A curious malady had taken root. For weeks, Caelan found himself drawn to the observation of Lethe and Fenris Valerius, a twisted fascination he couldn’t quite excise. He feigned casual indifference, turning pages in ancient star charts, but his awareness was a finely tuned instrument, registering every shift in the currents around them. His mind conjured images: Fenris, a shadow trailing Lethe through the echoing halls of the Conclave. Never side-by-side. Always a step or two behind, a hungry gaze fixed on Lethe’s back. It was a simple curiosity, born of a jealousy Caelan refused to name, yet it felt like a forbidden incantation. Cold dread settled in his gut, a familiar discomfort. This morbid fascination felt like prying open a Pandora’s Box. Not merely despair, but a cruel, insidious hope lay within. He knew this. He understood the danger. Still, the pull was undeniable. “Foolish,” he muttered, the word a dry whisper against his lips. His hand, tracing a forgotten celestial meridian, trembled slightly. Yet, he sought them out. During a quiet afternoon in the Grand Scriptorium, Caelan watched from a secluded alcove as Fenris followed Lethe. Arcane symbols glowed faintly on ancient tablets, casting a dim, flickering light on the worn stone. The air hung thick with dust and forgotten magic. Fenris paused, his shoulders hunched, eyes unwavering on Lethe’s retreating figure. Lethe, oblivious, moved with the effortless grace of his lineage. The peeling frescoes on the high ceilings, the rusted iron grilles guarding forbidden texts, the chipped obsidian pillars—all bore witness to this quiet, desperate pursuit. A scene of pathetic obsession. Caelan turned away, a bitter taste filling his mouth. His heart hammered a desperate rhythm against his ribs. This was folly. Pure, unadulterated idiocy. Better not to know. Later, in his cramped chambers, the single astral orb casting wavering shadows across his work table, Caelan felt a dark satisfaction. He had retreated. He hadn't plunged headfirst into the abyss of that knowledge. Ignorance, sometimes, was a potent shield. Fenris’s obsession with Lethe had only intensified since his return, a palpable aura of need. Lethe, for his part, seemed to tolerate it with a simmering resentment, a clear distaste etched in the tightness of his jaw. There was still fear there, Caelan suspected, or perhaps outright hatred. Hatred was certainly justified. How could Lethe feel anything else towards the acolyte who had once brutalized him, who had caused him so much pain before his disappearance? A grim, almost smug satisfaction flickered within Caelan. At least he hadn't intervened back then, hadn't sought to stop Fenris’s initial torment. Perhaps it had been for the best. A catalyst for this strange, unsettling dynamic. Stretching, Caelan laced his fingers behind his head, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. No grand chandelier here, just the rough-hewn stone of his humble quarters. He was a commoner, a scholar of forgotten things. Lethe was a scion, steeped in power. Born without privilege, Caelan had carved his own path with diligent study, but a deep sense of not belonging clung to him like a second skin. He had once believed diligence could conquer all. Until he had fallen under Lethe's captivating, dangerous orbit. This fierce, unspoken longing had shown him the brutal reality: some things, some people, remained beyond his grasp. Lethe, too, was learning this bitter truth, perhaps. The world was a merciless master. Caelan, at least, had learned to master his own turbulent emotions, burying them deep beneath layers of quiet scholarship. Fenris, however, was consumed, his every glance towards Lethe a raw, desperate plea. That sudden, abnormal intensity must have been unsettling for Lethe. He knew the feeling. That visceral, almost painful pull. Caelan had endured it, channeled it into his work. Fenris could not. Instead of attempting to win Lethe over through legitimate means, he acted in ways that only further stoked Lethe's irritation. For Caelan, in a twisted way, this worked out perfectly. “Remain oblivious,” Caelan murmured, the words vanishing into the still air of his room. Or better yet, for Fenris to exhaust himself and finally leave. Caelan didn’t hope for Lethe to turn to him. This kind of destructive adoration terrified him. He wanted one thing: for a day to arrive when this crushing attachment to Lethe finally loosened its grip. And for Lethe to find genuine peace, far away from Fenris’s grasp. That was all. But the ancient halls of the Conclave rarely granted such simple mercies. --- Another unsettling shift came. Fenris, who had once been known for his brutal, almost feral training methods, his wild skirmishes in the lower crypts, now maintained a rigid discipline. He sought to be near Lethe at all times. During morning lectures on Abjuration Runes, he