Two days later, a folded scrap of parchment awaited Caelum within the neglected scroll repository he sometimes frequented between lectures. Nestled amongst dusty, unbound histories, it seemed an incongruous, almost vulgar, intrusion.
“*Might you spare a moment in the Archive Annex before Martial Praxis today?*”
For a flicker of an instant, a peculiar heat bloomed in his chest. Confession. The word materialized unbidden, startling him. He dismissed it with a clinical swiftness. This was the Ascendant Lyceum, a bastion of noble decorum, not some provincial academy rife with adolescent infatuations. Here, devotion was a carefully curated political currency, not a whispered vulnerability. Such a thought was absurd. He crumpled the parchment, tucking it into a vest pocket, already forgetting its implication.
Hours later, the crisp bell for fourth period chimed, jarring Caelum from a meticulous study of ancient treaties. Martial Praxis. The thought of the Annex, and its forgotten summons, resurfaced.
Exchanging his formal robes for the simpler tunic and breeches of the sparring grounds, Caelum found his steps veering from the usual path. Curiosity, a faint prickle beneath his composure, guided him. He imagined some trivial matter – a misplaced codex, a forgotten assignment. Nothing consequential. The Lyceum’s quietest corners often harbored such minor dramas.
Pushing open the heavy, seldom-used door of the Archive Annex, a plume of settled dust rose, catching the last motes of afternoon light filtering through a high, grimy window. Within, a figure stood, slender and hunched, picking nervously at his fingernails. Rhys Averell. His dark hair, perpetually smoothed, seemed to absorb the light.
“Rhys?” Caelum’s voice, a calm, measured inquiry, cut through the stillness. Rhys’s small head snapped up, his eyes wide, startling like a trapped bird. He offered a hesitant, almost fragile smile – the same smile Caelum remembered from when Averell had first joined their cohort, a hopeful gesture that had, with time, curdled into something cloying.
Caelum’s brow furrowed, an almost imperceptible tightening of skin. Averell’s presence always felt… burdensome. “What is it you require? And so suddenly?”
Rhys wrung his plump fingers, his gaze darting around the shadowed chamber as if searching for an escape, or perhaps simply a place to hide. “Ah, I… there is something I wished to impart…”
“Indeed?” Caelum’s tone remained level, but an internal tremor of impatience had begun. He longed to be away. He harbored no desire to be discovered alone with Rhys Averell in such a sequestered space. The Lyceum thrived on whispers, and Caelum had spent years constructing a bulwark against unsavory rumors. He maintained a careful distance from Rhys, offering just enough solicitousness to appear benevolent, never enough to invite true intimacy.
Rhys, oblivious to Caelum’s carefully erected boundaries, continued to gnaw at his thumb, his gaze flitting from a towering shelf of ancient scrolls to the worn floorboards. Indecision warred with a fragile resolve on his face. Each time he seemed on the verge of articulation, his mouth clamped shut again.
Silence stretched, heavy and dust-laden. Caelum felt a slow, cold irritation bloom in his gut. He had never truly liked Rhys Averell. The scion’s timidity, his constant need for reassurance, grated against Caelum’s meticulous self-control. Every nervous gesture, every stammer, magnified Caelum’s pre-existing disquiet. A strange, sour taste coated his tongue, a lingering residue from Kaelan Thorne’s fervent declaration, and the unwelcome intimacy of their last encounter. His composure, usually a polished shield, felt brittle, stretched taut.
The small, hesitant movements of Rhys’s mouth, an action that others might find endearing, instead stoked Caelum’s annoyance to an unbearable degree. He recognized the unfairness of it, the irrationality of such a sharp reaction to a trivial display. His own equilibrium felt shattered, his thoughts a tangled mess of vexation and lingering confusion.
“Forgive my haste, but Martial Praxis approaches. Could you not simply speak your mind?” Caelum’s voice, despite his efforts, held a strained edge.
Perhaps his irritation was not entirely directed at Rhys. Perhaps he simply craved an outlet for the turbulent emotions that had churned within him since his visit to the infirmary. A persistent unease gnawed at his stomach, a physical manifestation of his internal turmoil.
