A chilled vial, its contents shimmering with a faint cerulean glow, thudded softly onto Lysander Vane’s polished oak table. He winced, a hand flying to his temple, as if the mild impact had sent a jolt through his skull.
“Your face, Lysander,” Elian murmured, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips, “quite reminds one of an overripe gourd this morning. Perhaps the Sobering Dew will restore some semblance of human visage.”
Lysander mumbled a curse, the words thick with the remnants of last night’s indulgence. He uncorked the vial, the scent of crushed winter mint and nightshade berries filling the air, and drained it in a single gulp. He always accepted Elian’s alchemical remedies without question, a testament to their peculiar dynamic.
“My gratitude, Thorne. Again.”
“Did your father’s courier arrive at dawn?” Elian asked, pulling a chair closer, the quiet scrape of wood on stone a small intrusion in the hushed Grand Athenaeum. He knew the answer, of course.
Lysander shuddered, a grimace tightening his handsome features. “Aye. Though his displeasure was somewhat… diluted, thanks to your swift intervention last night.” He winked, a glint of genuine, if reckless, affection in his bleary eyes. “My ‘urgent arcane research’ seemed to satisfy him for now.”
Elian merely inclined his head, a private shiver tracing his spine. Such easy deception. Such fragile trust. He found a peculiar, bitter satisfaction in safeguarding Lysander’s frivolous secrets, a way to entwine himself deeper into the orbit of the powerful Vane House.
As Elian settled, his gaze drifted to the adjoining study alcove. A sprawling diagram of celestial convergences, rendered in charcoal on aged vellum, lay half-obscured on the adjacent table. Beneath it, a dark head of hair, still as carved obsidian.
Cassian Blackwood. Already here, lost in the quiet thrall of slumber, or perhaps a trance, even after last night’s rumored, equally illicit, sojourn to the Obsidian Veins.
“He was here when I arrived,” Lysander commented, catching Elian’s glance, a wry amusement in his voice. “The man’s constitution defies natural law. How can one who burns the midnight oil with such abandon appear so… unblemished?”
Cassian stirred, the vellum rustling as he stretched, a slow, languid movement. His eyes, the color of twilight skies, opened to slits, sweeping over Elian and Lysander. A soft, almost feline yawn escaped him.
“I told myself… just one more incantation before resting.” His voice was a low murmur, rich and resonant.
Lysander snorted, a flash of something akin to admiration in his eyes. “This damned Blackwood. Plays the brooding scholar, but rivals the most brazen revelers in the Ashwood Dominion.”
“Hardly,” Cassian countered, his lips curving into a faint, enigmatic smile. “My pursuits merely differ.”
Their eyes met, a spark passing between them, a familiar, easy rapport that Elian often observed, always from the periphery. Cassian’s gaze then flickered to Elian, a brief, assessing glance, before turning back to his celestial charts. A familiar, dull ache bloomed in Elian’s chest. He tightened his grip on the chair arm, his knuckles white.
The early hours in the Athenaeum often held this peculiar calm. Conversations unfolded, secrets were whispered, alliances subtly reaffirmed. Soon, lesser acolytes, young lords and ladies like Torvin and Lady Seraphina, would drift over, seeking Lysander’s attention, eager to hear tales of his exploits. The day would unfold, a predictable dance of power and pretense.
Yet, even amidst this courtly ritual, a sense of encroaching dread often lingered for Elian. These mornings, when Lysander’s easy charm and Cassian’s quiet brilliance illuminated the space, left Elian feeling an unsettling coldness, a quiet yearning for a warmth he couldn’t grasp.
But the true chill came not from them, but from a particular shadow that fell across the grand hall.
“Theron approaches,” Lord Torvin’s voice sliced through the air, laced with undisguised contempt. He pointed with a slender, gloved finger.
“Gods, the sight of him,” another acolyte muttered, disgust coloring his tone. “Does he not comprehend the meaning of discretion?”
Theron, a new acolyte from a minor, fading house, shuffled into the Athenaeum, his head bowed, hair falling over his face like a wilting fringe. His robes, though clean, bore the faint marks of hurried mending. He moved towards an alcove near the periphery, placing a worn satchel onto his table, then slumping over it, as if to disappear. Observing his hunched figure, Elian felt a peculiar tremor, cold and unsettling, bloom beneath his skin.
