A sudden, unbidden urge seized Elian, a sharp claw in his gut. Curiosity, base and unwelcome, about Lysander Thorne and Kaelen Croft leaving the Grand Hall after the day’s final lecture. Lysander, always so assured, his dark robes a stark slash against the pale flagstones. Kaelen, smaller, a shadow clinging to his wake.
Mere jealousy, he told himself. A simple, petty emotion. Yet an icy dread coiled in his chest, a sense of peering into something forbidden. Like a fool, he felt drawn to a dark chasm, knowing its secrets would unravel him.
Ancient lore spoke of Pandora’s casket. Not merely despair, but a cruel, twisted hope resided within. Still, one could never resist looking. A foolish, reckless impulse.
“My mind betrays me,” Elian whispered, voice thin as winter breath.
Yes, surely. His thoughts were a labyrinth. Even so, he followed.
Cautious steps echoed on the worn flagstones of the Academy’s lesser-used courtyards. Lysander’s broad back led the way, Kaelen a silent silhouette behind. Crumbling gargoyles, their faces eroded by centuries of rain, leered from shadowed nooks. Rusted gates groaned on unseen hinges. Distant murmurs of city life felt alien here.
Two young men, framed by decay. Lysander in front, Kaelen trailing. Elian, a hidden witness, felt a profound shame. Everything about this clandestine pursuit felt pathetic. Turning on his heel, he retreated, leaving them to their private ritual.
---
Later, in the shadowed expanse of his Ancestral Estate chambers, Elian found a strange satisfaction. He had resisted the full plunge. Curiosity, yes, but knowledge would have been a deeper wound. Better not to know. A sensible man did not pry open a sarcophagus for a fleeting thrill.
Lysander’s obsession with Kaelen had only deepened since. Kaelen, meanwhile, seemed to exist in a perpetual state of unease. Fear, perhaps. Or outright distaste. A distinct loathing. How else could one regard a tormentor, a shadow that had darkened one’s entire transition period?
Quiet satisfaction bloomed in Elian’s chest. He had not intervened in Lysander’s early cruelties. Perhaps, in its own twisted way, that had been a blessing.
He laced fingers behind his head, eyes drifting to the vaulted ceiling. Chandeliers of dark crystal hung like frozen tears. His life, cushioned by privilege, had been a gilded cage. Born to wealth, favored as an only child, every whim indulged.
“Damn it all.”
He had once believed himself invincible. Then came Lysander Thorne. That arrogant scion had shattered his illusions, revealing a cruel truth: some desires remained forever out of reach. Lysander, in his turn, was now learning this bitter lesson with Kaelen. A merciless world, indeed.
At least Elian had mastered the art of concealment. His feelings remained locked behind an impassive facade. Lysander, however, wore his heart on his sleeve, a raw, exposed nerve. His abnormal hunger for Kaelen, palpable to any observer, must have been a torment within him.
Elian understood. He knew that agonizing hunger. But he had endured. Lysander lacked that restraint. Instead of winning Kaelen’s affection, he had cultivated hatred. For Elian, this worked rather well.
“Remain oblivious, please,” he murmured to the empty room.
Better yet, Kaelen would eventually tire and depart. Elian did not yearn for Lysander’s attention. Such possessive love, so untamed, simply terrified him.
One solitary wish consumed him: a day would dawn when he no longer loved Lysander. And Lysander would find solace elsewhere. A simple, unobtainable dream. Of course, fate rarely bowed to such pleas.
---
Another unsettling shift came to the Grand Hall. Lysander, with an air of possessive entitlement, switched his designated seat. Directly in front of Kaelen. A foolish choice, considering his height. His imposing frame now completely obscured the lecturer’s board for Kaelen.
Kaelen’s former seatmate, a young noble named Cassian, offered a strained greeting to Elian and Seraphim. His expression, caught between embarrassment and discomfort, spoke volumes.
“Greetings, gentlemen.”
Seraphim and Elian exchanged curt nods. A stiff silence followed Cassian’s awkward laugh. Neither responded. Interest flagged.
Lysander sat beside Kaelen, a silent, brooding sentinel. Elian prayed—no, he fiercely willed—that this stifling tension would stretch for another year, another season. That this moment would dissolve into a forgotten nightmare, vague as a distant memory.
---
Lysander, once famed for his weekend escapades, for nights steeped in debauchery, seemed to have curbed his appetite. Or so it appeared. Whispers from Seraphim’s clique suggested a partial cessation, not a full stop. Still, no longer did Lysander boast of conquests in morning lectures. No longer did the cloying scent of cheap perfume cling to him.
For Elian, this was a small reprieve. He no longer endured the stench of Lysander’s indulgences up close.
“Lysander, no more games? Like this?”
Cassian swayed his hips suggestively before Lysander, hands nearing his crotch in a crude gesture. Lysander’s face twisted in disgust. A swift glance flickered towards Kaelen, then a harsh shout.
“You fool! I warned you not to bring that filth here!”
“Why the sudden modesty, Lysander?”
“Mention it again, Cassian, and you’re dead.”
“Lysander—”
“Silence, I said!”
“Fine, then.”
Disappointment rippled through the group. Lysander, with his imposing height and mature aura, had been a captivating focal point for the hormone-addled young men. His exploits, whispered and embellished, had fueled their own nascent curiosities.
Seraphim’s group was no stranger to forbidden territory. Clumsy first encounters were commonplace. Compared to naive innocents, they were easily stirred. With Lysander’s narratives drying up, their attention shifted to Seraphim.
