A dull throb pulsed behind Caelen’s eyes. He lay sprawled across his cot, the rough weave of the blanket scratching his cheek. He must have stumbled back from the common halls, locking the heavy oak door with a shaking hand before collapsing. A faint click echoed in the silence of his chambers, a memory of caution even in delirium.
“Remarkable,” he whispered, the sound raw in his throat. He stirred, blinking against the dim light filtering through the narrow arched window. Awareness returned in a painful crawl. His jaw ached with a deep, bruised agony. He gingerly raised his hand, the one that felt least stiff. A searing pain shot through his shoulder, grating through the very marrow of his bones.
“Ah…” A soft gasp escaped him.
Fingers, trembling, sought out the tender spots beneath his academy tunic. Ridges of hardened muscle, swollen and hot, met his touch. For a long moment, he simply lay, a still form against the worn mattress. Then, with a grunt, he pressed his palms flat against the cot, pushing himself upright.
He sat on the edge, head bowed, staring blankly at the scarred desktop across the room. A whimpering sound clawed its way up his throat, tearing free in raspy, painful cries. His voice, strained and thin, felt like sandpaper against his vocal cords. A furious tremor ran through him.
Anger, cold and sharp, ignited. Caelen sprang up, sweeping an arm across his desk. Scrolls clattered to the floor, quills skittered, and a heavy brass inkwell tipped, spilling a dark, spreading stain across the polished wood. He cried. He raged. He threw anything within reach—a half-finished essay, a clay tablet etched with forgotten glyphs, a small, polished river stone he used as a paperweight. The air thickened with his anguish, an eternity of soundless fury.
He sank to the floor, chest heaving. Clamping his mouth shut, he squeezed his eyes tight. But even in the darkness, hot tears stubbornly welled, tracing burning paths down his cheeks as his sobs hitched, ragged and broken. “Damn them!”
He truly wished for oblivion. Not death, not truly, but an end to *this*. The bitter memory of last night’s humiliation burned him from the inside out.
Heavy oak had definitely been shut. Could anyone have heard? Had the sounds of Kael’s cruelty, of Darien’s scorn, carried beyond the closed doors of the practice chamber? *Damn them. Damn them. Vile Kael. Insidious Darien. Why did they seek him out? Why ruin everything?*
“...Damn it all,” he choked.
What Kael had trampled, what Darien had mocked, was not merely Caelen. It was his fragile pride, his desperate hope for acceptance within these hallowed, aristocratic walls. The public, deliberate humiliation had been worse than any of Kael’s snide remarks or dismissive glances. It was a crushing blow, rendering him helpless, a broken thing for their amusement.
Even in his most abject despair, a familiar, chilling thought crept in: *What if someone saw him like this?*
Silence settled around him, slowly registering. Caelen glanced at the precise, brass-bound clock on the wall. It was just before the morning chimes. A stark realization cut through his muddled mind: if Gemma, the Academy’s head chamberlain, found him like this, it would be catastrophic. A cold dread spread through his head, sharpening his senses.
His mind cleared with brutal efficiency. No one, absolutely no one, could see him in this pathetic, disgraced state. Scrambling to his feet, Caelen righted the overturned chair. He shoved the scattered scrolls and artifacts under his cot, wiping at the ink stain with a desperate hand, only smearing it further. He moved with a practiced grace that belied his throbbing pain, a lifetime of hiding his humble origins now serving a darker purpose. He sat, forcing his breathing to even, waiting for the inevitable knock on the door.
It came a few minutes later, precise as the chimes. A gentle tap, then Gemma’s calm, melodic voice. “Master Thorne? The hour approaches for morning lessons. Are you well?”
Caelen forced a normal tone. “Do not enter, Gemma. I believe I’ve caught a chill. My head aches terribly. I shall unfortunately have to miss today’s lectures.”
“Oh, dear. Should I summon a Healer from the infirmary?” Her voice, though muffled, held genuine concern.
He swallowed a bitter taste. “No need. I will rest. Perhaps later, if it persists.”
“Very well, Master Thorne. Shall I have some restorative broth brought to your chambers?”
“Please. Leave it outside the door. And thank you, Gemma.”
“At once, Master Thorne. Rest well.”
He would skip the lectures. He was in no condition to go, and the thought of facing the scrutinizing gazes of his peers, let alone Kael or Darien, turned his stomach.
Thankfully, a small pot of healing salve, thick with potent herbs and faintly glowing with residual arcane energy, lay among his discarded things. He retrieved it, uncorking the stopper. He slathered the cool, viscous balm over his throbbing jaw, neck, and shoulders, wishing desperately for the pain to vanish. Then, he crawled back onto his cot, the thin mattress offering little comfort.
