A chill, sharper than the season’s usual bite, seemed to settle in the very bones of Lumina Arcanum. Kael’s disdain, once a subtle undercurrent, now flowed freely, a venomous stream directed solely at Elian. Since the incident near the ancient arcane chambers, the pretense of their old camaraderie had evaporated, leaving a bitter residue. Kael, once Elian's steadfast companion, now regarded him with open contempt, a constant, menacing presence at the periphery of Elian's vision.
Lyra, bruised and silent, had become a fixture at Kael's side. She now occupied the seat beside him in every lecture hall, every ceremonial gathering – a stark, undeniable replacement that gnawed at Elian’s fragile sense of belonging.
Elian was adept at masking his true feelings, a necessary skill in the court of Lumina Arcanum, but he lacked the fortitude to feign indifference to this public humiliation. He refused to embody the pathetic weakling Kael clearly wished him to be, yet the courage to approach Kael as if nothing had changed, to speak with him casually, simply wasn’t there.
He began to spiral into a profound melancholy, a dull ache that seeped into his waking hours. Sometimes, a flicker of petty vengeance would ignite within him, a fleeting warmth against the cold dread, but it always extinguished itself, leaving him to endure the familiar sting of his powerlessness.
Kael, that impulsive, uncontrolled noble, now harbored a raw envy and resentment towards Elian, like a petulant child denied a favored toy. Its origin was painfully clear: Lyra.
Regardless of intent, Elian found himself despising Lyra even more. She was never truly *his* to command, but it wasn’t enough that she had usurped Kael’s attention; she had also, inadvertently, fueled Kael’s hatred towards him. A vicious, unyielding resentment festered, convinced she was the architect of his torment.
Even if her role was unintentional, it mattered little to Elian’s logic-defying heart. Human emotions rarely bowed to reason. Blaming her, however unfair, provided a tangible target for his despair, a scapegoat upon which to pile the weight of his misery.
Yet, Elian prided himself on making rational choices, even in the depths of his anguish. He understood Lyra was merely a pawn, swept along by Kael’s volatile whims. Consequently, he never once displayed overt hostility towards her.
Partly, it was embarrassment, a deep-seated shame at revealing his desperate jealousy. And partly, he knew that to lash out at Lyra would only expose him as a fool, further cementing Kael’s contempt. Such an act would undoubtedly invite ridicule from his peers, branding him with the academy’s most damning epithets – ‘weak-willed,’ ‘unworthy,’ ‘a scholar without spine.’
“...This is intolerable.”
He hated it. A visceral, agonizing hatred that clawed at him, worse even than Kael’s open disdain. It was a self-loathing, an acknowledgment of his own manipulative thoughts. A name surfaced in his mind, unbidden: Varian. Why Varian? Perhaps because the quiet, observant scholar was the one person he’d found himself sharing silence with most recently. If Varian ever gleaned the venomous thoughts swirling within Elian’s mind, what would he say? A cruel smirk, perhaps, and words like:
‘So Elian is nothing but a bitter, grasping academic, then?’
Fear constricted Elian’s chest. The thought of Varian’s discerning gaze, filled with judgment, made his hands clench, nails biting into his palms. It was a horrifying image, sickening him to his core. He absolutely could not, would not, allow anyone to unearth such sordid truths.
Friendships in Lumina Arcanum were notoriously fickle, shifting like desert sands. Once it became glaringly obvious that Kael and Elian were no longer aligned, his ties with Kael’s influential circle naturally frayed. Amusingly, the most solitary member of Varian’s informal group, a diligent runesmith named Ren, approached Elian yesterday with an inconsequential query.
“Elian, Varian was seeking you earlier.”
“Oh? For what purpose?”
“I am not privy to his intentions.”
“...”
Their exchanges were always thus – sterile, purposeless, devoid of genuine connection. Yet, it signaled a shift. People now perceived Elian as having gravitated towards Varian’s sphere, away from Kael’s orbit.
The severance wasn’t absolute, of course. Occasionally, during sparring drills or a chance encounter in the dawn-lit corridors, a polite nod or a brief exchange of greetings might occur. This was largely limited to Torvin, Kael’s most pragmatic, if dull, confidante.
“Elian, good morning.”
“...Morning, Torvin.”
He recalled one such awkward interaction, Torvin’s voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
‘Kael has been… peculiar, of late. His fixation on Lyra… does it not seem rather unseemly?’
Elian must have grimaced, for Torvin seemed to take his expression as agreement. He continued, detailing Kael’s forceful grip on Lyra’s arm, his insistence that she remain by his side. Elian clenched his fists, teeth gritting behind his lips, before responding with forced apathy.
