My name is Elian. Thorne is my lineage, a name whispered with a certain reverence in the Ashwood Dominion, yet everyone calls me Thorne Elian. It carries more weight, a slight formal deference that suits the precarious balance of our world. Lysander Vane first suggested it, back when we were first year novitiates, fresh to the Grand Athenaeum of Ashwood. Ever since, I have been Thorne Elian. A few still call me Elian, but that is a tale for another season.
Lysander Vane, a new face in my cohort that inaugural year, was strikingly unlike me. His frame, a tower of coiled strength against my own reedy stature. His skin, bronzed by the Solaris Enclave’s sun, a stark contrast to my pale complexion, shielded from all but the gentlest light. Even in our studies, we stood at opposite poles. He, with casual indifference, claimed his place among the lowest academic echelons.
Did I dismiss him, then, upon first sight? My upbringing, steeped in the rigid hierarchies of the Dominion, dictates that all souls find their appointed rung. Yes, I should have. Yet, I could not treat Lysander Vane as I would any other. His eyes, the color of storm-bruised skies, held a directness that resonated within me, refusing to be ignored.
He carried a peculiar scent. Not the cloying perfumes of court, nor the sharp tang of alchemical reagents. It was faint, almost colorless, yet it drew me in like a moth to an unlit flame. Without conscious thought, I found myself speaking to him, a transgression against my usual guarded silence.
I often sought common ground between us. Superficial threads like our shared prominence within the Athenaeum’s social circles, or our origins from families of significant means. These were easy justifications for the pull I felt.
Our Athenaeum, a sprawling citadel of learning and intrigue, straddled two distinct districts: the opulent Solaris Enclave and the ancient, though less gilded, Umbral Wards.
My family, the Thornes, resided in the heart of the Solaris Enclave. Not merely wealthy, but possessing estates that crowned the highest peaks of prestige. An only child, doted upon, I received every conceivable privilege. My parents, wielders of considerable arcane influence, had placed a golden scepter in my infant grasp. It was little wonder I cultivated a certain cunning from an early age.
So, the Athenaeum itself became a crucible, blending scions from the grandest houses with the rising talents from more modest, though still established, bloodlines. Lysander Vane belonged to the former. Once I gleaned this, a thrill of vindication surged through me. My path to him, now justified, felt clear. Our camaraderie blossomed, seemingly by natural accord.
Where I excelled in the delicate art of potion-crafting and the intricate dance of courtly lore, Lysander, by sheer force of will, mastered the social machinations of the Athenaeum. He swiftly attracted the fiercest spirits, and before the first moon had waned, he reigned supreme within the East Spires’ hierarchy. That was how Lysander Vane became the most whispered name in the East Spires.
---
The heavy chamber door stood resolute, denying me entry, until a gnawing ache in my stomach drove me to rub it reflexively. Then, with a soft sigh, it yielded. A sliver of space revealed Lysander’s flushed skin, his hand, crimson from a recent exertion, retracting. The door began its slow swing back. I slipped through, desperation a cold knot in my gut.
Lysander was already sprawled upon the rumpled silks of his divan, clad only in loose trousers. A slender, fragrant herb-roll, unlit, lay clenched between his teeth, gnawed with absentminded ferocity.
“Damn it all. My father’s hounds are on my heels again. If he calls, you were here. We were… engrossed in research.”
He flicked a silver igniter open and shut, the tiny spark mirroring the languor in his eyes, a familiar aftermath. My stomach coiled tighter, raw with a hollowness that had nothing to do with hunger. I reached for the herb-roll, plucking it from his mouth. My voice, sharper than I intended, cut the air.
“And why should I?”
“Because we are… friends.”
Friends. The way he drew out the word, a low, melancholic hum, always felt like a blade tearing at my chest. I kept my face a mask of serene indifference.
“Understand this debt will be exacted, in time.”
“My gratitude, Thorne Elian.”
The chamber hung heavy with the cloying sweetness of nightshade blossoms and a fainter, almost metallic tang, a clean, subtle scent I had learned to identify as uniquely feminine. It was Lysander, and his countless escapades, that had honed my senses to such nuances.
