A profound, almost unnatural self-possession defined Elian. Life, meticulously charted by his parents, had sculpted a nature that recoiled from vulnerability as if it were a virulent blight. Even in the crucible of turbulent emotions, he maintained a remarkable composure, a stillness that often led others to misjudge him as placid, even dull.
Yet, it was not an absence of feeling, but a deep-seated denial. Every tremor of anger, every sting of insult, every whisper of fear, had hardened into layers of a protective shell. With each passing season, the enamel grew thicker, making true provocation a near impossibility.
This held true even for Caelum Vane, scion of the formidable House Vane.
Such stoicism allowed Elian to endure Caelum’s orbit. His own parents, House Thorne’s expectations etched into his soul, deemed him a credit. He occupied a respectable tier in the Academy’s intricate social hierarchy, a position he had painstakingly, often silently, built and fiercely sought to preserve.
“Elian.”
“Yes, Seraphin?”
“That tone. It’s cloying.”
“Perhaps a reflection of your own countenance?”
“Amusing.”
One’s appearance stung only if the barb struck truth. Caelum, nearby, merely chuckled at Seraphin’s casual taunt, unbothered. He twirled a silver stylus between long, elegant fingers, his gaze languidly sweeping across the Grand Refectory.
“Seraphin, do you know of any — suitable maidens?”
“Suitable for what?” Seraphin drawled, without looking up from his parchment.
“For... alliance. Or amusement.” Caelum’s voice held a dangerous edge, a promise of both.
“Don’t feign ignorance, Vane. You know precisely what I mean.”
Seraphin merely hummed, flicking a pebble-smooth focusing stone in his palm, offering no further answer. Caelum, it seemed, cared little for Seraphin’s response. His attention had already drifted, settling with a predatory intensity on a solitary figure at a distant table—a girl with hair like spun moonlight, Lyra, of the minor House Viridian.
Caelum was brazen, indulgent, his whims carving paths of discomfort. His proclivities were well-known throughout the Academy. His harassment, lacking the subtle grace usually favored by the high houses, became more flagrant with each passing day. By the sun-drenched close of the mid-summer recess, Lyra had been thoroughly isolated. Yet, even that wasn’t enough to sate Caelum’s appetite.
---
Though Caelum’s circle and others of similar standing often mingled, their inner dynamics varied. His immediate lieutenants – Torvin and Corvan – would linger for him after lessons, a silent vigil. Others, like Lysander and Gareth, from lesser wings of the Academy, would vanish the moment the chime for repast sounded.
In his first year, Elian had been part of Caelum’s inner echelon. The second year brought change. It began with Corvan’s careless remark: “Elian takes his meal with Seraphin now, doesn’t he? Always so… deliberate.” Without a single word from Elian, he found himself excised, a quiet severing from the core.
The deepest sting? Caelum had not cared. Elian’s presence or absence registered as little more than a fluctuating shadow. A bitter taste rose.
Elian had caught Caelum’s eye across the hall, asking in a voice carefully divested of inflection, “Am I truly so… slow?”
“Of course. You pick at your plate like an ancient raven, while we’re done in a matter of minutes.”
“We are often late for our Arcane Duels because of your dawdling,” Torvin added, his voice clipped.
“Ah.”
“A challenge with the North Wing awaits us today. Go… dine with Seraphin.”
Silence descended, heavy and unyielding.
Pride, a fragile thing for Elian, forbade him from pleading. Besides, the constant indigestion from rushing his meals in the first year had been a constant torment. And honestly, the thought of clinging to Caelum like a discarded serpent’s skin was repellent. So, he offered no protest, no plea. His will, in this instance, held no sway.
Feigning indifference, Elian’s gaze met Seraphin’s, the only other solitary soul remaining. Seraphin, lounging against his desk, bounced the smooth stone in his palm, then glanced at Elian. “When do you typically take your meal?” he asked, a casualness that was almost unnerving.
“...”
“I usually depart in about ten bells’ time.”
“That… suits me as well.”
Truthfully, Elian had never dined at that hour. But survival, an instinct honed by the precarious nature of the Ashwood Dominion, demanded adaptation. If he wished to retain any semblance of belonging, even with Seraphin, he must conform. Their first solitary meal saw Elian leave half his plate untouched, feigning a sudden lack of appetite.