While Caelum grappled with these turbulent currents, Rhys Averell finally seemed to gather his courage. In a voice barely above a whisper, hesitant and fraught, he began.
“Uh, Caelum… I… you see, I…”
“Yes?” Caelum’s response was perfunctory, a hand rising to lightly massage his neck. The interval before Praxis was dwindling. He wished for the words to be wrenched from Rhys’s throat, by any means necessary.
Just then, the heavy door to the Archive Annex swung inward with a sudden, jarring thud. Both Caelum and Rhys turned, their gazes locking with Alaric Vane, who stood framed in the doorway, chest heaving. No, not quite Caelum. Alaric’s furious eyes were fixed solely on Rhys.
Alaric’s heavy breathing echoed in the quiet space, a raw testament to his haste. Caelum felt a sudden constriction in his own chest, imagining Alaric’s furious search through the Lyceum’s winding corridors. Alaric let out a ragged exhalation, then strode purposefully into the chamber. Unconsciously, Caelum’s hand fell from his neck. Alaric’s gaze flickered between Rhys and Caelum, his expression a mask of chilling intensity.
“Why are you with him?” The accusation hung in the air, unclear who its target truly was. Alaric’s hands clenched, then loosened, then clenched again.
Beneath Caelum’s outwardly placid demeanor, his insides felt as though they were being relentlessly pounded. After a pregnant pause, Alaric’s burning gaze finally settled on Caelum. The raw resentment in those eyes was intolerable.
“What in the blazes, Alaric Vane.”
*Please, do not look at me so. Blame Rhys Averell for summoning me here. Why do you fix me, your supposed cohort-mate, with such furious censure? I am merely a victim of circumstance, dragged into this sordid tableau.*
Even as these silent pleas echoed in his mind, Alaric’s scorching eyes remained locked onto Caelum. Those were not eyes alight with the heady glow of passion, but rather the inflamed, bloodshot stare of one consumed by a monstrous rage, an unhinged jealousy, a creeping madness. It was the visage of a man deranged by a suffocating affection – a sight Caelum found equally pathetic and contemptible.
“Why are you here with him!”
*You are pathetic, Alaric Vane. Utterly, miserably pathetic.* Caelum met Alaric’s glare, unflinching. Yet, in that moment, a sickening realization washed over him: the truly pathetic one was not Alaric. It was Caelum himself.
Before Caelum could process the thought, Alaric’s long strides had brought him within arm’s reach. The world reeled as Caelum’s eyes met Alaric’s up close.
“—!”
The impact stole his breath. He could not even comprehend what had transpired. His body toppled to the ground, and only then did his mind retrace the rapid sequence of events.
*No, impossible…*
Alaric had struck him. Alaric Vane had dared to lay a hand on him, Caelum Lysander. Lying on the cold stone floor, Caelum’s trembling fingers rose to touch his throbbing cheek. The disbelief was a physical ache. *How could you… how could you do this to me?*
“C-Caelum!”
“You craven fool! I told you to address me by my title! No, do not even speak my name, you loathsome slug!” Alaric shrieked, his voice raw with fury. Rhys Averell, his face a mask of horror, started towards Caelum, but Alaric’s mad bellow made him flinch, his features draining of all color.
“I-I am sorry, I am truly sorry.”
“You gave your word! You gave your accursed word! Damn you!”
Rhys recoiled, tears gathering in his eyes. But he was not the one who should be weeping. Caelum was.
Unbidden tears welled in Caelum’s own eyes, hot and stinging, threatening to spill over. Mercifully, before he could truly shatter, Alaric Vane unleashed another violent curse and stormed from the Annex, dragging a whimpering Rhys Averell by the arm. The entire tempestuous scene unfolded with dizzying speed.
Left alone, sprawled on the cold floor of the Archive Annex, Caelum stared at the half-open door. A thin sliver of sunlight streamed through the crack, illuminating dancing dust motes. Something within him, a dam of carefully constructed composure, finally gave way. The floodgates burst, and silent tears streamed down his face.
