Two days after his last, discomfiting visit to the Collegiate infirmary, Elian discovered a small, tightly folded note tucked into the spine of his personal tome of ancient arcanum, a volume he kept within his private study chamber. Its placement was peculiar, certainly not where he would have left it. A prickle of unease traced his nape.
‘Could you meet me in the Chamber of Discarded Artifacts before the Practical Application of Abjuration class today? It’s urgent.’
Elian’s brow furrowed. He considered for a fleeting moment the possibility of some youthful, misguided romantic overture. A faint, almost imperceptible flush warmed his cheeks. But the thought was instantly dismissed. This was the Grand Collegiate, a bastion of intellect and noble lineage, not some provincial co-ed academy. Such sentimental foolishness was beneath its hallowed halls, and certainly below the notice of someone like him. Who would even dare? He scoffed, a silent, internal sound.
He folded the note, tucking it into a pocket of his robes, and promptly forgot about it amidst the labyrinthine complexities of his treatise on temporal displacement theory. His mind was a maelstrom of formulae and ancient glyphs, far removed from trivial solicitations.
Only as the bell for the fourth period chimed, a resonant, low thrum that vibrated through the very stones of Obsidian Spire, did the note resurface in his memory. Practical Application of Abjuration. A minor, rather boorish course focused on brute force dispelling, which he tolerated purely for its mandated credit.
Sighing, Elian adjusted the clasp on his simple, unadorned practice robes. His intellect demanded intricate understanding, not the clumsy manipulation of raw elemental force. Still, an obligation was an obligation. He began the trek to the Chamber of Discarded Artifacts, a dusty, seldom-visited annex beneath the older academic wings. A forgotten repository for tools and contraptions deemed obsolete by the ever-evolving nature of arcane study, it was a place where students often snuck off to practice forbidden techniques or simply to escape the ever-present scrutiny of the Collegiate.
He felt a faint thread of curiosity, a rare indulgence for his meticulously ordered mind. Who could it be? He dismissed any real significance to the summons. Surely it was a minor query, perhaps a junior scholar struggling with an obscure translation he had inadvertently mentioned. Nothing of import.
Upon entering the chamber, a cool, musty air embraced him. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light filtering through grimy, high-set windows. Amidst the shadowed forms of rusting calipers and defunct aetheric condensers, a lone figure stood, nervously gnawing at the cuticle of his thumb. Lysander Thorne.
Lysander was a quiet, unassuming student from a minor house, known primarily for his surprising aptitude in elemental channeling. His dark hair was habitually neat, his features often pinched with a faint anxiety. Elian had, on occasion, offered a terse correction to Lysander’s academic papers, or provided an unspoken pointer that saved the boy from minor embarrassment. He did this, he told himself, out of a sense of scholarly duty, nothing more.
“Lysander Thorne?” Elian’s voice held a note of genuine bewilderment. He had expected, perhaps, a more senior, less bashful individual.
Lysander’s small head, previously bowed over his hand, snapped up. He offered a quick, almost frantic wave, a shy, hopeful smile gracing his lips. It was the same eager expression he wore when Elian had once, months ago, complimented a surprisingly insightful observation in an arcane theory seminar. That smile now struck Elian as acutely irritating. A faint frown touched his own usually placid features.
“What is it?” Elian asked, his tone clipped. “Why this sudden summons?”
Lysander’s fingers, plump and short, twisted together. His gaze darted around the cavernous chamber, avoiding Elian’s direct stare. “Ah, Master Vance… I… I have something I wished to convey…” His voice was a bare whisper.
“Well?” Elian shifted his weight. A leaden impatience settled in his chest. He wished to depart this dusty tomb immediately. The mere thought of being discovered alone with Lysander, a junior scholar of lesser standing, in such a secluded space, sent a ripple of social anxiety through him. Rumors at the Collegiate were venomous, quick to take root, and he could not afford any further complications to his carefully cultivated, if fragile, reputation. He always maintained a precise distance, offering assistance just sufficient to appear commendably diligent, never so much as to invite familiarity or entanglement.
Lysander, oblivious to Elian’s spiraling unease, continued to bite at his thumb. His small face, framed by dark hair, was a study in indecision, his eyes flickering between a nervous apprehension and a desperate resolve. Each time he seemed on the verge of articulation, his mouth clamped shut once more.
Minutes stretched, thick and silent, save for the faint scuttling of some unseen creature in the shadows. Elian’s irritation, already a taut string within him, threatened to snap. He had never actively disliked Lysander, but the boy’s perpetual timidity and hesitant manner often grated on Elian’s nerves, triggering a peculiar, almost visceral revulsion. He recognized, distantly, that his reaction was disproportionate. His own mental landscape lately was a jagged terrain of frustration and confusion, still reverberating with the aftershshocks of Rhys’s 'belief' and Lorian’s insidious pronouncements. His stomach, always a barometer of his internal stress, churned with a dull ache.
