A strange, almost morbid curiosity gnawed at Elias Thorne. It began the day after the luncheon, a raw, insistent thrum beneath his ribs. He found himself contemplating the route Silas Vane took from their morning lecture hall, and whether Alaric Finch, the soft-spoken junior Elias had so rashly defended, still trailed in his wake.
From his vantage point, tucked discreetly behind a verdant azalea bush near the western wing, Alaric did not walk beside Silas. The younger boy maintained a deferential distance, a living shadow cast by Silas’s effortless stride. Yet, the image persisted: Alaric, a scion of a minor house, following the volatile Silas with a desolate, clinging loyalty that tightened Elias’s chest.
Indulging this new, unwelcome obsession felt like prying open a forbidden reliquary. Not merely despair, but a cruel, insidious hope resided within, a desperate yearning to understand the nature of the power that bound them all. Despite the profound sense of unease, Elias found himself unable to resist.
“This is madness,” he whispered, the words tasting bitter.
Indeed, reason had deserted him. Still, he followed Alaric, careful to keep out of Silas’s peripheral vision.
His pursuit did not extend far.
Elias watched Alaric, his gaze fixed on Silas’s retreating back. The grand, neoclassical architecture of the Institute grounds, usually so pristine, seemed to acquire a faded, almost grimy veneer through Elias’s eyes. Peeling paint on distant turrets, rusted ironwork on obscure side gates, the faint dust clinging to the ornate overpasses—all faded into a backdrop of worn-down things. Two figures moved through it: Silas in the lead, Alaric trailing behind. And Elias, a silent observer at a distance.
Everything about the scene felt pathetic, a hollow pantomime. He turned away.
Later, in the cloistered darkness of his study, Elias found a semblance of satisfaction in his decision. Curiosity was a dangerous mistress, and what deeper horrors might he have unearthed had he continued? Better not to know. He was not so foolish as to shatter a fragile peace for the sake of petty speculation.
Alaric’s quiet fear of Silas seemed to intensify, and Silas’s disdain for Alaric, if anything, sharpened. No, it was outright contempt. How could it be otherwise? Silas, a scion of one of the empire’s oldest houses, had no patience for weakness. A thin, smug satisfaction settled over Elias. At least he had intervened, however futilely, in Silas’s cruel sport.
He laced his fingers behind his head, gazing at the vaulted ceiling. The intricate frescoes of ancient scholars and mythical muses reminded him of his own fortunate birth. Raised in comfort, an only child, his every intellectual whim indulged. There was nothing, he once believed, beyond his grasp.
“Damn it all.”
That naive conviction had crumbled, not with love, but with fear—the chilling realization that certain forces, embodied by young Lords like Silas Vane, were utterly beyond his control. And Alaric, Elias suspected, was learning that bitter truth now too.
Ah, the world of the Aethelred Institute could be mercilessly cruel.
At least Elias understood the necessity of control, the art of concealing true feeling. Alaric, however, was so consumed by his abject terror that he scarcely realized how he projected his vulnerability. That sudden, abnormal exposure must have been unsettling for Silas. Elias knew the sensation well, for he had felt it himself, a primal dread that twisted the gut.
Yet, while Elias endured, Alaric could not. Instead of attempting to mollify Silas, Alaric’s actions only inflamed the Lord’s predatory instincts. For Elias, that grim dynamic offered a strange kind of clarity.
“Please, just remain so,” Elias murmured, addressing the silent shadows.
Or better yet, let Silas grow weary and move on. Elias did not wish for Alaric to seek him out. If anything, this kind of entangled torment terrified him.
He simply yearned for a day when the Institute’s rigid structure no longer felt like a cage, when he could pursue his quiet studies, his subtle art, unburdened by the volatile whims of others. But of course, the world rarely worked that way.
Another unsettling shift followed. Alaric, who usually sought the quiet anonymity of a back table, now found himself seated at Silas’s side during their communal study periods in the Grand Library. The arrangement, directly in front of the Master Librarians’ dais, was an absurd display, particularly given Silas’s towering presence. He completely overshadowed Alaric, blocking the younger boy from view. Alaric’s former study partner, a gangly, earnest youth from the House of Norlund, awkwardly greeted Elias and Lord Varden.
