A healing bruise on Caelan’s jaw pulsed with a dull ache, a phantom echo of Lord Kaelen’s disdain. It was a stark contrast to the deeper, more profound wounds Rhysand carried, wounds Caelan knew he had caused. The silence between him and Lord Kaelen, once a comfortable quietude born of shared study, had calcified into a wall of palpable frost.
Observatory excursions, once a highlight, were now a torment. Caelan watched from afar as Rhysand, slight and pale, occupied the accustomed seat beside Lord Kaelen. It was a spatial usurpation, a symbolic displacement that twisted Caelan’s gut with a familiar, sickly shame. He was not one to feign indifference, to hold his head high when his very essence felt flayed and exposed. He would not be reduced to a pathetic, weakling acolyte.
Yet, the days bled into weeks, marked by a spiraling melancholy. A petty sense of vengeance sometimes flickered – a vengeful whisper against the architect of his misery – but always, it was quelled by a stubborn endurance. Lord Kaelen, once the epitome of controlled power, now burned with a childish envy, a raw resentment Caelan attributed solely to Rhysand’s presence.
Rhysand, who had stolen not just Caelen’s place, but Lord Kaelen’s very esteem for him. A vicious bastard, Caelan’s mind hissed. This was an illogical hatred, he knew. Rhysand was merely a pawn, caught in the currents of Lord Kaelen’s capricious whims. Yet, the heart defied reason. Blaming Rhysand offered a grotesque comfort, a scapegoat for his own wretchedness.
Still, rational choices prevailed. Caelan never outwardly displayed hostility toward Rhysand. He dared not. He was too embarrassed, too proud, to reveal the raw jealousy that festered within. To lash out would make him appear a fool, a desperate claimant. Lord Kaelen’s scorn would deepen, and the whispers in the Conclave would condemn him with a far more damning label: *tainted*. An aberration of arcane purity, an unhallowed deviant. The very thought made his skin crawl.
*This is the worst*, he thought, the words a silent rasp against the back of his throat. A hollow ache settled in his chest, heavier than any grimoire. His mind, unbidden, conjured Lycius. The irritating, abrasive Lycius, who had somehow become his constant shadow. What cutting remark would Lycius make if he knew the depths of Caelan’s secret anxieties? *“Turns out Thorne’s just a marked, aberrant outcast, huh?”*
Lycius’s imagined disdain was a cold dread that seized Caelan’s throat. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. The horror of discovery, the fear of that judgment, was a physical nausea. He could not, would not, allow anyone to know.
---
Friendships in the Conclave were brittle things, easily shattered by shifts in political favor. With the clear fracture between Caelan and Lord Kaelen, the acolytes who once sought Kaelen’s favor now gave Caelan a wide berth. Even Lyra, usually isolated, had approached him yesterday with an aimless question.
“Caelan, Lycius was looking for you.” Her voice was a nervous flutter.
“Oh? Why?”
“I don’t know. He just was.”
Empty conversations, devoid of substance. The unspoken consensus among the junior scholars was clear: Caelan was now associated with Lycius’s eclectic, often overlooked circle.
Not that all ties to Lord Kaelen’s old retinue were severed. Occasionally, in the training yards or passing through the Refectory at dawn, polite nods were exchanged. Master Elian, once a boisterous presence, now offered only curt greetings.
“Morning, Caelan.” His voice was low, almost conspiratorial.
“...Morning, Master Elian.”
Once, Elian had leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. “Lord Kaelen… he’s been acting strangely, hasn’t he? The way he treats Rhysand… it’s unsettling.”
Caelan remembered the flicker of disgust on his own face, a reaction Elian must have mistaken for agreement. Elian had then elaborated, speaking of how Kaelen would physically compel Rhysand to sit beside him during lectures, gripping his arm with an unnatural possessiveness.
Caelan’s jaw tightened. He gritted his teeth, the words burning on his tongue before they were spoken. “I have no interest in such… unsavory observations.”
