Alistair’s recovery from the infirmary was swift, a testament to his resilient constitution and the Arch-Healer’s potent unguents. Yet, the physical wounds healed faster than the insidious rot within his spirit. Seeing Elian Vesper’s far graver state, the livid bruises and the lingering pallor, had cemented an internal conviction: this was his fault. A bitter, festering guilt he carried like a lead weight beneath his elegant robes.
After the incident, Caius Thorne’s gaze, once a familiar comfort, had sharpened into something akin to open animosity. His pleasantries vanished, replaced by a cutting chill that carved a new chasm between them. Where Alistair had once occupied the seat closest to Caius in lecture halls or shared meals in the refectory, Elian Vesper now sat, a fragile, almost spectral presence. Elian’s hand, Alistair observed one morning, rested innocently on Caius’s sleeve, and Caius, surprisingly, did not immediately shake it off.
He possessed a formidable memory, capable of recalling every arcane diagram, every ancient treaty. But his heart held no such clarity. Alistair might feign indifference, construct a flawless facade of serene composure, yet he could not quite pretend that the distance from Caius, the intrusion of Elian, did not wound him. Pride demanded he not appear a pathetic, discarded relic. The courage to approach Caius, to act as if their bond remained intact, simply eluded him.
Months drifted into a melancholic haze. His days became a cycle of solitary study, his nights restless with unbidden thoughts. Sometimes, a flicker of petty revenge ignited within him—a desire to somehow expose Caius’s erratic behavior, or Elian’s manipulative charm. But always, the cold logic of the Athenaeum prevailed: endurance was survival. Maintaining his perfect academic record, his flawless conduct, was his only shield.
Caius, once so poised, now acted with a raw, almost childish resentment. He clung to Elian with an intensity that bordered on possessiveness, a blatant display for all to see. The reason was clear, a silent accusation in every pointed glance Caius cast Alistair’s way: Elian Vesper.
He harbored a profound resentment for Elian. The acolyte had never truly been Alistair’s to claim, but it was not enough that Elian had stolen Caius’s proximity; he had also poisoned Caius’s regard for Alistair. An insidious thought festered: Elian was a vicious catalyst, a serpent in the carefully cultivated garden of Alistair’s life.
Whether intentional or not, it mattered little to Alistair’s churning emotions. Logic often buckled under the weight of such intricate feelings. Blaming Elian, however irrational, provided a necessary scapegoat, a means to navigate this miserable, shifting landscape.
Yet, Alistair always acted with calculated precision. He knew, intellectually, that Elian was likely swept along by Caius’s volatile will. He never allowed a flicker of hostility to mar his perfectly composed demeanor in Elian’s presence. Such an overt display of jealousy, of vulnerability, would be beneath him, a crack in his carefully built persona.
If he gave in to temper, he would appear a fool. Caius would undoubtedly despise him further, and the other acolytes would whisper, branding Alistair with the worst possible stigma within the Athenaeum’s rigid walls: a creature of unseemly, obsessive attachment, a noble who forgot his place. He would be an outcast, his reputation shredded.
“This… this is intolerable.”
The words were a whisper against the cool stone of his private chambers. A visceral hatred coiled in his gut, a more potent venom than Caius’s overt disdain. He detested this constant, gnawing unease, this insidious fear.
Lysander Aethel, surprisingly, came to mind. Lysander, the roguish acolyte he’d found himself increasingly entangled with. What would Lysander say, if he knew the depths of Alistair’s turmoil? Probably something cutting, something like:
‘Turns out Vance is just a pathetic, clinging noble, huh? Can’t handle losing his little puppet.’
Alistair clenched his fists, knuckles white. The image of Lysander’s sardonic smirk, that dismissive glint in his eyes, was horrifying. He absolutely could not, would not, allow anyone to see him thus exposed.
Friendships within the Athenaeum often proved as brittle as ancient parchment. Once it became clear that Alistair and Caius were no longer aligned, Alistair’s tentative connections to Caius’s circle naturally withered. Amusingly, Acolyte Valerius, usually a quiet shadow in Caius’s wake, approached Alistair yesterday with an odd, strained politeness.
“Alistair, Lysander sought you earlier.”
“Oh? For what purpose?”
“He did not specify. Just inquired after you.”
Valerius’s gaze was fleeting, darting away before Alistair could dissect it. It was always something like this—meaningless exchanges, devoid of genuine purpose. From the looks of it, the Athenaeum now perceived Alistair as leaning more towards Lysander’s unconventional orbit than Caius’s increasingly erratic one.
Of course, the ties to Caius’s former circle were not entirely severed. Occasionally, during physical drills in the training yards or by chance in the morning processions, a polite nod or a stiff greeting was exchanged. Mostly, this was limited to Valerius.
“Morning, Alistair.”
“...Morning, Valerius.”
He recalled one particularly awkward exchange when Valerius had leaned in, muttering, his voice low with feigned concern:
‘Caius has been... odd lately. The way he watches Vesper… it’s rather unsettling, don’t you think?’