He hated everything. Rhys Averell, who had drawn him into this wretched affair. Alaric Vane, who had dared to strike him. He wished them both to simply vanish, to be erased from existence. The ignominy of being a mere pawn in their sordid drama was an unbearable humiliation.
Caelum pushed himself to his feet, his limbs heavy and numb. Martial Praxis was forgotten. He made his way directly to Rector Aelian’s office, requesting an early dismissal. His face, already beginning to swell and redden, lent credence to his hastily concocted excuse of a sudden malady. Rector Aelian, ever formal, seemed to understand without prying, simply offering a terse nod.
---
Upon arriving at his private chambers within the Lyceum’s residential wing, Caelum collapsed onto his bed, succumbing to an exhausted, dreamless slumber. When he woke, hours later, his face felt stiff, bruised, and puffy. He rose, a dull throb behind his eye, and out of habit, reached for his scrying orb.
A message from Cassian Volkov. They rarely exchanged missives, but Caelum recalled a recent study group that Alaric Vane had also attended, thus a tangential connection existed. *Damn Alaric. Damn them all.*
If it were any other peer, Caelum would have simply ignored the communication. But Cassian Volkov was not just anyone. He was a scion of formidable influence, known to hold sway amongst certain Lyceum cliques. Caelum could not afford to be dismissive.
“*Lysander, when did you abscond? We searched for you at Praxis.*”
Caelum clicked his tongue, a soft, disgusted sound, and replied, belatedly, to the three-hour-old query.
“*Haha, a sudden indisposition. Nothing of import.*” He deliberately kept his tone light, almost flippant. The thought of anyone discovering the truth of his current situation, the humiliating knowledge that Alaric Vane had physically assaulted him, was unbearable. And all because of Rhys Averell, no less.
“*Are you well, Caelum?*” Cassian’s follow-up was unnervingly solicitous. *Concern? From Cassian Volkov? What is the meaning of this?* The strange, unsettling sensation made Caelum power down his orb, casting his chambers into a deeper, oppressive silence.
Hovering between waking and sleep, a wave of profound sadness washed over him. Even Cassian’s seemingly innocuous message felt suffocating, another reminder of the web of expectations he was entangled in. Other peers he had studied with had also reached out, their messages politely inquiring about his absence. But none of them, not a single one, had been from Alaric Vane.
*I must be losing my mind.* He chastised himself, even as he found a perverse comfort in the thought that this was simply the tragic fate of one consumed by an all-encompassing, maddening love. *For Alaric, for Rhys…*
Even knowing the bitter truth, Caelum lay there, an idiot in his self-deception, doing what he did best: closing his eyes and turning a blind eye to the stark reality.
“…I am not the only one, then.” Perhaps Rhys Averell and he were trapped in similar cages, bound by similar, if twisted, circumstances. A strange, grotesque thought, selfish and wicked, intertwined with a childish, desperate hope. While staring at the intricately carved ceiling of his chambers, another message chimed. It was from an unknown number, an unfamiliar glyph on the screen.
“*Caelum, do you feel very ill?*”
He frowned. Who amongst his peers would address him so informally, without a title? Cassian? But this was not Cassian’s identifier. Before he could dwell on it, a follow-up message arrived, relentlessly infuriating.
“*I am sorry. Truly sorry. It is all my fault.*”
“*My apologies.*”
“*Please, forgive me.*”
Whether it was three words or four, each one made Caelum’s stomach clench, a primal scream threatening to erupt. He hurled his scrying orb onto the plush carpet in frustration. *How did that fool acquire my personal glyph? And how could someone who supposedly possessed no such device be sending these missives?*
Then it dawned on him. Ah. He had extended his own orb to Rhys, months prior, for a small, innocuous task. The memory, a bitter sting, resurfaced.
He cursed his own idiotic generosity and let out an angry, guttural sigh. To vent his frustration, he pounded his fists against the opulent bedding for a long while, until exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted into a fitful sleep. Just before his conscious thoughts completely faded, one final message from the ignored orb lingered in his mind.
“*Please, Caelum, do not hate me.*”
*Funny. I have hated you for months, Rhys Averell.*
The next morning, Caelum’s face was swollen like a steamed bun, a lurid masterpiece of purples and blues.
