A tightly shut door loomed, dark oak worn smooth by generations of hurried hands. Lysander Thorne stood before it, his own hands clammy, a tremor running through his usually steady fingers. An aching knot tightened in his gut, a familiar discomfort he’d carried since the cryptic note found its way into his practice folio. Just as he reached to press his clammy palm against the wood, a faint creak broke the stillness. Through the narrow gap, Lysander caught a glimpse of Caspian’s flushed skin, a flash of red at his knuckles as he released the latch. The door swung inward, then began to close again, threatening to conceal him. Lysander moved without thought, slipping through the shrinking space with a desperate, uncharacteristic urgency. Inside, Caspian was already sprawled across the rumpled cot, not quite sitting, not quite lying. A loose silken tunic, the color of bruised plums, clung to his frame. He wore only simple breeches. A half-eaten candied quince, forbidden and excessively sweet, dangled from his lips. He gnawed on it idly, eyes half-lidded. “Damn it all, Lysander. The Arch-Maestro’s aide will flay me alive this time,” Caspian muttered, his voice a low thrum against the stillness. “If he calls, say we were dissecting counterpoint. Say… say whatever it takes.” He flicked a polished steel tuning fork open and closed, the soft *thwick-thwack* a counterpoint to the thudding in Lysander’s chest. Caspian didn’t seem to notice Lysander’s arrival, or perhaps he simply didn’t care. His face held the languid exhaustion of someone who’d spent the night in decadent pursuits. Lysander’s stomach clenched, raw and tight. He rubbed it absently. Stepping forward, he snatched the bitten quince from Caspian’s mouth. His voice, usually so measured, held an irritated edge. “And why should I?” “Because we are… allies.” Caspian’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. He stretched the word out, a hint of something fragile in its timbre. Lysander felt a familiar tear in his chest, a sharp, aching pang. Yet his expression remained shamelessly composed, a mask of disinterest. “Just know I will settle the debt, one way or another.” “Good. Thank you, Lysander.” The air in the room was thick, heavy with the cloying scent of Black Lilies—a rare, intoxicating bloom known to thrive only in Eldoria’s shadowed, forgotten gardens, often associated with clandestine gatherings. Underneath it, Lysander detected the faint, sharp tang of stale wine and something else, something subtly wild, uniquely Caspian. Truthfully, Lysander had only learned to identify such forbidden fragrances because of Caspian. Whispers from the lower collegium halls recounted Caspian’s early days. He reportedly lost his innocence not in a stuffy practice room, but in the depths of the City’s underbelly, performing raw, untamed melodies in forgotten taverns. The tales painted him as a veritable prodigy, already possessing the audacious presence of a man in his late twenties. Caspian’s mature appearance wasn’t typical of a Conservatory student. Most who saw him for the first time assumed he was an instructor, or perhaps a visiting master. His bold, defined features gave him a brooding, sophisticated aura. Once he gained entrance to Eldoria, he openly frequented the City’s more disreputable dens whenever boredom struck. With an effortless charm and a forged Conservatory pass, he would captivate alluring courtesans, making clandestine encounters his regular pastime. His captivating looks played no small part in cloaking his hedonistic lifestyle. Individually, Caspian’s eyes, nose, and mouth weren’t classically perfect. But combined, they formed an inexplicably striking face. His presence was so refined, so commanding, that no one could believe he was merely a student. They assumed him at least thirty. Lysander looked around the small, disheveled room, as if searching for a phantom presence. The heavy atmosphere, lingering from Caspian’s escapade, made him feel nauseous. He forced the question out, his voice thin. “Where is Valerius?” “He departed.” “...” “That virtuoso is a walking contradiction, Lysander. A fascinating joke.” Caspian rested his chin on one hand, a wry chuckle rumbling in his chest. Lysander frowned. Valerius was the second person in Eldoria he most despised. Valerius only truly became entwined with Caspian’s circle during their second year. As much as Lysander hated to admit it, they spent so much time together it was impossible not to label them as confidantes. When Caspian’s reputation for untamed genius dominated the Eastern Foyer, Valerius, a prodigious pianist, held his own esteemed position in the Western Galleries. Still, their paths rarely crossed. Lysander only ever saw Valerius during the communal suppers in the Grand Refectory, a shared space for all Conservatory students. Once, during an evening meal, someone nudged Lysander’s shoulder. “That’s Valerius.” Curious, Lysander stretched on his toes to glimpse over the crowd. Among the sea of black-robed students, a tall, sharp-featured boy stood out, his platinum hair a stark contrast. Lysander knew instantly it was him. An undeniable aura of “dazzling gloom” clung to Valerius like a second skin. “He appears to have a nasty disposition,” Lysander murmured, more to himself than anyone. One of Caspian’s hangers-on, a flutist named Elias, replied, “Indeed, a touch. They say he’s remarkably narcissistic.” Lysander smirked at the comment, giving only a half-hearted nod in response. He hated to admit it, but he could understand why Valerius had earned a place in Caspian’s formidable orbit. That only intensified Lysander’s dislike, yet for some inexplicable reason, he found himself unable to look away. By chance, their eyes met. It was peculiar that Valerius noticed Lysander’s gaze, considering how many eyes must have been fixed on him in the crowded Refectory. Valerius’s long, silver-grey eyes and thin pupils made a striking impression. Lysander flinched, a sharp, physical recoil. ‘What are you staring at?’ The silent question resonated, though Valerius’s lips remained still. He narrowed one eye. Lysander, feeling a prickle of intimidation, pretended to adjust his collar and turned away. Then, loud enough for Elias to hear, he pronounced, “He looks like a viper.” After that, Valerius and Lysander often made eye contact during meals or chance encounters in the halls. They always ignored each other. Whenever their gazes locked, Valerius would sometimes lower his head first, then look up again, as if in challenge. Lysander found himself following suit once or twice. He lost count after the eighteenth time. As if by some cruel twist of fate, Lysander and Caspian found themselves assigned to the same core practicum courses again in their second year. Lysander felt a thrill of secret delight at this continued proximity, despite the turmoil it brought. Then, a familiar, vexing face appeared. Valerius. It was truly surprising—and utterly maddening. For the first time, Lysander had a proper, unsettling view of the face behind the infamous reputation. It was Valerius who spoke to him first, during a break in an advanced theory lecture. “Lysander. Care for a nocturne together later?” Damn it all. Just as everyone had anticipated, Caspian and Valerius became inextricably entwined. Caspian, a man who reveled in his own raw brilliance, found an intellectual sparring partner in Valerius. He was masculine, successful among his peers, and undeniably gifted. Their unusual friendship was inevitable. In the practice rooms, the topic often arose: if Caspian and Valerius were to clash in a musical duel, who would emerge victorious? From Lysander’s perspective, such a confrontation would never truly happen. While Caspian and Lysander were opposites on the surface, Caspian and Valerius shared a remarkable, complementary brilliance. Yet, there was one stark difference between them. Valerius possessed a strange, almost straight-laced side. Despite his ears being adorned with multiple silver studs, he sometimes acted with an unexpected air of austere piety. For example, when Caspian felt the stirrings of carnal desire, he would simply select an enticing figure and spend the night in revelry. When students gossiped about his early morning escapades, he recounted his steamy adventures with a proud, almost poetic languor. In contrast, Valerius often dismissed typical lewd remarks about illicit desires with a dismissive wave or a sharp, sarcastic comment. Sometimes, he would mock their vulgarity outright, perhaps by quoting a particularly somber passage from a holy cantata, or by playing a dissonant chord on a nearby piano. “My artistry is dedicated to the purity of the Muse,” Valerius had once declared, in response to a crude jibe about a performance in a less reputable establishment. That was the difference. Caspian once offered to procure him a forged Conservatory pass for the City’s nocturnal pleasures—an offer he’d never extended to Lysander. Valerius had simply dismissed it as a “useless distraction,” refusing outright. Caspian’s inner circle found Valerius’s eccentricities entertaining, but Lysander did not. The reason was simple: Valerius was close to Caspian. They wandered Eldoria’s halls like kindred spirits. That alone was enough for Lysander to despise him. It was a simmering, venomous jealousy. Still, Lysander managed to maintain a civil, if strained, relationship with Valerius. One of Lysander’s strengths lay in concealing his true feelings, no matter the situation. Besides, Valerius was close to Caspian. Indeed, everything in Lysander’s carefully constructed social life revolved around Caspian. To be honest, more days passed when Lysander felt frustrated with himself for this debilitating obsession than days he truly thought about Caspian with unadulterated admiration. He often felt like a complete fool. But even so, he remained hopelessly tethered. While Caspian threw a few casual words his way before heading into the small, adjoining washroom to clean up, Lysander sat, lost in thought. A few minutes later, the distinctive chimes of Caspian’s private console rang out. Fresh from the washroom, Caspian retrieved it from the cot and tossed it carelessly to Lysander. He caught it instinctively. On the other end, Lysander heard the crisp, authoritative voice of the Arch-Maestro’s personal aide. Clearing his throat, Lysander answered, his voice instantly composed, smooth as polished obsidian. Why was he even trying so hard to sound calm? “Yes, this is Lysander Thorne.” “Thorne? Are you with Caspian right now?” “Indeed, I am.” “Ah, I see. I was worried for nothing. I thought Caspian might be out, cavorting again. You possess such a pleasant resonance, Thorne.” “Thank you, Master Alaric.” “No, truly. How are you faring?” “I am well, thank you. And yourself?” “The same. You speak so… eloquently. If only Caspian possessed your decorum. That boy has no respect for convention. So, you were collaborating on an academic piece?” “Yes. Caspian must have forgotten to inform you. He has been quite engrossed in his preparations for the upcoming Autumn Solstice Recital.” “So, you’ve been diligently studying together this entire time?” “Yes. He has been with me, every moment.” “Well, that is a relief. If he is with you, I can rest assured.” “It is nothing, truly.” “No, it is something. If he is with you, he cannot embroil himself in trouble.” “Rest assured. I will ensure he attends his next engagement promptly.” “Good. Do take care of him, Thorne. Remain allied, and do not squabble.” “Yes, of course. Farewell, Master Alaric.” Lies flowed from Lysander’s lips with a terrifying ease. After ending the call, Lysander tossed the console back to Caspian, who muttered a short “Thank you” while slipping into a fresh, starched tunic. Without another word, Lysander turned to leave. Caspian made no move to stop him. “Until then,” Caspian offered, his voice a low, melodic murmur. That was all he said. It was to be expected. This was the extent of their peculiar, unbalanced connection. The vast, aching chasm between them was painfully clear. Perhaps that was why Lysander quickened his pace, his throat suddenly tight and raw as he hurried out of the disused wing and into the gothic twilight of Eldoria Conservatory.

The Scent of Black Lilies