“Look,” Elian began, his voice sharper than intended, “I apologize, but I must attend my class. Can you not simply articulate your purpose?”
Perhaps, he mused, the true target of his rising anger was not Lysander at all. Perhaps he simply craved an outlet, a tangible form for the amorphous anxieties that choked him. He was tired, unsettled, profoundly out of sorts.
As Elian wrestled with these unwelcome self-reflections, Lysander finally seemed to gather himself. His small voice, a mere thread of sound, stammered forth.
“Master… Master Vance… I… I, you see, I…”
“Yes?” Elian responded, his voice flat, his fingers rubbing at his neck. Time for the period to begin was dwindling. He felt an absurd urge to pry open Lysander’s mouth and forcibly extract the words.
At that precise moment, the heavy chamber door abruptly swung inward, striking the stone wall with a jarring thud. Both Lysander and Elian flinched, turning in unison. Their gazes met, not with each other, but with Rhys Alaric. Rhys stood framed in the doorway, chest heaving, his breath ragged and loud in the sudden silence.
Rhys’s eyes, alight with a fierce, untamed emotion, were not on Elian. They were fixed, burning, upon Lysander Thorne.
“*Hnnnnh… hnnnnh…*”
His labored breathing betrayed the truth. Rhys had been running. A suffocating tightness gripped Elian’s chest. He could almost visualize Rhys, storming through the Collegiate halls, a tempest of desperate fury, searching for Lysander.
Rhys let out a slow, deliberate exhale. He strode forward, his heavy, decisive steps echoing on the stone floor. Elian’s hand, which had unconsciously risen to massage his neck, fell uselessly to his side. Rhys’s gaze flickered, a razor’s edge, from Lysander to Elian, then back again. His jaw was clenched, a muscle twitching beneath the skin.
“What are you doing here… with *him*?” The words were spat, raw and venomous. It was unclear to whom the accusation was directed. Rhys’s hands, powerful and scarred from years of practical magic, opened and closed into fists at his sides.
Beneath Elian’s outward composure, his insides churned, a frantic, nauseating pounding. Rhys’s eyes finally settled on Elian, burning with an unbearable intensity. Elian could not meet them. He could not endure that gaze.
“What in the Void, Rhys Alaric…”
*Please, please, don’t look at me like that.* Blame Lysander, he thought wildly. Lysander summoned him here. Why direct that scorching resentment, that furious, possessive wrath, at *him*? At his… his close friend, as Rhys had once called him? He was merely an unwilling participant, dragged into this sordid drama.
Yet, Rhys’s fiery gaze remained fixed on Elian. And Elian knew, with chilling certainty, that those were not the eyes of passion. They were the eyes of something far more desperate, far more dangerous: pure rage, bitter jealousy, and a volatile, consuming madness. It was the visage of a man unhinged by a devotion so profound it had twisted into something grotesque. Elian found it both pathetic and despicable in equal measure.
“Why are you here with him!” Rhys roared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
*You look pathetic, Rhys Alaric.* So utterly pathetic. Elian stared back, a cold fury rising within him. And yet, a strange, sickening sensation settled in his gut. The pitiful one, he realized, was not Rhys. It was him.
Rhys’s long strides closed the distance between them with terrifying swiftness. As Elian looked into his face, a sudden, jarring impact rocked his world.
“...!”
The impact was so sudden, so unexpected, that his mind failed to process it. His body toppled sideways, hitting the cold stone floor with a dull thud. Only then did his scattered thoughts piece together the sequence of events.
“No… no way…”
Rhys had struck him.
Rhys Alaric had actually struck him.
Lying on the ground, a searing pain blooming in his left cheek, Elian lifted a trembling hand to his face. Disbelief warred with a crushing humiliation. How could Rhys… how could he do this? To *him*?
“M-Master Vance!” Lysander, his face pale with horror, stumbled forward.
“You worm! I told you to call me Alaric! No, don’t even utter my name, you sniveling coward!” Rhys screamed, a madman's rage distorting his features. Lysander froze, his expression growing steadily more terrified.
“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Lysander stammered.
“You swore! You *fucking* swore you wouldn’t! Damn it to the Outer Spheres!”
Lysander took a step back, tears welling in his eyes. But he wasn’t the one who should be crying, Elian thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. *I* was.
Hot, prickly tears blurred Elian’s vision, threatening to spill. Before he could entirely break down, Rhys swore one last, violent oath, then seized Lysander’s arm, yanking him out of the chamber. It all happened with disorienting speed.
Left alone, sprawled on the cold stone floor, Elian stared at the half-open door. A thin sliver of sunlight sliced through the gap. Something inside him finally fractured. The dam holding back his carefully suppressed emotions burst, and tears, hot and humiliating, streamed down his bruised face.
