A cold tremor settled around Elian Thorne after the incident in the arcane practice chamber. It became a constant, unwelcome companion. Lysander Vane, once a steady presence, now regarded him with open disdain, his eyes like chipped obsidian. The polite facade Lysander maintained for his House Elders had dissolved completely. Now, Rhys Marrow occupied the space beside Lysander, a shadow where Elian had once stood.
Elian, for all his meticulous control over tinctures and essences, struggled to contain the turbulent brew within his own breast. Shame curdled deep in his gut, a familiar, corrosive ache. He refused to become a fragile vessel shattered by neglect, though the temptation to retreat entirely was potent. Yet, he could not approach Lysander as if their bond had not fractured, as if the venom of their parting had not seeped into his very bones.
Days blurred into a haze of melancholy, punctuated by flashes of bitter resentment. Sometimes, a vengeful heat coiled through his veins, an urge to craft a subtle, slow-acting poison to repay the slight. Always, he endured, forcing a fragile calm. Lysander, that turbulent spirit, now harbored a raw, childish envy for Elian, a venomous scorn. The reason was clear, stark as a winter moon: Rhys Marrow.
Elian despised Rhys, a hatred illogical yet unyielding. Rhys was never truly his to begin with, a fleeting acquaintance at best. Yet, he had usurped Lysander’s favor and, worse, poisoned Lysander’s regard for Elian. A vicious, conniving serpent, Elian thought, though a quiet corner of his mind admitted the injustice.
Logic held little sway over the heart’s disquiet. Blaming Rhys offered a reprieve, a fragile scapegoat upon which to heap his misery. Still, Elian was a master of rational calculation, his mind as precise as his measurements. He knew Rhys was but a leaf caught in Lysander’s tempest, a pawn. No open animosity could be shown; it would be a strategic error.
To reveal such jealousy would only expose his own vulnerability, making him appear foolish and desperate. Lysander would despise him further, and the other acolytes of the Ashwood Dominion would whisper of his ‘unnatural’ attachments, his deviant affections. Prestige in the Dominion was built on an illusion of flawless control. The thought of those whispers made a cold dread creep up his spine, a frost-kissed terror.
“This… this is a blight.”
He hated it. A deep, consuming hatred, more potent than any elixir he’d ever brewed. More than Lysander’s disdain, he loathed this fragile existence, this forced composure, this constant charade. Then, unbidden, Cassian Blackwood’s sneering face materialized in his mind, sharp and unwelcome. Cassian, that irksome, indifferent spirit who had become his most frequent shadow. What would Cassian say if he knew the depths of Elian’s fear, the true nature of his spirit? Likely, something akin to: ‘So, Thorne is just another tainted soul after all, eh?’
A shiver racked Elian’s frame. He pressed his lips into a thin line, knuckles white against his thigh, his delicate fingers tingling with suppressed fury. Such a vision was abhorrent, a violation of his carefully constructed purity. No one, absolutely no one, could ever know the truth that lay buried within him.
Attachments in the Dominion were brittle things, shifting like dust motes in a sunbeam. With Lysander’s open rupture, Elian’s connections within the Vane Circle had naturally frayed, wilting like neglected herbs. Amusingly, the most solitary among Cassian Blackwood’s retinue, Lord Kael, had approached him yesterday with a seemingly trivial query.
“Elian. Cassian sought you earlier, in the refectory.”
“Indeed? For what purpose?” Elian kept his voice level, betraying nothing.
“He simply did. No particular cause given.” Kael offered no further explanation, merely shrugged. These exchanges were often like this—fragmented, devoid of genuine meaning, yet carrying unspoken weight. The shift was undeniable; others now saw Elian as aligned with the Blackwood faction, rather than Lysander’s.
Still, the old ties were not entirely severed. Occasionally, in the training grounds or by chance in the morning, polite, superficial greetings were exchanged. The words were hollow, like empty clay pots. Mostly, this was limited to Lord Kael.
“Thorne. A fine morning for arcane studies.”
“And to you, Lord Kael. May your enchantments be precise.” Elian’s reply was clipped, courteous. He recalled one such awkward exchange when Kael had lowered his voice, a hint of unease in his tone, as if sharing a potent secret. ‘Lysander has become… peculiar of late. His fixation on Rhys Marrow… it borders on the grotesque, does it not? An unnatural fascination, some say.’