---
Caelum Lysander skipped the Lyceum. No matter how diligently he adhered to the institution’s rigorous demands, he possessed insufficient fervor for his studies to present himself with such a disfigured countenance.
Seneschal Elara, his house steward, prepared a solitary meal for him. As he ate, she could not resist offering a gentle, maternal scolding, advising him to exercise greater caution. Lunch itself was unremarkable – a bland, soft porridge accompanied by limp, seasoned greens. Caelum swallowed it all in quick, unchewed gulps.
As he set his spoon down and reached for a goblet of spiced water, the Seneschal returned to clear the dishes. Plate in one hand, she spoke.
“Lysander, a friend has called.”
“What?”
“Shall I admit them?”
A friend. The word stirred something peculiar in Caelum’s chest, a faint, almost forgotten flutter. Before he could even identify the emotion, his mind had already begun constructing an image of who might be standing at the entrance to his private chambers.
Could it be… Alaric Vane?
It seemed a wild, improbable fantasy, yet it was not entirely beyond the realm of possibility. Few from the Lyceum had ever visited Caelum’s personal residence. Among his few close associates, only a handful even knew the location. If it were Alaric, then he must have come to offer an apology, finally consumed by guilt over his transgression. Alaric Vane had never struck Caelum before, not once. Yes, he must be wracked with worry, distressed by his own outburst.
“Yes, please, admit them.”
The fantasy solidified into an undeniable certainty. Though he silently chastised himself for such foolish naivety, Caelum could not suppress a small, illicit surge of satisfaction. Despite everything, he still mattered, in some crucial way, to Alaric. The thought filled him with an inexplicable warmth, a fleeting reprieve from his pervasive coldness. He turned swiftly towards the entrance to his chambers, his pace quickening with an unfamiliar, almost childish excitement.
But the person awaiting him was not who he had envisioned.
“Yo, Lysander. What ills plague you?”
Cassian Volkov, his sharp-featured face framed by dark, windswept hair, greeted Caelum with a casual, almost playful smirk, a small, leather pouch of sweetmeats clutched in one hand. But as soon as his eyes fell upon Caelum’s face, his expression sobered, the levity draining from him. His voice, unusually serious, was a blunt instrument.
“By the Mother, what happened to your visage?”
Caelum’s knees almost buckled from the sudden, crushing disappointment. The internal plummet was visceral. *How did Cassian Volkov even know where my private chambers are situated?*
“I… fell,” Caelum replied, his voice flat, devoid of inflection.
Cassian frowned, twisting his lips in that familiar, sardonic manner he adopted before delivering a cutting remark. “Truly, you are an imbecile, are you not?”
Caelum offered no argument. He merely rubbed his swollen cheek, feeling the dull ache throbbing beneath his fingertips. A wave of acute embarrassment surged through him as he recalled his earlier, absurd anticipation. He was an idiot. Alaric Vane did not consider him important. And here Caelum stood, metaphorically wagging his tail like a hopeful cur – a complete and utter fool.
“Here, take this.” Cassian extended a wrapped confection. Caelum accepted it, pulling back the crystalline paper to reveal a sweet, iced treat. “It is infused with vermillion root.”
“Is it? Did not notice.”
“Naturally. Why would you care?” Caelum muttered, the words sharp despite his weariness.
“Damn, Lysander, that is harsh.” Cassian feigned injury, though his eyes held a glimmer of amusement.
“What, precisely, are you doing here?”
“What do you imagine? I came to ascertain your well-being. Mind if I enter?”
“Hold, wait!”
Without hesitation, Cassian’s long legs carried him across the threshold and into Caelum’s meticulously ordered chambers. He moved with an easy, proprietary air, already surveying the interior.
“Where is your study?”
“Where do you presume you are going?”
“Where else? There are no other compelling destinations in these chambers.”
Caelum found himself without a suitable retort. Cassian was correct. Noble residences, despite their grandeur, often followed similar layouts. Feeling a profound, unshakeable awkwardness, Caelum followed Cassian Volkov, who seemed intent on inspecting every corner of his private world, a casual invasion that unsettled Caelum’s carefully constructed equilibrium.