A faint thrum lingered beneath Kaelen’s skin, a ghost of the Essence Elixir working its slow magic. Morning light, thin and pale, kissed his cheek. The swelling had receded, leaving only a bruised hint of violet beneath the pale skin. A stranger might think he’d merely stumbled, or perhaps misjudged a corner in the dimly lit halls. A manageable injury, then. One that allowed him to cloak the raw humiliation in plausible deniability. Yet, the ache remained, a subtle reminder of Valerius’s possessive fury, Lysander’s complicity. He yearned for an apology, a sign of contrition, from the one who had struck him, but Valerius’s silence was a heavier blow than any fist. He navigated the grand, echoing corridors of the Academies, each step a practiced grace. Arcanum Hall, however, felt less like a sanctuary of learning and more like a crypt. A heavy pall hung in the air, thick with unspoken tensions. His gaze, drawn by an invisible thread, found Lysander first, then sought out Valerius. Valerius, who stumbled in just as the first bell tolled, his form etched against the archway. A shudder ran through Kaelen. Valerius’s face was a ruin. A lip split, dark, crusted blood clinging to the corner of his mouth. One eye, swollen to a grotesque knot of purple and crimson, barely peeked through the slit. The faint puffiness on Kaelen’s own cheek felt like a trivial scratch in comparison. A sickening wave of guilt washed over him. He had entertained a fleeting, childish thought—a vindictive wish for Valerius to share his pain. Now, seeing the raw brutality etched on Valerius’s features, Kaelen felt a profound self-loathing. His stomach curdled. This was not the vindication he’d craved. Valerius’s eyes, wide and nervous, swept the room. They snagged on Kaelen, held for a breath, then snapped away. A startled grimace twisted his features. He averted his gaze, shuffling to his desk with an almost desperate haste, as if Kaelen were a venomous thing. “What in the Void…” Kaelen muttered, the strange reaction unsettling him. His eyes darted across the Arcanum Hall. Lysander, across the room, was a predatory shadow. His stare, cold and sharp, felt like a spike driven through Kaelen’s chest. A silent, damning accusation. A bitter taste filled his mouth. He should have feigned illness, hidden in his chambers. Regret, sharp and sudden, pierced him. For the rest of the morning, Valerius, once so eager to cling to Kaelen’s orbit, kept a wide berth. He vanished during the break, a specter trailing Lysander into the labyrinthine depths of the Academies’ lesser-used passages. Kaelen, left alone, found himself sharing the midday meal with Corbin. A part of him, a frantic, desperate itch, wanted to follow them, to see. But fear, cold and stark, pinned him to his seat. He couldn’t bring himself to seek out the truth, to witness further ugliness. Lysander wouldn’t strike Valerius again, would he? The thought was a raw wound. It wasn’t Kaelen’s concern, not truly. Yet Valerius’s battered face haunted him, a twisted reflection of his own recent suffering. Corbin, oblivious to the storm brewing within Kaelen, chewed on a frosted tart, his usual easy banter a jarring counterpoint to the oppressive mood. “The Hall felt like a dungeon this morning, didn’t it? Nearly choked on my own mana.” “You seemed perfectly fine devouring those sugared plums yesterday.” “A true artist of composure, that’s me. Mastery over internal processes.” Corbin winked, a glint of amusement in his calculating eyes. “Plus, plums are meant to be devoured.” Annoyed, Kaelen nudged Corbin’s calf with his foot. Corbin chuckled, rubbing his chin, a flicker of something almost abashed crossing his face. Kaelen dismissed it. Impossible. Life possessed a cruel, unpredictable arc. Kaelen had held no intention of growing close to Corbin. Their initial interactions had been fraught with Kaelen’s mistrust of the other’s cynical wit. Yet, here they were, Corbin now the closest approximation of a confidant Kaelen possessed. Corbin’s flippant humor, his easy dismissal of gravitas, possessed a strange ability to tether Kaelen, to prevent him from sinking too deeply into the quagmire of his own thoughts. Before, Kaelen had resented those very qualities, labeling Corbin shallow. Now, that same levity was an anchor. Had he and Lysander remained aligned, Kaelen might never have acknowledged this