Elian must have offered a grimace, for Kael seemed to interpret it as agreement, a shared moment of noble disgust. Kael continued, describing how Lysander insisted Rhys occupy the adjacent seat in the common room, how his hand would linger on Rhys’s arm, a possessive grip that seemed to demand submission. His voice was a hushed rumble, tinged with genuine discomfort.
Elian’s nails dug into his palms, small crescent moons appearing on his skin. His jaw tightened, a tremor barely suppressed. His response was clipped, laced with a feigned apathy that tasted like bile in his mouth. ‘Such ignoble theatrics hold no interest for me, Lord Kael. Lysander’s private affairs are his own.’ That shut him quickly, Kael’s gaze flickered with an unreadable emotion.
Lately, Lord Kael had been angling for closer proximity to Cassian and his associates, a quiet search for an escape from Lysander’s shadow, a shift in allegiances. Perhaps his confidences were a bid for Elian’s favor, a tentative bridge between their fractured circles. Perhaps Kael smelled the rot in Lysander’s rising reputation.
Today, as often happened, only Cassian Blackwood and Elian remained in the common room, the echoes of other acolytes long faded. Cassian leaned against a column of dark ashwood, his gaze fixed upon Elian. Was it indifference, or a shrewd appraisal of Elian’s vulnerabilities? Elian couldn’t tell. He turned his head, choosing to ignore Cassian, too, focusing instead on the dust motes dancing in a shaft of sunlight.
“Thorne.” Cassian’s voice was a low rumble.
“What now, Blackwood?” Elian’s patience, always a delicate thing, was wearing thin.
“A draught after our studies? The spiced cordial we sampled last week still haunts me. Its notes of moonpetal and deep forest berries were exquisite.”
Cassian disregarded Elian’s deliberate coolness, his calculated distance. He idly tossed a polished river stone, letting it skip across the polished flagstones of the common room. The stone ricocheted wildly, threatening to strike various ancient scrolls and scattered reagents upon nearby tables. Yet no one dared utter a complaint, for Cassian’s displeasure was a potent, swift-acting poison. He cared nothing for decorum, for the subtle atmosphere of the court. He was, Elian knew, utterly self-serving and devoid of true consideration. Elian watched the errant stone with a deepening frown, his irritation rising, sharpening his voice.
“The cordial you consumed entirely yourself, you mean? The one you procured for your sole enjoyment, leaving me with only the scent of it on the air?”
“Not entirely. I confess a partiality for the crimson hue. A very striking color for such a potent brew.”
“So my preferences were of no consequence to you? My palate, my desires for a companionable shared moment?”
“How could I divine your desires, Thorne? You offered no counsel, no spoken wish.”
The stone finally came to rest beneath a heavy lectern, nestled among forgotten parchments. Cassian extended a hand, a silent command. One of the lingering junior scribes, near the stone, hesitated, his eyes wide with fear, then stooped awkwardly, retrieving it and placing it in Cassian’s open palm. Cassian merely twirled the stone, a glint in his eye, and addressed the retreating scribe. “My thanks, fledgling. A true asset to the Dominion.”
An insufferable disposition. ‘Fledgling this, commoner that.’ Every utterance from Cassian’s lips was a subtle barb, a calculated insult. It defied sense that someone so odious as Cassian Blackwood would gravitate to Elian, rather than Lysander Vane. Cassian shared his meals, his study alcove, his lectures. Lysander might be absent from their immediate vicinity, but a simple summoning charm or a discreet messenger could bring them together in an instant.
His thoughts sparked a question, a sudden impulse, and Elian voiced it without much reflection. “Why do you no longer seek Lysander Vane’s company, Blackwood?”
Cassian, mid-toss of his river stone against the wall, froze. A peculiar, almost bewildered expression crossed his features as he turned to Elian. “You had a quarrel with him,” he stated, his voice flat.
“I?” Elian felt a flush creep up his neck.
“Indeed. You and Lysander Vane. A most public display of discontent.”
“I am aware. The rupture was between us. How does that concern you? What interest do you hold in our severed ties?”
“Your pronouncements are truly baffling, Thorne. It concerns me because you are my… companion. A rare sort, but a companion nonetheless.”