Alistair must have allowed a flicker of distaste to cross his features, for Valerius seemed to interpret it as agreement. Valerius went on, describing Caius’s habit of drawing Elian close, of gripping his arm a little too tightly, refusing to let go, often in public.
Alistair’s hands tightened involuntarily, his teeth gritting behind his serene smile. His voice, when it came, was a carefully modulated steel.
‘I find Caius Thorne’s private affairs entirely inconsequential.’
Valerius recoiled slightly, immediately falling silent. Lately, Valerius had been subtly attempting to insinuate himself into Lysander’s loose collection of acquaintances. Perhaps the reason he shared such observations was a clumsy attempt to bridge the gap.
Today, as was becoming increasingly common, it was just Lysander and Alistair left in the great library’s central study. Lysander lounged against a towering shelf of ancient grimoires, watching Alistair with an unreadable expression. Whether he was ignoring Alistair’s presence or simply assessing him, Alistair could not discern. Annoyed, Alistair turned his gaze back to his illuminated manuscript, deciding to return the unspoken slight.
“Vance.”
“Yes, Lysander?”
“Let’s acquire some spiced wine after supper. That vintage we had last week was surprisingly palatable.”
Lysander disregarded Alistair’s attempt at aloofness. As he spoke, he idly tossed a small, polished scrying orb across the vast space. The orb bounced erratically off columns, threatening to strike priceless artifacts. No other acolyte present dared to voice a protest.
Lysander cared little for the decorum of the Athenaeum. He was indifferent, selfish even. Alistair watched the orb’s unpredictable trajectory with a faint frown, finally breaking his silence. His irritation at Lysander’s brazen disregard made his tone sharper than usual.
“You refer to the one you consumed entirely yourself? You procured it solely for your own enjoyment, if memory serves.”
“Not entirely. I merely prefer the crimson vintage.”
“So, my preferences were not considered in the slightest?”
“How was I to know your desires? You did not vocalize them.”
By then, the scrying orb had rolled to a stop near a junior acolyte’s foot. Lysander extended a hand, motioning for it. The junior acolyte hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the orb and placed it in Lysander’s outstretched palm. Lysander casually spun the orb between his fingers and addressed the retreating acolyte.
“A thousand thanks, novice.”
What an utterly exasperating personality. ‘Novice this, dilettante that.’ Every word from Lysander’s lips held a sharp edge, an insufferable irreverence.
Honestly, it made no logical sense that someone as deliberately obnoxious as Lysander chose to spend his time with Alistair instead of pursuing alliances with more influential acolytes like Caius. He ate with Alistair, sat with Alistair, attended certain lectures with Alistair. True, Caius was distant, but Lysander could easily seek him out, exchange cryptic messages, or meet him in the training grounds.
The thought surfaced, unbidden, and Alistair voiced it without much reflection.
“Why do you no longer seek the company of Caius Thorne?”
Lysander, mid-toss of the scrying orb against a reinforced wall, froze. He turned to Alistair, a genuinely puzzled expression on his face.
“You quarreled with him,” he stated simply.
“I?”
“Indeed. You and Caius Thorne.”
“I am aware. I am the one who experienced the... disaccord. What relevance does this hold for you?”
“You truly utter the strangest pronouncements. It is because you are my companion.”
Lysander scanned Alistair from head to foot with an oddly blatant gaze. Feeling a prickle of unease, Alistair avoided his eyes and retorted.
“You also maintained amity with Caius Thorne, as I recall.”
“Remarkable. Are you suggesting you are not my companion?”
Lysander’s tone was now incredulous, his finger pointing directly at Alistair.
“No, I am your companion. But you were also companions with Caius Thorne. Why, then, do you align yourself with my... predicament?”
“Well, I have known you longer.”
“What nonsense is this? Our acquaintance commenced because of Caius Thorne, did it not?”
“Alistair. What are you even saying? We were quite close during our first year!”
“When?”
“Unbelievable, you truly are a scoundrel. Back in the refectory, we often exchanged glances!”
“Oh… those fleeting moments.”
“So, was I the sole individual who perceived us as companions? You utter charlatan. That is precisely why, upon finding ourselves in the same lecture cohort, I sought you out first! And you dare not acknowledge this? Inconceivable. I am profoundly disappointed.”
“Oh.”
“Truly, unimaginable. Just… astounding. How could you inflict such a slight upon me?”
“Very well, I apologize. I offer my sincerest apologies, Lysander, if it pleases you.”
Alistair hastily mumbled his apology, a memory stirring: those awkward, yet strangely frequent, shared meals in their first year, Alistair meticulously outlining complex theorems, Lysander interjecting with irreverent comments. So that had been within Lysander’s ‘companion category.’ He felt… bewildered. How could anyone interpret those wary, intellectual exchanges as friendly? They were filled with guarded caution, plain and simple. Wait, did that mean the first to suggest sharing a table wasn’t Caius, but… Lysander?