Elian had recoiled, his face falling. Silence had descended, thick and suffocating. Caelan knew Elian was likely trying to ingratiate himself with Lycius’s growing cohort, seeking a quieter path away from Lord Kaelen’s increasingly erratic shadow. His shared observations were merely a clumsy attempt at alliance.
Today, as usual, Caelan found himself in the antechamber of the Grand Lecture Hall, the only one remaining save for Lycius. Lycius was a lanky silhouette against the high-arched windows, casually bouncing a polished scrying orb against the ancient stone wall. Each erratic rebound threatened to strike an antique astrolabe, yet no one dared rebuke him.
He seemed utterly indifferent to the Conclave’s atmosphere, heedlessly selfish. Caelan watched the orb, a frown etching itself between his brows. His irritation simmered, sharp-edged. “Did you bring those candied astral roots you mentioned?”
Lycius caught the orb with a practiced ease, its faint hum barely audible. “The green ones? Quite good. But no, I finished them yesterday.” He shrugged, a careless gesture. “Didn’t think to save any for you. You never said you wanted some.”
“You bought them for yourself, then,” Caelan stated, his voice clipped.
“Naturally. Green is my preferred flavor.”
“So my preference was of no consequence?”
“How was I to divine your desires, Caelan? You are not one to broadcast them.” Lycius’s eyes, the color of twilight, drifted to an acolyte who had just retrieved the orb after an errant bounce. He nodded dismissively. “Thanks, novice.” The acolyte scurried away, avoiding eye contact.
An insufferable personality. *Novice this, fool that*. Every word was a barb. It baffled Caelan that Lycius, with his abrasive manner, chose his company over Lord Kaelen’s. Lycius ate with him, sat with him, attended classes with him. Lord Kaelen was not always present, but Lycius could easily seek him out.
An unexpected question escaped Caelan’s lips. “Why don’t you seek Lord Kaelen’s company these days?”
Lycius, mid-throw, froze. His brow furrowed in a perplexed expression. “You quarreled with him,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“*I* did?”
“Yes. You and Lord Kaelen.”
“I know *I* quarreled with him. My question remains: why does it concern you?”
“You truly utter the strangest things. Because you are my friend.” Lycius's gaze, oddly blatant, swept over Caelan. Unsettled, Caelan looked away.
“You are also friends with Lord Kaelen,” Caelan countered.
Lycius scoffed, pointing a finger. “Preposterous. Are you suggesting you are *not* my friend?” His tone was laced with mock incredulity.
“No, I am. But you were allied with Kaelen. Why ally yourself with me now?”
“Because I have known you longer.”
“What nonsense is that? We only became close through Kaelen, did we not?”
“Absurd. We were close even in our first year!”
“When?” Caelan asked, genuinely bewildered.
“You truly are a stubborn fool. The Refectory! We would exchange glances constantly!” Lycius threw his hands up in theatrical dismay. “Was I the only one who perceived our bond? You, a deceiver! That is why, upon finding ourselves in the same lecture, I approached you first! And you deny it? Unthinkable. I am deeply disappointed.”
“Oh,” Caelan managed, a slow dawning of realization.
“Unthinkable. Truly, truly unthinkable. How could you inflict such an insult upon me?”
“Forgive me. I… I apologize,” Caelan mumbled, a distant memory stirring – those awkward, frequent encounters during their first year, eyes meeting across crowded tables. He had always interpreted them as veiled hostility. Lycius, it seemed, had seen them as the nascent spark of camaraderie.
His stomach lurched. Was it truly Lycius, not Lord Kaelen, who had initiated their first shared meal? The revelation was a cold, shocking draft. He simply nodded, feigning comprehension. “Understood. I apologize.”
“My sensibilities were quite bruised, just now.” Lycius fixed him with a brief, intense glare. Caelan still couldn’t fathom the inner workings of his mind.
“And besides,” Lycius continued, twirling the scrying orb lazily around his temple with an index finger, “Lord Kaelen is behaving most erratically.”