Seraphin’s eyebrow arched. “At eighteen cycles, still so particular with sustenance?”
“What concern is it of yours?”
“Honestly, you possess the constitution of a fledgling.”
“Even adults do not consume the sweetened river-fish, Seraphin.” Elian retorted, a petulant edge to his voice, his eyes narrowed. Why did Seraphin care? The casual observation chafed.
In their first year, Caelum and Elian had been almost inseparable. By the second, those moments had diminished to a trickle, largely due to Seraphin’s subtle influence. Still, Elian had no right to complain. Seraphin, by birth and by arcane aptitude, outranked him.
Seraphin and Caelum’s circles largely overlapped, consisting of those students often found at the lowest rung of the Academy’s scholastic rankings. These were the youths who would forge ceremonial scrolls of early dismissal or slip from arcane lectures, exploiting the lax oversight of tutors too weary to confirm their whereabouts.
Caelum, ever mindful of his parents’ watchful eyes, typically remained until the final bell. Seraphin, whose reputation bordered on notoriety, Elian had once asked why he bothered to remain.
“Do you truly believe me so pathetic?” Seraphin had countered.
“No, but your… associates… are.”
“Associates? What foolishness is that? They are not my associates. They are dross.”
“What?”
“A student’s duty is to attend lessons and acquire knowledge, is it not?”
“That is true.”
“Do not equate me with their dross. It vexes me.”
“My apologies.”
“I did not solicit contrition.”
Of course, the statement held reason, yet hearing it from Seraphin, whose so-called friends routinely neglected their studies, felt absurd. Regardless, Elian spent most of his second year with Caelum and Seraphin. He considered it a sacred space, unburdened by further intrusion. It would have been perfect without Seraphin, but surprisingly, their solitary dynamic worked. He did not like Seraphin, but the other youth was not so intolerable that Elian would flee. Merely… nettlesome.
But Lyra of Viridian turned even those days into a harrowing dream.
---
This day felt different, a thread of discord weaving through the usual order. “Confound it. Torvin and Corvan, those louts,” Caelum cursed, his hand pressed to his brow as the fourth period neared its close.
At the sound of his voice, Elian turned immediately, his tone laced with a carefully veiled anticipation. “They absented themselves again?”
“Utter dolts.”
“Unfortunate. With whom will you break bread, then?”
A flicker of illicit hope stirred in Elian’s chest. His fingers, resting on the back of his chair, trembled almost imperceptibly. Caelum exhaled a heavy sigh, then looked at Seraphin, who sat beside him, casually tossing his focusing stone.
“I shall dine with you two today.”
“Do not presume. No invitation was extended,” Seraphin replied, his voice flat.
“Continue to prattle, and I shall see your mouth sealed.”
“Gods, Caelum, today truly ignites the desire to strike you.”
“Try it, you imbecile.”
“Grand words for a youth who would otherwise dine in solitude.”
Elian could hold back no longer, interjecting, “Come, let us all partake. We cannot permit Caelum to dine unaccompanied.”
His desperation, a raw and unwelcome thing, must have been evident. Caelum smirked, a flash of triumph in his eyes, and cast a sly glance at Seraphin.
“You see? I possess loyal companions.”
“...”
“What say you, Seraphin? Elian proves quite… serviceable, does he not?”
Seraphin scowled and swept Caelum’s ornate stylus case from the desk, sending it clattering to the polished stone floor. Whether Seraphin favored Elian or not mattered little. What mattered was that Caelum joined them for repast.
It had been too long since they had shared a meal, and Elian found himself so inexplicably thrilled that he even forced himself to consume the tart greens he typically abhorred.
But Caelum paid little mind to his food. His eyes, like a predator’s, scanned the expansive Refectory. Elian, too fixated on Caelum, barely registered Seraphin pilfering a few spiced berries from his own tray. Then, without preamble, Caelum’s silver stylus clattered from his grasp, and his free hand seized the arm of a passing figure. Lyra.
Looking up, Elian saw it was Lyra of Viridian.
“Seat yourself here,” Caelum commanded, nodding toward the empty space beside him.
“You have no one else with whom to dine, in any case.”
Lyra’s face flushed a deep crimson. Her eyes darted, briefly touching Elian’s, before she bit her lip and slowly, reluctantly, settled into the indicated seat.
