A cool draught, surprisingly gentle for the Ascendant Lyceum’s ancient stone corridors, kissed Caelum Lysander’s cheek. The swelling had receded significantly overnight, a minor triumph he attributed less to the Master Healer’s balm and more to sheer, stubborn willpower. A faint bluish mark lingered, a ghost of the impact, easily dismissed as a careless brush against a shadowed archway. Manageable. He had mastered the art of managing appearances.
His stride, typically measured and confident, faltered slightly as he entered the Grand Lecture Hall. The air hung thick and cloying, heavy with a tension that permeated even the ancient, oak-paneled walls. Lord Valerius Thorne was the unseen fulcrum of this oppressive atmosphere.
Instinctively, Caelum sought out Lysander Theron, a distant cousin from a lesser branch of their house, often a shadowed appendage to Valerius. Theron arrived just as the chimes for the first period began their resonant toll, narrowly averting a tardy mark. Caelum’s gaze snagged on him.
The sight stole Caelum’s breath. He forgot to blink. His earlier, fleeting thought—that Theron might receive a similar bruising, a perverse sense of justice—evaporated, leaving only an acidic shame in its wake. Theron’s lips were split, a purple welt blooming beneath one eye, nearly mirroring the severity of Caelum’s own injury from yesterday. A suffocating wave of guilt washed over Caelum, a bitter taste on his tongue. He despised himself for such a petty, childish malice.
A whispered exhalation escaped his lips: “By the Great Architects…”
Theron entered with a hesitant, almost furtive step, his eyes flitting nervously across the rows of polished desks. Then, as if tethered by an invisible thread, his gaze snagged on Caelum’s. He froze, his battered face contorting into a startled grimace. He wrenched his head away, shuffling quickly to his assigned seat at the periphery, deliberately avoiding Caelum’s line of sight.
“What in the Abyss…”
Theron’s strange reaction prickled Caelum’s awareness. He glanced around, and the reason crystallized in an instant. Lord Valerius Thorne sat rigidly upright, his obsidian eyes fixed on Caelum, a predatory gleam in their depths. A raw, murderous intent radiated from him.
“Damnation.” Caelum’s internal curse felt hollow. He should have feigned a lingering ailment and remained cloistered in his chambers. Regret, sharp and cold, pierced him.
After that grim start, Lysander Theron, who had previously shown a timid eagerness to solicit Caelum’s counsel or companionship, now became a phantom. He avoided Caelum during intervals between lessons. During the midday repast, Theron vanished, always in the wake of Lord Valerius, to some undisclosed corner of the sprawling Lyceum grounds.
Left to his own devices, Caelum found himself sharing a quiet alcove in the Refectory with Seraphin Alaric. A restless itch to seek out Valerius and Theron gnawed at him, but he suppressed it. He would not. He recoiled from the potential truths he might uncover. Surely, Valerius would not continue his brutal sport? The thought chilled him. Though it was not his direct concern, Theron’s ravaged face made it impossible to ignore.
Seraphin Alaric, ever the insouciant anomaly in this stifling institution, maintained his usual stream of irreverent banter, oblivious to the tempest churning beneath Caelum’s poised exterior.
“See? I told you the air was thick enough to carve. I nearly choked on my own apprehension.” Alaric gestured vaguely towards the Lecture Hall.
“You appeared rather unperturbed whilst consuming sugared ginger yesterday.” Caelum’s voice was dry.
“Grant me some credit, Lysander. I performed my part with professional aplomb.” Alaric winked, a flash of levity. He chuckled, a sound too free for the Lyceum’s hallowed halls. “Sugared ginger, after all, is meant to be savored with gusto.”
Annoyance flickered. Caelum delivered a light, corrective tap to Alaric’s calf beneath the table. Alaric rubbed his chin, a fleeting expression of sheepishness—or so it seemed—crossing his features. No, that couldn’t be right.
***
The trajectory of life, Caelum mused, rarely followed a straight line. From their initial, inauspicious meeting, he had harbored no intention of cultivating a familiarity with Seraphin Alaric. Indeed, he had found the younger scholar’s casual demeanor grating. Yet, here they were, the closest approximation of companionship Caelum possessed within the Lyceum’s isolating walls.
Alaric’s lighthearted disposition and flippant remarks possessed an uncanny ability to prevent Caelum from sinking too deeply into the crushing weight of his own burdens.
In earlier days, Caelum had scorned these very qualities, dismissing Alaric as superficial, unserious. Now, he found himself clinging to that unexpected levity, a tether against the undertow of Lyceum politics. Had his prior alliance with Lord Valerius remained intact, Caelum might never have recognized the profound need for Alaric’s grounding presence.