Caelan’s breath hitched.
“That man is entirely unhinged right now. He’s always been a peculiar one, but this… this is beyond. Truly.” The casual words echoed Master Elian’s cautious observations, and those of other acolytes who had tried, in their own clumsy ways, to warn him. One thing was clear: Lord Kaelen’s reputation within the Conclave was plummeting.
*Tainted*.
The word, a damning stigma in the world of arcane lineage, sent a chill through Caelan. His body trembled, a barely perceptible shiver. A wave of relief washed over him simultaneously, a shameful warmth that no one knew of *his* mark, *his* forbidden nature. Did that mean he valued his own preservation above Kaelen’s ruin? He felt like a blasphemous priest, holding a dark secret before the Divine. He let out a strange, choked laugh—a bitter blend of fear and derision. To others, he was now Lycius’s closest companion. Yet, he knew the truth: he was a criminal, branded with an unholy stigma. Only months ago, he had been Lord Kaelen’s favored. Now, he merely hid, a survivor of a filthy trap, not yet caught.
---
Dawn bled across the jagged peaks of the Obsidian Conclave, painting the sky in bruised purples and grays. A message arrived, unexpected, from an unknown number. The chime was jarring in the quiet pre-morning. Four bells before prime. Half-asleep, Caelan wondered if the entire agonizing saga was but a dream. He had consciously avoided Lord Kaelen to shield himself from further hurt, yet his heart still leaped, a frantic bird, at the thought that the message might be from him.
He rubbed his eyes, the gritty sensation anchoring him to reality, and peered at the sender. Conflict warred within him. Part of him hoped for a typical missive from a rogue elixir merchant. But as his eyes scanned the content, he knew it wasn’t Kaelen.
“Caelan, I apologize for contacting you at this hour. Could you meet me outside the spire for a moment? I am truly sorry. Terribly sorry.”
“Just this once. Please.”
Lord Kaelen would never apologize. Never. Only two souls in the Conclave addressed him by his given name with such desperate familiarity, and only one was so utterly pitiful. How had Rhysand even known his personal comm-link frequency? Caelan’s face twisted into a scowl. He did not want to see Rhysand. Not ever. Rhysand’s very presence was an unpleasant weight.
Still, his legs swung from the cot. He buttoned his tunic, the rough fabric scratching against his skin, and stood. He walked to his chamber door, but hesitated, resting his forehead against the cold stone frame. A deep, ragged sigh escaped him.
“...Damn it.”
An overwhelming sensation, a tight knot in his stomach, was the only way to describe it. He clutched his chest. He prided himself on his vast lexicon, accumulated from countless ancient texts, yet no words could capture this intricate, tangled mess of emotions. It was simply… complicated.
His hatred for Rhysand, the haunting memory of Rhysand’s bruised, desperate face, and the desperate distance he had sought to place between himself and Lord Kaelen all swirled into a nauseating vortex. He bit his lip, fiddled with the ornate doorknob, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist.
In the Conclave’s manicured inner garden, the cold morning dew clung to the air, a herald of autumn’s icy breath. Caelan stepped carefully onto the cool, polished marble stones, avoiding the wet grass. The chilly dawn made him pull his tunic tighter. His bare toes, exposed in his slippers, carried him to the outer gate of the acolyte's spire.
He paused, a light click of his tongue, and grasped the heavy handle. The creaking of the hinges made him flinch. He opened the gate even more slowly, a theatrical reluctance.
Beyond, illuminated by the shimmering arcane lanterns on the paved thoroughfare, stood Rhysand in his plain acolyte’s robes. His head was bowed, his foot idly scrawling invisible shapes on the ground, a child’s nervous habit.
“...Rhysand.”
At Caelan’s voice, Rhysand’s head snapped up like lightning. His eyes, wide and bruised beneath, fixed on Caelan. “Caelan, Caelan!” he stammered, a desperate plea already forming on his lips.