Cassian’s gaze swept over Elian, an unsettlingly blunt appraisal that left Elian feeling exposed. Elian averted his eyes, a knot forming in his stomach. “But you were also Lysander Vane’s companion, were you not? His most vocal supporter in many an academic debate.”
“Remarkable. You jest. Are you suggesting you are not my companion? That all our shared hours mean nothing?” Cassian’s tone now held genuine incredulity as he pointed a finger at Elian, his voice rising slightly.
“No, I am your companion. I do not deny that. But you were also Lysander Vane’s. Why have you chosen my side in this… divergence, this feud?”
“Why? Because I have known you longer. Our spirits resonated before Vane ever cast his shadow over us.”
“What arcane nonsense do you speak? Our bond, such as it was, formed because of Lysander Vane, did it not? He introduced us.”
“Thorne. What absurdities. We were closely aligned in our first year! A silent understanding, if you recall.”
“When was this?” Elian’s brow furrowed, genuinely confused.
“Truly, you are an insolent wretch. Unbelievable. Across the refectory, our gazes met, often. A silent accord, a shared stillness amidst the clamor of junior acolytes!”
“Ah… that time.” Elian remembered, a vague sense of irritation, not connection.
“So, I alone perceived this bond? You scoundrel. That is precisely why, upon finding ourselves in the same curriculum the next year, I sought you out first! My overtures were clear. And you dare not acknowledge this? Inconceivable. My trust is wounded, Thorne.” Cassian’s voice held a theatrical flourish, but a glint in his eye suggested a deeper annoyance.
“Oh.” Elian felt a peculiar sense of disorientation.
“Unfathomable. Truly… inconceivable. How could you inflict such a slight upon a steadfast ally?”
“Forgive me. My apologies, Blackwood. I am truly sorry, if that suffices to mend your bruised sensibilities.” Elian mumbled, a sudden, unsettling clarity washing over him. He recalled those awkward, yet undeniably frequent, silent exchanges from their first year. So, that was within Cassian’s definition of ‘companionship.’ A sense of being subtly defrauded stirred within Elian, a bitterness at this reinterpretation of history. He had interpreted those gazes as wary scrutiny, bordering on veiled hostility, never as anything akin to amity. And then the truly unsettling thought: Was it not Lysander, but Cassian, who first suggested they share their meals and studies? The memory twisted his gut.
The realization struck him like a dull blow to the chest, leaving him breathless. It was deeply disquieting, even shocking, to re-evaluate such a foundational memory. Still, he wished no further entanglement, no deeper dive into Cassian’s convoluted logic. He merely nodded, feigning comprehension, a forced serenity on his features. “Understood, understood. My apologies, I spoke without thought, Blackwood.”
“My sensibilities were quite offended by your sudden amnesia.” Cassian glared at him briefly, a flicker of something unreadable, like distant lightning, in his eyes. Elian often found Cassian’s inner workings as obscure as the darkest alchemical formulae, their reactions unpredictable.
“And besides, Lysander Vane’s behavior is truly… aberrant.” Cassian’s voice dropped, laced with disdain.
Elian remained silent, his gaze fixed on a distant, intricate carving in the ashwood paneling.
“That acolyte is entirely unhinged now. He always possessed a peculiar temperament, a volatile concoction of ambition and pride. But this… this is beyond the pale. It’s like a potion gone entirely wrong, bubbling with dark magic.” Cassian gripped his river stone with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The sight brought to mind Lord Kael and the other acolytes who had awkwardly attempted to broach the subject of Lysander’s conduct, their whispers laden with implications.
From their veiled whispers, Elian gleaned one truth: Lysander Vane’s prestige was in freefall, crumbling like an ancient ruin.
“Tainted.”
The word—a damning whisper in the hallowed halls of the Ashwood Dominion, the most feared stigma among the aspiring young nobles, a mark of ruin—sent a jolt through Elian. A faint tremor ran through his delicate frame, a shiver of shared vulnerability. Yet, a sliver of perverse relief followed, knowing no such shadow had yet fallen upon him. Did this relief truly mean he valued his own precarious standing above Lysander’s crumbling repute? The thought was a bitter draught.
