Alistair’s cheek, beneath the cool compress, felt less like a raw wound and more like a muted echo of pain. The swelling had receded by the scant measure of a morning’s reprieve. A faint, bruised shadow, a faint violet bloom, clung to the delicate skin beneath his left eye. It was an injury that could be concealed, dismissed with a casual shrug and a murmured excuse about a clumsy encounter with an arcane contraption. A small, fragile victory against exposure.
He smoothed his robes, the familiar heavy fabric a thin shield against the world. Each fold was perfect, each pleat precisely aligned. This was his armor, his meticulous facade of control. He stepped from his chambers, the silent stone corridors of the Arcane Athenaeum stretching before him, cold and immense. Even the air seemed heavier today, burdened by unspoken tensions.
Whispers, like currents in a forgotten river, brushed past him. Acolytes huddled in hushed clusters, their glances darting, their faces pinched with unease. The usual scholarly clamor, the murmur of ancient incantations and theoretical debates, was subdued. An oppressive quiet hung over the Grand Hall, a stillness that prickled Alistair’s skin.
He scanned the sparse gathering of acolytes for a familiar, slight frame. His heart gave a lurch, a sickening plummet, when he spotted him.
Elian. The junior acolyte stood near an arched window, a book clutched in hands that trembled faintly. His usually pale face was a canvas of purple and yellow, one eye nearly swollen shut, his lip split and scabbed. A stark, brutal contrast to Alistair’s own fading bruise. Guilt, sharp and acrid, clawed at Alistair’s throat. His own petty resentment, his fleeting, shameful thought that Caius might have shared his pain, withered into ash.
Elian’s head lifted, as if drawn by an invisible thread. His gaze, through the narrow slit of his good eye, met Alistair’s across the distance. A flicker of something akin to terror, a startled grimace, contorted Elian’s bruised features. He flinched, pulling his focus back to his book, his shoulders hunching defensively. He shuffled away, retreating into the deeper shadows of the library entrance.
Alistair’s fists clenched, nails digging crescent moons into his palms. The sight of Elian’s broken face was a mirror reflecting his own shame, his own helplessness. He felt a profound disgust, not for Elian, but for himself.
Then, a sudden, chilling pressure descended. A gaze, heavy and palpable, bore into Alistair’s back. He did not need to turn. Caius Valerius. The very air around him seemed to crackle with an unspoken threat. A cold shiver traced a path down Alistair’s spine.
Damn this institution. Damn this oppressive air. Alistair wished, with a desperate, childish longing, that he had never left the dubious sanctuary of his chambers.
---
Through the following hours, Elian’s avoidance was absolute. He remained a ghost in the periphery, his usual timidity compounded by a new, palpable fear that radiated from him like cold air. Alistair found himself isolated, the hushed conversations of his peers seeming to circle him, excluding him.
At the midday repast, a hand clapped Alistair’s shoulder. Lysander. His boisterous presence was a jolt, a jarring contrast to the subdued atmosphere. Lysander, with his perpetually rumpled robes and an irrepressible grin, always found him. They ate in a quiet alcove, the rich scent of spiced venison doing little to rouse Alistair’s appetite.
“Alistair, you look like you’ve been poring over the Forbidden Scrolls,” Lysander said, spearing a roasted potato. “Or perhaps you finally encountered that ghost in the West Wing archives?”
Alistair managed a weak smile. “Simply… the weight of scholarly pursuits.” His voice felt stiff, formal, even to his own ears. He picked at his food, pushing a morsel of bread around his plate.
Lysander’s laughter, bright and untroubled, filled the small space. “Right. And I’m about to decipher the Language of Creation by teatime. Come on, tell me what’s really got you looking like you swallowed a bad omen.”
His friend’s persistent levity, once a source of irritation, now felt like a fragile anchor in Alistair’s churning internal sea. He had always dismissed Lysander as shallow, too unburdened by the weight of arcane knowledge or social expectations. Yet, Lysander’s easy dismissal of gravity was precisely what Alistair now clung to, a lifeline in the deepening currents of his anxiety.
---
Days blurred into a hazy progression of whispered rumors and averted glances. Caius Valerius, it was widely known, had begun to distance himself from his usual coterie, often vanishing with Elian. Sometimes, a few other acolytes would join them, only to return later with uncomfortable expressions, their usual bravado dimmed. There were whispers of dark alcoves and secluded courtyards, of forced obedience and brutal games. Elian’s injuries, though carefully hidden, became an open secret, a visible testament to Caius’s escalating cruelty.