The salve pot slipped from his fingers, clattering to the flagstone floor. His entire body shivered, an uncontrollable tremor that had nothing to do with a chill. What hurt more than the physical pain was the searing humiliation, a thousand tiny, cruel fingers pinching his stomach. It felt absurd, grotesque. To hide his tear-streaked face, Caelen blocked the meager light from the window with his arm and burrowed deep beneath the rough blankets. Only the suffocating darkness of the covers offered any semblance of shield from the crushing despair.
*He needed to sleep. He had to sleep.* Forcing his eyes shut, he repeated to himself that it would be fine. His parents were still far from the Academy. Kael would not speak of this; Kael would never admit to such petty savagery. It would be fine.
Thinking that, he buried himself deeper under the rough weaves.
—
It was not fine. Not at all.
Hidden beneath the blanket, Caelen muttered words that lingered bitterly on his tongue. To any unseen spirit, to the distant stars, to his parents, to anyone who might hear—he wanted to scream it, a torrent of desperate confession.
*Please. It was Kael. Kael struck him. Kael trampled him. That viper. Kael is mad. He’s deranged. He’s out of his mind. All because of Darien, he… After everything Caelen had tried, everything he’d felt for Kael, the bastard had crushed it. Right in front of Darien. Caelen was an idiot. He’d shown that pathetic side of himself to Darien, too. And the thought that someone might have seen it all…*
His frantic thoughts screeched to a halt. A wave of self-loathing surged, a bitter tide. He wanted to cease existing.
The most agonizing part was what he did after he finally stopped crying under the blanket. The first thing: scramble to erase every message, every fleeting magical impression, every hint of communication Kael or Darien had sent him. Then, with desperate haste, he sought out the faint warding traces near the entrance to the practice chamber, seeking to obscure any remnant of that night. That night had become an unspeakable secret, a shame he could not allow anyone to glimpse.
—
Caelen skipped three days of lessons. Despite the hideous throbbing, his body, nourished by the Academy’s potent infusions and his own stubborn vitality, was healing steadily. Perhaps he had instinctively shielded the more obvious targets, or perhaps his underlying constitution was stronger than he gave himself credit for. The visible injuries were minimal—dark bruises hidden beneath the high collar of his tunic, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he buried himself under the blankets, crying until his eyes were raw, ignoring every call from his anxious cohort, every message etched into his personal slate.
He thought he could hold out until the marks faded entirely, but fate was not so kind. His parents, Thorne Senior and Lady Thorne, who had been away on extended family matters, suddenly announced their impending arrival at the Academy for a rare visit. Caelen felt a cold spike of panic.
They arrived late on the third day, sweeping into his chambers, their faces alight with relief at seeing him, quickly shadowed by concern. Lady Thorne gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “...Caelen, son, what has happened to your face?”
“Oh, well…” he stammered.
Thorne Senior, usually so reserved, stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “Did you engage in a brawl? Gemma mentioned you were unwell, that you had a chill.”
As his father peppered him with questions, Caelen’s mind raced, desperate for a plausible lie.
“Oh, um, I wasn’t feeling well, so Lysander offered to retrieve a restricted text from the archives for me…”
“And?”
“And I… on my way to meet him, I… tripped. Hit my face on the stone paving.” The words tasted like ash.
“What manner of ‘tripping’ leaves a young man’s face looking like this?” Thorne Senior’s voice grew sharper, more demanding. “Who was this ‘Lysander’?”
Caelen frantically waved his hands, trying to calm them. “No, truly, it was nothing serious. I didn’t want to cause any trouble. We’ve already… sorted it out.” He omitted that *he* had sorted it out with Lysander, but not Kael.
“Come, tell us—why did you ‘trip’?”
“...Well…” After a strained moment, he offered a truly pathetic excuse. “I perhaps… mocked him for his poor performance in a warding practical.”
“What?” Lady Thorne exclaimed, bewildered.
Surprisingly, his ridiculous answer seemed to diffuse some of the tension. Thorne Senior let out a sigh of disbelief, then a short, abrupt laugh. “Are you all children, staging some academy farce?”
“No, Father…”
“Do not let such trivialities mar your progress again.”
“...Yes, Father.”
It also helped that his injuries, though painful, didn’t look as severe as they could have. Miraculously, the incident seemed to blow over, at least with his parents.
But a strange unease settled in. While they ate dinner together in the common room of his chambers, Lady Thorne suddenly brought up Kael.
“By the way, Caelen, are you still close with Master Kael these days?”
“What?” Caelen’s fork clattered against his plate.
“He doesn’t seem to visit your chambers much anymore, does he?” For someone who spent less than half the term at the Academy, what could she possibly be curious about? The mere mention of Kael’s name forced his image into Caelen’s mind, souring his mood instantly. He snapped back with an irritable tone. “It is the same as always.”
*The same, my ass.* Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. He felt so ashamed and humiliated he wanted to die right then and there.
“Didn’t another student visit recently? Gemma mentioned it. Are you close with that young man?”