quiet reliance. As the days bled into weeks, Lysander began to fracture his old circle. Sometimes, he’d disappear with Valerius. Other times, a few hangers-on would follow. There were moments when peers flat-out refused, their faces etched with unease, their heads shaking in silent dissent. Thorne, a lanky young man from House Thorne, one afternoon vaulted over a low arcane barrier, nearly stumbling into Kaelen. He confessed, with a nervous laugh and a tremor in his voice, that Lysander had been coercing others into striking Valerius, each a single, grudging blow. Kaelen’s jaw tightened. Thorne, sensing the shift in Kaelen’s demeanor, quickly added he’d been avoiding Lysander’s group. He was meeting Gareth at the scrying pools, he mumbled, asking Kaelen not to misinterpret his absence. Then he vanished. Gareth, a former close associate of Lysander from their first year, had since drifted, their paths diverging across different academic tracks. Corbin and Kaelen made their way to the Arcane Quarter for lunch. They purchased frozen crystalline treats from a street vendor. The cold sweetness spread across Kaelen’s tongue, a fleeting balm to the bitter knot in his chest. He held his composure, though, allowing no cracks to show. “That good?” Corbin asked, his own brightly colored confection dripping down his fingers. He eyed Kaelen’s treat with an almost feral hunger. “Want to try?” Kaelen teased, bringing his crystalline spire, slick with his saliva, close to Corbin’s mouth. Without a second thought, Corbin smirked, lifted a corner of his lip, and took a huge bite. “Hey! You actually did that?” Kaelen exclaimed, surprised. “You offered.” “Gross… And why such a massive bite?” “Just one bite.” Corbin grinned, shrugging. The moment, strangely, was peaceful. A crisp autumn breeze whispered through the Academies, calm and clear, a stark contrast to Kaelen’s churning internal landscape. Where were Lysander and Valerius now? A few desolate corners of the Academies came to mind, places where shadows clung. Kaelen didn’t go looking. He was afraid. Afraid of what he might find, what further degradation. He tried to banish Lysander from his thoughts. But the harder he tried, the more Lysander’s presence solidified within his mind. How long would it take to excise someone like that? How much effort would it demand? Kaelen had no answers. It felt like being lost in a vast, empty desert—not just sorrowful and suffocating, but terrifying, unbearable. Sometimes, he retreated. Like a frightened fledgling, struggling to comprehend the path it had been forced upon, he stepped back, seeking perspective. When the weight became too much, he’d speak with Corbin. And that, for now, was all he could manage. “Corbin,” he asked suddenly, the words unbidden. “What is it?” “…Do you believe flowers can bloom in a barren desert?” The question, so raw and emotional, embarrassed him the moment it left his lips. He scratched his head awkwardly, but Corbin didn’t mock. “They can.” “…” “They must. Existence is bleak enough as it is.” Hearing those words from Corbin—a person Kaelen had never believed capable of such a profound sentiment—underscored the futility of his own desperate hope. How much longer until he shed these meaningless attachments? “…Yes. Bleak.” Lysander. That cruel, beautiful bastard. Why was he so intent on destroying the loyalty Kaelen had once offered? Lysander, who had abandoned all the basic tenets of academic decorum, now came and went from the Academies as he pleased. And always, a pathetic shadow, was Valerius. The situation escalated. Whispers turned to murmurs, then to a palpable unease within Arcanum Hall. Lysander’s violence was spiraling. And with it, a creeping resentment toward him, spreading like a blight through the student body. None of it felt right. Later, as Kaelen moved through a quiet passage, he stopped dead. Lysander, his hand clamped around Valerius’s wrist, dragged him down the hall. Kaelen’s eyes flickered between their faces, a surge of adrenaline tightening his throat. He spoke, the words tasting like ash. “Your House Elders are worried.” It was a lie, a calculated gamble. Lysander had a strained relationship with his Elderweave. He wouldn’t know. And even if he did, Kaelen could argue that at this rate, his family would *eventually* have cause for concern. Always, Kaelen crafted an escape