A week crawled by, each day heavier than the last. Caelen Thorne moved through the hallowed halls of the Academy, a phantom of his usual self. He meticulously avoided Lord Kaelen’s path, feigning indifference, as if the scion of House Solara held no sway over his thoughts, no power over the tremor that occasionally seized his hands.
His pride, a brittle shield against the harsh realities of his station, demanded this performance. But beneath the surface, a gnawing curiosity persisted, a dark tide pulling him towards any fragment of news.
Caelen found himself gravitating towards Jaric, his volatile friend, the only one who offered a cracked window into Lord Kaelen’s movements. Jaric, for all his bluster and cruelty, possessed an unfiltered bluntness that Caelen found both repellent and indispensable.
He cornered Jaric in the lesser archive, where dust motes danced in shafts of light. Jaric slouched over a stack of forgotten alchemical texts, a stylus tapping impatiently against a vellum page.
“Any news?” Caelen asked, his voice carefully neutral, focusing on a distant, intricate carving of a leviathan on the wall.
Jaric didn’t look up. “About what, Thorne? The latest gossip on Professor Eldrin’s questionable research into transfiguration?” His tone was laced with mock sincerity.
“Kaelen,” Caelen clarified, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Has he… been seen?”
Jaric finally lifted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “Ah, Lord Kaelen. The Academy’s eternal drama. He’s out again, of course.”
That answer left Caelen cold. A familiar wave of frustration washed over him. He understood Kaelen’s volatile nature, his instinct-driven impulses. A beast in the gilded cages of the Academy.
“A clandestine meeting, then,” Caelen mused, thinking of Kaelen’s preferred haunts outside the Academy’s sanctioned social circles. “Or another one of those… dueling rituals in the lower districts.”
Jaric laughed, a sharp, cynical sound. “No, this time, something far more pedestrian. He attended the Midwinter Revel with Lady Seraphina of House Thorne. She cornered him, apparently. And by all accounts, they vanished together almost immediately. Like two shadows merging.”
Caelen swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Lady Seraphina. Her family was distantly related to his own, a powerful branch that considered his line a stain on their lineage. The thought of Kaelen with *her* twisted something in his gut.
“They seemed quite… amenable,” Jaric continued, a sneer deepening. “Both of them, disgustingly chill about the entire affair. No hesitation. Just… gone.”
It wasn't admiration in Jaric’s voice, but pure derision. For the first time in days, Caelen felt a faint easing of the knot in his chest. He perched on the edge of the dusty table, a soft thump echoing in the quiet archive, and tapped Jaric’s shoulder lightly.
Jaric glanced up, then leaned back, making room for Caelen to sit properly. A rare, almost imperceptible gesture of camaraderie.
Jaric was the only one who dared to openly critique Lord Kaelen’s capricious whims, his casual disregard for others. For that, Caelen found him, if not tolerable, then at least useful.
“They’re repulsively cool,” Caelen murmured, the words tasting bitter.
“Right?” Jaric smirked. “I, on the other hand, am entirely uncool.” He said it with a strange, boastful pride that almost made Caelen smile.
“Isn’t that the point, though? We’re scholars. We’re meant to be uncool.”
Jaric shrugged, his eyes still fixed on the forgotten texts. “There’s no ‘meant to be’ about it. One simply acquires these… proclivities. Human nature, you know.”
“Is that why you’re still unattached?” Caelen teased, a rare spark of levity.
Jaric finally closed the book with a snap, turning to face Caelen. An incredulous smile spread across his face. He tapped Caelen’s hand, still resting on his shoulder.
“I’m filing a formal grievance for harassment, Thorne.”
“How is that harassment?”
“If the recipient feels discomfort, it is harassment,” Jaric deadpanned.
“Jaric, you’re insufferable.”
“You’re a purveyor of verbal violence.”
Caelen swung his foot idly, his slipper falling to the stone floor with a soft click. He ignored it, nudging Jaric’s leg with his sock-clad foot. Jaric feigned a dramatic push-back, then casually flipped Caelen a familiar, rude gesture. His raised hand revealed a tarnished silver serpent coiled around his left wrist, its head worn smooth from years of handling.
“That amulet doesn’t suit you,” Caelen observed.
Jaric’s playful expression vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense seriousness. “Why not?”
Caelen blinked. Why the sudden shift? “It simply doesn’t match your… persona.”
“Doesn’t match me? Peculiar. Do I not seem like a devotee of the Serpent Cult?”
“No,” Caelen replied honestly. “It looks like a mere trinket.”
Jaric stared at the amulet, his brow furrowed. “It’s not, though.”
He’d forgotten Jaric's family hailed from a remote, ancient line of serpent worshipers, their practices predating even the Academy’s founding. Jaric, despite his cynical exterior, claimed a deep devotion, though Caelen had never seen him perform a single ritual or utter a sincere prayer.
