A scholar’s life, even in the gilded cages of the Archduchy of Vesper, demanded an iron will. My days at the Grand Academy were a meticulous tapestry woven from discipline and self-denial, a regimen honed by years of striving against the tide of my humble birth. Vulnerability, a luxury for those secure in their bloodlines and their birthright, was a weakness I could ill afford. It was a truth hammered into my very bones, shaping my nature into an unyielding shield. Even the sharpest barbs of emotional turmoil seldom pierced the polished veneer I presented to the world. This composure often led others to dismiss me as placid, unfeeling. Yet, it was not an absence of sentiment, but a crucible where every tremor of anger, every sting of insult, was reforged into another layer of defense. With each passing season, the shell grew thicker, dulling the edges of provocation until little could truly stir the depths of my being. Even the cruel machinations of a scion like Lord Valerius, Prince Consort’s nephew, rarely elicited more than a flicker of internal weariness. This unshakeable trait, paradoxically, was the very anchor that kept me tethered, however tenuously, to Valerius’s orbit. I was a tolerable presence, capable enough to not shame my few, distant patrons, and occupying a respectable, if ancillary, position within the Academy’s intricate social firmament. This precarious standing, painstakingly carved from sheer will, was my most guarded possession. “Thorne, Lysander.” “Yes, my lord?” My voice remained even, a carefully cultivated blend of deference and quiet dignity. “Your tone grates, scholar. Like chalk on slate.” Lord Valerius’s lip curled, a predator’s smile that never quite reached his cold eyes. He toyed with a silver quill, its tip catching the dim light of the study hall. “And your countenance, my lord, brightens the very shadows.” The retort, a veiled insult wrapped in courtly flourish, slipped out before I could fully rein it in. It was a petty rebellion, swiftly regretted, for Valerius was not a man to be trifled with. He merely laughed, a short, sharp bark that held no genuine mirth. An insult, after all, only truly wounds if it finds purchase. My words, as always, glanced harmlessly off his inherited arrogance. “Still a wit, aren’t you? Do you never spend time with… proper company, Thorne? Your mind is sharp, but your connections are wanting.” “What manner of company does my lord suggest?” I asked, my spine stiffening imperceptibly. “Respectable ones, of course.” “My lord’s definition of ‘respectable’ and my own may diverge.” “Do not play the fool, scholar. It ill suits you.” Lord Rhys, seated across from Valerius, chuckled softly, polishing the silver pommel of a decorative dirk. He offered no further comment, his gaze fixed on a small, worn volume held by Aethel, a younger, much lower-born scholar hunched at the far end of the hall. Aethel, like me, was a scholarship student, a temporary guest in this world of inherited privilege. Valerius, crude and impulsive, a creature of whim and inherited depravity, made little effort to conceal his predilections. Since his bloodline sorcery had manifested in his early youth, a dark, primal affinity, his whims had only grown more pronounced, more blatant. He was a glutton for sensation, for control, and Aethel, it seemed, was his current fascination. By this late August, with the summer’s languid heat giving way to autumn’s crisp bite, Aethel had been all but ostracized within the Academy. Yet even this isolation, orchestrated largely by Valerius, seemed insufficient to sate the noble’s peculiar appetite. Valerius’s circle of sycophants, though they operated under similar unspoken codes, displayed varied degrees of obedience. Minor lords like Cassian and Baron Renwick would linger after the final bell, awaiting their master’s pleasure. Others, lesser scions from the outer districts, such as Lord Torvin or Master Elara, would bolt from the study hall the instant the midday gong echoed through the stone corridors. In my first year, I had been part of Valerius’s immediate entourage, a tolerated shadow. But that had shifted in my second. It began with a dismissive comment from Lord Cassian: “Does Thorne still pore over those ancient scrolls during repast? He dines like an old man, pondering over every morsel. We shall be late for the riding lessons.” Without direct instruction, without even a glance from Valerius, I found myself quietly excluded. The most galling part? Valerius had not cared. My presence or absence was a matter of utter indifference to him. Damn the man. I permitted myself a quick, stolen glance at him, then spoke, my voice carefully low, to no one in particular. “Am I truly so… deliberate in my dining?” “Of course, you are. You chew your words, not your food, while the rest of us make swift work of our midday meal,” Lord Renwick piped up, ever eager to parrot Valerius’s unspoken sentiments. “Indeed. The archery grounds await, and you delay us, Thorne.” “…Ah.” “Today, we have a wagered match with the scholars from the Lore Ward. Perhaps you should dine with Rhys, Thorne.” My tongue felt like lead. Pride, that brittle, treacherous thing, forbade me from pleading. Besides, the indigestion I had suffered throughout my first year, rushing my meals to keep pace with their boisterous appetites, had often left me ill. And, honestly, the thought of clinging to Valerius like some noxious barnacle disgusted me utterly. So, I offered no protest, no plea. Just like that, I was out. My will, my desires, held no weight. Feigning