The Arch-Magister's request, followed by Kaelen’s direct approach two weeks prior, had twisted something in Alistair. A morbid curiosity had taken root, insidious as a venomous creeper. He knew the sensation, a perilous drawing of the spirit towards a truth better left undisturbed, like peering into a forbidden grimoire. It was a fool’s errand, he told himself, this silent vigil over Kaelen and Emrys. Yet, the compulsion was relentless.
He found them often in the Grand Archives, under the soaring arched ceilings, amid the hushed rustle of ancient vellum and the scent of arcane dust. Emrys Thorne, slight and tense, would be bent over a text, his brow furrowed in earnest study. Kaelen, always near, would lean against a nearby pillar, or casually occupy a chair at Emrys's table, not reading, only watching.
Alistair observed from a discreet distance, hidden behind a towering stack of forbidden scrolls. Kaelen’s posture was one of languid ownership, Emrys’s of rigid apprehension. It was a tableau of possession, stark against the Athenaeum’s stately grandeur. The irony of such base cruelty playing out amidst the pursuit of enlightenment curdled Alistair’s stomach. He saw Emrys's furtive glances, the tremor in his hands, the way he flinched when Kaelen shifted.
Everything about it felt raw, demeaning. Alistair clenched his jaw, the taste of ash in his mouth. What grotesque satisfaction did he seek in this silent surveillance? He turned away, the faint rustle of his robes a whisper of departure.
Later, confined to his chambers, the oppressive quiet offered no reprieve. He sat at his polished oak desk, the crystalline orb of his scrying compass glinting unwatched. He had averted his gaze, closed his eyes to the creeping truth. A small victory, he supposed. Better not to fully comprehend the depth of Kaelen’s obsession, nor the terror in Emrys’s eyes. Some mysteries were best left unsolved, particularly those that promised not just despair, but the chilling semblance of hope that exceeded it.
Kaelen’s preoccupation with Emrys intensified daily. Emrys, once merely fearful, now wore a perpetual pallor, a haunted look in his eyes whenever Kaelen’s shadow fell across him. There was a grim satisfaction in Alistair’s chest, cold and bitter. At least Kaelen's cruelty was focused elsewhere. A selfish thought, a shameful one, but it surfaced nonetheless.
Alistair laced his fingers behind his head, staring at the intricate runic patterns etched into his chamber ceiling. He had been born to comfort, schooled in privilege, every arcane text and theory at his command. His world had always been one of ordered logic, of predictable outcomes, until Kaelen had become an undeniable force in his orbit. Kaelen, arrogant and unyielding, had taught him that desires, once awakened, could be a merciless, chaotic current. Now, Kaelen seemed to be learning the same bitter lesson.
Alistair had mastered the art of control, his emotions a tightly bound manuscript tucked deep within his psyche. Kaelen, however, was a tempest, unable to conceal the raw, abnormal surge of his fixation. He was not winning Emrys’s affection; he was earning his profound loathing. And Alistair, in his deepest, most shadowed heart, found that perfectly acceptable.
"Stay blind, Kaelen," he murmured, his voice a breath against the silence.
Or better still, let Emrys simply vanish. He didn't wish for Kaelen's attention to shift to him. That kind of devotion, consuming and possessive, terrified him to his core. He only craved a day when his own bewildering preoccupation with Kaelen would dissolve into forgotten dust, and Kaelen might find a genuine affection elsewhere. A naive, impossible dream, he knew. The world rarely granted such gentle mercies.
A new shift settled over the Athenaeum. Kaelen, who once moved between social circles with an almost performative disdain for decorum, seemed to anchor himself to Emrys. During morning lectures, he began occupying the desk directly beside Emrys, a conspicuous placement that drew whispers. Emrys, accustomed to the relative anonymity of the back rows, now sat exposed, his usual study partner displaced and offering an embarrassed, uncertain nod to Alistair and Renfrew as he moved to a new seat.
"Greetings," Alistair offered, a practiced dip of his head.
Renfrew merely grunted, his gaze sharp, dissecting the scene.
Alistair watched Kaelen, silent and unmoving beside Emrys, a silent sentinel. He wished, with a fervent desperation, that this unsettling tableau could remain, frozen in time, for the remaining years of their apprenticeship. Perhaps then, it would fade into a vague, unsettling memory, harmless as a forgotten nightmare.
