Alistair Finch observed the peculiar pallor about Thorne Beaumont’s countenance, a tell-tale sign of nocturnal indulgences. He moved to the desk, not with a flourish, but with the quiet precision of a well-oiled mechanism. A slim tome, discarded sketches, and a half-eaten brioche lay strewn amidst a scatter of lecture notes.
He cleared the space with unobtrusive efficiency, arranging the papers, stacking the books. From a discreet pocket of his waistcoat, Alistair produced a small phial of potent smelling salts, placing it beside Thorne’s inkwell. Its sharp, camphoraceous scent already began to permeate the air.
“No doubt your constitution feels quite ravaged,” Alistair murmured, his voice low, almost imperceptible. “A restorative might serve to dispel the worst of it.”
Thorne merely grunted, a hand pressed to his temples. His fair hair, usually impeccable, lay disheveled, an undeniable testament to a night spent in disreputable pursuits. He stirred, finally. His gaze, though still heavy-lidded, found Alistair.
“And Father?” Thorne’s voice was a gravelly whisper, rough with exhaustion.
“Your esteemed father was entirely satisfied with my explanation,” Alistair replied, a subtle, almost imperceptible tightening in his jaw. “Your sudden indisposition, alas, prevented your attendance at his early morning correspondence. A most lamentable fever.”
Thorne offered a curt nod, a faint, almost arrogant smirk touching his lips. “My gratitude, Finch. As ever, you possess a remarkable talent for… persuasion.”
Alistair merely inclined his head, a practiced gesture that conveyed polite deference without true subservience. His throat felt dry. The transactional nature of their companionship chafed, an insistent burr beneath his skin. He was useful, a tool, nothing more. He knew this truth.
Turning to take his customary seat, Alistair’s gaze snagged on a stack of neatly annotated classical texts upon the adjacent desk. Jasper Blackwood’s.
Jasper, too, had been absent from the previous night’s late study session, presumably having retired early. Yet, a languid weariness still clung to him like a morning mist. His dark hair fell across a brow furrowed with sleep, obscuring eyes that remained half-closed.
Thorne’s closest companion, in spirit if not in temperament, was Jasper. Alistair, ever the shadow, occupied a seat that granted him a perfect vantage point of both. He was a constant observer, always on the periphery, never quite at the core.
“Blackwood appears as though he’s wrestled an incubus,” Alistair observed, his tone carefully neutral. “Despite his early departure last evening.”
A low groan answered him. The stack of books shifted, and Jasper Blackwood slowly lifted his head. His eyes, dark as polished obsidian, swept over Thorne, then settled on Alistair. A wide, uninhibited yawn stretched his mouth.
“…I merely intended to peruse a few more chapters,” Jasper mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. “A rather extended perusal, it seems.”
Thorne chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. He straightened, stretching his arms above his head with a display of casual power. “This fellow, Blackwood. Appears a dissolute rogue, yet possesses more earnest virtue than old Mr. Abernathy’s prize pupil.”
“A compliment, I presume?” Jasper quipped, a faint smile playing on his lips. He leaned back, utterly at ease, and let out a hearty, unapologetic laugh. Alistair watched him, a prickle of unease stirring within him. Their eyes met for a fleeting second.
Jasper merely glanced towards the tall, arched window, then back at Alistair, before returning his attention to Thorne. A curious tickle beneath Alistair’s skin prompted him to discreetly adjust the cuff of his jacket. He shifted his attention back to Thorne.
Early mornings in the North Wing’s preparatory study were often thus. A languid start, punctuated by the easy camaraderie of the privileged. Soon, other scions of wealth—Peregrine and Giles, among them—would drift in. They would gather around Thorne, fawning over his latest exploits, eager for vicarious scandal.
Chitter-chatter and muted laughter would fill the grand room. Then, inevitably, Professor Ashworth would arrive, his monocle gleaming, to commence the day’s lessons. A surprisingly wholesome routine for those considered the most influential young gentlemen of Aethelgard Academy.
Yet, beneath the veneer of genteel amusement, Alistair often felt a sour taste. Thorne’s tales of debauchery, even when disguised with wit and charm, grated. He played along, of course, feigning amusement. One must, to remain tethered to the periphery of power.
Despite it all, he often found these mornings bearable. A fragile peace. But that had changed, drastically, a mere month and a half ago. The reason? Julian Vance.
“Look, Vance is here.” Peregrine’s sneering whisper cut through the nascent quiet. “Confound it. The sight of him.”
“Does that miserable wretch even consider sparing us his morbid visage after such a public humiliation?” Giles added, his voice dripping with disdain.