Caelen spent the week avoiding Lord Kaelen. Whenever their paths intersected in the grand halls, Caelen would offer the briefest, most formal nod, then quickly avert his gaze. He still lacked the courage to confront him directly. Perhaps he feared losing, succumbing to the power dynamic. The idea that whoever cared more, lost—a pathetic notion, yet it held him captive.
Elara, on the other hand, often sought Caelen out. She was the only one who seemed to truly understand his quiet nature. But each day, he noticed new shadows beneath her eyes, a deeper pallor to her skin, a constant tremor in her hands that she tried, and failed, to hide. These were not physical bruises, but the visible marks of fear, etched by Lord Kaelen’s unsettling attention.
He frowned whenever he saw her flinch, or hug her books protectively to her chest. Elara noticed his gaze, always quickly turning her head, as if to hide her visible distress.
Four more days passed in this stifling routine. One quiet morning, alone in the scriptorium, Caelen buried his face in his hands. He wanted no part in the dreadful drama unfolding around him.
The distance between himself and Lord Kaelen felt immense. What had once been a subtle chasm had become an unbridgeable gulf of despair. Opening his eyes felt like the rift would swallow him whole. Elara’s fear, her withdrawn posture, was as glaringly obvious as a brand upon her. It made him even more reluctant to face either of them. He wished to avoid everything.
Then, as if a minor deity had granted his silent plea, Elara stopped attending certain lectures and public gatherings. Arch-Praetor Solara, the head of their academic cohort, referred to it as an “unforeseen absence,” but the hesitance in her voice betrayed the truth: Elara was in hiding. Caelen almost exhaled a sigh of relief.
Lord Kaelen, in contrast, spent his classes fidgeting with a scrying orb, snapping irritably at his acolytes, or even delivering a swift, unexpected punch to one of them for a perceived slight. A chilling display of his unraveling control.
A part of Caelen felt a perverse smugness. Another part reveled in a strange sense of superiority. He convinced himself that soon, once Elara officially withdrew or disappeared for good, Lord Kaelen would lose interest and turn his gaze back to Caelen. Confident in that fragile hope, he waited patiently.
A few more days drifted by, like dust motes in the silence.
“Lord Kaelen seems rather… diminished,” Jaric remarked offhandedly during a lecture on forgotten sigils. Caelen’s heart gave a heavy thud against his ribs. He wanted to turn his head, to scrutinize Kaelen, but he couldn’t. When it came to matters of the heart, or anything resembling it, he was a coward. All he could do was listen to Jaric’s casual observations and construct Kaelen’s mood in his mind.
But nothing changed. The day wore on, and all classes concluded. Caelen convinced himself there would be another chance tomorrow. These things didn’t shift so quickly. He kept waiting. As he slung his satchel over his shoulder, preparing to leave, Jaric spoke, his voice unusually grave.
“You quarrelled with Lord Kaelen, didn’t you?”
Caelen turned, a reflexive jerk of his head. “Yes.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve still not reconciled since that… incident in the refectory?”
“…”
“Astounding,” Jaric said, shrugging with his hands shoved into his pockets. “This is lasting longer than I’d anticipated.” Caelen avoided his gaze, muttering an excuse.
“To be honest, Lord Kaelen went too far. I despise witnessing such… predation. It’s simply… unseemly, you understand?”
“What is?”
“Well, Elara is a scholar. Her studies are paramount. The way Lord Kaelen treats her, it’s… I don’t know, it’s a gross imbalance of power. It needs to cease.”
Jaric let out a low whistle. “Remarkable.”
“…”
“The Pantheon will surely bless your magnanimity, Thorne.” The response to Caelen’s carefully chosen words was a viper’s tongue of sarcasm.
Annoyed by Jaric’s malicious tone, Caelen glared at him. But Jaric merely smirked, unperturbed. Seeing that knowing expression, Caelen felt as if a hidden vulnerability had been exposed, and a hot flush crept up his neck. He quickly turned his back, ignoring Jaric’s mocking grin, and strode out of the classroom.
As he hurried down the echoing hallway, intent on reaching his chambers, a hand suddenly clamped onto his shoulder. Assuming it was Jaric, seeking another barb, Caelen spun around, irritation bubbling, and pulled his arm free. But it wasn’t Jaric—it was Arch-Praetor Solara, her face uncharacteristically grim. Startled, Caelen quickly composed his expression.
“Forgive me, Caelen. Did I startle you?”
“Oh, no, Arch-Praetor. Not at all. Merely… surprised.”
“I see. I am truly sorry, but… might I speak with you for a moment?”
“Certainly?”
“Just a second. Please.”
