My jaw, though still tender beneath the touch, no longer throbbed with the vengeful drumbeat of yesterday. A faint discolouration, a bruise like the ghost of twilight, lingered just beneath my cheekbone. It was a mark that could be dismissed with a polite nod, an "unfortunate bump in the night," nothing to invite too many questions from the prying eyes of the Archduchy's court. A small mercy, perhaps, or merely the potent salve from the Scholarium's infirmary. I could manage this.
With a carefully arranged composure, I made my way to the Grand Scholarium. Yet, the air within its hallowed halls felt thick, suffocating. It was not the usual scent of aged parchment and beeswax, but something heavier, an invisible dread. Lord Cassian Volkov was the reason.
My gaze, against my own will, sought out Elara Vance. She arrived late, slipping into the lecture hall moments before Master Thorne commenced the discourse on ancient Vesperian dialects.
A gasp caught in my throat. My eyes widened, unblinking. I had, in a moment of childish pique, wished that Cassian might have received a taste of his own cruel medicine. Now, a profound wave of guilt washed over me, chilling me to the bone. Elara's face was a ruin. Her lips were split, a raw, crimson line, and one eye was swollen almost entirely shut, a bruised plum against pale skin. Shame burned in my gut. How could I have harboured such a petty thought?
"By the Ancestors…"
Elara hesitated at the threshold, her small frame trembling, her eyes darting like a trapped bird. Then, as if tethered by an unseen thread, her gaze snagged on mine. She froze, a flicker of something unreadable – fear? shame? – crossing her battered features before she wrenched her eyes away. She shuffled quickly to her usual seat, head bowed, avoiding my presence entirely.
"What in the Shadow's name…"
Her strange reaction left a cold knot in my stomach. I instinctively scanned the room. Cassian Volkov was there, seated amidst a clutch of his favoured acolytes. His eyes, dark as obsidian, were fixed upon me, a silent promise of retribution in their depths.
"Curse it all."
Regret, sharp and bitter, welled within me. I should have feigned illness. I should have remained in my chambers.
After that unsettling morning, Elara, who had once sought my counsel on archaic texts, now meticulously avoided me during the brief reprieves between lectures. At the midday repast, she vanished, disappearing with Cassian and his entourage to some secluded corner of the Scholarium grounds.
Left adrift, I found myself sharing a quiet meal with Kael. A part of me yearned to seek them out, to demand answers, but a deeper, more primal fear held me rooted to my spot. I hated to admit it, but I was terrified of what I might witness.
Surely, Cassian would not torment her again… Would he? It was not my place to interfere in the machinations of a noble house, especially not the Archduke's own kin. Yet, the image of Elara's battered face was a brand upon my soul.
Kael, ever the sun-dappled glade amidst my shadowed thoughts, prattled on, seemingly oblivious to the tempest brewing within me.
"See? I told you the air was thick enough to carve. Nearly choked on my own nerves, I did."
"You seemed quite at ease enjoying those candied figs yesterday."
"Give me some credit, Lysander. I swallowed my apprehension like a seasoned diplomat."
Kael offered a conspiratorial wink, a playful glint in his hazel eyes.
"Besides, candied figs are meant to be savoured."
An amused sigh escaped me. I nudged his shin beneath the table with my foot, a gentle reprimand for his jests. He rubbed his chin, a fleeting, almost sheepish expression crossing his face. A trick of the flickering lamplight, perhaps.
---
Life, I had learned, rarely followed a predictable course. From the moment Kael and I had first crossed paths in the market stalls of the Lower City, I had harboured no intention of forging any closeness. Indeed, his boisterous demeanour often grated on my nerves. Yet, here we were, and Kael had become the closest soul to me within these imposing walls.
His lightheartedness, his seemingly flippant remarks, possessed a peculiar power. They prevented me from becoming entirely submerged in the oppressive currents of the Scholarium's intrigues.
Once, I had disdained these very qualities, dismissing them as the marks of a shallow, unserious mind. Now, I found myself leaning upon Kael's levity, a precarious anchor in the shifting sands of my own turmoil. Had Cassian and I remained the companions we once were, I might never have recognized the profound solace Kael’s presence offered.
In the days that followed, Cassian Volkov began to distance himself from our usual circle of junior scholars. Sometimes, he would vanish with Elara Vance in tow. At other times, a select few would join them, though I observed growing apprehension in their faces. There were even instances when some outright refused, shaking their heads with uneasy, sidelong glances.