‘I find myself entirely indifferent to such sordid affairs.’
That silenced Torvin instantly. Torvin, Elian noted, had recently begun to court Varian’s favor, subtly seeking an exit from Kael’s increasingly erratic shadow. Perhaps his clumsy confidences were an attempt to bridge that gap.
---
Today, as was becoming customary, only Varian and Elian lingered in the empty lecture hall, the others having departed for their afternoon duties. Varian leaned against a tall archive shelf, his gaze a peculiar mix of indifference and scrutiny fixed upon Elian. Unsure whether Varian was ignoring him or merely dissecting him, Elian turned his head, choosing to return the silent treatment.
“Elian.”
“What is it?”
“The Lumina sweets cart will be by after our next lecture. The spiced honey cakes we shared last week were quite palatable.”
Varian disregarded Elian’s deliberate show of disinterest. As he spoke, he idly tossed a small, smooth scrying stone, catching it with practiced ease. The stone bounced erratically off a nearby desk, threatening to strike other students’ scrolls, yet no one dared to voice a complaint.
Varian possessed an utter disregard for decorum, a selfish indifference to his surroundings. Elian watched the scrying stone’s erratic trajectory, finally breaking his silence. His irritation at Varian’s blatant casualness sharpened his tone.
“You refer to the confection you consumed almost entirely yourself? You purchased it for your own pleasure, as I recall.”
“Not entirely. I merely prefer the taste of spiced honey.”
“So my own preference was of no consequence?”
“How was I to discern your desires? You voiced no objection.”
The scrying stone, by then, had rolled beneath an unoccupied lectern. Varian extended a hand, a silent beckoning gesture. A student nearby hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the stone, placing it in Varian’s outstretched palm. Varian casually rotated the stone between his fingers, dismissing the retreating student with a quiet, almost imperceptible comment.
“My thanks, scholar.” His tone, however, held a distinct edge of dismissal.
An infuriating personality. ‘Scholar this, novice that.’ Every utterance from Varian, however neutral, carried an undertone of casual superiority.
Honestly, it made no logical sense that someone as singularly obnoxious as Varian now spent his time with Elian, rather than Kael. Varian ate with him, sat beside him, attended classes alongside him. Kael was absent, yes, but Varian could easily summon him with a quick rune-cast or a discreet messenger if he truly wished.
The thought struck Elian with sudden force. He spoke, the words escaping without much forethought.
“Why do you no longer seek Kael’s company?”
Varian, mid-toss of the scrying stone against a support pillar, froze. He turned to Elian, his expression a mask of feigned bewilderment.
“You quarrelled with him,” Varian stated.
“I?”
“Indeed. You and Kael.”
“I am well aware I am the one who provoked his ire. But how does that concern you?”
“You utter the most peculiar pronouncements. It concerns me because you are my associate.”
Varian’s gaze swept over Elian, an oddly blatant appraisal that made Elian’s skin prickle. Feeling uneasy, Elian avoided his eyes, retorting, “Yet you were also Kael’s associate.”
“Remarkable. Are you implying you are *not* my associate?” Varian’s tone became incredulous, a finger pointing directly at Elian.
“No, I am your associate. But you were also Kael’s associate. Why then do you align yourself with my position?”
“Well, because I have known your presence for a longer duration.”
“What baseless claim is that? Our association began through Kael, did it not?”
“Elian. What ridiculous assertions. We were acquainted, albeit silently, even in our first year!”
“When?”
“Truly, you are an insolent wretch. Unbelievable. During our first year, in the main hall cafeteria, we often exchanged glances!”
“Ah… that time.”
“So, was I the sole individual who perceived a nascent connection? You… dissembler. It is precisely why, upon finding ourselves in the same curriculum, I approached you first! And you dare to disregard that? Unacceptable. I am profoundly disappointed.”
“Oh.”
“Utterly, utterly unacceptable. How could you inflict such a slight upon me?”
“Forgive me, then. I apologize, truly.” Elian mumbled, a faint blush rising. He recalled those awkward, yet strangely frequent, eye-level encounters from their first year. He had always interpreted them as hostile challenges, an unspoken rivalry. He felt as though he had been swindled. How could anyone have construed those stares as anything but animosity? Wait, did that mean the first one to suggest they share a study session, long before Kael’s ascendancy, wasn't Kael, but… Varian?
The realization struck him like a physical blow, leaving him momentarily stunned. It was unsettling, even shocking. Still, he wished to avoid further complex entanglements, so he merely nodded, feigning understanding.
“Very well. I comprehend. My sincerest apologies.”
