A week crawled by, each day a slow, deliberate mockery of Caelum’s composure. He avoided Rhys Alaric with a practiced grace, a subtle redirect in the corridors, a perfectly timed departure from lecture halls. It was a silent performance. No one, he hoped, perceived the taut wires beneath his skin, the frantic beat of his own pulse. He acted as if Rhys held no consequence, as if their recent discord was but a dust motes dancing in the Lyceum's ancient light.
He spent his time with Lyra Vance, a quick-witted scholar whose sharp observations often cut through the veneer of Lyceum society. A few other casual acquaintances joined their circle, bolstering the illusion of his unaffected state.
Most vexing was the chasm that had opened between Caelum and Rhys's inner circle. Direct intelligence, once readily available, now felt like whispers from a distant shore. He relied on Lyra, a reluctant conduit for his persistent, unvoiced curiosity. The irony stung. Pride, a stubborn, unyielding beast, kept him from approaching Rhys directly, yet his mind gnawed at every rumour, every stray remark concerning Alaric.
Once, as Lyra’s fingers flew across Elara Thorne’s arcane data-slate, Caelum pressed for information. Lyra, without a pause in her intricate spell-crafting simulation, offered a curt report. “Rhys? Out again.”
His jaw tightened. That infuriating non-answer.
“Damned brute.” The words, barely a murmur, felt like grit between his teeth. Rhys's intensity, his raw, unbridled emotions, made a sickening sense. A creature of instinct, barely contained by the Lyceum's gilded cages.
“Another illicit gathering?” Caelum guessed, his voice pitched to feign indifference.
Lyra twisted, adjusting her posture before resuming her furious tapping. “No. This time, a betrothal arrangement. Seraphina of House Valerius, no less. Apparently, a perfect match. They departed together, almost instantly.”
Caelum felt a sudden, profound stillness within him. His breath hitched, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor passing through his frame.
“A match made in the aether, they say,” Lyra continued, her tone laced with a dry disdain. “No hesitation from either side. A shocking lack of propriety.”
“...” The air left his lungs in a silent exhale. Lyra’s words, devoid of admiration, felt like a balm. For the first time in days, a sliver of tension eased from Caelum’s shoulders. He leaned against Lyra’s desk, tapping a gentle rhythm on her shoulder. Lyra shifted, making space, a small acknowledgement of his quiet gratitude.
Lyra Vance alone offered open scorn for Rhys’s brazen indifference to social decorum. For that, Caelum found her tolerable, even invaluable.
“Repugnant,” Caelum remarked, a faint curl of his lip.
“Precisely. My own sensibilities remain, thankfully, intact.” Lyra's voice, brimming with a peculiar self-satisfaction, drew a faint, dry laugh from Caelum.
“One expects little else from a scholar, Lyra. A certain detachment from… base impulses.”
“No expectation. Merely a natural progression of cultivated reason,” Lyra countered, a smirk playing on her lips, eyes never leaving the glowing screen.
“Perhaps that explains your singular status, then?” Caelum teased, a rare spark of levity.
Finally, Lyra powered down the data-slate. Her gaze met Caelum’s, an incredulous smile spreading across her face. She tapped his hand, still resting on her shoulder.
“A formal complaint for undue harassment, I think.”
“Harassment? How so?”
“Perception. If the recipient deems it uncomfortable, it is so.”
“Lyra, you are quite unhinged.”
“Prude.”
Caelum’s foot, clad in a silken slipper, swung idly. It caught the edge of Lyra’s leg. He nudged her gently. Lyra feigned a dramatic stumble, then offered a casual, dismissive gesture. Her wrist, raised in mock insult, revealed a small, unadorned silver pendant, a family crest worn smooth with age.
“That trinket hardly suits you.”
Lyra’s expression hardened, a sudden gravity in her eyes. “And why not?”
Why such solemnity now? “It simply does not align with your… persona.”
“Align? Strange. Do I not exude an aura of ancestral devotion?”
“No. It looks like an affectation.”
“It is not, however.” Her voice held a note of genuine offence. Caelum recalled the stories. Lyra Vance’s lineage, staunchly traditional, harbored a fervent, almost archaic adherence to the old faiths. Lyra, surprisingly, was among the most devout. Yet, her sharp wit and cynical observations often belied this hidden facet of her life, making her piety seem an ill-fitting cloak.