The casual hedonism that had once defined Kaelen's leisure hours also seemed to dim. The hushed gossip that floated through the Athenaeum's common rooms spoke less of Kaelen's scandalous dalliances and more of his singular focus. He no longer arrived to morning lectures carrying the faint, cloying scent of late-night revelry. For Alistair, it was a small reprieve, a lessening of the subtle, visceral disgust that had always prickled him.
"So, Kaelen, forsaking the fleshpots entirely, are we?" Lord Cedric, a boisterous and crude noble from a lesser house, smirked, making a vulgar gesture with his hand. Kaelen’s face tightened. He shot a swift glance at Emrys, then glared at Cedric.
"Control your tongue, Cedric," Kaelen’s voice was low, laced with venom.
"Why the sudden modesty, eh? Remember that courtesan from the Silk District, Lord Kaelen? You boasted quite—"
"Utter another word, Cedric, and you will regret your birth," Kaelen snarled, his fist clenching.
"Easy, Kaelen," Cedric muttered, his bravado deflating. The other students in their periphery exchanged disappointed looks. Kaelen, with his reckless charm and hints of forbidden pleasures, had once provided a titillating outlet for the stifled curiosity of young apprentices bound by strict codes.
The more boisterous youths, including Cedric's usual companions, had already stumbled through clumsy initiations into forbidden experiences. Compared to the cloistered scholars, they were easily stirred. With Kaelen no longer sharing his exploits, their attention drifted to Renfrew. Renfrew, however, bared his teeth in a pure expression of disgust.
"You base, witless curs."
"Ah, Renfrew's sanctimony again! Truly, what a waste of such a formidable constitution."
"He’s a peculiar one. Honestly, baffling."
Laughter, loud and fleeting, echoed through the chamber. Most in the circle had indulged, but for some reason, Renfrew hadn't. They teased him as a joke, calling him 'The Unstained,' but no one truly disrespected him. He was Renfrew, after all, direct and unapologetically himself. He held a certain carefree air, his actions seeming casual, his blunt words easier to bear. Many found his frankness disarming, saying it hardly matched his imposing stature.
"Cease your idiotic cackling, before I decide to rearrange your features."
Renfrew scowled, and the group burst into fresh laughter, despite the genuine threat in his tone. Others in the periphery, some who might have been his friends, or perhaps merely his hangers-on, joined in with their hollow mirth. Alistair, seated among them, stared blankly at his hands, lost in the familiar labyrinth of his own thoughts.
He could not recall a single instance where he had been stirred by a woman. That, he supposed, made him as he was, an intrinsic element of his being since birth. While he had experienced a vague, clinical arousal when perusing certain forbidden scrolls detailing human couplings both male and female, he had never once fantasized about a woman's form during his solitary moments. The former was more a curiosity about the intensity of the act itself; the latter simply a stark absence of desire.
He had been dragged to a clandestine tavern once by Kaelen, but he hadn't even made it past the entrance. He lacked the proper identity seals. Instead, he waited outside until Kaelen emerged hours later. Brothels? The thought made his skin crawl. He could not fathom the allure.
Because of this, the more jocular students sometimes called him 'Alistair the Austere,' but his austerity was less a choice, more an inherent truth.
Alistair released a small, almost imperceptible sigh.
The others were too caught up in Renfrew's indignant retorts to notice. Seizing the moment, Alistair glanced at Kaelen, who sat silently, his gaze fixed on the back of Emrys's head as Emrys diligently studied across the room.
And, as always, Alistair regretted it. Why had he looked? Why this ceaseless curiosity? To banish the image, he posed a question to Renfrew, utterly devoid of purpose.
"So, Renfrew, are you truly determined to remain 'unstained' until you find a suitable consort?"
Renfrew, who was sprawled in his chair with an air of careless authority, shifted his gaze directly to Alistair’s lap. His stare was so lingering that Alistair instinctively crossed his legs, a flush rising to his cheeks. What insolence.
"You are hardly my intended, Alistair. Why the sudden interest? Are you offering to remedy my 'condition'?"
Alistair felt his jaw tighten. Of course. Renfrew, with his cutting wit, always found the most offensive jest. The others laughed, and Alistair nudged Renfrew’s shin with his foot, a sharp, silent reprimand.
Thus passed his days—a repetitive cycle of observation, internal turmoil, and the oppressive presence of Kaelen.
---
In the privacy of his chambers, alone with his thoughts, Alistair often found himself adrift in elaborate hypotheticals. Today, he wondered what path his heart might have taken had he fallen under Renfrew's spell instead of Kaelen’s. It felt a cleaner, less poisoned prospect. If he had loved Renfrew, he would not have endured the constant ache born from Kaelen's chaotic involvements.