Caelen’s body went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head towards the door, picturing Gemma tidying in the outer antechamber. A cold chill ran through him. Had she heard? Could she have heard anything that night? Was it possible *she* was the one who’d heard the sounds?
“Caelen? What troubles you?” Lady Thorne’s voice was sharp with concern.
Startled, Caelen blurted out a response without thinking. “Yes. We are… close.”
What did his mother say after that? He couldn’t remember. The sheer terror that rooted him to the spot wiped everything else from his mind. What he did remember was the look she gave him when she mentioned Kael. It was the kind of look she gave when she spoke of something disturbing, something hidden.
*Why?*
That thought pushed him further into a spiral of fear. His fingers grew cold. *No. She couldn’t have heard. Gemma was known for her poor hearing, and her own quarters were on the opposite side of the Wing. She couldn’t have heard anything. But why? Why did it feel like something was utterly wrong?* All he could do was pray to the ancient spirits he barely believed in.
—
Three more days passed, and his parents, their visit nearing its end, gently urged him to return to his studies. Caelen absolutely did not want to. But if he kept skipping, his mother would surely think there was a far greater problem than a minor scuffle. That was the last thing he wanted. So, he forced himself to put on a cheerful, unbothered face. There was nothing wrong with him. Nothing at all.
The days leading up to his return were filled with endless worry about what he’d do if he ran into Kael or Darien. Would Kael corner him again? Would he humiliate Caelen in front of the entire lecture hall—or worse, in front of Lysander? Would he continue to trample on Caelen’s fragile hopes like he was nothing but dust?
The thought alone made him feel nauseous.
When he finally arrived at the Grand Lecture Hall, the noise was already a low hum of voices. He hung his satchel on the side of his desk, tossing some random scrolls on top. Then he sat, staring blankly at the polished wood as the hallway bustle gradually grew louder. As soon as he heard footsteps approaching his row, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep.
If he pretended to be asleep, no one would notice his bruised face. At least not for a while. But he hadn’t accounted for one thing: the seat behind him belonged to Lysander. Lysander was the kind of scholar who possessed an innate understanding of subtle social cues, yet often chose to disregard them entirely when it suited him.
As soon as Lysander arrived, he paused by Caelen’s desk. A gentle pressure, then a hand slipped between Caelen’s shoulder and neck. Fingers, surprisingly firm, tilted Caelen’s face upwards. He didn’t even have time to resist. He had no choice but to let Lysander see.
Lysander’s brow arched, a silent question as he examined the fading marks. “Caelen? What in the Veil happened to your face?” he asked bluntly.
“...It’s nothing,” Caelen mumbled, avoiding his friend’s gaze.
“Did you ‘trip’ again?” Lysander’s voice held an edge of knowing amusement, but his eyes were sharp with genuine concern.
“Yes. Sort of.”
“Really?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head slowly before abruptly letting go of Caelen’s face. Caelen nearly slammed his head into the desk.
“Damn it, Lysander!” Caelen glared, startled, but Lysander merely offered a crooked grin, a thoughtful expression on his face. Whatever he was pondering, Caelen had no way of knowing.
Neither Kael nor Darien came to the Lecture Hall that day. Nor the next. Their absence was quickly noticed.
But while Caelen had been absent, a rumor had started spreading through the Academy.
“Hey, did you hear? Master Kael… that arrogant viper actually…”
No one directly asked Caelen about his injuries, but it was clear from the curious, lingering looks he received that the whispers had already made their way through the ancient halls.
It seemed he was luckier than he’d thought.
—
The rumors centered around Caelen and Kael. Neither of them had attended lessons since the day the whispers began, and even Darien disappeared shortly after, leaving no one to dispel the growing unease. With Caelen’s bruised face as visible, if subtly hidden, proof, the rumors spread even faster.
The story went like this: Caelen Thorne and Kael had a vicious falling out. And, Master Kael… was obsessed with the lower-born scholar.
“That viper, I’m telling you, he absolutely fixated on that… that dusty little tome-worm.”
“A tome-worm? Oh, gods. Wait. That’s brilliant. Damn, I cannot stop laughing.”
“He truly looks like one, doesn’t he? Always burrowed in some forgotten corner.”
The common rooms, the refectory, the training yards—they were filled with these kinds of conversations.
“All those sycophants who flocked around Master Kael were utterly betrayed…”
Caelen heard it all, a chill tightening his gut. A dusty little tome-worm. The insult stung, painting him as insignificant, an unworthy object of Kael’s attention. But the rumors, while humiliating in their own way, pointed elsewhere. Kael, not Caelen, was the one being questioned, the one whose reputation was under scrutiny. The focus was on Kael’s *obsession*, his *fixation* on someone beneath him, someone like Caelen.
It was a twisted kind of reprieve. The truth, in all its brutal, personal humiliation, remained hidden. And for now, that was enough. For now, it was a victory he hadn’t dared to hope for.
It was a dark, venomous luck. But it was luck nonetheless.