He hated everything. Lysander Thorne, who had dragged him into this ignominious encounter. Rhys Alaric, who had struck him, who had revealed this horrifying, possessive violence. He wished they would both simply vanish, cease to exist within his carefully ordered world. He felt utterly miserable, reduced to a mere casualty in their twisted, unspoken drama.
He pushed himself up, his limbs aching, his head pounding. Skipping the rest of Practical Application of Abjuration, he made his way directly to the Proctors’ office, requesting early dismissal. His swollen, reddened face made his excuse of sudden malaise entirely credible. His assigned tutor, a kindly old arcanist named Master Boros, merely nodded, his gaze lingering on Elian’s cheek, but mercifully not prying.
---
Returning to his private residence within the Vance ancestral wing of the Collegiate, Elian collapsed onto his plush mattress. He slept a fitful, dreamless sleep. When he eventually awoke, his face was swollen, a tender, purpling bruise blossoming on his cheekbone. Out of habit, he reached for his personal arcane scrying device, a polished obsidian rectangle linked to the Collegiate’s network.
A message from Cassian Valerius. They rarely exchanged direct communications, but Elian recalled Cassian’s proximity to Rhys, their occasional joint studies. A jolt of fresh vexation shot through him. *Damn it.*
Were it anyone else, Elian would have simply ignored the missive. But Cassian Valerius was no ordinary peer. He commanded a subtle, pervasive influence among the younger noble scions, a formidable social currency beneath his easy charm. Elian could not afford to dismiss him.
‘*Well, well, Vance. When did you slink away from the arena?*’
Elian clicked his tongue, a bitter taste in his mouth. He typed a reply, several hours belated, striving for an air of lighthearted nonchalance.
‘*Haha, a touch unwell, I’m afraid.*’
He deliberately kept his response vague, his language breezy. The thought of anyone discovering the truth – that Rhys Alaric had laid hands on him, that he had been subjected to such public humiliation – was an unbearable prospect. And all because of that pathetic, stammering Lysander Thorne.
‘*Are you quite alright?*’ Cassian’s follow-up message appeared almost immediately. Such uncharacteristic concern. Elian frowned, a strange, suffocating sensation rising in his throat. He merely shut off the scrying device.
Hours later, a fresh wave of despair washed over him. Even Cassian’s unexpected solicitations felt like an imposition. Other scholars he frequently studied with had also sent brief messages, notes of concern about his absence. But none of it was what he truly, desperately craved.
No one seeking him out included Rhys Alaric. *I must be losing my mind,* he thought, a frantic edge to the idea. Still, he attempted to console himself with a cold, detached rationality: *This is the fate of one consumed by maddening obsession.* Rhys, clearly, was consumed by Lysander. It was a tragic, inevitable consequence.
Even knowing, even reasoning through the bleak truth, he lay there, a pathetic figure, doing what he did best: closing his eyes and wilfully ignoring the searing reality of his own desolate heart. The familiar strategy, so often employed, felt hollow now.
“...I am not the only one,” he whispered to the silent chamber. Perhaps Lysander and he were, in some twisted, grotesque sense, in the same impossible situation. A selfish, wicked, childish hope, a faint, flickering ember, intertwined with the thought. As he stared at the ornate ceiling, another message pulsed on his dark scrying device. It was from an unknown numeric sigil.
‘*Master Vance, are you feeling dreadfully ill?*’
Elian frowned. Who among his Collegiate peers would address him so formally, yet with such familiarity as to presume a personal concern? Cassian? But the sigil was not his. Before Elian could fully unravel the conundrum, another message arrived, relentless, infuriating.
‘*I’m terribly sorry. Truly, profoundly sorry. It is all my fault.*’
‘*I am sorry.*’
‘*Please, forgive me.*’
Whether three words or four, each one made Elian want to scream. With a guttural cry of frustration, he hurled his scrying device across the room. It struck the far wall with a muted thud, skittering beneath a heavy credenza. How had this pathetic worm acquired his private sigil? Lysander Thorne, who supposedly barely possessed an arcane communicator, much less his encrypted contact information.
Then it hit him. Oh. He had, months ago, provided his sigil to Lysander after a particularly rigorous group project, for ease of sharing research notes. He had completely forgotten.
Elian cursed his idiotic brain, a furious, frustrated sigh escaping his lips. To vent his impotent rage, he pounded his fists against the soft mattress for a long while until exhaustion claimed him. He finally drifted into a troubled sleep. Just before his thoughts completely faded, one last message, unread but somehow deeply felt, lingered in his mind, echoing the persistent, unyielding sorrow of Lysander’s spirit.
‘*Please, don’t despise me.*’
Funny, Elian thought. He had already despised Lysander for months. Perhaps even for years.