Seraphim, however, bared his teeth in an expression of pure disdain. “You filthy perverts.”
“Ah, there he goes! Seraphim’s holier-than-thou act again.”
“Just a fanatic, that one. What a waste of good looks.”
Laughter, loud and fleeting, erupted.
Most in the group had tasted forbidden fruit. Yet Seraphim Rook, for reasons unknown, had not. They teased him, calling him a virgin, but respect tempered their words. He was Seraphim, after all. A carefree, devil-may-care attitude cloaked his actions, making his words palatable. They found him charming, approachable, often remarking on the contrast with his intimidating features.
“Fool, stop glaring. I might soil myself.”
“His face is truly terrifying.”
“Do you imbeciles have a death wish?”
Seraphim scowled. The group burst into laughter, though little humor existed. Others, lingering at the back of the Grand Hall, likely less than friends, joined the chorus of fake laughs and chatter. Amidst their clamor, Elian stared blankly at his own lap, lost in thought.
He remembered clearly. No arousal had ever stirred for a woman. By default, a man of his inclinations. He had felt fleeting sparks watching certain performances, but never once had a woman’s form ignited his deepest fantasies. The former, an intensity of the moment. The latter, a simple, stark absence of desire.
Once, Lysander had dragged him to a disreputable den. He had not even made it past the entrance, lacking the forged papers. Waiting outside, he had endured the cold until Lysander reappeared. Brothels? Disgusting. The thought sickened him. Why would anyone seek such places?
So, the group jokingly called him “Chaste Elian.” But his abstinence, he knew, was more or less compelled.
A small sigh escaped him.
Distracted by Seraphim’s tales, the others noticed nothing. Seizing the moment, Elian’s gaze drifted to Lysander, seated silently. Lysander, in turn, stared at the back of Kaelen Croft’s head, as Kaelen studied across the hall.
Always, the same regret. Why had he looked? Why the cursed curiosity? To distract himself, Elian posed a pointless question to Seraphim.
“So, truly, you’ll remain chaste until marriage?”
Seraphim, lounging in his chair like a king on a throne, fixed his gaze directly on Elian’s lap. So persistent, the scrutiny, that Elian instinctively crossed his legs. What in the blazes?
“You are not my consort. Why the concern? Are you offering?”
Silence. Seraphim always made such barbed jokes. Others laughed. Elian kicked Seraphim’s shin.
Such were his days. A tedious cycle, repeating endlessly.
---
Alone in his chambers, Elian often fell into contemplation. Strange fantasies inevitably blossomed. Today, he wondered about a different path. What if he had fallen for Seraphim Rook instead of Lysander Thorne? It seemed a less tortuous fate. No heartbreak over Lysander’s messy entanglements with others.
Still, his heart would ache. Neither Lysander nor Seraphim would ever return his affections. But at least, Kaelen Croft would not be the source of his pain.
Thoughts spiraled, leading to feelings of inferiority and a slow, burning anger. He simply wished for graduation, for a future where Lysander Thorne became a forgotten stranger.
---
Unconsciously, Elian had developed a habit of placing his hands beneath his desk whenever he sat. This began in his second year at the lower academy. The cause remained constant: men.
Fingers toyed with the buckle of his breeches. Should he? Or should he not? A faint click of metal against his nails filled the quiet room. Just as his thumb pressed to undo the buckle, a soft rap sounded at his door.
“Elian? Are you immersed in your studies?”
“Ah, no! I mean, yes! Indeed!”
His heart nearly leapt from his chest. This day, clearly, was not the day. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damn it all.
---
Lately, Lysander Thorne grated on Elian’s nerves.
Sometimes, Kaelen’s gaze would briefly seek Elian. Lysander, always watchful, would then deliberately strike up a conversation with Kaelen. Kaelen, caught in the middle, would flick his eyes back to Elian, lips parting as if to speak, then closing. As if wary of Lysander’s presence, he would lower his head, answering in the faintest whisper.
“Yes, um…”
Always like that.
Kaelen, subtly, sought Elian more often. He even began calling him “Elian.” Aside from tutors, almost no one used his given name, so the change resonated. Kaelen believed himself discreet, but he was not. Worst of all, Lysander could not mask his discomfort whenever Kaelen dared such a familiar gesture.
“Kaelen Croft, cease disturbing Elian’s studies.”
“What?”
“Stop bothering him. Is that unclear?”
“Oh… yes, um…”
When Kaelen stammered and avoided his gaze, Lysander immaturely slammed his fist against the desk leg beside him. Elian pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, oblivious Kaelen seemed to think his use of “Elian” had become acceptable. He grew bold, using it casually, as if normal.
“Uh, Elian… my apologies for disturbing your work.”
Elian stiffened. Disbelief seized him. Was Kaelen mad? Lysander sat right there.
Predictably, Lysander’s fist pounded the desk again. Damn it.
“Hey! Kaelen Croft!”
“Um?”
The air turned acrid instantly.
“I told you.” Lysander’s anger was raw, palpable. “I told you not to call him ‘Elian,’ did I not?”
“Well…”
“His name is Elian Vane. Call him Elian Vane.”
His gaze sharpened, predatory, fixing on Elian. Elian despised that look. Instinctively, he lowered his head. At that moment, Seraphim Rook, seated beside him, casually draped an arm over Elian’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Elian’s ear.
“Lysander Thorne, continue this, and you truly risk your own undoing.”
“What in the blazes are you talking about?”
“You will regret it, I mean.”
Seraphim smirked. A flicker of irritation crossed Elian. For one reason alone.
“Lysander Thorne,