One afternoon, Alistair encountered Theron, a lean, nervous acolyte, scrambling over a low garden wall, his face flushed. He mumbled apologies about avoiding a particularly demanding lecturer, but his eyes darted nervously. Theron, once a shadow in Caius’s orbit, revealed the grim truth in hurried, hushed tones. Caius, he explained, had been ordering others to strike Elian, one humiliating blow at a time. Alistair’s gut twisted. He felt a cold dread spread through him.
Theron, sensing Alistair’s horror, quickly added that he’d been avoiding Caius’s group recently. He was on his way to an illicit game of ‘Arcane Blight’ in a deserted study chamber with another acolyte, and he asked Alistair not to misunderstand his absence. Then he vanished, leaving Alistair alone with the sickening revelation.
At midday, Alistair found Lysander, already munching on a sugared fritter procured from a vendor in the lower market. Lysander offered him one, its sticky sweetness coating Alistair’s tongue, a fleeting comfort. But beneath the sugar, a bitter knot tightened in his chest. He forced himself to maintain his serene composure, his practiced mask.
“Good, isn’t it?” Lysander hummed, offering another bite.
“Do you… want to try mine?” Alistair asked, holding out his own fritter, still warm and sticky from his touch. Lysander, without hesitation, smirked. He lifted a corner of his lip, revealing a flash of white teeth, and took a large, decisive bite.
“Hey! Did you just…?” Alistair spluttered, a flush rising to his cheeks. “That’s… that’s repulsive. And why such a huge bite?”
“You offered,” Lysander said, grinning, a shrug of one shoulder. He seemed utterly unbothered, his bright eyes twinkling. The autumn air, crisp and clear, carried the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth, a stark contrast to the turmoil in Alistair’s mind.
Where were Caius and Elian now? Alistair knew a few secluded spots. But he did not go looking. He was afraid. Afraid of what he might find, afraid of what he might see. He tried to push Caius from his thoughts, to banish his image. But the harder he tried, the more Caius seemed to loom, filling every corner of his mind, a constant, unwanted presence.
How long, Alistair wondered, would it take to excise someone like him from his heart? How much effort would it require to untangle the Gordian knot of his own misguided affections? He felt lost, adrift in a vast, arid desert, not just suffocated by sadness, but terrified by the sheer enormity of his feelings.
Sometimes, when the weight grew too heavy, when the darkness threatened to consume him, he would retreat. He would talk to Lysander, his words carefully chosen, abstract, like an academic discussing a complex theory rather than a boy confessing his agony. And Lysander, in his own way, always listened.
“Lysander,” Alistair said, his voice barely a whisper. “Do you believe… do you think flowers can ever bloom in a barren desert?”
The words, once spoken, felt clumsy, overtly emotional. A hot flush crept up his neck, and he scratched at his head, embarrassed by his own vulnerability. But Lysander, to his surprise, did not mock him.
“They will,” Lysander said, his voice quiet, uncharacteristically serious. “They must. Life’s already rotten enough as it is.”
Lysander, of all people, speaking with such unexpected earnestness. It highlighted the sheer, desperate futility of Alistair’s own hope. How much time, he wondered again, would it take to surrender these meaningless feelings?
“Yes,” Alistair conceded, the word a weary sigh. “Life is rotten.”
Caius Valerius. That arrogant, brutal boy. Why did he seem so intent on destroying the loyal, tail-wagging creature Alistair became in his presence? Caius, who now came and went from the Athenaeum as he pleased, ignoring the strictures of conduct, always with Elian shadowing his every move.
As Caius’s violent tendencies grew more brazen, a subtle resentment began to fester among the other acolytes. A chill settled over their interactions, a collective unease. The atmosphere in the lecture halls grew increasingly tense. None of it felt right.
So, when Alistair saw Caius dragging Elian by the wrist down a deserted corridor, he froze. His gaze flickered between Caius’s rigid back and Elian’s tear-streaked face. A desperate impulse seized him.
“Your father has concerns for your studies,” Alistair said, his voice carefully controlled, pitching it to carry. Not an apology, not flattery. A lie. It was the only armor his pride allowed him. Caius, distant from his own father, likely wouldn’t question it. And even if he did, Alistair could always argue that Caius’s recent conduct would soon give any parent plenty of cause for worry. Always an escape route. Always a carefully constructed defense.
“If you insist on bringing such disgrace, let it be only to yourself. What has Elian ever done to merit this?”
Caius stopped dead. His shoulders stiffened. “Move,” he growled, without turning. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.
The very mention of Elian’s name had been a spark. Caius finally pivoted, his eyes locking onto Alistair, a glacial stare that felt like daggers to Alistair’s chest. He felt his breath catch, the air suddenly thin. He hated Caius in that moment, truly hated him. And yet, pitiful, pathetic Elian stood glued to Caius’s side, his eyes wide and brimming with tears, looking at Alistair as if on the verge of collapsing.