“I was genuinely quite vexed just now.” Varian glared, then his expression returned to its usual enigmatic calm. Sometimes, Elian found Varian’s inner workings utterly inscrutable.
“And furthermore, Kael’s conduct is becoming undeniably erratic.”
“...”
“The boy is quite unhinged, at present. He has always possessed a certain… intensity, but this? This transcends the usual bounds.”
Varian rotated the scrying stone with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The image brought to mind Torvin and the other classmates who had awkwardly attempted to relay their concerns about Kael.
From Varian’s casual pronouncements alone, Elian could deduce one undeniable truth: Kael’s standing, his carefully constructed reputation, was in freefall. The whispered word, the most feared and damning stigma in the world of Lumina Arcanum – ‘Unstable.’
An icy tremor coursed through Elian. His body quivered slightly at the implication. Simultaneously, a wave of cold relief washed over him that his own careful façade remained unbreached. Did that relief signify he valued his own preservation more than Kael’s unraveling? Unease prickled at him. He regarded Varian’s impassive face, feeling like a blasphemous acolyte guarding a forbidden truth before the High Seer.
“Indeed,” Elian muttered, a strange, hollow sound escaping his lips – a mix of fear and self-derision.
It was almost farcical that, to others, he was now Varian’s closest confidant. In truth, Elian was no different, a soul branded with an unholy stigma of inadequacy, perpetually seeking a stronger hand to cling to. Only a few months prior, he had been Kael’s intimate. And yet, here he was, hiding in a precarious refuge he had barely stumbled into.
He had merely avoided immediate capture. That was all.
---
The hour was predawn. A message from an unknown runic sequence pulsed on Elian’s wrist-charm. A summons at four in the morning. Half-asleep, Elian briefly wondered if the preceding day’s events had been a fevered dream. Despite his resolute avoidance of Kael, a desperate measure to protect himself from further hurt, his heart lurched at the irrational hope that the message might be from Kael.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, swiftly re-checking the sender’s cipher. His feelings were a tangled knot. A part of him hoped it was merely one of the ubiquitous spam-charms hawking shady arcane loans. But as he deciphered the urgent script, he knew it wasn’t Kael.
“Elian, my apologies for disturbing your rest at such an unseemly hour. Could you perhaps venture outside your chambers for a moment? I am truly sorry. Profoundly so.”
“Just this once. I beg you, just this once.”
There was no conceivable world in which Kael would ever issue such a plaintive apology to Elian.
Among his academy peers, only two individuals addressed him by his given name without formality, and of those two, only one possessed such an abject, pitiful tone. How had Lyra even procured his private charm sequence? The moment he recognized the sender, Elian’s face twisted into a grimace. He wished to avoid her – never wanted to lay eyes upon her. Her presence was invariably disquieting.
But despite his thoughts, Elian pushed himself from his bed, fastened the clasps of his scholar’s robe, and rose. He walked to his chamber door, halting just shy of the threshold, resting his forehead against the cool frame with a deep, shuddering sigh.
“...Damn it all.”
It was an overwhelming weight, a knot of pure anguish tightening in his stomach. No other phrase captured it. He clutched at his chest, breath catching. He had always prided himself on his keen intellect, on a vast lexicon acquired from countless ancient tomes, yet none of the words he knew could adequately express this intricate, tangled mess of emotions.
It was simply… complicated.
The raw hatred he felt for Lyra, the vivid memory of her bruised, fearful face from that day, and the desperate days he had spent constructing a barrier between Kael and himself – all swirled together in a sickening vortex. Biting his lip, Elian fiddled with the door’s runic lock, then closed his eyes and twisted it with a decisive, bitter flick.
In the academy’s private garden, the cold morning dew clung to the air, a precursor to the approaching deep winter. To circumvent the slick, frosted grass, Elian stepped carefully onto the cool marble flagstones, his slippered feet guided by instinct. The pervasive chill of dawn made him pull his robe tighter, fingers fumbling with the fabric. His toes, peeking from the front of his slippers, carried him all the way to the wrought-iron gate that separated his private dwelling from the communal grounds.
He paused there, clicking his tongue in mild vexation, and grasped the cold handle. The faint, grating creak of the hinge made him flinch, and he opened the gate even more slowly, drawing out the inevitable.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the faint glow of an astral-lantern on the asphalt path, stood Lyra in her rumpled academy uniform. Her head was bowed low, and she idly traced invisible glyphs upon the ground with the tip of her worn shoe.
“...Lyra.”
At the sound of his voice, Lyra’s head snapped up with lightning speed.
“Elian, Elian!”