A cloying scent of aged parchment and burnt lamp oil clung to Silas Vane this morning, a tell-tale marker of his nocturnal wanderings. Elias Thorne watched him from a discreet distance, a familiar knot tightening in his chest. Silas's usually impeccable linen collar lay askew, a faint shadow marring the aristocratic line of his jaw. It wasn't puffiness, not precisely, but a subtle distortion, a slight asymmetry Elias's artist's eye couldn't help but notice – a minute flaw on an otherwise flawless canvas.
Elias tossed a leather-bound folio onto Silas’s desk, the soft thud a barely perceptible challenge. Silas merely stretched, a languid, almost feline movement that belied the dissipation of the previous night. His smile, when it came, was a flash of predatory charm.
“My thanks, Elias. My wits, much like my composure, were not quite settled.”
“Your father,” Elias began, a dry note in his voice, “did he not demand an accounting of your… extra-curricular studies?”
Silas merely shrugged, a careless gesture that dismissed familial expectations and academic discipline alike. “Not with such a diligent companion as yourself ensuring my punctuality.” He winked, a gesture that both repulsed and drew Elias deeper into his orbit. Elias simply pursed his lips, turning toward his own alcove in the Scribe’s Atelier.
His gaze drifted, catching on a spread of astronomical charts abandoned on the adjacent writing slope. This slope belonged not to him, but to Lysander Croft. Elias, shorter than Silas by a hand's breadth, occupied a space just behind. Lysander, with his unsettling composure, often seemed to stretch beyond Silas's imposing height, claiming more than his allotted space in the room, and perhaps, in Elias’s mind.
Elias buried a familiar surge of envy. He shamelessly pointed a quill at the charts.
“When did Croft arrive?”
Silas leaned back, propping his boots on the desk. “No notion. He was here when I sauntered in.”
“One who departed early last eve, yet returns to such industry?” Elias mused aloud. He barely finished speaking when a rustle broke the quiet. The charts slid, revealing Lysander’s half-lidded eyes. His narrow gaze swept over them, a faint amusement playing on his lips, before he yawned, long and unhurried.
“…I merely intended a brief perusal before slumber claimed me. One thing led to another.”
Indeed, yawns proved infectious. Silas mirrored him, stretching his mouth wide before a smug grin split his face. “That scion. He projects the image of a wastrel, yet harbours more academic zeal than a dozen of our less distinguished peers.”
“Hold your tongue, Vane.” Lysander’s voice held a casual menace.
“As you wish, scoundrel.”
Lysander, whether sensing Silas’s mockery or simply dismissing it, leaned back further, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. Elias watched him, their eyes meeting for a fleeting moment. Lysander turned his gaze to the tall, arched window, then back to Elias. An uncomfortable tickle rippled across Elias’s skin. He cleared his throat, directing his attention back to Silas.
Morning in the Scribe’s Atelier was often a delicate dance of intellectual posturing and social maneuvering. Such conversations usually set the day’s cadence. Soon, other junior scions — perhaps Lucian Gray or Cassian Bell — would gravitate towards Silas, feigning admiration as they hung on his every embellished tale. The familiar routine would unfold: polished banter, cultivated laughter, and then the arrival of the Praelector to commence the day’s discourse.
For boys deemed the very pinnacle of the Institute’s social strata, it was a deceptively sedate start. Yet, beneath the veneer of scholarly decorum, the whispered accounts of illicit dalliances and political machinations from the previous night, especially when Silas was involved, often left a bitter taste in Elias’s mouth. Still, he played his part, affecting a mild amusement.
Despite it all, these mornings had once felt tolerable. But that equilibrium shattered a month and a half ago. And the reason, Elias knew with a sinking certainty, was Alaric Finch.
“Alaric Finch approaches.”
A low murmur rippled through the small gathering. “By the Serpent’s Scales. Has that unfortunate fellow no sense of shame, after the public dressing-down he received?”
Lucian Gray openly sneered, pointing a disdainful finger. At the end of his digit, Alaric Finch shuffled into the Atelier, his slight frame stooped, face half-hidden by a fringe of unruly dark hair. He placed a worn satchel on a desk in the front row, then immediately slumped over it. Elias watched his hunched figure, a sigh laden with a peculiar irritation escaping him.
