A raw, festering hatred began to bloom from Lysander, directed solely at Kaelen. After the grim incident in the Enchantment Chamber, the pretense of reluctant politeness Lysander once maintained vanished. Now, Valerius, Lysander’s newest shadow, claimed the coveted space beside him—a public declaration, a stark replacement. Lysander had made his choice clear on the Enchantment Tour, his harsh rejection a searing brand.
Kaelen couldn't feign indifference, couldn’t hold his head high in the face of such profound shame. He might be adept at masking his true feelings, weaving veils of serene diligence, but a gnawing weakness festered beneath. He lacked the courage to approach Lysander as if nothing had shattered between them.
A heavy spiral of melancholy and dull dread consumed him. Some days, a petty, venomous urge for retaliation flickered, a dark ember in his chest. Always, he extinguished it, enduring the quiet torment.
Lysander, that raging storm of uncontrolled emotion, now harbored a childish envy, a spite born of possession. Valerius was the undeniable reason. Valerius, who had once sought Kaelen’s quiet counsel, now a bruised puppet in Lysander’s tyrannical show. Kaelen hated him more for it, a perverse, illogical loathing. Valerius wasn’t Kaelen’s to begin with, yet he had stolen Lysander’s attention, turning it into a weapon. A vicious bastard, Kaelen thought, a serpent coiled in his gut.
Even if Valerius was an unwilling pawn, it made no difference to Kaelen's roiling emotions. Logic rarely swayed the heart, especially when it sought a scapegoat for its misery. Valerius became that convenient target, absorbing the projected blame.
Still, Kaelen clung to rational thought. He knew Valerius was merely swept along by Lysander’s turbulent current. Hostility toward Valerius would serve no purpose. Kaelen never let his true feelings show. Shame gnawed at him, preventing any open display of jealousy. Confronting Valerius would only make Kaelen appear weak, pathetic. Lysander would revel in it, his contempt deepening. And the whispers in the grand halls of Eldoria’s academy would label Kaelen a fragile, failing scion, tainted by a petty, emotional flaw.
“This is… unbearable.” The words escaped Kaelen’s lips as a strained breath, a faint, almost inaudible rasp. He despised the situation, loathed it more than Lysander’s overt hatred.
Corbin’s face floated into Kaelen’s mind, unbidden. Why Corbin? Perhaps because the calculating Rune-wielder was the only constant presence in Kaelen’s increasingly fractured world. What cutting remark would Corbin deliver if he knew the depths of Kaelen’s resentment, his fear? Probably something akin to: ‘So, Kaelen's just another fragile-hearted fool, eh?’
The image of Corbin’s cold, appraising gaze, laced with disdain, made Kaelen’s hands clench into tight fists. A horrifying vision, it tasted like bile in his throat. No one, absolutely no one, could ever know this.
Friendships in Eldoria’s academies were as fickle as mana currents. Lysander’s growing animosity toward Kaelen naturally strained Kaelen’s connections with Lysander’s former cohort. Strangely, Elara, usually a quiet observer on the fringes of Corbin’s group, approached Kaelen yesterday, her voice hesitant.
“Kaelen, Corbin was looking for you earlier.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Didn't say. Just… looking.”
Her conversations always felt like this—pointless, without substance. People, Kaelen noted, now perceived him as being tethered to Corbin’s orbit more than Lysander’s. The ties with Lysander’s inner circle hadn't fully severed, not yet. Occasionally, during Rune-crafting practice or by chance in the morning, polite greetings were exchanged. That was mostly limited to Elara, actually.
“Hey, Kaelen! Morning.”
“...Morning.”
Kaelen remembered one of those awkward exchanges, Elara’s voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
‘Lysander’s been acting strange lately. The way he treats Valerius… it's unsettling, isn’t it?’
Kaelen must have made an unpleasant face, because Elara seemed to take it as agreement. She continued, detailing how Lysander forced Valerius to sit beside him, gripped his arm, wouldn’t let go.
Kaelen’s hands tightened into fists, his teeth grinding. His response was clipped, frigid.
‘I hold no interest in such unseemly displays.’
That shut her up immediately. Elara, Kaelen knew, was subtly trying to align herself with Corbin’s influence, looking for an exit from Lysander’s oppressive shadow. Perhaps her shared observations were a clumsy attempt to forge a bond with Kaelen.