Master Rennick, a junior archivist known for his discretion, was one such individual. I encountered him near the hidden stairwell leading to the forgotten crypts, ostensibly avoiding a senior Custodian. He recounted, with a mix of grim amusement and palpable discomfort, how Cassian had been compelling others to inflict blows upon Elara, one after another, a macabre ritual of dominance. My face twisted into a mask of disbelief. Rennick, sensing my horror, quickly added that he had been actively avoiding Cassian's group, excusing himself from their company whenever possible. He then mentioned he was bound for the scribes' guild with another acolyte, Master Borel, and implored me not to misconstrue his absence. With a swift, apologetic bow, he departed.
Master Borel, I recalled, had been a frequent companion of Cassian during our early years, before the disparate paths of scholarship had diverged our studies.
At midday repast, Kael and I sought out a quiet courtyard, purchasing sweetmeats from a vendor. The chilled confection melted on my tongue, a fleeting balm to the bitter knot tightening in my chest. Yet, beneath that ephemeral relief, an unyielding unease persisted. I held my ground, determined not to betray the turmoil within.
"Is that to your liking?"
"Would you care for a taste?"
Kael, engrossed in his own vibrant, syrupy pastry, eyed my sweetmeat with a hint of hunger. Half-teasing, I brought my own, still sticky with saliva, close to his mouth. Without a moment's hesitation, he smirked, a corner of his lip curling, and took a decisive bite.
"Kael! Did you truly partake of that?"
"You bade me to."
"That is… unbecoming. And why such a prodigious bite?"
"It was but a single measure."
A wide grin spread across Kael's face as he shrugged a shoulder. It was a moment of unexpected, fragile peace. In stark contrast to my internal storms, the crisp autumn air of Vesper was clear and calm.
Where were Cassian and Elara now? A few desolate corners of the Scholarium came to mind, places where shadows clung thickest. I did not go looking. Perhaps I feared what I might uncover should I venture forth.
I strained every fiber of my being to banish thoughts of Cassian Volkov. Yet, the more I strove, the more apparent it became how vast a space he occupied within the architecture of my mind.
How long, I wondered, would it require to excise such a profound, complicated affection? How much effort would I be forced to expend? I had no answer. It felt akin to being lost within a boundless, sun-baked desert, not merely a state of desolation and suffocation, but one of terrifying, unbearable isolation.
Sometimes, I retreated into myself, much like a scribe poring over a faded palimpsest, striving to discern the faint traces of meaning beneath layers of erasure. When the burden became too great, I would occasionally share a fragment of my unease with Kael. And, well, that was that.
Suddenly, a question escaped me, unbidden.
"Kael."
"Aye, Lysander?"
"…Do you believe blossoms might ever unfurl in a barren desert?"
It was a question steeped in such raw, unvarnished emotion that I felt a blush creep up my neck the moment the words left my lips. I scratched my head, awkward and embarrassed, but Kael did not mock me.
"They will."
"..."
"They must. Life, for all its grand design, is cruel enough as it stands."
Hearing those stark words from Kael—a man I never imagined capable of uttering such a profound sentiment—underscored the futility of my desperate hope. How much more time must pass before I could relinquish these meaningless, debilitating affections?
"...Aye. Life is cruel."
Cassian Volkov. That arrogant, destructive force. Why did he seem so intent on crushing the loyal, tail-wagging creature I became every time our paths crossed? Cassian, who seemed to have cast aside the very tenets of noble conduct, now came and went from the Scholarium as he pleased, often disregarding even the most stringent of academic protocols. And always, a trembling shadow at his side, was Elara Vance.
As the situation grew increasingly ominous, whispers of unease and intrigue rippled through the junior scholars' quarters. It became clear—Cassian's cruelty was escalating. And so, too, was the slow, insidious spread of resentment towards him, a growing miasma within our ranks. None of it boded well.
Thus, when I beheld Cassian dragging Elara by her wrist down the Grand Hallway, I halted, rooted to the ancient flagstones. My gaze flickered between their faces, a terrible resolve hardening within me, before I spoke.
"Your Archduke, your father, is concerned for your comportment, Lord Cassian."
It was not an apology, nor a plea, nor even flattery—it was a calculated lie. Such was the extent of my dwindling pride. But given Cassian's notoriously strained relationship with the Archduke, he would likely not discern the falsehood. And even if he did, I could always argue that, at this rate, his father would indeed have ample cause for concern.
I always ensured a subtle escape route, a logical loophole.
"If a blow must be struck, let it land on your own hide. What has Elara Vance ever truly done?"
"Move aside, Thorne."
The moment I uttered Elara's name, Cassian's gaze locked onto me, daggers forged of ice and shadow. My chest felt as though it might rupture from the sheer weight of his contempt. I despised him. And yet, pitiful, pathetic Elara stood glued to his side, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, looking at me as if she might break into sobs at any moment.
"Unless you wish to receive another lesson, as you did last week, stand down."
