A week crawled by, each day heavier than the last. Kaelen moved through the Grand Academy's ornate halls with practiced calm, a serene mask firmly in place. Beneath it, his thoughts churned, a relentless tide against the fragile peace he strove to maintain. He pretended Rhys’s absence from their usual lunch spot meant nothing. Acted as if the volatile peer held no sway over his meticulously ordered world. His quiet solitude, often a comfort, now felt stark, a deliberate void around him. He spent his afternoons in the scriptoriums, fingers tracing ancient runes, the cool stone a familiar anchor. He polished his craft, infusing forgotten scrolls with subtle mending charms, each delicate stroke a meditation. Yet, even the meticulous work offered no true escape. He needed information, a glimpse into the shadow that still loomed. After a particularly draining session, Kaelen found Torvin hunched over a classmate’s scrying orb, navigating a simulated arcane labyrinth. Torvin, ever the cynic, merely grunted an acknowledgement, eyes fixed on the flickering light. He was the one thread Kaelen could pull. “Rhys,” Kaelen began, voice carefully neutral. His hand, resting on a nearby pedestal, tightened imperceptibly. Torvin’s shoulders hitched. Without looking away, he mumbled, “Oh, him? He’s been out. Again.” Kaelen felt a familiar clench in his stomach. “Out where?” “Not the usual dueling pits, this time,” Torvin replied, twisting his body, wrestling with the orb’s controls. “Someone set him up. A Guild Heiress from the Northmarch. Said they clicked. Vanished together the moment they met.” His words hung in the air, each syllable a tiny stone dropping into Kaelen's already troubled mind. It wasn’t just Rhys’s impulsiveness that grated, but the ease with which others fell into his orbit. Like moths to a dangerous flame. “The girl was no fool either,” Torvin added, a cynical laugh escaping him. “Went with him without a second thought. ‘Sure, why not!’” Kaelen’s jaw tightened. He found himself perching on Torvin’s desk, tapping his shoulder. A small, almost involuntary gesture of camaraderie. Torvin glanced up, then leaned back to make room. Kaelen sat properly. A strange relief washed over him. Torvin, at least, saw Rhys for what he was: a brute wrapped in charisma. He didn't idolize him, didn't fear him as others did. For that, Kaelen tolerated him, perhaps even valued him. “Disgustingly careless,” Kaelen murmured, echoing Torvin’s implied derision. “Right? Me? I’m far too careful.” Torvin’s tone was almost boastful, making Kaelen’s lips quirk in a rare, genuine smile. “Isn’t that the point? We’re scholars, not gladiator hopefuls.” “There’s no ‘point’ to it. You learn as you go. Even rationality has its limits.” Torvin smirked, not breaking his concentration from the orb. “Is that why you’re still so… singularly unattached?” Kaelen teased, a ripple of something lighter passing through him. Finally, Torvin shut off the scrying orb. He turned, an incredulous smile playing on his lips, and tapped Kaelen’s hand resting on his arm. “I’m filing a formal grievance against you.” “How is that a grievance?” “If the recipient feels discomfort, it is harassment. Simple arcane law.” “Torvin, you’re truly unhinged.” “And you, Kaelen, are a scoundrel.” Kaelen’s slipper, dangling from his foot, brushed the floor. He ignored it, nudging Torvin’s leg with his sock-covered foot. Torvin feigned being shoved, then casually flicked his wrist. A worn silver sigil of the Silent Watcher, always wrapped around his left wrist, gleamed softly. He kicked Torvin’s leg again. “That sigil doesn’t suit you.” “Why not?” Torvin asked, his expression suddenly serious. Kaelen blinked. “It just doesn’t. It’s… solemn. You’re not.” “Doesn’t suit me? Odd. Don’t I seem like a devout follower of the Silent Watcher?” “No. It looks like a common warding charm, nothing more.” “It’s not, though.” Only then did Kaelen recall that Torvin’s family was steeped in an old, quiet faith. He claimed to be devout, yet Kaelen had never seen him perform any proper rites. It was just another of Torvin's many contradictions. --- Kaelen spent the next few