would position himself in the row directly behind Lethe, despite the spatial awkwardness. His presence, an insistent hum, was a physical blockade. Lethe’s assigned acolyte, a timid Elderwood novice, offered Caelan and Elara a strained smile, his discomfort palpable. “Greetings.” Elara merely raised an eyebrow. Caelan offered a curt nod. Neither responded to the novice’s nervous, lingering laugh. Fenris sat by Lethe’s shoulder, a silent, unmoving sentinel. Caelan watched, a knot forming in his stomach. He wished they could remain frozen in this awkward, tense tableau for another season, for another cycle of the moons. Perhaps then, this moment would fade into a forgotten, indistinct dream. More subtle changes followed. Fenris, once infamous for his late-night prowls, his brutal duels with lower-tier acolytes, had seemingly curtailed his destructive hobbies. Gossip filtered through the Conclave, whispered among Elara’s more boisterous circle. He hadn't entirely ceased his transgressions, but the overt displays of aggression, the lingering scent of unrefined mana from wild spellcasting, no longer clung to him. This, for Caelan, was a small mercy. He no longer had to endure the raw, untamed stench of Fenris’s rampages up close. “Fenris! Still abstaining from your… usual delights?” An older acolyte, a disciple of the Obsidian Guard known for his lewd jests, approached Fenris, wiggling his hips suggestively. He mimed a crude gesture with his hands, a mockery of Fenris’s past violence. Fenris’s face twisted, a flash of pure revulsion. His gaze flickered towards Lethe, who had just entered the chamber, before Fenris snarled, “Idiot! I told you to keep that filth to yourself!” “Why the sudden decorum?” the acolyte challenged, a smirk playing on his lips. “Mention that again, and I’ll break every bone in your hand, Torvin.” “Come on, Fenris—” “I said silence!” “Fine, fine,” Torvin mumbled, retreating. The others, who had expected a more visceral, unrestrained outburst from Fenris, clearly looked disappointed. Fenris, with his towering frame and dark aura, had once been the perfect outlet for the baser curiosities of Conclave youth. Many of the acolytes in Fenris’s former circle weren’t novices to violence; they’d all witnessed, or participated in, messy skirmishes. Compared to those who preferred scholarly pursuits, they were more easily stirred by raw power. With Fenris no longer flaunting his brutal exploits, their attention drifted to Elara. But Elara only bared her teeth, an expression of pure disgust. “Filthy curs.” “There she goes! Elara with her usual disdain!” “Such a zealot. A real waste of… potential.” Laughter rippled through the hall, loud and fleeting. Most of the young acolytes had dabbled in forbidden rituals or minor acts of vandalism, but for some reason, Elara had not. They teased her, calling her ‘The Ascetic,’ but no one actually disrespected her. She was Elara, after all. At the same time, Elara possessed a lighthearted, almost flippant attitude about everything, which made her sharp words seem casual, her actions easy to digest. Many found her charming, or approachable, often commenting that her biting wit didn’t match her intimidating arcane skill. “Hush, fool, your glaring will make me drop my quill.” “Her face is truly terrifying.” “Do you have a death wish?” Elara scowled, and the group burst into laughter, though nothing she said was particularly funny. Other acolytes, loitering in the rear of the chamber, joined in with their forced chuckles, adding to the general din. Caelan, amidst them, stared blankly at his hands, lost in thought. His memory served him well. He had never once felt a stirring for a woman, not truly. This, he supposed, made him intrinsically drawn to men, from the very core of his being. He had felt arousal, certainly, observing certain arcane practices with mixed-gender components, but he had never fantasized about a woman's form. The former felt like the intensity of the magic, the latter, a complete absence of desire. He had once ventured to the lower city, dragged along by Lethe, but he hadn't even made it past the threshold of a common tavern. He lacked the appropriate markings to enter such places. Instead, he had waited outside, sketching constellation maps, until Lethe returned. Brothels? Repugnant. He couldn't fathom why anyone would seek solace in such places. Because of all this, the acolytes sometimes jokingly called him “Abstinent Thorne,” but in truth, his abstinence was more a forced consequence of his singular focus, his quiet nature, and his specific, unspoken desire. A small sigh escaped him. Others were too busy laughing at Elara’s sharp retorts to notice. Taking advantage of the distraction, Caelan glanced at Fenris, who sat in silent vigil. Fenris was staring at the back of Lethe’s head, as Lethe meticulously examined an astral chart across the room. As always, Caelan