The realization struck Alistair with the force of a forgotten spell, leaving him momentarily stunned. It was unsettling, even shocking. Still, he desired no further entanglement in Lysander’s peculiar logic, so he merely feigned understanding and nodded.
“Alright, alright. I comprehend. My apologies.”
“I was genuinely quite vexed just now.”
Lysander glared at him for a brief moment. Sometimes, Alistair truly struggled to decipher the workings of his mind.
“And besides, Caius Thorne is behaving quite strangely.”
Alistair remained silent.
“That acolyte is completely unhinged at present. He has always been somewhat erratic, but this? This is… truly something else.”
Lysander grasped the scrying orb with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The sight brought to mind Acolyte Valerius and the other classmates who had awkwardly attempted to confide in Alistair about Caius.
From that alone, Alistair discerned one thing: Caius Thorne’s reputation, once unassailable, was in freefall.
“Unseemly.”
The word—a potent, damning stigma in the cloistered world of the Athenaeum—sent a chill through Alistair. His body trembled slightly at the thought of it being applied to him. At the same time, a perverse relief washed over him that no one knew of his own peculiar attachments. Did that relief signify he valued his own preservation more than Caius’s fate?
Uneasy, Alistair met Lysander’s gaze, feeling like a blasphemous priest concealing a forbidden text from a vigilant Archon. “Truly,” he muttered.
Then he allowed a laugh to escape him—a strange concoction of fear and self-derision.
It was almost darkly humorous that, to others, he was Lysander’s closest companion. In truth, Alistair was no different—a man branded with an unholy stigma, merely one not yet publicly exposed. Only a few months prior, he had been Caius Thorne’s closest confidant. And yet, here he was, hiding in a precarious, filthy trap he had barely managed to avoid.
He had only succeeded in escaping detection. That was all.
---
It was the profound stillness of pre-dawn. A message, etched on a small, enchanted slate, arrived unexpectedly. Its faint glow pierced the gloom of Alistair’s chambers at an hour when only scholars of forbidden lore or the truly desperate stirred. Half-asleep, he thought for a moment that the recent turmoil was merely a prolonged, unpleasant dream. Though he had carefully avoided seeking out Caius, had erected walls to protect himself from further hurt, his heart still leapt with a sickening hope that the summons might, impossibly, be from him.
He rubbed his eyes, the cool air biting, and squinted at the sender’s sigil. His feelings were conflicted. A part of him wished it was merely a misdelivered missive or an automated decree from the Athenaeum’s administrators. But as soon as he deciphered the cursive script, he knew it was not from Caius.
“Alistair, I beg your pardon for this unseasonable hour. Could you perhaps meet me outside your chambers for a brief moment? I am truly sorry. Profoundly so.”
“Just this once. I implore you.”
Caius Thorne would never apologize to Alistair. Never. Among his peers, there were only a handful who might address him so informally, and of those, only one was so utterly bereft of pride. How had Elian Vesper even known how to reach his private chambers with such urgency? The moment he recognized the sender, Alistair’s face twisted into a faint scowl. He did not wish to see Elian—never wanted to see him. Elian’s presence was always, irrevocably, unsettling.
But despite his internal protestations, Alistair swung his legs out of bed. He pulled on a simple, dark tunic over his sleep-clothes, buttoning it precisely, and stood. He walked to his chamber door, but stopped short of stepping through, resting his forehead against the cool, carved wood frame with a deep sigh.
“Damn it all,” he breathed.
It was all so overwhelming, a dense, indigestible knot in his stomach. That was the only adequate description. He clutched his chest. He had always prided himself on his extensive vocabulary, drawn from countless ancient tomes, yet none of the words he knew could fully express this intricate, tangled mess of emotions.
It was simply… complicated.
The resentment he felt for Elian, the phantom memory of Elian’s bruised face from that day in the infirmary, the desperate, calculated days Alistair had spent trying to put distance between himself and Caius—all swirled together into a bitter confluence. Biting his lip, Alistair fiddled with the ornate door handle, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist.
Outside, the Athenaeum’s inner courtyard was steeped in the frigid morning dew, heralding the arrival of an early autumn. To avoid the damp cobbles, Alistair stepped carefully onto the cool, polished marble slabs that paved the walkway. The chill of dawn made him pull his tunic tighter around him. His bare feet, in soft slippers, carried him through the cloister towards a secluded alcove near the ancient well.
He paused there for a moment, clicking his tongue lightly against his teeth, and waited. The air tasted of damp stone and distant incense. Moments later, a figure emerged from the deeper shadows. Beyond the archway, illuminated by the faint glow of a magically sustained lantern, stood Elian Vesper. His head was hung low as he idly scuffed the toe of his acolyte’s slipper against the patterned marble.
“...Elian Vesper.”
At Alistair’s voice, Elian’s head snapped up like a startled bird. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, held a desperate plea.
“Alistair! Alistair…”