A cool draft whispered through the casement, stirring the heavy velvet drapes. Elian stirred, a dull throb behind his temple the only lingering reminder of yesterday’s brutality. He gingerly touched his cheek. The swelling had receded, a faint bluish stain beneath his skin, easily concealed by a cleverly angled collar. It was manageable. A fragile sliver of relief pierced the gloom that had clung to him since the Chamber of Discarded Artifacts. He descended to the Grand Collegiate, heart lighter than it had any right to be. Hope, foolish and persistent, flickered within his chest. Perhaps the nightmare had been just that – a momentary aberration. Yet, as he neared the common rooms, an unnatural stillness settled. Air grew heavy, charged with unspoken tension. Elian scanned the familiar faces, each averted gaze a confirmation of his unease. He sought a specific silhouette, his breath catching. Rhys Alaric. The figure slipped through the arched doorway, narrowly escaping the tardiness bell. His shoulders were hunched, a phantom shield against unseen blows. Elian froze. A gasp caught in his throat. His earlier injury, a mere bruise, paled in comparison to the wreckage of Rhys’s countenance. A jagged split marred Rhys’s lip, crusted and angry. One eye, a tender violet, was swollen near shut, mirroring the very contours of his cheekbone. A sickening wave of guilt washed over Elian. He had wished for retribution, a childish, cruel thought. Now, confronted with its grim reality, shame choked him. “By the Mother Goddess…” he murmured, the words hollow. Rhys hesitated, eyes darting. Their gazes met, a fleeting connection of shared trauma. Rhys’s expression locked into a startled grimace, a flash of fear. He wrenched his head away, shuffling to his customary seat, a desolate island in a sea of hushed whispers. He avoided Elian completely. An uncomfortable chill snaked down Elian’s spine. A strange, inexplicable reaction. He instinctively glanced around. The reason was immediately apparent. Across the lecture hall, Cassian Valerius pinned him with a lethal stare, eyes dark and cold, promising further retribution. “Damn it all.” Regret tasted bitter. He should have feigned illness. Remained within the perceived safety of his rooms. Through the morning’s lectures, Rhys, once eager to offer a timid greeting or a whispered question, kept his distance. His head remained bowed, his usually bright attention fixed rigidly on the ancient texts. At the midday bell, he vanished. A glimpse through the bustling corridor showed him trailing behind Cassian, a shadow bound to a storm. Left alone, Elian found himself adrift. A part of him yearned to seek them out, to understand, to intervene. But the thought was a fleeting spark, extinguished by the cold dread of what he might witness. He did not want to see Rhys battered further, though the image already burned behind his eyelids. He hated to admit it, but he was too afraid. Lysander Thorne appeared beside him, a casual lean against the stone pillar. His bright tunic seemed to mock the oppressive atmosphere. Lysander’s easy smile, his lighthearted banter, often felt like a dissonant note in Elian’s carefully composed world. Today, however, that very levity was a lifeline. “A particularly potent dose of silence today, wouldn’t you say, Vance?” Lysander’s voice was a low murmur, oddly soothing. “One could cut the air with a dull quill.” Elian managed a faint smile. “You seemed quite unaffected yesterday. Your usual boisterous self.” “A masterful performance, I assure you.” Lysander winked, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “One must maintain appearances, even when one’s stomach churns with apprehension.” He shifted, settling beside Elian on a cool marble bench. “Though I confess, the sight of a certain Alaric boy just now… even my composure wavered.” Elian offered no response. Lysander’s casual observation resonated with an uncomfortable truth. He felt a kinship with Lysander, an unexpected comfort. From their first reluctant encounter, Elian had never sought this connection. He had, in fact, found Lysander’s flippancy irritating, a superficiality he couldn’t comprehend. Yet, here they were. Lysander’s carefree demeanor, his flippant tone, anchored Elian. They prevented him from sinking entirely into the oppressive weight of his own thoughts. He had once dismissed these qualities as signs of shallowness. Now, he found himself relying on that very lightness to keep him grounded. If Cassian and he had remained… closer, he might never have recognized the profound need for Lysander’s presence. --- Days blurred into a muted procession. Cassian began to distance himself from their usual coterie, his absences growing more frequent. Sometimes, he’d vanish with Rhys Alaric, a silent, unwilling companion. Other times, a few of their other acquaintances would be swept into his orbit. There were even moments when some of them flatly refused, their faces uneasy, their excuses mumbled. One afternoon, Elian encountered Kaelen, a usually jovial lad with a penchant for elaborate incantations, attempting