Theron was utterly pathetic. His voice, when heard, was thin. His frame, slight. As the murmurs swelled, Lysander glared daggers at Theron’s bowed head, a low, guttural growl escaping him. Elian hated it. That raw, visible vulnerability of Lysander’s, it twisted something within him.
Lysander snatched a discarded alchemical diagram—a hastily scribbled formula for a simple healing draught—from his table. He crumpled it in one hand, then, with a light flick of his wrist, hurled it at Theron’s head. The paper ball thudded softly against Theron’s temple. His head jolted, then slumped back onto the table.
“Gods, Theron. Do not parade such abject despondency through these halls first thing in the morning,” Lysander hissed, his voice like flint striking steel. “It stains the very air.”
Theron pressed his arms to the table, burying his face in them, doing exactly as Lysander commanded. Yet, Lysander watched him with unconcealed disdain. He kicked his own chair leg, a sharp crack echoing through the silence.
“Speak, worm! Will you not answer me?”
When Lysander abruptly stood and bellowed, Theron, still hunched over, stammered, his voice trembling.
“Y-yes, my Lord.”
“Lift your head. Look at me. Speak clearly.”
Did Lysander even hear the ridiculousness of his own demands? The sheer, brutal absurdity of it all. Elian let out a bitter, silent breath, a sharp pain in his chest.
Whether or not Lysander noticed Elian’s internal turmoil, he moved. He strode towards Theron’s alcove. With every deliberate step, the unpleasant sensations inside Elian grew more vivid, more raw. Lysander closed the distance between himself and Theron. Just that alone made Elian feel like he was losing control over emotions he’d worked so hard to suppress. This wasn't the brittle envy he felt for Cassian, a familiar pang he'd grown accustomed to. This was something deeper, more insidious. Instinctively, Elian knew. Deep down, he harbored something just as sinister as Lysander did. That’s why watching Lysander with Cassian eventually became bearable, but his interactions with Theron unsettled Elian more and more. His hands started trembling. He clenched them tightly, burying them in his lap, to hide it.
Lysander kicked Theron’s table hard. The ancient wood groaned, threatening to topple. Theron jolted upright, eyes wide, breath catching in his throat, his voice still unsteady.
“F-forgive me, my Lord.”
Lysander stood there, silently looking down at Theron’s face. Theron’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, on the verge of breaking. Yet, in that moment, Elian felt like he was the one who might burst into tears.
Lysander never sent Theron on pointless errands, but he always kept his eyes on him. If Theron excused himself during a study break, Lysander would still watch his retreating figure, even while conversing with others. Elian knew, because he never stopped watching Lysander.
---
To be honest, Elian’s first impression of Theron had been unremarkable. His skin wasn’t particularly clear, but his youthful features gave him a face that was easy enough to observe. When he smiled, it seemed genuinely happy. Even his neutral expression carried a certain quiet brightness.
Before Lysander’s torment began, no one truly disliked Theron. He seemed like a boy who had grown up in a warm, loving environment, shielded from the sharper edges of the Dominion. While he wasn’t sociable, preferring the solitude of old texts, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor.
Most considered Theron a decent sort. He never flaunted his family’s faded prestige or the affection he’d received, earning him quiet praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be near—that was Theron. But Elian didn’t particularly like him from the start. He didn’t hate him either; he simply didn’t care. To say he wasn’t even on Elian’s radar would be more accurate. Yet, whenever Elian spoke with Lysander, or with Cassian’s occasional, cutting remarks, and Theron’s name arose, Elian would find himself casually lying, saying, “Oh, Theron? He’s quite amiable. A gentle spirit.”
Lysander, like Elian, hadn’t paid much attention to Theron at first. Lysander was never one to care about the less significant acolytes. After Theron’s arrival a few months prior, he and Lysander hadn’t exchanged a single word. That was how things had originally been.
But one day, something shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane flow of events. It happened right after the noon meal, and looking back, Elian didn’t think he’d ever regretted an action as much as he regretted what happened that day.
Theron, as usual, had taken a corner alcove during a study break to read. He was the kind of person who loved burying himself in ancient tomes. Elian, on the other hand, had a habit of cultivating an air of erudition, especially around those with unblemished reputations.
That’s why, when Elian stumbled upon Theron by chance, he struck up a conversation about the obscure treatise Theron was poring over. Elian wasn’t deeply read in such ancient lore—pretending to be cultured was more his style.
“You must truly cherish such forgotten wisdom, yes?”
