A vast hall of polished cherrywood, this hushed expanse cradled dozens of instrument cases. They lay like dormant creatures, holding secrets within their velvet-lined depths.
Here, ambition coalesced, forming delicate, shifting hierarchies. Each student carried the weight of eighteen years, their careers a tightly drawn bowstring. Tension thrummed beneath the surface, a dangerous, daily score. Survival was a precarious arpeggio.
This constant, gnawing pressure had begun for Lysander at twelve, the year he first learned to navigate the Conservatory’s labyrinthine social scales. The balancing act had become his second nature, a cruel routine for everyone here.
This hallowed chamber, a mausoleum of quiet ambition, concealed a ruthless pyramid.
“Ah…”
Lysander’s left arm, stiff from clutching his cello’s neck for hours, prickled with pins and needles. He flexed his fingers, the phantom ache a familiar companion. A sigh, thin as a violin string, escaped his lips. He gazed at the slumped backs of his peers.
Faded emerald chalkboards framed a panorama of peach-toned napes. Professor Alaric, our Ethics of Interpretation lecturer, sat at the podium, idly scanning a creased newspaper. Most students bent over their theoretical exercises; others, having surrendered, merely slept.
“Rouse yourselves, you slumbering muses,” Professor Alaric’s voice boomed, turning a page with a sharp rustle.
Fifth period already. Lysander had stalled at the fifteenth problem, fingers idly tracing the intricate notation. He laid his mechanical pencil down, the soft click echoing in the heavy air. His eyes drifted to the two empty seats, conspicuously vacant.
Julian Montrose and Alban Finch. Their absence was no surprise. They wouldn’t grace the hall tomorrow either, not unless Julian’s volatile temperament swung again, or some unseen drama had unfurled between them. He could only speculate on the latest catastrophe.
Lysander lowered his gaze, the complicated theoretical problems blurring into a dense thicket of ledger lines and clefs.
He remembered a time, not so long ago, when he believed he understood Julian entirely. He’d convinced himself he held the true key to Julian’s enigmatic soul, a deeper insight than anyone else in the Conservatory. He’d clung to that delusion, even when comparing himself to Caius Vesper, who seemed to orbit Julian like a dark star.
In truth, that quiet pride had been his shield, allowing him to endure the sight of Julian and Caius in their easy, powerful camaraderie. He secretly savored the hidden knowledge, the imagined upper hand in deciphering Julian’s true motives.
Lysander propped his chin on his hand. The sheer pettiness of his thoughts tasted bitter. Such insidious yearning disgusted him.
What would others think, if these venomous currents were laid bare? The answer was obvious. He’d be cast down, not merely from the stage, but from the Conservatory’s delicate social structure itself, relegated to the lowest, widest tier of the untalented.
That thought was a chill wind. A terrifying prospect. This predatory desire, unique to the striving student, had to remain buried. Deep. So deep that not even Julian himself, the object of this warped understanding, would sense it. He needed to hide it so well, he almost forgot it existed.
Julian Montrose, however, possessed no such compunction. His desires were an overture, known to the entire Conservatory.
Lysander subtly lifted his head, scanning the room. Everyone remained hunched over their desks, lost in their own struggles. He pressed his lips together, then looked straight ahead.
Lying forlornly between the rows, near the aisle, was a discarded folio of sheet music. Its cover was scuffed, imprinted with the ghost of a footprint.
Suddenly, feeling a prickle, as if someone might catch his gaze, Lysander buried his head in his arms, mimicking the slumped forms around him.
He shifted his neck, turning his head just enough. His eyes found the back row. A face lay partially obscured by a forearm, as if the owner had collapsed mid-thought. It possessed a delicate, almost sorrowful cast, the stillness of a death mask.
“...”
His gaze lingered on Caius Vesper’s face, then drifted to his arm. Caius, already a towering presence, seemed to stretch further, his uniform jacket now leaving his wrists starkly exposed. Around one of those wrists, a rosary of dark, polished wood beads stood out, a heavy, unmistakable symbol. A curious contradiction, integral to Caius Vesper’s unsettling identity.