Peregrine openly scoffed, pointing with an exaggerated sweep of his hand. Julian Vance stood hesitantly in the doorway, an awkward, hunched figure. His lank hair, usually neatly parted, fell over his face, as if seeking to shield him from the world. He shuffled towards a lonely desk in the front row, placed a threadbare satchel upon it, and immediately slumped over.
Alistair watched the pathetic display, a sigh of profound irritation escaping him. Julian Vance was utterly unremarkable. His frame was slight, his voice thin, his very presence seemed to wilt. As murmurs swelled through the room, Thorne Beaumont’s eyes narrowed, glaring daggers at Julian’s bowed back. Thorne muttered a curse under his breath.
Alistair hated it. That sudden, raw edge of hostility from Thorne. It unsettled him, deeply.
Snatching a forgotten broadsheet from Thorne’s desk—a gazette detailing the latest academic honours—Thorne crumpled it in one hand. With a light, almost casual toss, he hurled it. It struck Julian Vance’s head with a soft thud. Julian’s head thumped further onto the desk.
“Damn and blast, Vance,” Thorne snapped, his voice now sharp and clear. “Cease to display that morose visage first thing in the morning.”
Julian placed his arms on the desk, burying his face deeper within them, doing precisely as Thorne had commanded. Yet, Thorne watched him with unconcealed contempt. He kicked his own desk, the oak groaning under the impact.
“Vance! Are you deaf? Acknowledge me!”
When Thorne abruptly rose, his voice cracking with sudden fury, Julian, still hunched, stammered a reply. His voice was brittle with fright.
“Y-yes, Beaumont.”
“Lift your head. Look at me. Speak properly, man.”
Did Thorne truly not comprehend the absurd, cruel nonsense he was spouting? A bitter, humourless laugh rose in Alistair’s throat, quickly suppressed. He clenched his jaw, forcing it down.
Thorne strode purposefully towards Julian. With every measured step, the unpleasant feelings inside Alistair grew more vivid, more raw. A deep, unsettling current of emotion. Thorne was closing the distance.
Merely that proximity made Alistair feel as though he was losing control over the carefully constructed composure he worked so hard to maintain. This wasn’t the same unsettling jealousy he felt when Thorne grew close to Jasper Blackwood. Instinctively, Alistair knew. He harboured something within him, just as sinister as Thorne did. Perhaps more so.
That was why watching Thorne with Jasper eventually became bearable, a tolerable ache. But his interactions with Julian unsettled Alistair more and more. His hands began to tremble. Alistair clasped them tightly behind his back, forcing them still.
Thorne kicked Julian’s desk hard. The heavy oak shuddered violently, almost toppling, and Julian jolted upright in alarm. His voice, when it came, was a barely audible whisper.
“M-my apologies.”
Thorne stood over him, silently looking down at Julian’s face. Julian’s eyes glistened, unshed tears hovering on the brink. Yet, in that moment, Alistair felt as though it was *he* who might burst into tears.
Thorne didn’t make Julian run pointless errands. He didn’t need to. He merely kept his eyes on him. If Julian excused himself for the water closet during the morning break, Thorne would still be watching his retreating figure, even as he conversed with Alistair and others. Alistair knew because he never stopped watching Thorne.
Truth be told, Alistair’s first impression of Julian Vance had been unremarkable. His complexion wasn’t flawless, perhaps, but his youthful features lent him a face that was, if nothing else, easy upon the eye. When Julian smiled, it seemed genuinely unburdened, and even his neutral expression carried a certain gentle brightness.
Before Thorne had begun his relentless torment, no one particularly disliked Julian. He seemed a lad who had, by all appearances, grown up in a warm, loving environment. While not overtly gregarious, preferring his solitary pursuits, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanour.
Most considered Julian a decent, inoffensive sort. Since he never flaunted the affection he’d received, he earned even more quiet praise. Humble, quiet, possessed of an inexplicable, pleasant aura—that was Julian Vance.
But Alistair had not particularly liked him from the start. He hadn’t hated him either; indifference was a truer description. To say he wasn’t even on Alistair’s radar would be more accurate. Yet, whenever he spoke with Thorne, or Jasper, or any of their circle, and Julian’s name arose, Alistair would find himself casually offering a polite falsehood: “Oh, Vance? He’s quite alright. Amiable enough.”
Thorne, much like Alistair, hadn’t paid Julian much mind at first. Thorne was never one to care for the ebb and flow of minor academy affairs. After Julian’s transfer in May, he and Thorne hadn’t exchanged a single word until early June. That was the natural order of things.