to scale a low wall, a desperate attempt to avoid a tutor. Kaelen, with a mixture of amusement and genuine disquiet, recounted Cassian’s increasingly erratic behavior. He spoke of orders, veiled threats, of others being compelled to strike Rhys Alaric, a cruel game of enforced cruelty, one strike at a time. Elian’s face tightened in disbelief. Kaelen, sensing the shift, quickly added that he’d been avoiding Cassian’s company lately, finding it… distasteful. He was off to the scriptorium with another acolyte, he explained, urging Elian not to misinterpret his words. Then, he departed, leaving Elian with a fresh knot of dread. Elian and Lysander, once an unlikely pairing, now often sought refuge together. During a particularly dreary lunchtime, they made their way to the Collegiate’s central courtyard, seeking a small cart purveying chilled confections. The vendor, an ancient, wizened woman with hands stained purple from berries, offered them a pair of frosty sorbets. The cold sweetness spread across Elian’s tongue, a momentary balm. But beneath that fleeting relief, the bitter unease tightened in his chest. Still, he held his ground, determined not to betray the turmoil within. “Is it palatable?” Lysander asked, eyeing Elian’s shimmering confection. He was already halfway through his own, a vibrant orange swirl. “A taste?” Elian offered, half-teasing, bringing the berry-stained treat, sticky with his own saliva, close to Lysander’s mouth. Without a beat, Lysander smirked, a corner of his lip twitching upwards, and took a surprisingly large bite. “Lysander! Did you truly?” Elian exclaimed, genuinely shocked. “You invited me,” Lysander said, his voice muffled by the icy sweetness. “That’s… uncivilized. And why such a prodigious bite?” “Merely a single, hearty sampling.” Lysander shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. A moment of tranquil absurdity. The crisp autumn air was clear and calm, a stark contrast to Elian’s internal storm. Where were Cassian and Rhys now? A few secluded alcoves came to mind, a hidden courtyard, a seldom-used archive. But Elian did not seek them out. Perhaps he was afraid of what he might find if he did. He tried to banish Cassian from his thoughts. But the harder he tried, the more acutely he realized the vast, aching space Cassian occupied within his psyche. How long would it take to excise someone like that? How much effort would it demand? He did not know. It felt like being lost in a boundless, sun-scorched desert, not merely sad and suffocating, but terrifying and unbearable. Sometimes, he retreated into the labyrinth of his own mind, like a scholar wrestling with an indecipherable ancient script, stepping back to discern the elusive patterns. When the weight became too overwhelming, he would occasionally speak with Lysander. And, well, that was that. Suddenly, an unexpected question escaped him. “Lysander,” Elian began, his voice barely a whisper. “Hm?” “Do you… do you believe flowers might one day bloom in a barren desert?” The question, so raw and emotional, embarrassed him the moment it left his lips. He scratched his head awkwardly, averting his gaze. Lysander did not mock him. “They will.” Lysander’s voice was soft, devoid of its usual jest. Elian waited, a silent plea. “They must. Existence is arduous enough already.” Hearing those words from Lysander—a person Elian had never imagined capable of such pronouncements—a stark realization dawned. How futile his desperate hope felt. How much time would it truly take to relinquish these meaningless feelings? “Indeed,” Elian murmured, the word tasting like ash. “Existence is arduous.” Cassian Valerius. That infuriating, destructive force. Why did he seem so intent on breaking the loyal, tail-wagging creature Elian felt he became whenever Cassian was near? Cassian, who seemed to have abandoned all the basic tenets of Collegiate conduct, now came and went as he pleased. And always, by his side, was Rhys Alaric. As the situation grew increasingly shadowed, the Collegiate buzzed with a mix of unease and hushed intrigue. Whispers solidified into a grim understanding—Cassian’s cruelty was escalating. And so was the cold resentment towards him, slowly spreading throughout their class cohort. None of it felt right. None of it felt good. So, when Elian saw Cassian dragging Rhys by the wrist down a secluded hallway, he stopped dead. He watched them, his gaze alternating between Cassian’s rigid back and Rhys’s downcast face, before finally speaking. “Your father,” Elian began, projecting a measured calm, “has expressed… a certain concern for your recent absences.” It was not an apology, nor was it flattery—it was a calculated falsehood. The fragile extent of Elian’s pride. But Cassian, famously distant from his formidable father, would likely not discern the lie. And even if he did, Elian always left himself an escape route: at this rate, his father *would* eventually have ample cause for concern. “If blows are to be struck, ensure they fall upon you alone,” Elian continued, his voice steady. “What transgression has Rhys