A peculiar disquiet began to gnaw at Kaelen. One cycle, without warning, a question blossomed in his mind: how did Lysander and Elara truly depart the Academy grounds each eve?
It was a shallow curiosity, born of a quiet, festering jealousy. A low thrum of anxiety that Kaelen usually suppressed with meticulous rune-scripting.
From his observations, Elara often moved ahead, a silhouette against the fading light, while Lysander followed in her wake, a shadow clinging to her path. They did not walk side by side. Yet, the image of Lysander, a mage of formidable, though unrefined, power, trailing Elara with such singular focus, like a moth to a flame, felt…unsettling.
As Kaelen entertained this thought, a cold dread crept over him. It was akin to tracing a forbidden rune, knowing its power might unravel more than he intended. A truth best left untouched.
A hidden chamber, perhaps, containing not just despair but the cruelest glimmer of hope, shimmering with false promises. Knowing this, he still felt an undeniable pull.
“My mind betrays me,” he whispered, the words thin in the cool air of his private study chamber.
His composure was fraying. Despite knowing the peril, he found himself following Lysander after the evening lectures.
He didn’t venture far.
Moving with a stealth that belied his usual measured pace, Kaelen watched from the shadowed recesses of the outer cloisters. Elara’s back was a straight line of indifference. Lysander’s gaze, though, was a potent, almost tangible thing, fixed upon her.
The flaking arcane glyphs on ancient stone, the rusted hinges of disused gates, the dusty, forgotten lower thoroughfares – a landscape of neglect framed them. Two apprentices moved through this forgotten corner of the Academy: Elara ahead, Lysander behind. Kaelen, a silent observer, watched from the gloom.
The entire scene felt absurd, pathetic. He turned back, his decision firm.
Later, within the muted glow of his runic chamber, Kaelen felt a grim satisfaction. His curiosity had been sated enough. What deeper darkness might he have unearthed had he pressed on? Better this way. Better not to know. He was no fool to shatter a forbidden seal for mere idle speculation.
Lysander’s obsession with Elara had deepened, palpable as the chill of an unwarded winter night. Elara, in turn, bore a constant tremor of unease, a flicker of fear in her eyes. Or perhaps, outright disdain.
No, it was hatred. A justified sentiment. How could she feel anything but revulsion for the one who, during his initial arrival, had subjected her to such crude displays of power?
A quiet satisfaction settled within Kaelen. He had not intervened then, had not used his subtle Rune-weaving to smooth the edges of their conflict. Perhaps that had been for the best, after all.
His fingers drifted, tracing the cold, smooth lines of an obsidian scrying mirror on his table. The elegant, star-spun patterns of the Academy’s crystal lumen, visible through his arched window, reminded him of the precise, ordered fortune of his own life. He was born into a lineage revered for its arcane precision, a singular heir, never denied the resources to pursue his meticulous craft.
“Damnation,” he murmured, the word a rasp.
He had once believed there was no achievement beyond his grasp. Until he had met Lysander. That volatile, untamed force had revealed to Kaelen the cruel reality: not all desires bend to will, not all fates are precisely woven. And Kaelen knew, with a chilling certainty, that Lysander was now learning that same bitter truth.
Ah, the currents of existence could be mercilessly cruel.
At least Kaelen had learned control, the art of veiling his deepest currents. Lysander, however, was a storm of raw emotion, oblivious to the predatory hunger in his gaze when it fell upon Elara. That sudden, abnormal surge of feeling must have been a terrifying awakening for him.
Kaelen understood. He had felt it too, that disorienting pull. But while Kaelen had endured in silence, Lysander could not. So, instead of cultivating a bond, he had acted in ways that only bred resentment. For Kaelen, this twisted dynamic worked to his advantage.
“Remain in your ignorance, please,” he whispered, the words dissolving into the shadows.
Or better yet, let Elara grow weary and leave the Academy. He harbored no wish for Lysander to turn his gaze upon him. If anything, the very notion of such an untamed affection terrified him.
Only one desire held true: for the day to arrive when his own feelings for Lysander withered, and for Lysander to find solace elsewhere. That was all. But the world, Kaelen knew, rarely conformed to such quiet hopes.