Elian was stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Caelum care for Lyra’s company? The very reason Lyra lacked companions was entirely Caelum’s malicious doing. Caelum loathed any who dared approach Lyra. A bitter, metallic taste coated Elian’s tongue.
Unconsciously, Elian slammed his spoon onto his tray, the clang sharp and jarring. But the only one who reacted was Lyra, who flinched, her eyes wide with apprehension. Caelum, however, remained transfixed on his new prey.
Confound it. In that moment, the protective shell Elian had meticulously constructed over the years began to crack, a delicate porcelain fracturing. He fought to stop it, but the fissures spread. Perhaps he was nearing a precipice he had not realized existed.
Desperately clinging to denial, Elian snapped at Lyra. “Lyra. You must leave.”
“H-huh?”
“Do not heed Caelum. Simply go. It is permissible.”
“Elian,” Caelum growled, his voice dangerously low.
When Elian commanded Lyra to depart, Caelum, who had ignored the jarring noise Elian had made moments before, finally ground his teeth, his gaze burning. That glare only solidified Elian’s resolve. He fixed his eyes stubbornly on Lyra.
“I shall intercede. You may depart.”
“Uh, o-okay.”
“And Caelum, cease this nonsense.”
“Indeed, I concur,” Seraphin chimed in, his words muffled by a mouthful of food. His sudden interjection felt utterly out of place. He chewed and swallowed with irritating slowness before glancing between Elian and Caelum, a subtle smirk playing on his lips.
“What are you glaring at? You are spoiling my repast.”
As always, Seraphin’s gratuitous provocations grated on Elian’s nerves. The youth was insufferable. Ignoring him, Elian turned back to Caelum.
“Leave Lyra of Viridian alone.”
“Who do you believe yourself to be, to issue such commands?” Caelum shot back.
“It is unseemly for the rest of us to witness.”
Elian did not blink, holding Caelum’s furious stare. Caelum slammed his fist onto the table. The sudden impact made Lyra, perched awkwardly, flinch and squeeze her eyes shut. Seraphin, on the other hand, chuckled lazily, raising a hand in mock surrender.
“Exclude me from this. Let us decide by majority vote. I am neutral. Elian desires her departure, and Caelum wishes her to remain.”
For the record, Seraphin was one of the few who called Elian “Elian,” or sometimes just “Thorne,” and found his casual use of the name “Elian” always faintly irritating. That irritation now slipped into his tone. “Cease your meddling. Your vote holds no weight.”
“Why not? There is another soul present.” Seraphin, unfazed, smirked and pointed at Lyra, a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Lyra not a person?”
“You are unhinged.”
“Why does she remain silent? Let her voice her desire.”
As if Lyra could possibly speak in this taut atmosphere. Elian sighed at Seraphin’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his spiced grain. That was when Caelum tapped his finger, slowly, deliberately, on the table.
“If you depart, Lyra, you shall regret it until the end of days.”
Tears welled in Lyra’s large eyes, glimmering as she looked at Elian, as if pleading for succor. Confound it. Elian pressed his lips together.
“It is fine. I shall deter him,” Elian murmured, hoping to reassure Lyra.
“Elian,” Caelum growled, his voice tight with pure venom.
Elian forced himself to meet Caelum’s gaze, feigning calm, but an overwhelming urge to shatter threatened to consume him. To suppress it, he glanced at the soaring arches of the Refectory ceiling for a brief moment before lowering his head, replying with forced nonchalance, “What is it?”
“You…”
Caelum clenched his fist, glaring at Elian with an intensity that promised immolation. Still, Elian had to endure. His instincts screamed that he could not abandon Lyra to Caelum’s tender mercies.
But Caelum’s focus, for a moment, shifted back to Lyra.
“I-I will go,” Lyra stammered, her voice a reedy tremor.
“...”
“Th-thank you, Elian.”
Lyra hurriedly rose, her footsteps unsteady as she fled. The moment she was gone, Caelum turned abruptly, his gaze like a brand, searing into Elian’s face. The silence in their small circle was absolute, thick with unspoken threats. The meal lay forgotten, as did the carefully maintained decorum of the Grand Refectory. All that remained was the fractured porcelain of Elian’s composure, and the chilling promise of Caelum’s retribution.
Elian’s chest tightened, a vice grip of dread. The shell was not merely cracked; it was splintered, a fragile purity exposed.