“Evening, Lords.”
Lord Varden and Elias exchanged a fleeting glance, offering a terse nod.
“Haha…”
The nervous laugh hung in the air, but neither Elias nor Varden offered a reply. They held no interest in the minor reshuffling of Silas’s court.
Alaric sat beside Silas, silent, his movements stiff. Elias desperately wished that this awkward tension, this oppressive quietude, might stretch into the next academic year. That someday, this moment would dissolve into nothing more than a half-remembered dream.
Further changes manifested. Alaric, who had once spent his free evenings indulging in clandestine visits to the city’s less reputable taverns, had ceased his excursions. Or so it appeared. Whispers carried by Lord Varden’s more dissolute companions suggested his abstinence was not absolute, but at least the lingering scent of stale ale and cheap perfume no longer clung to him during morning lectures.
For Elias, this offered a sliver of respite. He did not have to endure the cloying evidence of Alaric’s escapades up close.
“Still abstaining, Finch?” Lord Tremaine drawled, swaying suggestively before Alaric, hands resting insolently near his crotch. Alaric’s face twisted in revulsion. He glanced quickly toward Silas, then snarled at Tremaine.
“By the Mother! I told you to keep that vulgarity from public view!”
“Why the sudden prudishness, eh?”
“Mention that again, Tremaine, and I swear upon the Ancestors…”
“Very well, very well.”
Other students nearby clearly looked disappointed. Alaric, despite his timidity, had once been a convenient source of whispered gossip, satisfying the nascent curiosities of young men brimming with unspent energy.
The peers in Silas’s immediate orbit were not novices; they had all fumbled through clumsy experiences of their own. Compared to the truly naive, they were more easily stirred. With Alaric no longer providing fodder, their attention drifted to Lord Varden. But Varden only bared his teeth, an expression of pure disgust marring his sharp features.
“You filthy reprobates.”
“Oh, here he goes! Varden with his lofty pronouncements.”
“A mad fanatic, truly. What a waste.”
Laughter rippled through the hall, loud and fleeting.
Most of the young Lords and Ladies had ventured into forbidden territories, yet for some reason, Lord Varden had not. While they teased him as a jest, calling him ‘The Unblemished,’ no one truly disrespected him. He was Lord Varden, after all, heir to a significant estate. At the same time, Varden possessed a lighthearted, almost flippant attitude about everything, which made his actions seem casual, his words easy to dismiss. People found that either charming or approachable, often remarking that his jovial nature did not quite match his intimidating countenance.
“Mind your glares, you brutes. You’ll make me soil my breeches.”
“Aye, that one possesses a fearsome mien.”
“Do you imbeciles harbor a death wish?”
Varden scowled, and the group burst into laughter again, though there was little genuine humor in it. A few students lingering at the back of the lecture hall, perhaps his lesser acquaintances, joined in with their hollow laughs and chatter, adding to the clamor. As Elias sat amongst them, he stared blankly at the polished surface of his desk, lost in thought.
He could not recall ever feeling a genuine stirring for a lady of the court. Perhaps that made him… different, by birthright. While he had felt moments of vague arousal observing the bawdier performances in the city’s illicit playhouses, he had never once fantasized about a woman’s form in his private moments. The former felt like the heat of the moment, the latter a simple lack of desire.
He had once, long ago, been dragged to a clandestine tavern by Silas Vane, but he hadn’t even made it past the threshold, lacking the proper identification for entry. Instead, he had waited outside, chilled and miserable, until Silas emerged. The brothels of the lower city? Disgusting. He could not fathom why anyone would frequent such places.
Because of this, the others in his social circle sometimes jokingly referred to him as ‘Elias the Pure,’ but in truth, his purity was more or less forced by an innate disinterest.
He let out a soft sigh.
The others were too preoccupied with Varden’s jests to notice. Seizing the moment, Elias glanced toward Alaric, who sat silently, his gaze fixed on the back of Silas Vane’s head across the room.
And, as always, Elias regretted it. Why had he looked? Why this persistent curiosity? To distract himself, he posed a pointless question to Varden.
“So, Varden, do you truly intend to remain celibate until the marriage rites?”