Further complicating matters, Lysander shifted his study bench. He moved it, of all places, directly behind Elara’s, just before the Lecturer’s dais. Lysander’s height often obscured the runic projections on the main display. Elara’s previous benchmate, a nervous young initiate, awkwardly greeted Kaelen and Gareth, his expression a mix of embarrassment and discomfort.
“Greetings, Masters.”
Kaelen and Gareth exchanged a glance, offering only a curt nod.
“Haha…”
The awkward chuckle hung in the air, unanswered. They offered no interest.
Lysander settled silently behind Elara, a brooding presence. Kaelen wished – no, he *desperately* wished – they could remain thus, frozen in this brittle tension, for another two cycles. That someday, this fraught moment would fade into a forgotten, vague dream.
Another shift rippled through the student body. Lysander, known for indulging in reckless, unrefined spellcasting duels in the lower quarters, suddenly curtailed his usual escapades. Or so it seemed. Whispers from Gareth’s circle suggested he hadn’t ceased entirely. But the boastful recounting of his conquests no longer echoed through the lecture halls, nor did the faint traces of wild mana cling to him.
For Kaelen, that was a small mercy. He no longer endured the vulgar stench of Lysander’s raw power up close.
“Lysander, no more late-night skirmishes? Like this?”
Breccan, a lanky apprentice, mimicked a crude, aggressive mana-channeling stance, his hands twisting near his core, a lewd gestured aimed at Lysander. Lysander’s face tightened at the crass display. His gaze flickered to Elara, then he snapped in a low, furious voice.
“Cease that jest, Breccan! Not in the common hall!”
“Why the sudden aversion to sport, eh?”
“Bring that up again, Breccan, and I will show you true sport.”
“Lysander, come on—”
“I said, silence yourself!”
“…Fine, then.”
The other apprentices were clearly disappointed. Lysander, with his towering frame and untamed power, had been the perfect outlet for the restless energies of young mages brimming with volatile mana.
The apprentices in Lysander and Gareth’s circle were not novices; they had all fumbled through clumsy initial spellforms. Compared to the truly uninitiated, their currents were more easily stirred. With Lysander no longer sharing his exploits, their attention drifted to Gareth. But Gareth merely bared his teeth, a flash of pure disgust in his eyes.
“Reckless wastrels.”
“Ah, there he goes! Gareth, with his rigid principles!”
“He’s just a puritanical fanatic. What a waste of potential.”
Laughter rippled through the room, loud and fleeting.
Most of the young mages had ventured into forbidden enchantments at least once, but for some reason, Gareth had not. While they teased him good-naturedly, calling him an “Unbound Scroll,” no one truly disrespected him. He was Gareth, after all. At the same time, Gareth carried a lighthearted, almost careless, attitude about most things, which made his rare moments of intensity seem casual, his words easy to dismiss. People found that either charming or approachable, often commenting that his intimidating aura didn’t match his easy demeanor.
“Breccan, cease that glare. You’ll drain my focus.”
“Aye, Gareth’s gaze could crack a phylactery.”
“Do you imbeciles yearn for a lesson in pain?”
Gareth scowled, and the group burst into laughter, though there was no real humor in it. Some apprentices lounging at the back, perhaps his acquaintances or lesser friends, joined in with their hollow laughs and chatter, adding to the noise. As Kaelen sat among them, his gaze drifted to the hilt of his runic stylus, lost in thought.
If his memory served, he had never felt a true resonance with conventional pairings, with the energies of female practitioners. He supposed that made him different, by birthright perhaps. He’d felt a surge of power watching intricate runic duels between mages of all kinds, but never once had he envisioned the subtle flow of a female practitioner’s mana while attuning. The former seemed to be about the sheer intensity of the interaction, the latter felt like a fundamental lack of resonance.
He had once been dragged by Lysander to a clandestine gathering in the Undercroft, a place where raw, untamed magic flowed. He hadn’t even made it past the threshold. He had no desire for such chaotic energies. Instead, he had waited outside until Lysander returned. Forbidden practitioners’ dens? Disgusting. He couldn’t bear the thought of such places. It made him wonder why anyone would.
Because of all this, the apprentices jokingly referred to him as “Auster Kaelen,” but in reality, his abstinence was more a forced consequence of his own nature.
He let out a soft sigh.
The others were too preoccupied with Gareth’s stories to notice. Seizing the moment, Kaelen glanced at Lysander, who sat in silent contemplation. Lysander was staring intently at the back of Elara’s head as she studied across the room.