He met Cassian’s eyes, a surge of unease. He felt like a blasphemous priest guarding an unholy secret before the Divine, his piety a fragile mask. “Indeed,” he murmured, the word tasting like ash, dry and acrid on his tongue. Then, a short, brittle laugh escaped him, a strange blend of terror and derision, a sound like glass breaking.
It was almost absurd that, to the observing eyes of the Dominion, he was now Cassian Blackwood’s closest companion. In truth, Elian was no different—a marked man, a keeper of aberrant truths, a connoisseur of subtle poisons. Only moons ago, he had been Lysander Vane’s closest confidante. Now, he merely hid in a squalid snare, a trap he had narrowly eluded. He had only avoided being caught. That was all. A breath held, a moment prolonged.
---
Pre-dawn arrived, ushering an unexpected message on his scrying slate. It was etched from an unfamiliar source, the glyphs crude and hurried. A summons at the fourth hour before dawn, a time for shadows and secrets. Half-asleep, Elian momentarily wondered if the world he now inhabited was merely a dream, a phantasmagoria of courtly intrigue. Despite his deliberate avoidance of Lysander, a foolish, desperate hope flickered—could this message, by some twist of fate, be from him?
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, tracing the unfamiliar glyphs again, his fingers brushing the cool slate. A conflict raged within him. Part of him wished it a mere vendor’s plea, an offer of dubious alchemical ingredients or forbidden texts. But as his gaze fell upon the content, he knew, with chilling certainty, it was not from Lysander Vane.
“Elian, I crave your forgiveness for this untimely intrusion. Could you grace the perimeter of your estate for but a moment? I beg your pardon. My profound apologies.”
“Grant me this one instance. Only this.”
Lysander Vane would never offer such an abject apology, such a raw plea. Among his peers, only two ever addressed him so informally, by his given name, and of those two, only one was capable of such a desperate, almost pathetic appeal. How had Rhys Marrow acquired his estate’s warding sigil, his personal scrying frequency? The moment he deciphered the sender, a grimace twisted Elian’s features, like a bitter herb on the tongue. He wished to avoid Rhys—forever. Rhys was always a source of profound discomfort, an unwelcome disruption to his careful solitude.
Yet, despite the tumult in his mind, Elian swung his legs from the silken covers. The air in his chamber was cool, still. He buttoned his robes with precise, trembling fingers, each movement a conscious effort, and stood. He reached the threshold of his chamber but paused, resting his forehead against the cool stone archway, a sigh tearing from his chest, thin and ragged.
“Damn it all.”
The knot in his gut tightened, a suffocating constriction, like a band of cold iron. ‘Overwhelming’ was the only word that came close to describing the chaotic mess of emotions. He clutched at the fine silk of his tunic, over his heart, feeling its frantic beat. He, who prided himself on his vast lexicon, his command of ancient texts, found himself bereft of words to express this intricate, tangled mess of emotion. It was simply… convoluted, a failed alchemical reaction.
The hatred he nurtured for Rhys, a slow-burning ember; the vivid image of Rhys’s face, bruised a lurid purple after that day’s debacle; and the desperate strategies Elian had employed to pry Lysander and Rhys apart—all swirled together in a sickening vortex. He bit his lip, tasting iron, his fingers tracing the cold iron of the door latch. Then, with a decisive twist, he closed his eyes and turned it.
In the grand garden, the cold dawn dew clung to the air, whispering of the approaching autumn chill, a scent of damp earth and decay. To avoid the damp emerald grass, Elian stepped carefully onto the cool, polished marble slabs between the manicured plots of rare medicinal herbs. The biting cold made him pull his fine jacket tighter, the silk offering scant warmth against the morning’s breath. His soft house slippers carried him, soundlessly, to the towering wrought-iron gate of his private estate.
He paused, a soft click of his tongue against his teeth, and grasped the heavy, wrought-iron handle. The mournful creak of the hinge made him flinch, a sound too loud in the stillness, and he opened the gate with excruciating slowness. Beyond the gate, bathed in the sickly glow of a distant streetlamp on the ash-strewn thoroughfare, stood Rhys Marrow in the simple livery of his House’s service. His head was bowed, and he scrawled invisible shapes on the cold asphalt with the toe of his worn boot.
“Rhys Marrow.”
At Elian’s voice, Rhys’s head snapped up with the suddenness of a startled raven. “Elian! Elian, I…”