Varden, lounging in his chair as if it were a throne, suddenly shifted his piercing gaze directly to Elias’s lap. His stare was so insistent that Elias instinctively crossed his legs, shielding himself. What in the blazes?
“You are not my intended, Thorne, so why the concern? What, are you offering to break my chaste streak?”
Of course. The scoundrel always made malicious jests. The others laughed, and Elias kicked Varden in the shin.
Thus did his days continue—a monotonous repetition, each day an echo of the last.
---
Alone in his private study, Elias often found himself adrift in thought, contemplating all manner of hypotheticals. Inevitably, his mind sometimes drifted into strange fantasies.
Today, he wondered what it would have been like to develop an affinity for Lord Varden, rather than find himself entangled in Silas’s orbit. It seemed it would have been a far less painful state of affairs. If he had felt drawn to Varden, he would not have to endure the tightening coil of dread caused by Silas’s capricious cruelty.
Even so, heartbreak would likely still be his lot.
Neither Silas Vane nor Lord Varden, after all, were likely to ever return such sentiments. But at least his spirit would not ache because of Alaric’s quiet suffering.
That train of thought ultimately led to feelings of inferiority and a quiet, burning anger. In the end, Elias simply wished he could graduate swiftly, severing all ties with Silas Vane.
---
At some point, Elias had begun unconsciously placing his hands beneath his desk whenever he sat. This habit had taken root during his second year at the Preparatory School, and its cause was invariably the same—the suffocating weight of expectation, the dread of discovery. As he idly traced the intricate carving on the wooden buckle of his satchel, he became lost in thought. Should he indulge this fleeting distraction? Or should he not? The faint click of metal against his nails filled the quiet room. Just as he applied a slight pressure with his thumb, preparing to unfasten the buckle, a soft rap sounded at his study door.
“Lord Thorne? Are you at your studies?”
“Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!”
His heart leaped into his throat. This was clearly not the opportune moment. Mortified, Elias buried his face in his arms. Blast it all.
---
Lately, Silas Vane had grown particularly vexing.
Sometimes, when Alaric dared a quick glance in Elias’s direction, Silas would pointedly strike up a conversation with him. Alaric, caught in the middle, would flick his eyes toward Elias, his lips parting as if to speak, only to press them shut again. Then, as if acutely wary of Silas’s presence, he would lower his head and respond in the faintest whisper.
“Y-yes, Lord Vane…”
Just like that.
Alaric, whether deliberately or out of sheer desperation, had begun to subtly seek Elias out more, even daring to address him with a casual intimacy: “Elias.” Aside from his closest family, almost no one used his given name, so the change was starkly noticeable. Alaric seemed to think he was being careful, but he was not. The worst part was Silas’s inability to conceal his discomfort whenever Alaric made such a daring overture.
“Alaric Finch, cease bothering Lord Thorne while he studies.”
“What?”
“I said, cease. Do you not comprehend simple instruction?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes, Lord Vane…”
When Alaric stammered and avoided his gaze, Silas immaturely slammed his open palm against the leg of the study table beside him. Elias pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, the clueless Alaric seemed to believe no one cared about his familiarity with Elias anymore. He grew bolder, using Elias’s given name as if it were a casual, everyday address.
“Uh, Elias… my apologies for disturbing your studies.”
Elias stiffened, staring at him in disbelief. Was he mad? Silas was seated directly opposite.
Sure enough, Silas pounded his fist on the table again. Blast it all.
“Finch! Alaric Finch!”
“...Huh?”
The atmosphere turned sour instantly.
“I warned you.”
Silas’s anger was blatant, a cold fury that made the air crackle.
“I told you not to use his given name, did I not?”
“...W-well…”
“Address him as Lord Thorne. That is his proper title—Lord Thorne.”
His gaze turned sharp, almost predatory, as he fixed it upon Elias. Elias loathed that look and instinctively lowered his head. At that moment, Lord Varden, seated beside him, casually draped an arm over Elias’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Elias’s ear.
“Silas Vane, continue this, and you will truly undo yourself.”
“What in the Ancestors’ name do you speak of?”
“I speak of regret, Lord Vane.”
Varden smirked, and Elias felt a flicker of irritation, for one reason alone.
“Silas Vane, your possessiveness is unseemly.”