And, as always, Kaelen regretted it. Why had he looked? Why was he curious? To distract himself, he asked Gareth a pointless question.
“So, Gareth, do you truly intend to remain an Unbound Scroll until you form a soul-bond?”
Gareth, lounging in his chair as if it were a throne, suddenly leveled a direct, assessing gaze at Kaelen’s runic stylus. His stare was so persistent that Kaelen instinctively crossed his legs, shielding the object. What in the blazes?
“You are not my sworn partner, Kaelen, so why the fervent inquiry? Are you offering to fill the void?”
Of course. This provocateur always twisted words into malicious jests. The others laughed, and Kaelen nudged Gareth sharply with his foot.
Such were his days – a monotonous cycle, repeating without end.
---
Within the solitude of his chamber, Kaelen often found himself adrift in thought, contemplating all manner of scenarios. Inevitably, those thoughts sometimes veered into strange, forbidden fantasies.
Today, he wondered what it might have been like if his affections had settled upon Gareth instead of Lysander. It seemed, at times, a less fraught path. If he had loved Gareth, he would not have endured the ache caused by Lysander’s chaotic entanglements.
Even so, heartbreak would still have found him.
Neither Lysander nor Gareth would ever truly love him, after all. But at least his soul wouldn’t ache because of Elara.
That train of thought ultimately curdled into feelings of inferiority and a dull, impotent anger. In the end, he simply wished he could graduate swiftly and become a stranger to Lysander.
---
At some point, Kaelen began unconsciously resting his hands beneath his study bench whenever he sat down. This habit truly solidified in his second cycle of junior initiation, and the cause was always the same – the raw, unbridled energies he sensed in others.
As he idly traced the intricate clasp on his rune-pouch, his thoughts spiraled. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? The faint click of metal against his nails filled the quiet room. Just as he applied a fraction of pressure with his thumb to release the clasp, a soft knock resonated from his chamber door.
“Kaelen! Are you immersed in your studies?”
“Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!”
His heart leaped. Clearly, this cycle was not the time. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damn the intrusion.
---
Lately, Lysander had become an unbearable presence.
Sometimes, when Elara glanced Kaelen’s way, Lysander would deliberately initiate a conversation with her. Elara, caught between them, would flick her eyes toward Kaelen, her lips parting as if to speak, only to press them shut. Then, as if wary of Lysander’s potent presence, she would lower her head and answer in the faintest whisper.
“Y-yes…”
Just like that.
Elara subtly sought Kaelen out more often, even started using the familiar address, “Kael.” Aside from his closest mentors, almost no one called him that, so the change was stark. She seemed to think she was being discreet, but she was not. The worst part was how Lysander couldn’t conceal his discomfort whenever Elara ventured anything remotely familiar.
“Elara, cease distracting Master Kaelen from his studies.”
“What?”
“Stop bothering him. Is that unclear?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes…”
When Elara stammered and avoided his gaze, Lysander immaturely slammed his fist against the leg of the study bench beside him. Kaelen pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, Elara, clueless to the true undercurrents, seemed to think no one truly cared about her calling him “Kael” anymore. She grew bold, using it casually, as if it were natural.
“Uh, Kael… apologies for disturbing your focus.”
Kaelen stiffened, staring at her in disbelief. Was she oblivious? Lysander was sitting right there.
Sure enough, Lysander pounded his fist on the bench again. Damnation.
“You! Elara!”
“…Huh?”
The atmosphere soured instantly.
“I warned you.”
Lysander’s anger was raw, unmistakable.
“I told you not to call him ‘Kael,’ did I not?”
“…W-well…”
“Call him Kaelen. That is his name – Kaelen.”
His gaze turned sharp, almost possessive, sweeping over Kaelen. Kaelen hated that look and instinctively lowered his head. At that moment, Gareth, seated beside him, casually draped an arm over Kaelen’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Kaelen’s ear.
“Lysander, if you persist in this, you will truly unravel your own threads.”
“What arcane nonsense do you speak?”
“I speak of regret. Deep, bitter regret.”
Gareth smirked, and Kaelen felt a flicker of irritation. For one reason only. Lysander’s possessive glare tightened, his frustration palpable as Gareth's hand remained firm on Kaelen's shoulder. The air thrummed with unspoken challenges, a chaotic undercurrent Kaelen wished he could quell with a single, silencing rune.