In the days that followed, Lord Valerius began to detach himself from their customary circle. At times, he would disappear with Lysander Theron. At others, a few select peers would accompany him. There were even instances where some flatly refused, shaking their heads with an uneasy apprehension that spoke volumes.
One such refusal involved Gareth Stone. Caelum encountered him attempting to scale a low balustrade, ostensibly to avoid a Prefect patrolling the outer courtyards. Stone, with a mixture of nervous amusement and genuine unease, confided that Valerius had been instructing others to strike Lysander Theron, one blow at a time. Caelum’s face tightened in disbelief. Stone, catching his reaction, quickly added that he had been avoiding Valerius’s company lately, finding the exercises distasteful. He then mentioned he was bound for the Crypts of Lore, where Silas Thorne awaited, and asked Caelum not to misinterpret his absence. With that, Stone departed, a nervous energy propelling him away.
Silas Thorne, Caelum recalled, had maintained a superficial acquaintance with Valerius during their first year, but differing academic paths had seen their distant connection fray.
Later, during the midday repast, Caelum and Seraphin Alaric made their way to a small vendor cart near the Lyceum’s outer gardens, purchasing chilled crystallised honey-drops. The cold sweetness spread across Caelum’s tongue, a fleeting balm against the persistent unease that tightened into a bitter knot in his chest. He held his composure, allowing no hint of his internal struggle to mar his outward placidity.
“Is that palatable?” Alaric, engrossed in his own brightly-hued confection, eyed Caelum’s honey-drop with a playful glint.
“Would you care to ascertain for yourself?” Caelum responded, half-teasing, bringing the sticky sweet, kissed by his own lips, closer to Alaric’s mouth. Without a second’s hesitation, Alaric smirked, raised a corner of his lip, and took a decisive, generous bite.
“Alaric! Did you truly partake of that?” Caelum feigned scandal.
“You extended the invitation, Lysander.”
“That’s…uncouth. And why such a prodigious bite?”
“It was merely a single sampling,” Alaric shrugged, a wide grin splitting his face. The moment, in its stark contrast to Caelum’s inner turmoil, felt strangely peaceful. The crisp autumn air, untroubled by the Lyceum’s internal machinations, carried a scent of dying leaves and distant woodsmoke.
Where were Lord Valerius and Lysander Theron now? Several obscure corners of the Lyceum came to mind, but Caelum did not seek them out. Perhaps he feared what he might discover if he did.
He consciously attempted to excise Valerius from his thoughts. Yet, the harder he strove, the more acutely he perceived the vast, desolate space Valerius occupied within his mind.
How much time would it demand to relinquish such a hold? How much effort? Caelum did not know. It felt akin to being lost in an endless, parched desert, not merely sorrowful and stifling, but terrifying and utterly unbearable. At times, he retreated, his intellect struggling to discern the path forward amidst the emotional debris. When the burden grew too oppressive, he found himself occasionally confiding fragments to Alaric. And, for now, that was enough.
Abruptly, he turned to Alaric. “Seraphin.”
“Lysander?”
“Do you…do you believe that blossoms might ever emerge in a barren desert?” The question, laden with a raw vulnerability, felt embarrassingly mawkish the moment it left his lips. He scraped a polished boot awkwardly against the flagstones. Alaric, however, offered no mockery.
“They will.”
Caelum’s gaze held steady.
“They must. Life, after all, is wretched enough as it stands.” Alaric’s words, stark and unexpectedly profound from a scholar Caelum had never considered capable of such sentiment, struck him with the futility of his own desperate hope. How much longer before these meaningless sentiments withered entirely?
“…Indeed. Life is wretched.”
Lord Valerius Thorne. That contemptible brute. Why did he seem so intent on crushing the loyal, fawning obedience Caelum, in his weaker moments, had once offered? Valerius, who now seemed to have discarded every vestige of decorum expected of a scion, came and went from the Lyceum’s studies as he pleased. And always, a silent, bruised shadow, Lysander Theron by his side.
As the situation festered, a palpable unease spread through the Grand Lecture Hall, accompanied by a quiet, insidious resentment toward Valerius. None of it boded well.
So, when Caelum observed Lord Valerius dragging Lysander Theron by the wrist through a less-trafficked corridor, he stopped. His eyes darted between their faces, his resolve solidifying. Then he spoke, his voice carefully modulated.
“Your father, Lord Thorne, expresses concerns for your deportment.” It was a lie, a carefully constructed fabrication, neither apology nor flattery. Such was the extent of Caelum’s pride. Given Valerius’s strained relationship with his progenitor, he would likely not discern the falsehood. And even if he did, Caelum had already prepared a secondary argument: such behavior *would* eventually cause his father considerable worry.
He always ensured his escape routes were clear.
“If retribution must be meted, confine it to yourself. What transgression has Lysander Theron committed to warrant this?”