Rumors, thin as wraiths, spoke of his dalliances beginning even in his junior years, before the Athenaeum. Whispers claimed he’d lost his virtue amidst the shadowed cloisters of his previous school. It spoke volumes.
He had always possessed an unnerving maturity, appearing years beyond his age. His bold, sculpted features lent him a brooding, sophisticated aura that often deceived new acquaintances into believing him a seasoned adult. Once enrolled in the Athenaeum, he openly frequented exclusive enclaves and forbidden gatherings whenever boredom struck. With ample coin and a cunningly forged permit of passage – a feat he’d never offered to extend to me – he moved through the city’s underbelly, drawing in striking women for fleeting encounters. His undeniable allure was a potent veil for his hedonistic pursuits.
Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth were not extraordinary. Yet, combined, they forged an inexplicably captivating countenance. His very presence exuded a refined gravity. None believed him a mere novitiate; most assumed him a scion well into his third decade.
My gaze drifted, a meaningless search for some anchor in the heavy air. The lingering aftermath of his escapade made my gorge rise.
“Where is Cassian Blackwood?” I asked, finally.
“He departed.”
“...”
“That fool possesses a peculiar brand of madness, no matter how one regards him. A jest in human form.”
Lysander rested his chin upon his hand, a mirthless chuckle escaping him. My brow furrowed. Cassian Blackwood. He was the second-most galling individual I knew.
Cassian had only truly woven himself into Lysander’s orbit during our second year. Though I loathed to admit it, their constant proximity made their designation as ‘friends’ undeniable. While Lysander had been the acclaimed master of the East Spires, Cassian had cultivated his own fearsome reputation within the West Enclave.
Their paths rarely converged, save for the Refectory Hall, a common ground for all Athenaeum students. Once, as I passed through its echoing expanse, an elbow nudged my side. “That’s Cassian Blackwood,” a low voice murmured.
Curiosity pricked me. I rose on tiptoes to peer over the sea of dark-robed students. A tall, sharply defined figure, stark against the common throng, stood out. I knew instantly it was him.
“He radiates an unpleasant disposition,” I remarked, barely a whisper.
One of Lysander’s acolytes, hovering nearby, chimed in, “Indeed, a touch. They say he’s utterly self-absorbed.”
I smirked, a half-hearted nod acknowledging the sentiment. Though I despised the thought, I understood the unspoken rivalry that simmered between him and Lysander. This only fueled my disdain, yet, for some inexplicable reason, I found my gaze snagged, unable to truly pull away.
A luminous gloom – that was my first, indelible impression of Cassian Blackwood.
By chance, his gaze flickered, finding mine. It was odd, amidst the throng of eyes undoubtedly upon him. His long, narrow eyes, pupils like slivers of obsidian, made a striking impression. Instinctively, I recoiled, as if struck by an invisible force.
*What are you staring at?* The words formed, unspoken, on my lips. He must have read them. One eye narrowed, a challenge in its depths. I was, frankly, unnerved. So, I feigned disinterest, turning my head. Loud enough for the acolyte beside me to hear, I breathed, “He possesses the look of a viper.”
After that, Cassian Blackwood and I often met eyes across the Athenaeum’s hallowed halls, though we always maintained a practiced indifference. Whenever our gazes locked, he would be the first to dip his head, only to resurface moments later, seeking my eyes once more. Nine times of ten, he broke the connection first, but occasionally, I found myself mimicking his retreat. I ceased counting after the eighteenth such encounter.
---
As if by some twisted grace, Lysander Vane and I found ourselves assigned to the same cohort for our second year. While a clandestine thrill danced in my heart at this continued proximity, my eyes fell upon another familiar face. It was truly astonishing – and utterly infuriating. For the first time, I gained a proper, unobstructed view of the visage behind the infamous reputation: Cassian Blackwood.
It was Cassian who addressed me first.
“Thorne Elian. Care for a luncheon?”
Damn him.
And just as everyone within the Athenaeum’s gossiping walls had predicted, the two, Lysander and Cassian, formed an alliance. Lysander, a man who reveled in the reflected brilliance of his peers, found his equal in Cassian Blackwood, a subtle rival who met his exacting standards. Cassian was masculine, revered by his own faction, and held in high esteem. Their camaraderie was an inevitability.