“Unless you wish to repeat the prior unpleasantness, remove yourself.” Caius’s voice was venomous.
“C-Caius, please,” Elian stammered, his voice trembling, tugging weakly at Caius’s sleeve. Only then did the older acolyte hesitate. His gaze shifted from Alistair, fixing solely on Elian. Alistair saw only the back of his head as Caius turned away.
“As I said, your father—” Alistair tried again, desperately.
Elian, on the verge of tears, clung to Caius’s arm, his body language pleading. The pitiful sight was unbearable. Alistair squeezed his eyes shut, a wave of nausea washing over him.
After a long, agonizing moment, Caius looked at Elian, then, with a curt nod, turned and led Elian back into the lecture hall. For the rest of the day, he remained there, a quiet, brooding presence, as he had a few weeks prior.
---
The long-anticipated day of the scholarly excursion had dawned. A transport carriage, large and enclosed, had been arranged to convey them to the ancient Archives of Veridia, a rare privilege. While a few of the more studious acolytes grumbled about being pulled from their arcane studies, most hummed with an excited buzz, eager for even a single day’s escape from the Athenaeum’s rigid routines.
There was no need for elaborate preparations, as they were expected to return before nightfall. The Prefects gave only a few half-hearted warnings about decorum and respectful conduct before dismissing them. They were not fledglings anymore. There was no giddy excitement keeping Alistair awake the night before. He viewed it as merely another day—leave without a satchel, return without a satchel. He had no premonition that today would be the day his carefully bottled frustrations would finally rupture.
Whenever they were not confined to the lecture halls, Alistair had always, by unspoken right, occupied the seat nearest to Caius. He was Caius’s… closest companion, or so Alistair had always believed. He hadn’t even considered where Lysander might sit, as they had never shared such a journey before.
Initially, a flicker of apprehension had crossed Alistair’s mind, a fear that Lysander might, in his blithe way, claim the coveted seat beside Caius. In retrospect, the thought was pathetic. Neither Alistair nor Lysander would occupy that place.
Upon arriving at the designated courtyard, Alistair saw the transport carriage, its polished wood gleaming. He climbed aboard, his eyes scanning for their allocated seats. The back five berths were already claimed by a boisterous group of acolytes, among them Theron, who waved vaguely in his direction, then hesitated, a nervous finger pointing toward Caius’s seat.
“Alistair! There’s space here!” Theron called out, a forced cheerfulness in his voice.
Right. Of course. It was always his spot. Alistair’s heart gave a hopeful flutter. He hesitated for a moment, then approached Caius’s seat, a small pang of relief when he saw the space beside him was empty. He swallowed hard, a flicker of determination stiffening his spine.
It was his place. His pride, the last stubborn remnant of his self-worth, compelled him to claim it, even after Caius’s brutal assault, fueled by Elian. He reached out, his fingers brushing the cool, dark wood of the seat, then glanced around the carriage, a nervous tremor in his gut. Quietly, he asked,
“Caius… this seat…”
“It is not for you. Find another.” Caius cut him off, his voice flat, his gaze fixed on the entrance of the carriage. Alistair followed his line of sight. Elian, tentative and bruised, was slowly making his way toward them. Alistair’s fists clenched, and his words died in his throat.
“Fine. Whatever,” Alistair muttered, forcing an indifferent tone, though his heart felt as if it had been shredded into countless pieces.
He quickly backed away, his gaze sweeping the carriage for another empty spot. He found one, near Lysander’s group, directly in front of where Lysander was already settled. A desperate relief surged through him. He rushed over, collapsing into the seat, and spoke before Lysander could respond.
“Lysander. Sit with me.”
No answer. Alistair looked closer. Lysander was already asleep, his head resting against the carriage window, bouncing gently with every jolt of the suspension. He always seemed to doze off during morning lectures, and the excursion was no exception. Alistair shook his head, a small, weary smile touching his lips at Lysander’s ridiculous sleeping posture. He carefully slipped his slim pouch of notes between Lysander’s head and the window, then leaned back into the uncomfortable seat, the vibrations of the carriage a dull thrum against his back.
Across the aisle, through the narrow gap between heads, he caught a glimpse of dark, precisely coiffed hair. Caius’s. He was taller than most acolytes, always easy to spot. Though Alistair couldn’t see clearly, he knew. He knew Caius and Elian now sat together, leaving him alone, distant, in the growing chill of a journey he had once believed was his alone to share.
---