“Move, Lysander.” The moment Caelum uttered Theron’s name, Valerius’s gaze locked onto him, sharp as a blade. Caelum’s chest felt like a constricted cage. He hated Valerius. And yet, Theron, pathetic and pitiable, stood glued to Valerius’s side, his tear-filled eyes wide, poised to shatter.
“Unless you wish to endure another lesson in deference, as you did before, I advise you to move.”
“J-Junwoo, please,” Theron stammered, his voice a raw tremor. The name, Valerius’s given name, momentarily halted the larger scion. His obsidian gaze fixed solely on Theron. Caelum could only see the rigid line of Valerius’s back as he turned away from him.
“A-as I said, your father—” Caelum tried again.
Theron, on the precipice of tears, clung desperately to Valerius, pleading with him to desist. The sight was unbearable, so excruciating that Caelum squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, after a long, silent moment, Valerius looked at Theron, then pivoted. He walked back towards the Grand Lecture Hall, returning to his seat. For the remainder of the day, he stayed there, a temporary respite granted, just as he had weeks before.
***
The long-anticipated day of the Lyceum’s biannual scholastic excursion had arrived. A carriage, opulent and emblazoned with the Lyceum’s raven crest, had been chartered to convey them to a curated exhibition of ancient artifacts in the lower city. While a few diligent scholars grumbled about being diverted from their studies, most buzzed with an illicit thrill, eager for even a single day’s reprieve from the Lyceum’s rigid routines. There was no need for cumbersome satchels; they would return before dusk. The Preceptors offered only a few half-hearted admonitions before releasing their charges.
They were not Novices anymore. The giddy excitement of childhood had long since faded. Caelum viewed it as merely another day—depart without a burden, return without a burden. He harbored no premonition that this would be the day his carefully bottled frustrations would finally fracture, a culmination he had anticipated but not with such abruptness.
Customarily, Caelum had occupied the seat beside Lord Valerius whenever they traveled beyond the confines of a study chamber. He had, after all, once been considered Valerius’s closest companion. He hadn’t even considered where Seraphin Alaric might settle, having never shared a conveyance with him before. At first, a flicker of wary concern crossed Caelum’s mind, a fear that Alaric might inadvertently claim the coveted seat closest to Valerius. In retrospect, the thought was pathetic. Neither he nor Alaric would ultimately occupy that particular space.
Upon arriving at the Lyceum’s main archway, Caelum located their designated carriage and boarded, scanning for their assigned sections. The five rearmost seats were already claimed by a boisterous group of scholars, including Gareth Stone, who offered a quick, hesitant wave, then pointed subtly towards Valerius’s seat.
“Lysander! There’s a space here!” Stone called out, his voice a little too loud.
“Ah. Yes.” Of course. He had always been the one beside Valerius. Yet, today, Caelum hesitated as he approached Valerius’s allocated spot. A sigh of relief almost escaped him when he saw the cushion beside Valerius appeared vacant. He swallowed, a twinge of defiant determination hardening his jaw.
It was his place. His pride—that solitary, tenacious anchor in a sea of uncertainties—compelled him to claim it, even after the brutal dismissal he had endured at Valerius’s hand, all for Lysander Theron’s sake.
He nervously brushed his fingertips across the plush velvet of the seat back for a protracted moment, his gaze sweeping the interior of the carriage. Then, his voice quiet, he addressed Valerius.
“This seat… it is un—”
“It is not for you. Seek another conveyance.” Valerius cut him off, his gaze, cold and unwavering, fixed on the carriage entrance. Following his line of sight, Caelum saw Lysander Theron, timid and small, making his way towards them. Caelum’s fists clenched, and he swallowed the remainder of his words.
“…Very well. As you wish.” He forced the words out, striving for an indifferent tone, though his heart felt as if it had been meticulously shredded.
Caelum retreated swiftly from the seat, his eyes darting for an alternative. He spotted an empty spot near Seraphin Alaric’s group, directly in front of where Alaric himself was situated. Relief, sharp and fleeting, coursed through him. He rushed over, collapsing into the seat, speaking before he had even fully settled.
“Seraphin, position yourself here.”
No response. Caelum looked closer. Alaric was already adrift in slumber, his head lolling against the grimy window, bouncing gently with each subtle sway of the carriage. He always seemed prone to morning drowsiness; today was no exception. Caelum shook his head at the undignified posture, then carefully tucked his gilded Lyceum identification scroll between Alaric’s head and the window pane, offering a small, silent cushion. He leaned back into the uncomfortable, unyielding seat, his gaze involuntarily drifting across the aisle. A familiar shock of dark brown hair caught his eye. Valerius Thorne. Taller than most, he was impossible to ignore. Though Caelum could not discern the faces, he knew Theron sat there, a silent, acquiescent shadow.