Today, as usual, only Corbin and Kaelen remained in the Lecture Hall, the last students lingering after the Arcane Linguistics lesson.
Corbin leaned against the crystalline back wall, his obsidian gaze fixed on Kaelen. Whether he ignored Kaelen or simply assessed him, Kaelen couldn’t tell. Annoyed, Kaelen turned his head, choosing to ignore Corbin in return.
“Kaelen.”
“What now?”
“Let’s acquire some candied mana-shards after our next seminar. The ones we shared last cycle were… adequate.”
Corbin smoothly bypassed Kaelen's attempt at cold shoulder. As he spoke, he lazily tossed a small, polished obsidian sphere across the hall. The sphere bounced erratically, threatening to strike a stray runic inscription, but no one dared address him.
He truly cared nothing for the atmosphere, indifferent and self-serving. Kaelen watched the orb’s unpredictable trajectory, a frown deepening on his face. His irritation at Corbin’s brazen disregard made his tone sharper than intended.
“You refer to the mana-shards you consumed entirely yourself? You purchased them for your own gratification, as I recall.”
“Not entirely. I merely prefer the azure variety.”
“So my preferences held no weight in your consideration?”
“How was I to discern your desires? You vocalized no preference.”
By then, the obsidian sphere had rolled to a stop near the lectern. Corbin extended a hand, a silent command. A student near the sphere hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved it and placed it in Corbin’s open palm. Corbin casually spun the sphere on a fingertip and addressed the retreating student.
“My gratitude, initiate.”
An insufferable personality. ‘Initiate this, lesser acolyte that.’ Every word dripped with condescension. It made no logical sense that someone as abrasive as Corbin consistently sought Kaelen’s company, rather than Lysander’s. He ate with Kaelen, sat with Kaelen, attended lessons beside him. Lysander wasn’t present, certainly, but Corbin could easily communicate with him if he wished.
The thought crystallized, and Kaelen asked without much forethought, his voice laced with suspicion.
“Why do you not align yourself with Lysander these days?”
Corbin, mid-toss-and-catch of the obsidian sphere against the wall, froze. A puzzled expression settled on his features as he turned to Kaelen.
“You engaged in a conflict with him,” Corbin stated.
“I did?”
“Indeed. You and Lysander.”
“I am aware. I am the one who experienced the conflict. So, why does that concern you?”
“Your pronouncements are truly perplexing. It concerns me because you are my associate.”
Corbin’s gaze swept over Kaelen, unsettlingly direct. Kaelen averted his eyes, a knot forming in his stomach. He pressed on.
“You were also an associate of Lysander, however.”
“Remarkable. Are you implying you are not my associate?” Corbin’s tone was incredulous now, a finger pointing at Kaelen.
“No, I am your associate. But you were equally aligned with Lysander. So, why do you choose my side?”
“My acquaintance with you precedes him.”
“What arcane nonsense are you speaking? Our association commenced because of Lysander, did it not?”
“Kaelen. What precisely are you articulating? We were in proximity during our first year!”
“When?”
“Truly, you are an imbecile. Back in the Grand Refectory, we frequently exchanged glances!”
“Ah… those instances.”
“So, was I the sole individual who perceived us as associates? You are a charlatan. That is precisely why, upon finding ourselves in the same curriculum, I initiated contact! And you do not even acknowledge this? Unbelievable. My disappointment in you is profound.”
“Oh.”
“Truly. Unbelievable. How could you inflict such an insult upon me?”
“My apologies. I offer my sincere apologies.” Kaelen mumbled, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He recalled those awkward, yet surprisingly frequent, encounters from their first year. So, *that* constituted 'friendship' in Corbin's peculiar lexicon. Kaelen felt cheated. He had interpreted those gazes as thinly veiled antagonism. Wait, did that mean the first to suggest sharing a meal wasn't Lysander, but… Corbin?
The realization struck Kaelen like a physical blow, leaving him momentarily stunned. It was unsettling, almost shocking. Yet, unwilling to delve deeper into the labyrinth of Corbin’s mind, Kaelen nodded, feigning understanding.
“Alright, alright. I comprehend. My sincerest regrets.”
