for this rare opportunity, this chance to regain a sliver of Lysander’s attention, spilled out. “Come, Lysander. We cannot permit you to dine alone.”
His voice must have betrayed the raw desperation coiling within him. Lysander’s smirk was triumphant, a brief, knowing glance directed at Kaelen.
“You see? I possess truly devoted companions.”
“…” Kaelen merely stared, his expression unreadable.
“What say you, Kaelen? Elian proves quite… useful, does he not?”
Kaelen merely scowled, sweeping Lysander’s parchment holder from the desk with a languid swipe of his hand, sending it clattering to the flagstones. Whether Kaelen held any genuine regard for Elian was irrelevant. What mattered was Lysander’s decision to join them for luncheon.
It had been an age since they had shared a meal, and Elian was so utterly thrilled that he even forced himself to consume the spiced algae cakes, a dish he normally abhorred. But Lysander paid scant attention to his plate. His eyes, sharp and predatory, scoured the bustling refectory, like a hawk surveying its hunting grounds. Elian, too consumed by Lysander’s presence, failed to notice Kaelen Varr subtly pilfering the crystallized river sprouts from his own tray. Then, without a word of warning, Lysander’s silver cutlery clattered onto his plate, and his free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing their table.
Looking up, Elian saw it was Lorien Finch. Lorien, small and slender, his head bowed, his usually pale face flushed crimson.
“Sit here, Finch,” Lysander commanded, nodding towards the vacant seat beside him. His tone brooked no argument. “You have no one else to occupy your time, in any case.”
Lorien’s face deepened to a painful scarlet. His eyes darted nervously, landing briefly on Elian, before he bit his lip and slowly, hesitantly, eased himself into the indicated seat. Elian felt a cold shock. Stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when had Lysander expressed *any* concern for Lorien’s social isolation? Indeed, Lorien’s very solitude was largely Lysander’s doing. Lysander abhorred any genuine connection forming around Lorien.
A bitter, coppery taste rose in Elian’s throat.
Unconsciously, Elian’s spoon clattered onto his tray, the sound unnaturally loud in the suddenly oppressive silence. But the only one who reacted to the jarring noise was Lorien, who flinched violently, his eyes widening in alarm, fixed on Elian. Lysander, however, remained singularly fixated on Lorien, a cruel gleam in his eyes.
Damn it. In that moment, Elian felt the carefully constructed protective shell he had spent years perfecting begin to fissure, a hairline crack spiderwebbing across its surface. He fought to suppress it, to regain control, but the surge of raw indignation was too potent. Perhaps he was nearing a breaking point he hadn’t known existed.
Desperately clinging to denial, Elian snapped at Lorien, his voice tight.
“Lorien. Leave.”
“H-huh?” The soft sound was barely audible.
“Do not heed Lysander. Simply depart. It is… permissible.”
“Elian Vance.” Lysander’s voice, dangerously low, cut through the air like a honed blade. He had ignored Elian’s earlier, louder outburst, but this challenge, this direct contradiction, finally drew his full attention. His glare, intense and searing, burned into Elian. That withering gaze, rather than diminishing Elian’s resolve, solidified it. He fixed his eyes stubbornly on Lorien.
“I will intercede. You may go.”
“Uh, o-okay.” Lorien’s voice trembled.
“And Lysander, cease this ridiculous charade.”
“Indeed, I concur,” Kaelen Varr interjected, his words muffled by a mouthful of spiced algae cake. His sudden interjection felt utterly out of place, breaking the tension with a jarring banality. He chewed and swallowed with deliberate slowness, then glanced between Elian and Lysander, a faintly irritating smirk playing on his lips.
“What are these theatrics? You are spoiling my appetite.”
As always, Kaelen’s unnecessary provocations grated on Elian’s nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter how one regarded him. Ignoring Kaelen, Elian turned his full attention back to Lysander.
“Leave Lorien be.”
“Who are you, Vance, to dictate my actions?” Lysander shot back, his composure finally cracking, revealing the sharp anger beneath.
“It is… tiresome for the rest of us to observe.” Elian did not blink, holding Lysander’s gaze with a defiant intensity. Lysander slammed his fist onto the polished wooden table. The sudden impact made Lorien, still sitting awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Kaelen, on the other hand, chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender.
“Exclude me from this dispute.” He licked a bead of water from his lips, his eyes gleaming with mischievous amusement. “Let us determine this by majority vote. I am neutral, Elian desires his departure, and Lysander insists upon his presence.”
For the record, Kaelen was one of the few who dared to address Elian without his family name, often using a shortened, casual form that always irritated Elian. That irritation slipped into his voice now.
“Cease your interjections. Your vote holds no weight.”
“Why not? There is another individual directly before us.” Kaelen, entirely unfazed, smirked and gestured towards Lorien with a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Finch not a person?”
“You are… insufferable.”
“Why does he remain silent? Let him articulate his preference.” As if Lorien could possibly voice an opinion in this charged atmosphere. Elian sighed at Kaelen’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his cooled rice. It was then that Lysander tapped his finger on the table, a slow, deliberate rhythm.
“If you depart, Finch, consider yourself… utterly alone, commencing this instant.”
Tears began to well in Lorien’s large eyes, which glimmered as he looked at Elian, a silent plea for succor. Damn it. Elian pressed his lips together, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
“It is well. I will… dissuade him,” Elian said, attempting to reassure Lorien, though his voice wavered slightly.
“Elian Vance,” Lysander growled, his voice tight with barely suppressed fury.
Elian forced himself to meet Lysander’s gaze, projecting an almost impossible calm, but inside, he felt an overwhelming urge to simply break down, to flee. To suppress it, he lifted his eyes to the soaring archways of the refectory ceiling for a brief moment before lowering his head and replying, his voice deliberately nonchalant.
“What now?”
“You…” Lysander clenched his fist beneath the table, glaring at Elian with an intensity that felt capable of searing through bone. Still, Elian had to endure. His instincts screamed that he could not abandon Lorien to Lysander’s casual cruelty. Yet, Lysander’s focus, with a subtle shift, returned to Lorien Finch.
“I-I will depart,” Lorien stammered, his voice a fragile thread.
“…” Lysander merely watched him, a slow, satisfied smile beginning to bloom on his face.
“Th-thank you, Elian.” Lorien hurriedly rose, his footsteps uneven, almost stumbling, as he fled the refectory. The instant he was gone, Lysander turned abruptly, his gaze, cold and triumphant, fixed on Elian.