“Hm? Oh, yes, I suppose I do.”
At the time, Theron and Elian were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made approaching him easier.
“Have you concluded your study of that volume?”
“Well, I near the final passage.”
“Then perhaps set it aside for now. The ending, I assure you, will disappoint. It is one of those tomes where the ultimate revelation renders the preceding journey rather… trite.” Elian delivered this with a carefully crafted air of knowing superiority.
“You’ve read it before, Lord Elian?” Theron asked, a spark of genuine interest in his eyes.
“Indeed, some time ago. Its flaws are rather obvious, if one has an eye for such things.”
To satisfy his intellectual vanity, Elian often sought out scholarly critiques of rare texts, ensuring he had something profound to offer in future conversations. Drawing on those distant memories, he offered a critique—not a real one, just enough to sound informed—and Theron smiled brightly, looking genuinely pleased. It caught Elian off guard. A genuine warmth, unburdened by artifice, that felt utterly alien.
“You are the first person I’ve met who has read this book besides myself.”
“Oh… truly?” Elian felt a strange prickle on his neck.
“Yes, but I still intend to finish it. Contemplating *why* the ending unfolded as it did is part of the allure.”
“Well, naturally. Perspectives diverge.”
“Hearing you say that, Lord Elian, only makes me anticipate it more.”
That smile still lingered as an uncomfortable memory. Was it some instinctive unease Elian felt back then? After that day, Theron started seeking Elian out frequently. Though Elian found it a bit annoying, and often wondered, *Why me?*, he didn’t outright reject him. Theron, with his quiet, untarnished reputation, wasn’t the worst acolyte to keep close. After all, such ancient, obscure texts—outside of standard scholastic curricula—were practically off-limits for most their age. Even if someone had the time, such grimoires were little more than glorified doorstops to them. For Theron, Elian was probably the only person around who could speak on such matters.
That day, with Theron, was one of those routine encounters. But it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days among them. Cassian Blackwood was to blame, in a tangential way. To this day, Elian couldn’t fathom why he acted the way he did. Why he, someone who never meddled in others’ arcane workings, chose to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. Why Cassian, of all people, had left his experimental formula for a chromatic distillation wide open for everyone passing by to see.
Elian, someone who guarded his own alchemical formulae with zealous secrecy, naturally assumed Cassian wouldn’t want his exposed either. So, Elian flipped the parchment over to hide it. That’s when he saw it: a marginalia detailing a highly intricate, almost impossible phase transition. A technique Elian had only read about in theoretical treatises, never seen applied. It far surpassed what Cassian usually displayed.
Elian blinked in disbelief and checked again. It was undeniably brilliant. Considering the complexity, it suggested a mastery that Elian had subtly, perhaps maliciously, underestimated. It was the first time one of Elian’s carefully constructed preconceptions about Cassian was shattered. It was a small shock to realize Cassian wasn’t as arrogant or as casually gifted as Elian had supposed, but something far more potent, more dangerous. Naturally, that made Elian think of Lysander’s own, often messy, experimental notes. Lysander was the true chaotic force. A lord who’d often delegate the most tedious parts of his ‘research’ to Elian, Lysander had never once displayed such elegant insight.
Perhaps that’s why Elian felt such a mix of emotions—like he’d found a gem in the heart of a rival’s stronghold. A man Elian had once sought to diminish turned out to be more formidable than the man Elian liked. That strange realization must’ve thrown him off, because he did something he normally never would’ve done. It wasn’t anything grand. He just grabbed a nearby stylus and scribbled a short note at the top of Cassian’s parchment.
“Refine your approach to chromatic distillation; you might find the ‘Ashwood Spiral’ opens to you. A commendable grasp. —Elian Thorne.
P.S. My apologies for intruding upon your work. I merely flipped the parchment to shield it from stray eyes and inadvertently glimpsed your intricate calculations.”
The arrogance of evaluating someone’s brilliant discovery and offering unsolicited, though perhaps helpful, advice made Elian feel a flush of embarrassment, so he rambled to justify himself. He couldn’t say why he even wrote it in the first place. At the time, he must’ve been out of his mind. Looking back, it was clear this was the first ill-fated stitch in what would become a series of entanglements. Every mess starts with a poorly fastened first button.
He had not yet realized what that moment truly meant, nor that it would lead him to Theron carrying a forgotten tome, his eyes bright with an innocent, trusting smile. That was the truly bitter part.