days avoiding Rhys. Whenever their paths intersected in the bustling corridors, Kaelen would cast a fleeting glance, then quickly avert his eyes. He didn’t have the courage to confront him. Or perhaps, more truthfully, he didn’t want to concede, to acknowledge the raw, primal power Rhys wielded. It felt like a petty, pathetic game, but he couldn't help himself. Theron, however, sought Kaelen out. Perhaps Kaelen was the only one who didn't shrink from him entirely. Each day, Theron’s face bore new marks – a swollen lip, a faint bruise beneath his eye. Rhys’s brand, stark and visible, yet somehow always acquired out of Kaelen’s direct sight. Kaelen frowned at the fresh marks. Theron noticed his gaze, quickly turning his head, trying to hide the tell-tale evidence. He wished it would end, wished Rhys would simply move on. Four more days passed in this unsettling rhythm. Kaelen sat alone in an early morning classroom, his face buried in his hands. He couldn’t bear to watch the awful drama unfold. The chasm between him and Rhys, once a narrow gap, now felt like an unbridgeable gulf. Opening his eyes felt like tumbling into it. Theron’s bruises, like stark seals on a parchment, screamed of Rhys’s possessive cruelty. He wanted to avoid everything, everyone. Then, a flicker of reprieve. Theron stopped coming to the Academy. Master Lyra, their Rune-weaving instructor, called it an absence. Her voice, however, held a peculiar hesitancy, betraying the truth: truancy. Kaelen almost breathed a sigh of relief. Rhys, conversely, became more restless. He fiddled with his scrying orb during lessons, snapped at his study group, once even lashed out at a lesser student for a perceived slight. A part of Kaelen felt a prickle of smug satisfaction. Another part, a strange sense of superiority. He told himself that soon, once Theron officially transferred or disappeared for good, Rhys would lose interest. Then, he would turn back to Kaelen. Confident in this flawed hope, he waited. Another few days passed. “Rhys seems… subdued,” Torvin remarked offhandedly, as they left a theory class. Kaelen’s heart gave a heavy thump against his ribs. He yearned to look, to confirm Torvin’s words, but he couldn't. When it came to Rhys, Kaelen was a coward, relegated to imagining his rival's state through Torvin's casual observations. Yet, nothing changed. Classes ended, the day bled into dusk. Kaelen convinced himself there would be another chance tomorrow. Things shifted slowly. He waited, and as he slung his satchel over his shoulder, Torvin spoke, his tone laced with something sharp. “You two fought, didn’t you? You and Rhys.” Kaelen turned, a jolt of surprise. “Yes.” “Still haven’t patched things up since that meal hall incident?” He offered no reply. “Wow, this is lasting longer than I thought.” Torvin shrugged, hands shoved into his robe pockets. Kaelen avoided his gaze, mumbling an excuse. “Honestly, Rhys went too far. I can’t stand seeing people treated like that. It’s… just repulsive.” “What is?” “Theron’s a student, like us. The way Rhys handles him, the… possessiveness. It’s disgusting. He needs to stop.” “Remarkable.” Kaelen flinched at the word. Torvin’s response, dripping with sarcasm, felt like a cold splash of water. It mocked his words, his supposed compassion. He felt exposed, a flush rising to his cheeks. Turning his back on Torvin’s knowing smirk, Kaelen strode out of the classroom. He hurried down the hallway, intent on escaping the Academy. A hand suddenly seized his shoulder. Assuming it was Torvin, Kaelen spun, irritation flaring, and yanked his arm free. But it wasn’t his friend. It was Master Lyra. Startled, he quickly composed himself, smoothing his expression. “Forgive me, Kaelen. Did I startle you?” “Oh, no, Master Lyra. Just… surprised.” “I see. My apologies, but… may I speak with you for a moment?” “Of course, Master.” The young instructor’s face held an unusual gravity. Kaelen nodded. “Today, Rhys asked me for Theron’s ward-scroll address,” she said, her voice cautious. “Rhys did?” A tremor ran through Kaelen. He knew, intellectually, that Master Lyra couldn’t be oblivious to the