A chill traced Elian Vane’s spine as Professor Valerius’s summons arrived. Not a formal decree, but a brief, coded message, subtly laced with an urgency Elian understood well. Lord Kaelan Thorne’s downfall had cleaved a path, and Elian had helped clear the debris.
Stepping into Valerius’s private study, the air hung heavy with the scent of aged parchment and burnt incense. Valerius, a man whose silver hair matched the weary lines around his eyes, gestured to a high-backed chair. Elian settled, posture rigid.
“Elian,” Valerius began, his voice a low rumble. “You were present during the confrontation between Rhys Eldrin and Lord Kaelan.”
Elian’s throat felt dry. “Indeed, Professor.”
“My first witness.” Valerius’s gaze, though not unkind, held a penetrating quality. “And one I place considerable trust in.”
A flutter of unease, swiftly suppressed. Elian had already rehearsed this. His testimony had to be precise, unwavering, and beneficial.
“Tell me, then.” Valerius leaned forward, fingers tracing the rim of a crystal orb on his desk. “Your account of the incident.”
Elian drew a shallow breath. “Rhys Eldrin did not initiate the spell-casting. Lord Kaelan, fueled by… misplaced arrogance, I believe, unleashed a barrage of raw anima first.”
He watched Valerius’s expression. A flicker of skepticism, perhaps, but Elian pressed on, his voice gaining a quiet conviction.
“Rhys merely responded. He contained the chaotic energies, then reflected them with remarkable precision. A counter-spell, Professor, not an assault.”
Valerius’s brow furrowed. “Reflected. Yet, Lord Kaelan suffered grievous magical trauma. His core, destabilized. His physical form… scarred in a manner far beyond simple reflection.”
Elian swallowed, a metallic taste on his tongue. He knew Kaelan’s condition was severe, beyond what even Rhys’s calculated vengeance usually wrought. Yet, the narrative must hold.
“The intensity of Kaelan’s initial assault,” Elian stated, meeting Valerius’s gaze, “would have made any counter-spell appear… amplified. Rhys simply defended himself. Kaelan’s own destructive magic became his undoing, unfortunately.”
“Did it, now?” Valerius’s fingers drummed a slow rhythm against the orb. “We hear reports of Kaelan’s arcane sigils, his very essence, being distorted. One might say, irrevocably reshaped.”
“Perhaps a consequence of the feedback loop,” Elian suggested, the lie sliding smoothly from his lips. “Rhys, I believe, sought only to nullify the threat, not to… dismantle him.” He ignored the image of Rhys’s chillingly precise rune-work, aimed with surgical intent.
Valerius sighed, a long, weary sound. “The disparity is… troubling. Lord Kaelan, an Eldest Scion, now barely able to channel a cantrip. While Eldrin emerges virtually unscathed.”
“Rhys Eldrin possesses exceptional control,” Elian offered, a subtle layer of admiration in his tone. “His mastery of containment spells is unparalleled. He minimized the impact upon himself.”
“Indeed. But Eldrin also left Kaelan Thorne’s face… well, in a state that defies simple defense.” Valerius rubbed a hand across his chin. “His features, almost… branded.”
Elian’s jaw tightened. He recalled the spectral burn, the faint, shimmering mark Rhys had left on Kaelan’s cheek, a subtle sign of magical subjugation. “Kaelan’s own recklessness, Professor. He pushed too far. Rhys Eldrin simply… ended the confrontation.”
Valerius steepled his fingers. “There was no other party involved? No collective outpouring of magic against Lord Kaelan?”
Elian stiffened. A quick intake of breath. “No. Absolutely not. It was a singular duel. Others merely attempted to disperse the lingering arcane fallout.” He spoke with absolute certainty, banishing the memory of a few less-than-neutral bystanders who had, perhaps, delayed their interventions just enough.
“Hm.” Valerius leaned back, his chair creaking softly. “Elian, you have always comported yourself with such… unwavering integrity. Your insights into ancient runic lore are invaluable. You inspire trust.” A faint smile touched the Professor’s lips. “I rely on your discernment. I truly do.”
Elian felt a warmth spread through him, a gratifying affirmation. This was the recognition he craved. A validation for his quiet ambition. He repeated, “My observation, Professor, is what I have stated.”
It was an excuse, a cleverly constructed half-truth. His own internal argument. *It was what I believed to be true… in that moment.* A convenient path of retreat, should questions resurface. Valerius, perhaps weary of noble squabbles, seemed content with such an explanation.
—
Days blurred into weeks within Lumina Arcanum. The academy hummed with the usual rhythm of spell-casting and whispered ambitions. Yet, the air felt different. Rhys Eldrin walked the hallowed halls with an almost imperious grace, his faint battle scars — a subtle shimmer around his eyes, an enhanced acuity to his aura — proudly displayed.
No disciplinary action. No formal censure from the High Council. The Thorne family, powerful as they were, had been strangely silent. It was as if Kaelan Thorne had simply… ceased to be a threat.
Elian watched Rhys, a knot of unsettled curiosity tightening in his chest. Rhys bounced a shimmering arcane orb in the common area, his laughter echoing. How could he be so unburdened? Elian had expected a forced apology, a period of quiet deference to the Thorne house. He had even envisioned himself, Elian, nodding along to Rhys’s inevitable grumbling afterward, a silent confidante.
But Rhys didn't grumble. He simply… existed, triumphantly.
This divergence from his carefully calculated expectations gnawed at Elian. Whenever such anomalies appeared, a compulsive need to uncover the hidden mechanisms seized him. He needed to understand *why* the established order had bent so readily. He formulated a simple, almost childish, plan.