Then, one day, something shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane current of events. It happened immediately after luncheon. In retrospect, Alistair doubted he had ever regretted an action as profoundly as he did what transpired that afternoon.
Julian, as was his habit, had taken a secluded corner table in the library annex during the break, immersed in a book. He was the sort who found profound solace in scholarship. Alistair, on the other hand, had a habit of cultivating an air of erudition, feigning an interest in all things intellectual.
That was why, when he chanced upon Julian, Alistair struck up a conversation about the volume Julian was reading. Alistair was no true bibliophile—pretending to be cultured was more his métier.
“You must possess a formidable affection for literature, I presume?”
Julian started, looking up. “Ah? Oh, yes, I suppose.”
At the time, Julian and Alistair were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made the approach easier, less fraught with expectation.
“Have you quite finished that particular edition?”
“Nearly at its conclusion, I believe.”
“Then I should advise you to cease now. The denouement, I fear, will prove deeply disappointing. It is one of those tomes where the ending, regrettably, diminishes the entire work.”
“You have read it, then?”
“Indeed, some time ago.”
To satisfy his scholarly conceit, Alistair meticulously sought out reviews and critiques of any notable books. He ensured he had an informed opinion, however borrowed, for future discourse. Drawing on those memories, he offered a critique—not a genuine one, merely enough to sound authoritative. Julian smiled brightly, a look of genuine pleasure illuminating his face. It caught Alistair off guard.
“You are the very first person I have encountered who has read this particular volume, besides myself.”
“Oh… truly?”
“Yes, but I shall still finish it. Contemplating the author’s regrettable choices in the final chapters is, I find, part of the… intellectual sport.”
“Well, naturally. Every reader’s sensibilities differ.”
“Hearing you say that, I find I anticipate it even more.”
That guileless smile still lingers, an uncomfortable memory. Was it some instinctive unease Alistair had felt even then? A premonition?
After that day, Julian Vance began to seek Alistair out with increasing frequency. Though Alistair found it somewhat vexing, often wondering, *Why me?*, he did not outright reject him. Julian, with his unblemished character and amiable reputation, was not the worst person to keep within one’s orbit.
After all, serious literature—beyond textbooks and academic treatises—was practically anathema to most young gentlemen of their age. Even if one had the leisure, books were often little more than decorative props. For Julian, Alistair was likely the sole individual around who would engage in such conversations.
That day had been one of those routine encounters. Yet, it proved to be one of the most ill-fated days of Alistair’s young life. All because of Jasper Blackwood.
Alistair still could not fathom his own actions. Why he, a soul who meticulously avoided meddling in the affairs of others, chose to insert himself where he did not belong. Why Jasper, of all people, had left his preliminary Logic examination script wide open, exposed for any passer-by to see.
Alistair, who loathed having his own academic records revealed, naturally assumed Jasper would desire the same discretion. So, he reached out, flipping the paper over to conceal it. That was when he saw it: the score. Sixty-eight points.
He blinked, disbelieving, and checked again. Sixty-eight. Considering the stringent grade thresholds at Aethelgard, this would barely scrape into the 'Pass' tier. But still, it was undeniably on the higher end of that tier, far exceeding what Alistair had privately assumed for Jasper. It was the first time one of Alistair’s preconceptions was so thoroughly shattered. It was a small, unsettling shock to realise Jasper was not quite the academic lost cause Alistair had pigeonholed him to be.
Naturally, that made Alistair’s thoughts drift to Thorne’s grades. Now, *he* was the true academic derelict. A gentleman who would mark every answer with a 'B' and sleep through the rest of an examination, Thorne had never once managed a respectable score.
Perhaps that was why Alistair felt such a discordant mix of emotions—like he had discovered a tarnished gem amidst mere pebbles. A young man he had once dismissed turned out to be more salvageable, more intelligent than the one he nominally ‘served.’ That strange realization must have unsettled him, for Alistair did something he normally never would have contemplated.
It was nothing grand. He simply plucked a nearby quill and penned a brief inscription at the top of Jasper’s paper.
“Focus upon the categorical syllogisms. Your command of the abstract will secure a Merit soon enough. Well done. —A.F.
P.S. My apologies for observing your score without permission. I merely flipped the paper to shield it from view and happened, inadvertently, to see it.”
The sheer presumption of appraising someone’s scholastic endeavour and offering unsolicited counsel made Alistair feel a peculiar flush of embarrassment. He rambled, seeking to justify himself.
He could not articulate why he had even written it. At the time, he must have been quite beside himself. Looking back, it was unequivocally the first mistake in what would become a series of deeply uncomfortable entanglements. Every mess, every tragedy, starts with an ill-omened beginning.