---
A full week passed, Caelum’s avoidance of Rhys a consistent ritual. Their paths often intersected, a fleeting moment in the peripheral vision. Caelum would offer a brief, dismissive glance, then turn away, his gaze fixed on some distant point.
His courage failed him. He lacked the will to initiate conversation, to risk an admission of weakness. The pathetic notion of ‘whoever desires more, loses’ held him captive, a ridiculous, childish fear. Yet, it was potent enough to keep his lips sealed, his words unuttered.
Torvin Thorne, conversely, often sought Caelum out. Perhaps Caelum’s infrequent, clipped responses were more than Torvin received from others. Torvin’s face, however, told a starker tale. Fresh contusions, subtle swellings around his eyes, appeared with unsettling regularity. Rhys’s possessive brutality, like a predator marking its territory, continued, hidden from the general gaze.
Caelum’s brow furrowed, a flicker of disgust. Torvin, sensing his gaze, quickly averted his head, attempting to conceal the injuries.
---
Four more days bled into the calendar. One quiet morning, alone in a shadowed corner of the common room, Caelum pressed his face into his hands. He wished to unsee the unfolding drama, to absent himself from its sickening script.
The fissure between Caelum and Rhys, once a hairline crack, had widened into an impassable chasm. Opening his eyes felt like staring into an abyss. Torvin’s swollen eyes, his bruised cheekbones, became glaring stamps of a grotesque reality. Caelum found himself recoiling from both Alarics, a desperate yearning for escape.
Then, a minor reprieve. Torvin Thorne ceased attending the Lyceum. Archon Veridia’s announcement of his absence carried a heavy, unspoken truth: truancy. Caelum almost let out a cheer, swiftly stifled.
Rhys, meanwhile, grew increasingly volatile in classes. His fingers drummed incessantly on data-slates, his temper frayed. Once, he snapped at a junior acolyte, delivering a sharp, stinging blow for a perceived slight.
A strange mix of smug satisfaction and superiority swelled in Caelum’s chest. He rationalized the situation, convinced himself that Torvin’s inevitable transfer or disappearance would finally draw Rhys’s attention back to him. Patiently, Caelum waited, confident in this eventual outcome.
---
Days blurred into weeks.
“Rhys Alaric appears… subdued,” Lyra remarked one afternoon. Caelum’s heart gave a heavy lurch. His head longed to snap towards Rhys, to scrutinize his face, to discern the truth of Lyra’s observation. But he remained a coward in matters of the heart, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He could only listen, imagining Rhys’s downturned countenance.
Yet, nothing changed. The day waned, classes concluded. He told himself tomorrow held new possibilities. Such matters rarely shifted so abruptly. Caelum waited, enduring the creeping dread. He slung his satchel over his shoulder. Lyra’s voice, then, cut through the quiet.
“You fought with Rhys, didn’t you?”
Caelum turned, a reflex born of surprise. “Yes.”
“Still unresolved, even after that cafeteria spectacle?”
“...” His silence was affirmation.
“Remarkable. This animosity holds greater tenacity than I anticipated,” Lyra said, shrugging, hands tucked into her robes. Caelum evaded her gaze, mumbling an inadequate explanation.
“Honestly, Rhys went too far. This… bullying. It’s simply unseemly. A distasteful spectacle.”
“A distasteful spectacle?” Lyra prompted, an eyebrow arched.
“Yes. Torvin is… a fellow acolyte, is he not? The manner of Rhys’s treatment… it’s barbaric. I wish he would desist.”
“Remarkable.”
“...” Caelum felt a prickle of annoyance at Lyra’s dry tone.
“You are, undoubtedly, destined for the Empyrean Halls.” The sarcasm dripped, thick and cloying.
Caelum glared, annoyance sharpening his features. Lyra merely smirked, an expression that felt like a probe into his carefully constructed facade. A flush crept up Caelum’s neck. He spun on his heel, ignoring Lyra’s knowing grin, and strode from the classroom.
As he hastened down the silent hallway, intent on retreat, a hand clamped onto his shoulder. He assumed it was Lyra, ready with another caustic remark. He spun, irritation bubbling, pulling his arm free. It was not Lyra. Archon Veridia, their homeroom mentor, stood there. Caelum quickly reassembled his composed mask.
“Forgive me, Caelum. Did I startle you?”
“Archon. No, a momentary distraction. My apologies.”
“I see. I regret to impose, but… might I speak with you?”