Discussions often arose within our cohort: if Lysander Vane and Cassian Blackwood truly clashed, who would emerge victorious? From my perspective, such a confrontation would never truly manifest. While Lysander and I were superficial opposites, Lysander and Cassian were remarkably similar in their underlying ambition and force of will.
Yet, a singular, stark difference distinguished them.
Cassian Blackwood harbored a strange, almost puritanical streak. Despite the array of subtle arcane piercings that adorned his ears, giving him a rakish air, he sometimes adopted the demeanor of a meticulously ordered scholar. For instance, when Lysander, caught in a wave of carnal impulse, would simply choose a willing maiden and spend the night in her company, proudly recounting his early morning exploits to his friends, Cassian would mock the crude jests about coveting a woman’s form. Sometimes, he’d go further, grabbing the chest of some portly novitiate beside him, squeezing hard enough to elicit a shriek.
“This pig possesses a bosom more ample than most maidens. Sate yourself upon him instead. And truly, your form is an offense. Seek proper binding or cease such public displays – it insults the aesthetic.”
Even his most vulgar remarks were laced with an acidic sarcasm.
Yet, presented with an opportunity for unbridled indulgence, Cassian would utter baffling pronouncements like, “My purity is consecrated solely for the Lord of my future.” That, precisely, was the chasm between them.
Lysander once offered him a forged permit – a gesture he had never extended to me – but Cassian dismissed it as a useless trinket, refusing outright.
Lysander’s inner circle found Cassian’s eccentricities entertaining. I, however, did not. The reason was simple: Cassian stood too close to Lysander. They moved as a cohesive unit, like favored brothers. That alone sufficed to fuel my silent resentment. It was a simmering jealousy, a venomous brew.
Still, I maintained a civil facade with Cassian Blackwood. One of my ingrained strengths was the ability to conceal my true sentiments, regardless of the circumstance. Besides, his proximity to Lysander was undeniable. Indeed, every thread of my social existence seemed to orbit Lysander Vane.
To be honest, there were more days I felt a searing frustration with my own subservience than days I pondered Lysander himself. I often perceived myself as a complete imbecile. Yet, despite this gnawing self-awareness, I remained unchanged.
As Lysander tossed a few desultory words my way before retreating to his cleansing chamber, I sat lost in thought. A few minutes later, the resonant chimes of his arcane communicator echoed. Fresh from his ritual, Lysander retrieved it from the divan and tossed it to me. I caught it reflexively. On the other end, I heard his father’s voice, imbued with the authority of his station.
I cleared my throat, a futile attempt to compose myself. “Yes, this is Elian speaking.”
“Elian? Are you with Lysander now?”
“Indeed, I am.”
“Ah, I see. My worries were unfounded, then. I feared Lysander might be indulging in his usual excesses. You possess such a pleasant timbre, Elian.”
“My thanks, Master Vane.”
“No, truly. How fares your day?”
“I fare well, thank you. And yourself?”
“Likewise. You speak with such elegance. If only Lysander possessed your courtly grace. That boy lacks all decorum. So, you were both engaged in your studies?”
“Yes. Lysander must have neglected to inform you. He has been quite consumed preparing for the upcoming examinations.”
“You’ve been together this entire time, then?”
“Yes. He has not left my side.”
“Well, that is a comfort. If he is with you, I can rest easy.”
“It is truly nothing, Master Vane.”
“No, it is something. With you, he avoids mischief.”
“Truly, it is nothing. I shall ensure his safe return to the Athenaeum.”
“Good. Watch over him. Maintain your friendship, and let no strife arise between you.”
“Yes, of course. Farewell.”
Deceit flowed effortlessly from my lips, a delicate poison I had mastered.
After ending the call, I tossed the communicator back to Lysander. He mumbled a curt “My thanks,” as he dressed. Without another syllable, I turned to depart. Lysander made no move to stay me.
“Until later, Thorne Elian.” That was his only valediction.
It was to be expected. This was the sum of our fragile connection. The vast chasm between us yawned, stark and painful. Perhaps that was why I hastened my steps, a strange ache in my throat choking me as I hurried from the chambers.