The Arch-Praetor’s stern face was etched with unusual concern. Caelen nodded, his stomach tightening.
“Today, Lord Kaelen asked me for Elara’s… private address,” Solara said, her voice cautiously low.
“Lord Kaelen?”
It was clear that, as a high-ranking academic, she couldn’t possibly be unaware of the subtle machinations of power and intimidation within her cohort. Yet, she wasn’t bold enough to confront the toxic atmosphere directly. Still, she wasn’t cold-hearted enough to completely ignore it either. The fact she came to Caelen about Elara proved that.
“I am not accusing or blaming Lord Kaelen, but…”
“No, Arch-Praetor, I understand. I don’t find it strange,” Caelen interjected quickly, though his heart hammered.
“Well, since you often displayed concern for Elara, I was wondering if you might accompany Lord Kaelen to her dwelling. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
Caelen couldn’t answer immediately. His teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. The volatile emotions Lord Kaelen held for Elara began to creep towards him, an insidious current, flooding his feet and holding him rooted to the flagstones. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. He couldn’t stand idly by.
“Could I… obtain Elara’s contact information, then?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Here, allow me to provide it. Try reaching her first.”
“Understood. I will speak with her. Do not fret unduly.”
“Very well. I am counting on you, Caelen.”
“Yes, Arch-Praetor.”
On the surface, Caelen appeared calm, but internally, a cold panic seized him. Arch-Praetor Solara handed him Elara’s private scrying frequency from the Academy’s enrollment records, looking awkward before quickly departing the hallway.
He had to stop Lord Kaelen from meeting Elara. He absolutely had to prevent Kaelen’s strange, unsettling obsession from escalating. The moment the Arch-Praetor was gone, Caelen pulled out his own scrying orb and immediately initiated a call to Elara’s frequency. His leg jittered nervously, and he kept clenching and unclenching his hand, waiting for the connection.
Surprisingly, the link connected quickly.
“Hello?” Elara’s voice, small and tremulous, filled the air.
“It’s Caelen Thorne. This is Elara, yes?” As soon as he heard her, he rushed to speak. There was a sudden clattering sound on the other end—something falling, hitting something else, followed by a rustling. After a strained pause, Elara’s voice returned.
“C-Caelen? Caelen! W-why… How… how did you acquire my frequency? Did you… already possess it?” Her voice was choked with fear.
“No. I learned from Arch-Praetor Solara that Lord Kaelen requested your private address today. So I asked for your frequency.”
“…”
“I merely wished to caution you. Be vigilant.”
“W-what about you? Are you well? Even though you try to intercede…”
“Do not concern yourself with me. Focus on your own safety. If you wish to take more time away from Academy attendance, call this frequency. I will manage it with Arch-Praetor Solara. I am rather trusted, believe it or not.”
“...Thank you, Caelen.” Her voice was a bare whisper.
“If Kaelen attempts to intimidate you or confront you at the Academy, inform me immediately. If you cannot speak outright, simply touch my arm or something similar. It is harder to rectify matters after they have transpired.”
“Okay…”
“Honestly, seeking transfer to another institution would be the most prudent course.” He slipped that in, hoping she would consider it seriously.
“…”
“Anyway, consider it. For now, either pretend you are not home or seek refuge somewhere far away.”
“O-okay…”
“Very well. I am terminating the link.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Caelen.” After a long hesitation, Elara’s voice came softly, trembling slightly. The sincerity of it made Caelen deeply uncomfortable.
“T-thank you for always… aiding me.”
“It is nothing.”
“I just… wished to express it. Thank you. S-see you later.”
“Yes.”
“...Farewell.”
What ‘farewell’? Caelen didn’t bother to respond, ending the scrying link. Just hearing Elara’s voice, steeped in such raw gratitude, was enough to send a shiver down his spine and leave him thoroughly unsettled.
What transpired with Elara that night, Caelen did not know. All he did know was that from the next day onward, Elara began to attend her classes again. And within a week, the faint, anxious shadows characteristic of her fearful countenance began to recede. Elara also stopped abruptly seeking him out, her demeanor shifting dramatically. She no longer averted her gaze when Lord Kaelen was near, though she kept a respectful distance.
This abrupt change in her behavior planted seeds of suspicion in Caelen’s mind. And when all visible signs of her distress finally disappeared, a faint sense of hope, however unlikely, began to stir within him.
Then, two weeks later, Lord Kaelen approached him, out of nowhere, in the bustling central courtyard.
“Thorne.”
“…”
“Caelen.”
“…”
Caelen did not look at him, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, upon the distant, cloud-shrouded peaks. But his lips felt like they might part with a ragged gasp at any moment. Could it be that Lord Kaelen was finally tired of Elara? Had his obsession faded, leaving a void for Caelen to fill?