indifference, I met the cynical gaze of Lord Rhys, the only other soul still lounging on a nearby desk, idly cleaning his dirk. He raised a brow, then casually inquired, “When do you partake, scholar?” “…” “I usually venture forth in a span of ten minutes.” “Yes, that aligns with my schedule.” In truth, I had never dined at such a late hour. But survival instincts, honed by years of navigating the treacherous currents of Vesper, demanded adaptation. If I wished to retain a modicum of companionship, even Rhys’s, I had to bend. That first midday meal with Rhys, alone in the vast, echoing refectory, I left half my plate untouched, feigning a sudden lack of appetite. Rhys merely observed, a sardonic glint in his eyes. “What are you, Lysander? Nigh on two decades of life, and still so particular?” “Does it concern you, my lord?” I shot back, a flash of annoyance, a rare crack in my composure. What business was it of his? “Frankly, you are like a child.” “Even adults do not consume the Archduke’s spiced pheasant with a side of sweetened berries.” I retorted petulantly, glaring at him across the polished oak table. In our first year, Valerius and I had been almost inseparable, an odd, uncomfortable pairing. But by the second, those moments had dwindled, largely due to Rhys’s subtly influential presence. Yet, I had no right to complain. Rhys, though a minor baron, held a higher station than a scholarship scholar. He outranked me. Rhys’s and Valerius’s social circles often overlapped, a chaotic mix of dissolute noble scions who languished at the bottom of the Academy’s academic rankings. These were the types who would forge leave permits or slip away from classes, exploiting the jaded indifference of preceptors too weary or fearful to challenge their noble charges. Valerius, ever mindful of his powerful parents’ scrutiny, usually remained in class until the final chime. As for Rhys, whose reputation was almost as notorious, I had once, in a moment of misplaced boldness, asked why he bothered adhering to the Academy’s routine. His response had always stayed with me. “Do you truly believe me to be so pathetic, Thorne?” “No, my lord, but your associates often are.” “Associates? What foul drivel is that? They are not my associates. They are dregs.” “What?” “A scholar’s duty, is it not, to attend lectures and absorb wisdom?” “…That is true.” “Then do not lump me with such dregs. It offends my sensibilities.” “My apologies, my lord.” “I sought no apology.” A reasonable declaration, of course, yet coming from Baron Rhys, it felt absurd. This was the same noble whose so-called friends skipped their duties at least once a week. Regardless, I ended up spending most of my second year in the uneasy company of Valerius and Rhys. I had come to view our small, often contentious, group as a sacred space, a sanctuary where no one else could intrude. It would have been perfect without Rhys, but, surprisingly, we coexisted better than expected. I did not like him, but he was not so intolerable that I would storm off. He was simply… vexing. But then, Aethel’s plight turned even those days into a lingering nightmare. Today, however, felt subtly different from the usual grim rhythm. “Damn it all. Cassian and Renwick, those craven curs,” Valerius snarled, rubbing his temples as the fourth period neared its close. His voice, usually so carefully modulated for public consumption, was raw with frustration. Hearing his rare outburst, I turned, a flicker of something akin to anticipation stirring in my chest. “They have absconded again, my lord?” My tone, despite my best efforts, held a certain eager edge. “Fools, all of them.” “A pity. With whom will my lord deign to break bread for the midday repast?” I could not help the slight tremor in my fingers as I gripped the back of my chair, a quiet, desperate hope unfurling within me. Valerius let out a heavy sigh, then glanced at Rhys, who had settled beside him. “I shall join you two today,” Valerius announced, his voice carrying an imperious weight. “Uninvited guests are seldom welcome,” Rhys replied, blunt as ever, without looking up from the polished wood of his desk. “Keep that viper’s tongue, Rhys, or I shall see it silenced for you.” “By the gods, today truly tests my patience, Valerius. I have half a mind to strike you.” “Come then, craven. Make good on your boast.” “Grand words for a lord who would otherwise dine alone.” I could hold back no longer, interjecting, my desperation evident in the slight sharpness of my voice. “Come now, my lords. Let us all partake together. We cannot abandon Lord Valerius to dine in solitude.” My unspoken plea must have been transparent. Valerius smirked, a triumphant gleam in his eyes, and cast a sly glance at Rhys. “You see? I possess loyal companions.” “…” “What say you, Rhys? Thorne is quite… useful, is he not?” Rhys scowled, sweeping Valerius’s writing satchel from the desk with a casual flick of his wrist, sending it clattering to the flagstones. Whether Rhys favored me or not was irrelevant. What mattered was that Valerius would join us for the midday meal. It had been so long since we had truly dined together, and I was so thrilled by this unexpected reprieve that I forced myself to consume side dishes I usually abhorred, the taste like ash on my tongue. But Valerius paid no mind to his food. His gaze, sharp and predatory, scoured the vast refectory, a hunter searching for its quarry. I, too consumed by the rare proximity of my former associate, failed to notice Rhys deftly pilfering choice morsels from my tray. Then, without