Yet, he would still suffer the sting of unrequited affection.
Neither Kaelen nor Renfrew would ever truly return his feelings. But at least his heart would not twist with this particular agony, this silent torment inspired by Emrys Thorne.
That convoluted thought spiraled into familiar feelings of inadequacy and resentment. In the end, he simply yearned to graduate, to shed the constraints of the Athenaeum, and become a stranger to Kaelen, a ghost in his memory.
---
Alistair had unconsciously developed a habit. Whenever he sat down, his hand would drift beneath the table, his fingers finding the small, polished obsidian pendant concealed beneath his tunic. The habit began in his second year of apprenticeship, and the cause was always the same—the unsettling allure of certain male apprentices.
As his thumb idly traced the cool, smooth surface of the pendant, a question echoed in his mind. *Should I indulge these thoughts? Or repress them?* The faint rasp of his thumb against the stone filled the quiet room. Just as he pressed harder, a discreet knock sounded at his door.
"Alistair? Are you immersed in your studies?" His mentor's voice.
"Ah, no! I mean, yes! Indeed, I am!" Alistair nearly leaped from his seat. Today was demonstrably not the day for such internal transgression. Mortified, he buried his face in his hands, the pendant warm against his palm. Blast it all.
---
Lately, Kaelen’s possessiveness had become a sharpened blade.
Sometimes, when Emrys’s eyes flickered toward Alistair, seeking an unspoken reassurance, Kaelen would deliberately interject, launching into some trivial query or comment to Emrys. Emrys, caught in the middle, his gaze briefly meeting Alistair’s, would part his lips as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if wary of Kaelen’s watchful presence, he would lower his head, offering a faint, almost inaudible reply.
"Y-yes, Lord Kaelen..."
Just like that, the brief connection severed.
Emrys, emboldened perhaps by Alistair’s earlier, clandestine counsel, had subtly sought Alistair’s attention more often. He had even begun to address Alistair with a less formal tone, "Alistair," instead of the customary "Scholar Vance" or "Master Vance." Aside from his mentor and the Arch-Magister himself, almost no one used his given name. The change was notable, a fragile gesture of trust. Emrys seemed to believe he was being discreet, but Kaelen, always vigilant, could not conceal his profound discomfort.
"Emrys Thorne, cease distracting Scholar Vance from his studies."
"What?" Emrys stammered, his eyes wide.
"I said, cease distracting him. Do you not comprehend?"
"Oh... uh, y-yes, Lord Kaelen..."
When Emrys stammered and averted his gaze, Kaelen immaturely slammed his open palm against the desk leg beside him. Alistair pretended not to notice, focusing intently on a blank sheet of parchment. Annoyingly, clueless Emrys seemed to think Kaelen no longer cared about him using "Alistair." He grew bolder, casually adopting the familiar address as if it were now sanctioned.
"Uh, Alistair... I apologize for disturbing your focus."
Alistair stiffened, staring at Emrys in disbelief. Was he mad? Kaelen was sitting right there, a coiled viper.
Sure enough, Kaelen’s palm pounded the desk leg again, louder this time. A sharp crack echoed in the Hall of Theories. Damn it.
"Emrys Thorne!" Kaelen’s voice was a low growl, laced with dangerous irritation.
"...Huh?" Emrys flinched, shrinking in his seat. The atmosphere turned glacial, instantly sour.
"I instructed you." Kaelen’s anger was blatant, a dark storm gathering behind his eyes.
"I instructed you not to address him as 'Alistair,' did I not?"
"...W-well..."
"You will address him as Scholar Vance. That is his proper title—Scholar Vance."
Kaelen’s gaze sharpened, almost predatory, as he turned his eyes to Alistair. Alistair hated that look, a violation of his carefully constructed composure, and instinctively lowered his head, fixing his gaze on the arcane symbols etched into his desk. At that moment, Renfrew, seated beside him, casually draped a heavy arm over Alistair’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Alistair’s ear, loud enough for Kaelen to hear.
"Kaelen, if you persist in this folly, you will truly ruin yourself."
"What cryptic nonsense are you spouting now, Renfrew?" Kaelen’s eyes flashed, his focus momentarily diverted.
"I mean to say, you will regret this," Renfrew smirked, a dangerous glint in his own eyes. Alistair felt a flicker of irritation, though not at Renfrew. Just at the entire wretched situation.