“Archon?”
“A brief moment, if you please.”
Archon Veridia’s face, usually calm and composed, held an unusual gravity. Caelum nodded.
“Today, Rhys inquired after Torvin Thorne’s residence,” the Archon began, a hesitant note in her voice.
“Rhys Alaric?” Caelum’s voice was carefully neutral.
Archon Veridia, as their mentor, could not be wholly blind to the undercurrents of violence. Yet, she lacked the courage or authority to confront the toxic atmosphere directly. Still, she possessed enough decency not to ignore it entirely. Her approach to Caelum, seeking his input on Torvin, proved this delicate balance.
“I make no accusations against Rhys, but…”
“No, Archon, I understand. His inquiries are not unexpected,” Caelum interjected quickly, a practiced ease in his tone.
“Given your… consistent engagement with Torvin, I wondered if you might accompany Rhys to his home. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
Caelum could not respond immediately. His teeth clenched, a tight, painful knot in his jaw.
The possessive intensity Rhys harbored for Torvin now felt like tendrils, creeping towards Caelum, binding his feet to the stone floor. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. He could not stand idle.
“Might I… acquire Torvin’s contact glyph, then?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Allow me. Do attempt to reach him first.”
“Naturally. I shall speak with him. Do not overly concern yourself.”
“Excellent. I place my trust in you, Caelum.”
“Indeed, Archon.”
Outwardly, Caelum maintained his calm. Internally, a frantic alarm blared. Archon Veridia retrieved Torvin’s home contact glyph from the student registry, her expression still fraught, before departing the hallway. The moment she vanished, Caelum pulled out his personal data-slate, his fingers flying to input the glyph. His leg twitched, a nervous tremor, as he clutched and unclutched his hand, awaiting connection. Surprisingly, the call linked swiftly.
“Hello?” The voice, thin and reedy.
“Torvin? It is Caelum Lysander.” Caelum rushed the words, a sudden urgency seizing him. A clatter, a muffled thud, sounded from the other end. A rustling, then Torvin’s voice returned, laced with disbelief.
“C-Caelum? You! How… how did you acquire this glyph? Did you… possess it already?”
“No. I learned from Archon Veridia that Rhys Alaric requested your home coordinates today. I obtained your glyph then.”
“...” Silence, heavy with apprehension.
“I wished merely to caution you. Exercise vigilance.”
“W-what of you? Are you safe? You always try to… intercede.”
“My welfare is secondary. Focus on your own. Should you require further absence from the Lyceum, use this glyph. I will manage the Archon. My word carries some weight, believe it or not.”
“...Thank you.”
“If Rhys attempts further harassment or violence at the Lyceum, inform me at once. If speech fails you, a simple touch on my shoulder will suffice. Remedial action is more difficult once harm is wrought.”
“Understood.”
“Honestly, a transfer to another institution would be your wisest course.” Caelum slipped the suggestion in, hoping it would resonate.
“...”
“Consider it, regardless. For now, feign absence or seek refuge elsewhere.”
“O-okay…”
“Very well. I must conclude this connection.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Caelum.” Torvin’s voice, after a protracted hesitation, was soft, trembling slightly. The sentiment made Caelum strangely uncomfortable.
“T-thank you for your constant assistance…”
“It is nothing.”
“I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. I-I shall see you later.”
“Yes.”
“...Farewell.”
Farewell? Caelum offered no response to the unexpected valediction, severing the connection. Torvin’s voice, a mere echo in his ear, had left him with an unsettling, creeping unease.
---
What transpired for Torvin Thorne that night remained unknown to Caelum. Only this much was certain: from the following day, Torvin returned to the Lyceum. Within a week, the faint, peach-like bloom of youth returned to his skin, erasing the marks. Torvin also ceased his habitual approaches to Caelum, his demeanor shifting dramatically, becoming more distant.
The abrupt alteration in Torvin’s behavior sowed seeds of suspicion in Caelum’s mind. Yet, when all the bruises on Torvin’s face finally vanished, Caelum felt a faint, tenuous surge of hope, however improbable.
Then, two weeks later, Rhys Alaric approached him. Out of nowhere.
“Lysander.”
“...” Caelum’s gaze remained fixed forward, unwavering. Yet, his lips felt brittle, threatening to part with a sharp gasp.
Could it be? Had Rhys Alaric, finally, grown weary of Torvin Thorne?