warning, Valerius’s chopsticks clattered to the floor, and his free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing by. Looking up, my heart sank. It was Aethel. “Sit here,” Valerius commanded, nodding towards the empty seat beside him, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “You have no one else to break bread with, do you?” Aethel’s face flushed scarlet. His eyes darted about, landing briefly on me, a desperate, unspoken plea, before he bit his lip and slowly, reluctantly, settled into the indicated chair. I was stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when had Valerius cared for Aethel’s lack of companionship? The very reason Aethel had been so utterly abandoned was solely Valerius’s doing. The noble prince’s nephew had made it clear he despised any who showed even a passing kindness to Aethel. A bitter bile rose in my throat. Unconsciously, I slammed my fork onto my trencher, the sound jarringly loud in the otherwise hushed clatter of the refectory. But the only one who reacted was Aethel, who flinched violently, his eyes widening in alarm. Valerius, however, remained fixated on his new plaything. Damn it all. At that moment, I felt the carefully constructed shell, forged over years of relentless self-control, begin to crack. I tried to staunch the fissure, but I could not. Perhaps I had reached a breaking point, a precipice I hadn’t known existed. Desperately clinging to denial, I snapped at Aethel. “Aethel. Leave.” “H-huh?” The younger scholar stammered, bewildered. “Do not heed Lord Valerius. Simply go. It will be fine.” “Thorne, Lysander,” Valerius’s voice, dangerously low, cut through the air, sharp as a poisoned blade. When I told Aethel to leave, Valerius, who had ignored the loud clamor I had made, finally ground his teeth, his eyes blazing with an intensity that promised retribution. That glare, far from intimidating me, only stiffened my resolve. I fixed my gaze stubbornly on Aethel. “I shall handle this. You may depart.” “Uh, o-okay.” Aethel seemed torn, caught between two powerful wills. “And Valerius, cease this foolishness.” “Indeed, I concur,” Rhys chimed in, his mouth full of bread, his words barely intelligible. His sudden interjection felt utterly out of place, yet perfectly in character. He chewed and swallowed deliberately, slowly, before glancing between Valerius and me, an irritating smirk playing on his lips. “What are you gaping at, Valerius? You are spoiling my appetite.” As always, Rhys’s unnecessary provocations grated on my nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter how I viewed him. Ignoring him, I turned back to Valerius. “Leave Aethel be.” “Who in the seven hells are you to command me, scholar?” Valerius shot back, his voice thick with cold fury. “It is… vexing for the rest of us to witness.” I did not blink, holding his gaze. Valerius slammed his fist on the polished table. The sudden impact made Aethel, sitting awkwardly beside him, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Rhys, on the other hand, chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender. “Count me out of this particular farce.” He licked a bead of water from his lips, adding, “Let us decide by majority vote, shall we? I remain neutral. Thorne desires him gone, and Valerius insists he stays.” For the record, Rhys was one of the few who called me “Thorne,” rather than “scholar,” and I found it irritating every time. That irritation often slipped into my tone, just as it did now. “Cease your meddling, Rhys. Your vote holds no weight.” “Why not? There is another soul present.” Rhys, unfazed, smirked and pointed at Aethel, motioning towards him with a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Aethel not a person in your estimation, Thorne?” “You are beyond reason.” “Why does he remain silent? Let him voice his own desire.” As if Aethel could possibly speak in this charged atmosphere. I sighed at Rhys’s thoughtless antics, picked up my fork, and idly stirred the remnants of stew on my trencher. That’s when Valerius tapped his finger, a soft, menacing rhythm, on the table. “If you depart now, Aethel, know that your life at this Academy, and perhaps beyond, is forfeit.” Tears began to well in Aethel’s large, luminous eyes, which glimmered as he looked at me, a silent, desperate plea for aid. Damn it. I pressed my lips together, a battle raging within me. “It is fine. I shall stay his hand,” I said, trying to reassure Aethel, though the words felt hollow. “Thorne, Lysander,” Valerius growled, his voice tight with barely contained rage. I forced myself to meet his furious gaze, feigning a calm I was far from feeling, but the overwhelming urge to break down, to flee, pressed in on me. To suppress it, I looked up at the vaulted ceiling for a moment, tracing the intricate carvings, before lowering my head and replying, a casualness I did not possess, “What is it, my lord?” “You…” Valerius clenched his fist, glaring at me with an intensity that felt like a burning brand. Still, I had to endure. My instincts screamed that I could not leave Aethel to Valerius’s mercy. But then, Valerius’s focus shifted, an almost imperceptible movement, back to Aethel. “I-I shall go,” Aethel stammered, his voice a fragile whisper, trembling with fear. “…” “Th-thank you, Thorne.” Aethel hurriedly rose, his footsteps unsteady, a frantic shuffle of fear, and fled the refectory. As soon as he was gone, Valerius turned abruptly, his burning gaze, no longer masked by amusement, settling fully upon me. ---

Chapter 2.1: The Scholar's Fissure