Alaric Finch was utterly, painfully pathetic. His voice was thin, his build slight — a pitiful specimen of a noble scion. As the murmurs in the Atelier swelled, Silas’s gaze bore into Alaric’s back, a low curse escaping his lips. Elias hated it. That acute sensitivity of Silas’s — it grated on Elias’s nerves.
Silas snatched a discarded manuscript from Lysander’s desk, one of the astronomical charts, now crumpled. With a light, almost playful toss, he hurled it at Alaric’s head. *Thud*. With a soft sound, Alaric’s head slumped further onto his desk.
“Gods below, Finch. Do not parade that pathetic countenance first thing in the morning.”
Alaric placed his arms over his head, burying his face deeper, doing precisely as Silas commanded. Yet, Silas watched him with disdain, a small, barely visible tremor in his jaw. Then, Silas kicked his own desk, a sharp, echoing crack.
“Finch! Will you not answer me?”
Silas stood abruptly, his voice ringing through the Atelier. Alaric, still hunched, stammered, his voice thin and trembling.
“Y-yes, Vane.”
“Lift your head. Look at me. Speak properly.”
Did Silas even comprehend the absurdity of his demands? The sheer, irrational cruelty of it made Elias let out a bitter, silent laugh. Whether or not Silas noticed, he rose and slowly approached Alaric Finch. With every measured step, the unpleasant feelings inside Elias grew more vivid, more raw.
Silas closed the distance. Just that alone made Elias feel control slipping from the emotions he’d meticulously suppressed. This wasn’t the same kind of jealousy he felt when Silas conversed with Lysander. Instinctively, Elias knew this was something far darker. Deep down, he harboured something just as sinister as Silas did. That was why watching Silas with Lysander eventually became bearable, but his interactions with Alaric unsettled Elias more and more. His hands started trembling. He clenched them tightly, pressing his nails into his palms, to hide it.
Silas kicked Alaric’s desk with force. The polished oak groaned, threatening to topple. Alaric jolted upright in alarm, his voice still unsteady. “F-forgive me.”
Silas stood over him, silently looking down at Alaric’s face. Alaric’s eyes glistened, unshed tears hovering on the brink. Yet, in that moment, Elias felt as if he were the one about to shatter.
Silas never made Alaric run demeaning errands, but his eyes never truly left him. If Alaric retreated to the necessarium during a break, Silas would still be watching his retreating figure, even while engaged in conversation with the other scions. Elias knew this because he never stopped watching Silas.
Truthfully, Elias’s first impression of Alaric Finch had been unremarkable. His complexion wasn't pristine, but his youthful features gave him a face that was, at least, unobjectionable. When he smiled, it seemed genuinely warm, and even his neutral expression carried a certain quiet brightness.
Before Silas began his cruel sport, no one truly disliked Alaric. He seemed a scion who had grown up in a quiet, perhaps provincial, but loving environment. While not overtly sociable, preferring the solitude of the archives, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor.
Most considered Alaric Finch a decent sort. Since he never flaunted whatever affection he’d received, he earned even more quiet approbation. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be near — that was Alaric Finch.
But Elias hadn’t particularly liked him from the start. Nor had he hated him. He simply hadn’t cared. To say Alaric wasn’t even a shadow on his periphery would be more accurate. Yet, whenever he spoke with Silas, or Lysander’s coterie, and Alaric’s name arose, Elias would find himself casually fabricating, saying, “Oh, Finch? He’s acceptable enough. A quiet, diligent fellow.”
Silas, like Elias, had paid little heed to Alaric at first. Silas was never one to concern himself with the quiet academic currents of the Institute. After Alaric transferred into their cohort last May, he and Silas hadn't exchanged a single word until early June. That was the natural order of things.
But one day, something shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane flow of events. It happened immediately after the midday repast. Looking back, Elias didn’t think he’d ever regretted an action as much as he regretted what transpired that day.
Alaric, as was his habit, had claimed a secluded alcove in the Grand Library during the break, lost in a tome. He was the sort of individual who found solace in the dusty wisdom of ancient texts. Elias, on the other hand, cultivated an overly solicitous manner towards those of good, if quiet, reputation.