Before knowing more, Lysander had assumed Caius hailed from the opulent districts, perhaps like Julian’s grand estate.
Despite his formidable aura, Caius rarely displayed the trappings of wealth. His eyes, deep-set, always seemed shadowed, his faded irises giving him a perpetually haunted mien. The thin sclera visible beneath his pupils added to his sharp, ascetic appearance.
Caius Vesper’s presence was one of grim, almost monastic intimidation, yet it lacked the polished refinement Lysander associated with old Conservatory wealth. Instead, his features seemed etched by a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a melancholic gravity. Combined with his imposing physique—he was undoubtedly the tallest student—it made him doubly formidable.
Yet, Caius’s temperament couldn’t have been more different from his forbidding exterior.
He seemed not merely indifferent, but actively detached, as if he deliberately erased events from his memory. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a quality that, ironically, amplified his mystique.
Most notably, Caius seemed to care little for social currency. He never paid attention to another student’s lineage or the cost of their instrument. If the mood struck him, he might casually offer a rare antique score to a struggling peer, as if the concept of material value didn’t exist. He’d lend his precious, annotated scores and forget about them entirely. There were even tales of students returning borrowed sheet music, only for Caius to ask, genuinely puzzled, why they presented it to him.
Still, his generosity wasn’t indiscriminate. He’d indulge a spontaneous request from a talented but obscure student, yet coldly dismiss pleas from those truly desperate for advancement.
Even with friends, Caius could be ruthlessly sharp. Lysander once overheard a story: Rhys, upon seeing Caius’s cherished antique cello — an instrument Caius rarely brought to public rehearsals — excitedly tried to pluck a string without permission. Caius had, without a word, snatched it back with such force that Rhys stumbled backward, sprawling onto the polished studio floor like a startled frog.
At the peak of the Conservatory’s social order, figures like Caius Vesper and Julian Montrose shared one defining trait: an absolute disregard for others’ opinions. This profound indifference, in its own unsettling way, was precisely what secured their place at the pinnacle.
Why did we, with our own striving hands, hand over the keys to our world to these unpredictable, untamed artists? No matter how Lysander pondered it, he still couldn’t comprehend.
And yet, Caius Vesper called himself devout. A faithful acolyte, perhaps of a forgotten sect of the Great Organists, who preached a stern purity of sound.
He was the kind of unyielding spirit who slept with a tome of ancient hymns beneath his head, yet his behavior often verged on the savage. He didn’t imbibe, nor did he dabble in the opium dens of Eldoria, nor did he engage in the petty theft of compositions or extortion of other students. Yet the doctrine he followed seemed flawed; one could tell from the rules on earthly pleasures alone. Lysander had heard that the Great Organists permitted certain indulgences for inspiration.
They said the faith viewed carnal love as a transgression. Was that why Julian Montrose’s flagrant pursuits disgusted Caius so profoundly? Lysander licked his dry lips.
He felt a strange, cold relief that he hadn’t been caught. If he had, he might have ended up like that trampled score, his own fragile reputation marred beyond repair. And yet, even in that moment, a whisper of a question: if Julian and he had remained close, as they were just months ago, would Julian have protected him?
The thought surfaced, unwelcome, dragging with it memories Lysander desperately tried to bury. He drew a deep breath, fighting the surge of nausea, as though the bitter coffee he’d consumed threatened to return.
No. Of course not.
How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to believe such a thing. To Julian, Lysander had been nothing more than a convenient practice partner, a sounding board for his own brilliance. He knew this now, because of the look in Julian’s eyes when he had publicly dismantled Lysander’s performance, piece by agonizing piece. His eyes had spoken volumes. Lysander hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had stared him down, undeniable.
Julian sinned openly, flaunting his talent and his appetites. Lysander, too, was a sinner – but he hid his transgressions, his self-doubt, his envy. And so, Julian, in his wild glory, was punished by the Conservatory’s harsh judgments, while Lysander, in his calculated obscurity, was spared.
A faint, bitter chuckle escaped Lysander’s lips, so soft it was only audible to himself.