regretted it. Why had he looked? Why this incessant curiosity? To distract himself, he asked Elara a pointless question. “So, Elara, do you truly intend to remain celibate until you join the Elderwood coven?” Elara, lounging in her chair with a proprietary air, suddenly looked directly at Caelan’s hands, then down at his crotch. Her gaze was so unnervingly direct, Caelan instinctively shifted, crossing his legs to shield himself. What in the Outer Dark? “Am I your future coven-mate, Caelan, that you concern yourself with my vows? What, are you offering?” Of course. Elara always made malicious jests. The others laughed. Caelan kicked Elara’s shin beneath the table. Such were his days – a monotonous repetition, each dawn mirroring the last. --- Alone in his chambers, the thoughts often spiraled. Contemplating all sorts of scenarios, his mind inevitably drifted into strange, dangerous fantasies. Today, he found himself wondering what it would have been like if his heart had been captured by Elara instead of Lethe. It seemed a far simpler path. If he had loved Elara, he wouldn’t have had to endure the sharp, constant ache caused by Lethe's complicated, sometimes brutal, interactions with Fenris. Still, the ache would be there. Neither Lethe nor Elara would ever truly love him, after all. But at least his heart wouldn't twist with this specific agony for Fenris. That train of thought inevitably led to feelings of inferiority and a dull, simmering anger. In the end, Caelan simply wished he could graduate quickly from the Conclave, become a stranger to Lethe, and escape this convoluted web. At some point, Caelan started unconsciously placing his hands beneath his desk whenever he sat down, almost an unconscious reflex. This habit had truly begun in his mid-apprenticeship years, and the cause was always the same—men. Or rather, one specific man. As his fingers idly brushed against the buckle of his worn satchel, Caelan lost himself in thought. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? A faint metallic click of his thumbnail against the buckle filled the quiet room. Just as he applied a light pressure to unfasten it, a sharp rap echoed on his door. “Caelan? Are you immersed in your charts?” “Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!” He nearly leaped from his chair. Today was certainly not the day. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damn it. --- Lately, Fenris Valerius had become an increasing irritant. Sometimes, when Lethe’s gaze momentarily drifted to Caelan, Fenris would deliberately interject, drawing Lethe into conversation. Lethe, caught in the middle, would flicker his eyes towards Caelan, his lips parting as if to speak, only to press them into a thin line. Then, as if wary of Fenris’s presence, he would lower his head, answering in the faintest whisper. “Y-yes, Fenris…” Just like that. Lethe, despite Fenris’s attempts to monopolize him, subtly sought out Caelan’s presence more. He had even started using “Cael,” a rare intimacy. Aside from Elara and a handful of forgotten mentors, almost no one called him that. The change was noticeable, a fragile thread connecting them. He seemed to think he was being careful, but he wasn’t. The worst part was how Fenris couldn’t hide his discomfort whenever Lethe did anything remotely daring. “Lethe, stop distracting Caelan Thorne while he’s studying.” “What?” “Stop distracting him. Don’t you understand?” “Oh… uh, y-yes…” When Lethe stammered and avoided Fenris’s gaze, Fenris, with an immature display of temper, slammed his fist against the leg of the stone table beside them. Caelan pretended not to notice, his stomach tightening. Annoyingly, Lethe seemed to believe no one cared about him calling Caelan ‘Cael’ anymore. He grew bolder, casually using it as if it were perfectly normal. “Uh, Cael… forgive me for disturbing your work.” Caelan stiffened, staring at Lethe in disbelief. Was he mad? Fenris was sitting right there. Sure enough, Fenris pounded his fist on the table again, a sound like a distant drumbeat. “Hey! Lethe!” “…Huh?” The atmosphere turned acrid instantly. “I told you.” Fenris’s anger was blatant, a dark storm brewing behind his eyes. “I told you not to call him ‘Cael,’ didn’t I?” “…W-well…” “Call him Caelan Thorne. That’s his name—Caelan Thorne.” His gaze, sharp and predatory, snapped to Caelan. Caelan hated that look, a cold, possessive burn, and instinctively lowered his head. At that moment, Elara, seated beside him, casually draped her arm over his shoulders, her presence a solid, comforting weight. Her low, distinctive voice murmured near Caelan’s ear. “Fenris, if you keep this up, you’re really going to screw yourself over.” “What in the blazes are you talking about?” Fenris spat. “I’m saying you’ll live to regret it.” Elara smirked, and Caelan felt a flicker of irritation. For one reason only.

A Curious Malady