That was why, when he chanced upon Alaric, Elias struck up a conversation about the manuscript Alaric was absorbed in. Elias was no true scholar of ancient histories — affecting an air of erudition was more his style.
“You possess a genuine affinity for such venerable texts, do you not, Finch?”
“Ah? Oh, yes, I suppose.”
At the time, Alaric and Elias were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made the approach easier.
“Have you concluded that particular volume?”
“Almost at its final binding, yes.”
“Then close it now. The denouement will disappoint you. It is one of those narratives where the conclusion utterly mars the journey.”
“You have delved into its pages before?” Alaric asked, his voice soft with surprise.
“Indeed, some time ago.”
To satisfy his intellectual vanity, Elias always sought out reviews and critiques of any text he even feigned reading, ensuring he possessed a prepared remark for future conversations. Drawing on those faint memories, he offered a critique — not a genuine one, merely enough to sound informed. Alaric smiled brightly, a look of genuine pleasure illuminating his face. It caught Elias off guard.
“You are the first soul I have encountered who has read this work, besides myself.”
“Oh… truly?” Elias murmured, a strange prickle beneath his skin.
“Yes, but I shall still finish it. Contemplating why the ending unfolded as it did is part of the enjoyment.”
“Well, naturally. Every reader’s perspective differs.”
“Hearing you say that makes me anticipate it even more.”
That bright, guileless smile still lingered in Elias’s memory, an uncomfortable shard of the past. Was it some instinctive unease he felt even then?
After that day, Alaric Finch started seeking Elias out with increasing frequency. Though Elias found it a trifle irksome, often wondering, *Why me?*, he never outright rebuffed him. Alaric, with his quiet but unblemished reputation, was not the worst person to keep within one’s orbit.
After all, ancient texts — outside of prescribed scholastic tomes — were practically verboten for scions their age. Even if one had the leisure, such books were little more than elegant paperweights to most. For Alaric, Elias was likely the only one among his peers with whom he could discuss such intricacies.
That particular day was one of those routine encounters. Yet, it also proved to be one of the most ill-fated mornings among them all.
Lysander Croft bore a measure of the blame. To this very day, Elias couldn’t fathom why he’d acted as he had. Why he, a soul who never meddled in the minutiae of others’ academic pursuits, chose to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. Why Lysander, of all people, had left his most recent Aetheric Composition examination paper spread wide open for any passing student to observe.
Elias, who loathed having his own grades revealed, naturally assumed Lysander would not desire his exposed either. So, he flipped the paper over to conceal it. That was when he saw it: Lysander’s score. Eighty-one marks. He blinked, checking again. It was definitely eighty-one. Considering the exacting standards for such a complex examination, it would barely scrape into the Fourth Tier. But still, it was at the higher end of that tier.
It was the first time one of Elias’s preconceptions about Lysander had been shattered. A small shock to realize Lysander wasn’t as academically disengaged as Elias had thought. Naturally, that made him consider Silas’s performance. Now, Silas was the true academic disaster. A scion who’d often mark every answer with a “C” and sleep through the remainder of an examination, Silas had never once managed a respectable score.
Perhaps that was why Elias felt such a mix of emotions — like he’d stumbled upon recyclable refuse amidst what he’d deemed mere rubbish. A scion he’d once loathed as a rival turned out to be more salvageable, intellectually, than the scion he found himself drawn to. That strange realization must have unsettled him, for he did something he normally never would have done.
It wasn’t anything grand. He simply grabbed a nearby quill and scribbled a short note at the top of Lysander’s paper.
“Focus upon the practical applications, Croft. You’ll achieve the Third Tier soon enough. Well done. —Elias Thorne.
P.S. My apologies for observing your marks without permission. I merely intended to obscure them and chanced upon your excellent result.”
The arrogance of evaluating someone’s grade and offering unsolicited counsel made Elias feel a blush creep up his neck, so he rambled to justify himself.
Elias couldn’t say why he even wrote it in the first place. At the time, he must have been utterly beyond himself. Looking back, it was clear this was the first mistake in what would become a series of entanglements. Every mess, he thought, began with a poorly fastened first button.
If he hadn’t written that note, he wouldn’t have encountered Alaric Finch carrying a book down the hall, their paths crossing in a way that would forever alter their trajectory.