bullying. Yet, she was too timid to confront the rot directly. Still, she wasn’t so heartless as to ignore it entirely. The fact that she came to him, of all people, about Theron, was proof enough. “I’m not accusing, Kaelen. But…” “No, I understand. It’s not strange, Master,” Kaelen replied quickly, feigning calm. His heart thrummed against his ribs. “Well, given you’ve often shown concern for Theron, I was wondering if you might… accompany Rhys to his residence. Do you understand what I’m asking?” Kaelen’s jaw clenched. He couldn't answer immediately. Rhys’s dark emotions, his strange obsession with Theron, felt like tendrils creeping toward him, wrapping around his ankles, rooting him in place. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. He couldn’t just stand there, frozen. “Could I… obtain Theron’s contact rune, then?” “Ah, yes, of course. Here, let me provide it. Try reaching him first.” “Certainly. I’ll speak with him. Do not worry yourself unduly, Master.” “Alright. I’m counting on you, Kaelen.” “Yes, Master.” Outwardly, Kaelen remained serene. Inside, panic clawed at his throat. Master Lyra handed him Theron’s home contact rune, transcribed from the attendance scrolls. She offered an awkward smile, then left the hallway. The moment she was out of sight, Kaelen pulled out his own scrying orb, his thumb flying to input the unfamiliar sequence. His leg jittered nervously, his hand clenching and unclenching as he waited for the connection. Surprisingly, it linked quickly. “Hello?” A timid voice. “It’s Kaelen. This is Theron, yes?” Kaelen rushed the words. A sudden clatter erupted on the other end – something falling, a muffled thud, then a rustle. A pause. Then, Theron’s voice again, trembling. “K-Kaelen? Kaelen! W-why… How… how do you have my rune? Did you… already possess it?” “No. Master Lyra mentioned Rhys asked for your home address today. So I requested your contact.” Silence stretched between them. “I just wanted to warn you. Be careful.” “W-what about you? Are you alright? You tried to stop him…” “Don’t worry about me. Focus on yourself. If you need more time away from the Academy, contact me through this rune. I’ll speak with Master Lyra. I have some standing, believe it or not.” “...Thank you.” “If Rhys attempts to harass you or strike you at the Academy, let me know immediately. If you can’t say it aloud, just tap my shoulder or something. It’s harder to mend things once they’ve broken.” “Okay…” “Honestly, a transfer to another ward might be your best option.” Kaelen let the suggestion hang, hoping Theron would take it seriously. “...” “Anyway, consider it. For now, either pretend you’re not home, or go somewhere far away.” “O-okay…” “Alright, I’m severing the link.” “W-wait.” “...?” “Thank you, Kaelen.” After a long hesitation, Theron’s voice came softly, a subtle tremor running through it. It was unexpectedly heartfelt, and it made Kaelen profoundly uncomfortable. “T-thank you for always helping me…” “It’s nothing.” “I just… wanted to say it. Thank you. S-see you later.” “Yes.” “...Goodbye.” ‘Goodbye’? Kaelen didn't respond to the farewell. He simply severed the link. Hearing Theron’s voice, raw with emotion, made a shiver crawl up his spine, leaving him thoroughly uneasy. What happened to Theron that night, Kaelen couldn’t say. All he knew was that the next day, Theron returned to the Academy. Within a week, the faint, almost translucent glow characteristic of youthful arcane potential began to return to his skin, replacing the bruised pallor. Theron also stopped his awkward attempts to speak with Kaelen, his demeanor shifting dramatically. This abrupt change, this sudden quietude, planted seeds of suspicion in Kaelen’s mind. And when all the bruises on Theron’s face finally faded, Kaelen couldn’t help but feel a faint, fragile sense of hope—however unlikely it seemed. Then, two weeks later, Rhys approached him out of nowhere. “Hey.” Kaelen kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. “Kaelen.” He didn't look. His lips, however, felt as if they might break open with a gasp at any moment. Could it be? Was Rhys finally tired of Theron?

A Severed Thread