“...So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.”
Perhaps the Conservatory itself had a personality like Caius Vesper’s. Unyielding, judgmental, yet drawn to raw, untamed genius.
Lysander’s gaze shifted to the desk nearest Professor Alaric’s podium. This was unusual, but today, he felt a pang of pity for Alban Finch. Poor soul, ensnared in Julian’s orbit, caught in the clutches of that dazzling, destructive force. Alban, you lacked the strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Alban, despite your outwardly steady hands. You should have fled the moment Lysander warned you, fool.
He knew he wasn’t a good person. He was selfish and self-serving, and perhaps that was his true punishment. Sometimes, a darker thought surfaced: If one must be drawn to such intense brilliance, why not pick someone sly and deceitful like me? At least then life would be simpler. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering for it?
These days, Lysander thought differently.
Yes. Of course no one could ever truly cherish someone like him. He knew his own fragile, insecure heart too well to believe otherwise.
There was a time when he thought he could have it all. Arrogant, conceited Lysander Thorne. Lysander, who, at eighteen, believed he understood the world’s complex harmonies. Wicked, vile Lysander. Pitiful Lysander, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone.
That day, he couldn’t conquer the fifteenth theoretical question. He used a supposed migraine as an excuse to lie slumped over his desk, a small, cold comfort in the thought: At least I’m not as utterly ruined as Julian or Alban.
Rumors about Julian and Alban, like dissonant chords, spread through the Conservatory. Whether exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to ascertain the facts. Julian’s cohort had vanished from the school’s active circles, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances to fret over old loyalties, inadvertently fueling the whispers even further.
“Professor Alaric, forgive me, but who was closest to Julian Montrose?”
“Montrose… No, Caius Vesper.”
Lysander overheard this as he passed by on his way back to the hall before dismissal. Professor Alaric had asked, and Bastian, a timid cellist, had answered. Lysander pretended not to hear, gliding into the room. The Professor glanced nervously between Lysander and the empty seats, drumming his fingers against the podium. Then, as if abandoning some unspoken, weary thought, he announced:
“Let us conclude.”
The moment dismissal ended, Lysander gathered his scores. As he slung his cello case over his shoulder, Caius Vesper tapped him on the back.
“Thorne. Let’s practice after class.”
Lysander looked at Caius’s stark profile. He knew. He had always watched Julian and Caius’s every interaction, knew that the person Caius most frequently invited to study scores or spar musically was always Julian. After a brief, deliberate pause, Lysander shook his head.
“Can’t. I have private composition assignments.”
“What about after that?”
“Further theory work. Go, seek out one of your collaborators.”
“Unsuitable.”
“Why not?”
“Collaborating with mediocrity only dulls the edge. Clinging to lesser talents wastes precious hours.”
“Ha.”
Lysander let out a short, humorless laugh at the brutal honesty. Right. This was why he could tolerate Caius better than most. Their twisted, unforgiving values aligned in strange, uncomfortable ways.
“So, Rhys, Bastian – they’re mediocrity? Even Elara, the flautist?”
“If you insist on such terms, then yes, largely. But you are different.”
The backhanded assessment left Lysander feeling strangely raw.
“What is that supposed to mean? You are quite awful, Vesper.”
“No, I am merely honest.”
“You are profoundly awful.”
“Hmm. It is written in the Conservatory’s old mottos: ‘Let truth pierce the obfuscation.’ I merely adhere to it, Thorne.”
Honestly, Caius was worse than Lysander. At least Lysander didn’t openly dismiss his peers as worthless.
“That is why I am a practitioner of pure integrity.”
“...Naturally.”
“Since I possess such pure integrity, may I observe your practice session at your chambers?”
Caius Vesper blinked twice, his dark eyes unwavering. Lysander looked at his face for a moment, then nodded slowly.
“Very well. Why not.”
As long as Caius didn’t interfere with Lysander’s meticulous routine, there was no reason to refuse. To secure one’s precarious place in the Conservatory’s rigid hierarchy, one sometimes had to endure even the most unsettling company.