“Rhys— ”
“Lysander!” Rhys’s voice cut across Elian’s, bright and clear. The arcane orb flew, landing neatly in another student’s outstretched hand. Rhys was already munching on a crystallized mana-wafer, his attention elsewhere. Elian frowned, irritation prickling him. Poor timing.
Rhys, mid-chew, paused. He turned, a slight tilt of his head. “Did someone call my name?” His gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on Elian.
Elian raised his hand, a beat too late. “I did.”
Rhys narrowed his eyes, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Vane. What could you possibly desire from me?”
That familiar, dismissive tone. Elian’s jaw tightened. He kept his expression neutral. “You mentioned being… disengaged after your lectures tomorrow.”
“Perhaps.” Rhys shrugged, returning his attention to Lysander. “Why?”
Elian pressed on, feeling a slight flush creep up his neck. “I thought… we might observe the ancient warding glyphs in the Eastern Scriptorium. A collaborative study, perhaps.” He had hoped for a flicker of scholarly interest, a shared intellectual pursuit.
Rhys scoffed, a soft, dry sound. He pointed a casual finger at Elian. “Are you proposing we… *spend time* together, Vane? Outside the strictures of formal learning?”
“We often converse on academic matters,” Elian defended, his voice strained. “It would be no different.”
“No different?” Rhys’s gaze was sharp, dissecting. “Have we ever ‘conversed’ outside these walls, Elian Vane? One-on-one?”
Elian flinched, his face burning. Rhys was right. Their interactions were always transactional, always within the public eye. His suggestion had been clumsy, presumptuous. He clamped his mouth shut, fighting the urge to lash out. The sting of Rhys’s derision was potent.
“Forget it,” Elian muttered, turning away. “A foolish thought.” He clenched his fists, knuckles white, disgusted by his own transparent attempt at camaraderie.
“Alright,” Rhys said, his voice flat. Elian didn't look back, hating the shame that coiled in his gut. *Pathetic, Elian. Pathetic.* His right eye twitched.
—
An arcane scholar’s 'day of rest' rarely existed. It was a mere rebranding of extended research, solitary contemplation, or intensive rune-etching. But Elian’s parents were often absent, absorbed in their own pursuits within the Kingdom’s bureaucracy. Their neglect granted him a certain liberty on such days.
His carefully planned solitude, however, shattered with the arrival of an abrupt magical missive. A faint, almost imperceptible arcane pulse, carrying Rhys Eldrin’s distinctive signature. He frowned. Rhys, who had so readily dismissed his earlier invitation.
*“The Sanatorium of Healing Glyphs. Urgent consultation.”*
Elian reread the terse message, a mix of annoyance and burgeoning curiosity warring within him. Rhys’s capricious nature was well-known. Yet, a summons to the Sanatorium? That was unusual.
*“Why the Sanatorium?”* Elian projected a swift reply.
*“You simply… came to mind. Thought you might appreciate the ambiance. Or a meal.”*
This insolence. Elian gritted his teeth, a tremor of resentment running through him. He considered ignoring it, clinging to his quiet studies. But the sheer audacity, coupled with the unusual location, proved too compelling.
The Sanatorium of Healing Glyphs was not a common haunt. It was a specialized annex, a short levitation-carriage ride from the academy proper, dedicated to severe magical afflictions. Had Rhys sustained some hidden injury? If it had been a lesser, common infirmary, Elian would have dismissed it. But the Sanatorium… it piqued his intellectual curiosity too much.
He found Rhys in the Sanatorium’s airy central atrium, sprawling languidly across a gilded bench, legs casually crossed. Rhys merely flicked a wrist in a half-hearted gesture of acknowledgment. Elian didn’t return it, his gaze fixed on Rhys’s face. A faint, silver scar, almost iridescent, traced his left cheekbone. Not a wound, but something more akin to an arcane tattoo.
“Your face,” Elian observed, his voice clipped. “Is that residual arcane energy? A healing glyph?”
“A souvenir,” Rhys said, a glint in his eye. He stretched, a cat-like ease to his movements. “Let us find sustenance. My treat, Vane.”
“They have a scriptorium cafeteria in the lower wards, do they not?” Elian asked, following as Rhys rose.
“You assume the food of healing is free, Elian?” Rhys sneered, turning. “One day, you will learn the cost of all things.”
Elian glared. A moment of silence passed between them as they descended towards the lower wards. The low hum of healing runes resonated through the floor. They ordered nutrient-paste and revitalizing elixirs from a silent attendant.
As they waited, Elian finally voiced the question that had been scratching at his mind. “Why here, Rhys? Why the Sanatorium?”
Rhys took a slow sip of his elixir, his gaze distant. “Oh.” He pointed a finger at the subtle silver mark on his cheek. “Not for this, Vane. This is where Lord Kaelan Thorne is recovering.”
Elian froze. The delicate tapping of his fingers against the table ceased. His entire body tensed. Kaelan Thorne. Here. The question, *Why would you call me here, then?* lodged in his throat.
Rhys, meanwhile, continued, his voice utterly casual. “And you’ll never guess who I summoned to his bedside. Lord Thorne himself, Kaelan’s esteemed father. Quite the family reunion.” He twirled his spoon with a disturbing grace. “I thought you might appreciate the spectacle.”
Elian’s mouth opened, then closed. The audacity. The sheer, calculated cruelty of it. *How?* The word echoed in his mind, but no sound escaped. Rhys caught his eye, a slow smile spreading across his face, cold and predatory.
“Forgiveness, Elian Vane. A most potent, beautiful concept. My own philosophy dictates that one must seek absolution, and in turn, offer it.” He wrinkled his nose in feigned earnestness. “How could I neglect such a sacred duty?”
“You expect me to believe,” Elian choked out, his voice hoarse, “that you’ve come here to offer genuine contrition?”
“Absolutely.” Rhys leaned back, a dark amusement dancing in his eyes.