---
When Elian woke the next morning, his face was swollen, tight and tender, like a poorly risen loaf of bread. A deep purplish-green tinged his cheek, undeniable and ugly.
He skipped the day’s lectures. No matter his standing as a model scholar, he was not so fanatical about his studies as to appear in public with such a disfigurement. The thought alone made his stomach clench.
His house retainer, a stoic woman named Alana, brought him a light luncheon. As he picked at the bland offerings – a soft porridge and some rather limp, seasoned greens – Alana could not resist a gentle admonishment, urging him to be more careful with his health. He swallowed his food quickly, barely tasting it.
As he set his spoon down and reached for a glass of water, Alana returned to clear the dishes. With a plate in one hand, she spoke, her voice calm and even.
“Master Vance, you have a visitor.”
“What?” Elian froze.
“Shall I admit them?”
A visitor. His heart fluttered, a quick, anxious bird trapped in his ribs. Before he could even identify the emotion, his mind, with its habitual, almost desperate optimism, had already begun to construct a fantastical scenario. He knew almost no one visited his residence within the Collegiate grounds. Alana rarely used the term ‘friend’ so casually.
Could it be… Rhys Alaric?
It seemed a wild, improbable fantasy, given the events of yesterday. Yet, it was not entirely impossible. Very few from the Collegiate had ever called upon him here. Among his sparse acquaintance, only a handful even knew his private quarters’ specific location. If it were Rhys, then surely, he must have come to apologize, a sudden wave of guilt finally washing over him. Rhys had never struck him before, not once in all their volatile, complicated history. Yes, he must be worried. Distraught even. Elian’s chest swelled with an inexplicable warmth, a fleeting sense of vindication.
“Yes,” Elian managed, his voice a little breathless, “please, admit them.”
The fantasy solidified into a fragile, certain hope. Even as he chastised himself for such profound naivety, for such a childish yearning for validation, he could not help but feel a small, fragile sense of satisfaction. Despite everything, despite the cruelty, he was still important to Rhys. That thought, intoxicating and dangerous, filled him with an almost unbearable warmth. He rose from the table, quickly turning toward the entry salon, his pace quickening with a surge of anticipation.
But the person waiting there was not the one he had so desperately hoped for.
“Yo, Vance. What’s the word?”
Cassian Valerius, sharp-featured and impossibly confident, greeted him with a playful, almost predatory smirk. He held a small pouch of spiced nuts, a casual offering. As soon as his eyes landed on Elian’s bruised face, however, his smirk faltered, replaced by an unusually serious, almost concerned frown.
“What in the blazes happened to your face?”
Elian’s knees almost buckled from the sudden, crushing disappointment. The hope, so carefully nurtured, shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. A wave of physical nausea washed over him. And how did Cassian even know where he lived? The question was a distant, secondary thrum in his mind.
“...I fell,” Elian replied, his voice flat, devoid of all inflection.
Cassian’s frown deepened. He twisted his lips, a familiar tic before he delivered a sarcastic retort. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you, Vance?”
Elian did not bother to argue. He merely rubbed his swollen cheek, the dull ache a constant companion. A fresh wave of embarrassment surged, thinking of his earlier, pathetic anticipation. He was such a fool. Rhys Alaric did not consider him important. And here he was, wagging his tail like a hopeful cur, a complete imbecile.
“Here, take this.” Cassian extended a small, chilled ceramic vial. “It’s a nutrient paste. Good for swelling.”
Elian accepted it, his fingers clumsy, and immediately unstoppered the vial to peer at its contents. “...It’s infused with verdant leaf extract.”
“Is it? Didn’t even notice.” Cassian shrugged, an easy, unconcerned gesture.
“Figures,” Elian retorted, a faint bitterness in his voice. “Why would you care?”
“Damn, that’s harsh, Vance.” Cassian clucked his tongue, but his eyes held a strange glint. “What are you even doing here?”
“What do you think?” Cassian stepped further into the salon, surveying the ancestral paintings with an almost insolent ease. “Came to ascertain your condition. Mind if I intrude further?”
“Hey, wait!” Elian protested, but it was too late. Without hesitation, Cassian’s long legs carried him further into the private residence, past the formal receiving rooms.
“Where’s your personal study?” Cassian called out, his voice echoing in the quiet halls.
“Hey, where are you going?” Elian hurried after him, a sense of disarray settling over him.
“Where else?” Cassian’s voice drifted back. “There’s nowhere else to go in your house, is there? Most residences are rather uniform in their layout for scholars of your standing.”
Elian had no retort for that. Cassian was, technically, correct. Residences *were* largely uniform. But the intrusion felt deeply personal, an unsettling violation of his carefully maintained boundaries. Feeling profoundly awkward and exposed, Elian simply followed Cassian, who seemed oddly intent on inspecting the interior of his carefully curated home, his presence a jarring, unwelcome discord in Elian’s shattered world.