committed?” “Move.” Cassian’s voice was a low growl, devoid of warmth. The moment Elian mentioned Rhys’s name, Cassian’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and piercing. Elian’s chest felt like it might burst from the sheer pressure of that stare. He hated him. And yet, pitiful, pathetic Rhys stood glued to Cassian’s side, his tear-filled eyes wide, looking at Elian as if on the verge of weeping. “Unless you wish to repeat yesterday’s lesson, step aside.” “C-Cassian, please,” Rhys stammered, his voice a reedy tremor, clutching at Cassian’s sleeve. Only then did Cassian’s focus shift. His gaze fixed solely on Rhys. All Elian could see was the back of Cassian’s head as he turned away. “As I stated, your father has become—” Cassian stood still. Rhys, on the verge of tears, clung to him, trying to halt his progress. Watching that pitiful scene unfold was unbearable. It was so excruciating that Elian closed his eyes, squeezing them tight against the image. After a prolonged moment, Cassian looked at Rhys, then turned and walked back into the classroom. For the remainder of the day, he stayed there—just like a few weeks ago. --- The long-anticipated day of the Collegiate’s annual excursion arrived. A rented carriage, a grand, multi-compartment vehicle drawn by a team of six stout coursers, awaited them. It was to convey them to some obscure historical exhibition. While a few older acolytes grumbled about dragging promising scholars away from their studies, most students, particularly those in Elian’s year, were exhilarated by the chance to escape the Collegiate’s hallowed halls for even a single day. There was no need for elaborate provisions; they would return before dusk. The tutors gave only a few half-hearted warnings about decorum and scholarly conduct before dismissing them. They were no longer fresh-faced novices, giddy with anticipation. Elian regarded it as just another day – depart without a satchel, return without a satchel. He had no premonition that today would be the day his carefully bottled frustrations would finally fracture. He had expected the inevitable, but not with such abruptness. Whenever they left the strictures of the lecture halls, Elian had always found himself seated beside Cassian. He was, after all, Cassian’s closest, most constant companion. He hadn’t even considered where Lysander might position himself, having never shared a journey with him. At first, a fleeting anxiety had pricked him, a worry that Lysander might claim the coveted seat beside Cassian. Thinking back on it now, it was pathetic. Neither Elian nor Lysander would occupy that spot. Elian arrived at the designated courtyard. The grand carriage, its polished wood gleaming, stood ready. He climbed aboard, seeking their accustomed places. The rear five seats were already claimed by a boisterous group of classmates, including Kaelen, who waved at Elian, then hesitated, pointing a tentative finger towards Cassian’s usual bench. “Elian! There’s a spot here!” Kaelen called out. “Oh. Right.” Of course. It had always been his spot. But today, Elian hesitated as he approached Cassian’s seat. A small sigh of relief escaped him when he saw the space beside Cassian was still vacant. He swallowed hard, a flicker of stubborn resolve igniting within him. It was his place. His pride—the singular, fragile thing he clung to—compelled him to claim it, even after the humiliating blow from Cassian, provoked by Rhys. He nervously touched the smooth, worn wood of the bench for a moment, his eyes scanning the carriage’s interior. Then, he spoke, his voice quiet. “Cassian… This seat…” “It is not yours,” Cassian cut him off, his gaze fixed on the carriage entrance. “Find another.” Before Elian could finish, his words died in his throat. He followed Cassian’s line of sight. Rhys Alaric, timid and small, was making his hesitant way towards them. Elian clenched his fists, swallowing the bitter taste of rejection. “Fine. Whatever.” He tried to infuse his voice with indifference, though his heart felt as though it had been meticulously shredded. He retreated quickly, scanning the carriage for another refuge. He spotted an empty bench near Lysander’s group, directly across from where Lysander was already settled. A wave of relief, cold and sharp, washed over him. He hurried, almost stumbled, into the seat, speaking before Lysander could register his presence. “Lysander. Sit with me.” There was no reply. Elian looked closer. Lysander was already asleep, head lolling against the glass. He always seemed to doze off during these early morning excursions. His head bounced gently with every subtle sway of the carriage. Shaking his head at the ridiculous posture, Elian slipped his leather-bound journal between Lysander’s head and the cold window, then settled into the uncomfortable seat beside him. Across the aisle, he caught a glimpse of dark, neatly shorn hair. Cassian’s. He was taller than most of their classmates, easy to spot, even from this distance. Though the angle obscured his face, Elian knew he was there, with Rhys beside him.

A Bloom in Barren Lands