“I was considerably vexed just now.” Corbin's glare was brief, intense. Kaelen often struggled to grasp the workings of his mind.
“Furthermore, Lysander’s demeanor is undeniably aberrant.”
Corbin gripped the obsidian sphere with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The motion reminded Kaelen of Elara and the other students who had awkwardly tried to discuss Lysander’s unsettling conduct.
One truth emerged clearly: Lysander’s reputation, once unassailable, was in freefall.
“Fractured mana.” The words, whispered by others, describing a condition of uncontrolled, volatile arcane energy—the most feared and damning stigma in Eldoria’s magical society—sent a chill through Kaelen. His body trembled imperceptibly. Simultaneously, a wave of profound relief washed over him that his own veiled insecurities, his subtle, underestimated runes, remained hidden. Did that relief signify Kaelen valued his own carefully constructed facade more than the crumbling ruin of Lysander’s prestige?
Unease prickled Kaelen’s skin. He glanced at Corbin, feeling like a blasphemous priest concealing a forbidden text before a watchful deity. “Indeed, Kaelen,” he murmured, a strange mix of fear and derision bubbling into a choked laugh. To others, Kaelen was Corbin’s closest confidante. In truth, Kaelen felt no different – a criminal marked by a secret, unholy stigma. Only cycles ago, he had been Lysander’s trusted peer. Now, he merely hid, having narrowly escaped a trap that promised utter ruin. He had only avoided being caught. That was all.
---
It was the darkest hour before dawn. An unknown sigil, shimmering with borrowed mana, appeared on Kaelen’s bedside orb. A call at 0400. Half-asleep, Kaelen momentarily believed the entire day, the entire sequence of events, was a restless dream. Though he had carefully avoided seeking Lysander, his heart still leapt, a frantic bird, at the fleeting hope the message might be from him.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, blinking furiously, and checked the sender’s sigil. His feelings warred within him. Part of him wished it was merely one of the illicit arcane solicitations that occasionally filtered through the academy’s wards. But the content, stark and urgent, immediately dispelled any notion of Lysander.
“Kaelen, I offer my profound apologies for contacting you at this hour. Could you perhaps step outside your dormitory for a moment? I am truly sorry. I am deeply sorry.”
“Just this once. Only this single instance.”
Lysander would never offer such an apology to Kaelen. Among Kaelen’s limited circle, only two individuals used the familiar address of ‘Kaelen’ without his full lineage. Of those two, only one radiated such desperate, pitiful energy. How had Valerius even obtained his private dormitory code? The instant Kaelen recognized the sigil, his face twisted into a scowl. He did not want to see him. Never wished to see him. Valerius was always a source of profound discomfort.
Despite the turmoil, Kaelen swung his legs out of bed. He donned a simple robe, buttoning the clasps with automatic precision, and rose. At the dormitory door, he paused, leaning his forehead against the cool, rune-etched frame, exhaling a deep, shuddering sigh.
“...Damn it all.”
The weight of it all, a crushing knot in his stomach, was indescribable. He clutched his chest. Kaelen prided himself on his keen intellect, his expansive vocabulary honed by countless hours in the arcane library. Yet, no word in Eldoria’s rich lexicon could fully capture this intricate, tangled mess of emotions.
It was simply… complicated.
The hatred he felt for Valerius, the vivid memory of Valerius’s bruised face in the Enchantment Chamber, the desperate lengths Kaelen had gone to distance himself from Lysander’s wrath – all swirled together in a chaotic tempest. Biting his lip, Kaelen fiddled with the door handle, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive, agonizing twist.
In the dormitory garden, the cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding the arrival of an early autumn. To avoid the damp, manicured grass, Kaelen stepped carefully onto the cool, moon-silvered flagstones. The chill of dawn made him pull his robe tighter. His bare feet, emerging from the hem of the simple garment, carried him to the front gate.
He paused there, clicking his tongue softly, and gripped the handle. The hinges groaned, a sound that made Kaelen flinch. He opened the gate even more slowly, peering into the pre-dawn gloom.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the faint glow of an arcane streetlamp, stood Valerius in his academy robes. His head was hung low, his foot idly tracing invisible shapes on the asphalt.
“...Valerius.”
At Kaelen’s voice, Valerius’s head snapped up with a frantic swiftness.
“Kaelen, Kaelen!”