route. He always did. “If someone must suffer, let it be only you. What transgression has Valerius committed?” “Move.” Lysander’s gaze, sharp as a honed dagger, pinned Kaelen. His chest constricted. He hated Lysander, in that moment, with a ferocity that startled him. Yet Valerius, pathetic, tear-filled, clung to Lysander’s side, his eyes pleading with Kaelen. “Unless you wish for another taste of my fist, step aside.” “L-Lysander, please,” Valerius stammered, his voice thin and trembling. Lysander paused, his eyes now fixed solely on Valerius. Kaelen could only see the back of his head as he turned away. “As I said, your Elderweave—” Valerius, on the verge of breaking, clutched at Lysander, trying to restrain him. The pitiful scene was unbearable. Kaelen squeezed his eyes shut. After a long, agonizing moment, Lysander looked at Valerius, then pivoted. He walked back into Arcanum Hall, Valerius still clinging to his arm. For the rest of the day, Lysander remained, just as he had weeks ago, a storm contained. --- The day of the Enchantment Tour arrived, a rented Ether-bus waiting in the Arcane Quarter. A few students grumbled about the disruption to their arcane studies, but most embraced the chance to escape the Academies, even for a single day. There was no need for elaborate preparations, no spell-sacks to pack; they would return by evening. The Arcane Masters gave only a few half-hearted warnings about decorum before releasing them. No longer fledgling initiates, the giddy excitement of middle-years was gone. Kaelen viewed it as just another rotation of the sun, another transit. He had no premonition that today, his carefully bottled frustrations would finally rupture. He’d known it was coming, but not with such abruptness. He’d always occupied the seat beside Lysander whenever they left Arcanum Hall. He was, after all, Lysander’s closest companion. Kaelen hadn’t even considered where Corbin would sit; they’d never shared an Ether-bus journey before. At first, a prickle of wariness. He’d feared Corbin might try to claim the seat nearest Lysander. The thought, in hindsight, was pathetic. Neither Kaelen nor Corbin would occupy that space. He boarded the Ether-bus, found it parked in the sprawling Arcane Quarter, and made his way inside to locate their section. The back five seats were already claimed by a boisterous group of classmates, including Thorne, who waved at him, then hesitated, pointing vaguely toward Lysander’s seat. “Kaelen! There’s a space here!” “…Ah, yes.” Of course. It had always been his. But today, Kaelen hesitated as he approached Lysander’s spot. He exhaled slowly when he saw the seat beside Lysander was still empty. A desperate hope flickered. He swallowed hard, a fragile determination rising. It was his place. His pride—that stubborn, tenacious core he clung to—compelled him to sit there, even after the striking, even after Valerius. His hand hovered over the backrest for a long moment. He scanned the bus, then quietly, his voice barely a whisper, asked, “Lysander… this seat…” “It is not yours. Find another.” Lysander cut him off, his gaze fixed on the entrance of the Ether-bus. Following his line of sight, Kaelen saw Valerius, small and timid, making his way toward them. Kaelen clenched his fists, the words dying in his throat. “…Fine. Whatever.” He forced an indifferent tone, though his heart felt like it had been torn into fragile, bleeding strips. He spun away from the seat, scanning the bus. He found an empty spot near Corbin’s group, directly in front of where Corbin slumped. Relief, a thin thread, pulled him forward. He rushed over, collapsing into the seat, and spoke before thinking. “Corbin. Sit with me.” No answer. He glanced over. Corbin was already asleep, head lolling against the window, bouncing gently with every rumble of the Ether-bus. Corbin always seemed to drift off in the mornings, and this was no exception. Kaelen shook his head at the ridiculous posture. He shoved his rune-pouch between Corbin’s head and the cold window, then settled into the uncomfortable seat beside him. Across the aisle, he caught a glimpse of dark, neatly braided hair. Lysander’s. He was taller than most, easily discernible. Kaelen couldn’t see clearly, but he knew Lysander was watching the door, waiting for Valerius to reach him. And Kaelen was not there to meet him.

A Bloom in the Barren