"C-Cassian, please," Elara stammered, her voice a fragile whisper, her hand clutching at his sleeve. Only then did Cassian’s tirade falter. His focus shifted, locked entirely on Elara. All I could see was the rigid line of his back as he turned away from me.
"As I said, your Archduke… your father is greatly troubled by—"
"..."
Elara, on the precipice of weeping, clung desperately to Cassian, attempting to stay his departure. Witnessing that heart-wrenching scene unfold was unbearable. It was so excruciating, so profoundly agonizing, that I closed my eyes against it.
After a long, drawn-out moment, Cassian looked down at Elara, then, with a curt nod, turned and walked back into the lecture hall. For the remainder of the day, he remained within its confines—just as he had a few weeks prior, after a similar outburst.
---
The long-anticipated day of the Grand Scholarium’s annual excursion had arrived. A large, ornate coach had been commissioned to transport us to the ancient, overgrown ruins of the Sunken Library of Aerion. While a few senior acolytes grumbled about dragging promising scholars away from their rigorous studies, most were alight with excitement at the chance to escape the Scholarium's confines, even for a single day.
There was no need for elaborate provisions; we were to return by dusk. The Custodians offered only a handful of half-hearted warnings about decorum and the fragility of ancient relics before dismissing us with a wave of their hands.
We were not raw initiates, after all, to be kept awake by giddy anticipation. I regarded the excursion as merely another day—depart without satchel, return without satchel. I had no inkling that this would be the day my carefully bottled frustrations would finally shatter. I had always suspected such an implosion was inevitable, but never had I foreseen its sudden, brutal arrival.
As was customary, I had always occupied the seat beside Cassian whenever we ventured beyond the strictures of the lecture halls. After all, I had been, for many years, counted among his closest confidantes. I had not even considered where Kael might choose to sit, as I had never before embarked on a carriage journey with him.
At first, a familiar flicker of apprehension tightened my chest, a fear that Kael might, inadvertently or not, claim the space closest to Cassian. Retrospective shame burned me. Neither I, Lysander Thorne, nor Kael, my steadfast companion, would ultimately occupy that hallowed spot.
Upon our arrival at the Grand Courtyard, I located our appointed coach amidst a line of gleaming, dark wood vehicles. I climbed aboard, my gaze sweeping the interior for our designated places. The rear bench, a coveted five-person alcove, was already claimed by a boisterous group of acolytes, among them Master Rennick, who offered a tentative wave before his eyes, uncertain, flickered towards Cassian's usual seat.
"Lysander! There is a space here!" Rennick called, his voice barely audible above the din.
"...Ah, yes."
Of course. It had always been my place. I had always been the one beside him. But today, a tremor of hesitation ran through me as I approached Cassian’s customary place. My breath hitched in relief when I saw the seat beside him remained vacant. Swallowing hard, a flicker of determined pride ignited within me.
It was my spot. My pride—the last, fragile vestige I clung to—compelled me to claim it, even after the humiliating blow I had endured at Cassian’s hand, a blow born of Elara Vance’s suffering.
My fingers, trembling almost imperceptibly, brushed the plush velvet of the seat back for a fleeting moment. I glanced around the jostling coach, then, my voice barely a whisper, I spoke.
"Lord Cassian… this seat…"
"It is not yours, Thorne. Find another place."
Before I could complete my question, Cassian cut me off, his gaze fixed, unwavering, upon the coach's entrance. Following his line of sight, I saw Elara Vance, her small figure appearing utterly diminished, timidly making her way towards us. My fists clenched at my sides. The words I had prepared died in my throat.
"...Very well. As you wish."
I strove for an indifferent tone, though my heart felt as if it had been rent into a thousand irreparable pieces.
I quickly retreated from the seat, my eyes sweeping the coach's interior. My gaze landed on an empty space near Kael’s group, directly opposite where he was already settled. A surge of desperate relief washed over me. I hurried towards it, dropping into the seat before anyone else could claim it.
"Kael," I said, my voice sharper than intended, "Sit with me."
No answer. I looked closer. He was already asleep, his head resting against the coach window, bouncing gently with every subtle jolt of the vehicle. Kael always seemed to fall into slumber during the early hours, and today was no exception. Shaking my head at his absurdly relaxed posture, I retrieved my leather-bound grimoire and carefully wedged it between his head and the hard wooden frame, cushioning him. Then, I leaned back against the uncomfortable seat, my own exhaustion a dull ache.
Across the narrow aisle, through the blurred outlines of other scholars, I caught a glimpse of dark brown hair. It was Cassian Volkov’s—his height, even seated, made him easy to distinguish amidst our peers. Though I could not discern their expressions clearly, I knew Elara Vance was now seated beside him. My spot. My pride. Shattered.