A chill settled within Elias Thorne after the incident in the Academy’s antechamber. Silas Blackwood, once a confidant, now met his gaze with an undisguised, frosty animosity. The polite mask Silas usually wore for the Academy’s faculty had splintered, revealing a raw, vindictive contempt that felt like a physical blow.
Alaric Croft, meanwhile, had claimed the space beside Silas. In the lecture hall, at the common room table, even during the rare moments of shared contemplation in the library’s hushed alcoves, Alaric was always there. He was a silent sentinel, a constant reminder of Elias’s displacement.
Elias was not one to parade his heartache, yet neither could he feign indifference. He harboured too much self-respect to appear a pathetic figure. The thought of approaching Silas, of attempting a casual conversation as if the rupture had not occurred, simply twisted his gut. His courage failed him.
Thus began a descent into a melancholic torpor, punctuated by bouts of gnawing boredom. Sometimes, a flicker of petty vindictiveness would ignite, but it always faded, leaving him to simply endure the dull ache of his ostracization.
Silas, a man often praised for his composure, now displayed a childish resentment. The reason was painfully clear: Alaric Croft. Silas’s possessiveness was overt, his jealousy a festering wound that bled into every interaction.
Elias, in turn, found his ire directed at Alaric. Irrational, perhaps, but potent nonetheless. Alaric was not Elias’s to begin with, yet he had usurped Silas’s attention and, in doing so, amplified Silas’s antagonism towards Elias. A vicious, unwitting architect of Elias’s misery, Elias often thought.
Human sentiment often defies logic. Blaming Alaric offered a convenient scapegoat, a shield against the crushing weight of his own despair. Elias, however, prided himself on making rational choices. He knew Alaric was merely a pawn in Silas’s tempestuous emotional game. He knew that any overt hostility towards Alaric would only cast him as a jealous fool, deepen Silas’s resentment, and risk the dreaded whispers of 'unnatural tendencies' among their peers.
“This… this is a nightmare,” Elias muttered, the words catching in his throat.
He despised the situation, loathed it more intensely than even Silas’s open contempt. The fear of being branded as 'tainted' by the esoteric knowledge he pursued, of having his true, unsettling academic fascinations exposed, was a cold dread that clung to him. That abhorrent image of disdain, of public shaming, made his fists clench, a knot tightening in his chest. No one must ever know.
Academics, Elias found, could be as fickle as any social circle. As Silas’s estrangement from Elias became undeniable, his erstwhile companions, by natural extension, began to drift away. Yet, a strange shift occurred. Peregrine, a quiet scholar often overlooked within Arthur Finch’s boisterous circle, sought him out one afternoon.
“Elias, Finch was looking for you.”
“Oh? What for?”
“No idea. Just asked.”
Pointless exchanges, Elias thought. But the message was clear: he was now seen as more aligned with Arthur Finch’s company than Silas Blackwood’s.
The severance was not absolute. Occasionally, in the Academy’s training grounds or by chance during morning constitutionals, polite greetings were exchanged. Phileas, a stout, earnest lad from Silas’s former clique, was the most consistent in this regard.
“Thorne! Good morning.”
“Morning, Phileas.”
Elias recalled one such awkward encounter, Phileas lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “Silas has been… peculiar, hasn’t he? His manner with Croft… it’s rather unsettling, don’t you think?”
Elias’s face must have conveyed his displeasure. Phileas seemed to interpret it as agreement, then continued, detailing how Silas would insist Alaric sit with him, grip his arm, refuse to release it.
Elias gritted his teeth, his voice clipped. “I have no interest in such unseemly affairs.”
Phileas fell silent, abashed.
Lately, Phileas had been attempting to ingratiate himself with Arthur Finch’s associates. Perhaps he, too, sought an escape from Silas’s escalating erraticism. His confidences to Elias might have been an attempt to forge a new alliance.
Today, as often was the case, only Elias and Arthur remained in the Academy’s grand common room, after the others had departed. Arthur, leaning against an ornate pilaster, observed Elias. Was he ignoring him, or simply assessing? Elias turned his head, choosing to ignore Arthur in return.
“Thorne.”
“What is it, Finch?”
“Care for a cordial after classes? That cherry tincture from last time was quite palatable.”
Arthur disregarded Elias’s attempt at aloofness. As he spoke, he idly tossed a polished river stone, catching it with casual precision. The stone skipped and rolled across the polished floor, threatening the feet of departing students, but no one dared address Arthur.
He possessed a disregard for atmosphere, an almost selfish indifference. Elias frowned, watching the stone’s unpredictable path, finally breaking his silence. His irritation at Arthur’s unrepentant casualness sharpened his tone.
“The one you consumed entirely yourself? You purchased it for your own pleasure, did you not?”
“Well, not entirely. I simply prefer cherry.”
“So my preference held no sway?”
“How was I to know your preference? You offered none.”
The stone had rolled to a stop near a departing junior. Arthur extended a hand, a silent command. The junior hesitated, then stooped to retrieve the stone, placing it carefully in Arthur’s palm. Arthur gave it a light shake, then addressed the retreating student, a sardonic edge to his voice. “My gratitude, apprentice.”
A maddening temperament, Elias thought. ‘Apprentice this, novice that.’ Every pronouncement from Arthur’s lips grated on Elias’s nerves.
It defied logic that someone as irksome as Arthur Finch preferred Elias’s company to Silas Blackwood’s. He ate with Elias, studied with Elias, attended lectures with Elias. Silas was rarely present, but Arthur could easily send a telegram or arrange a rendezvous if he wished.
An unexpected thought surfaced, and Elias voiced it without much reflection. “Why do you not seek out Silas these days?”
Arthur, mid-toss with the river stone, froze. He turned to Elias, a quizzical expression on his face. “You had a falling out with him,” he stated.
“I did?”
“Indeed. You and Silas Blackwood.”
“I know. The conflict is mine. How does that concern you?”
“You utter the strangest pronouncements. It concerns me because you are my associate.”
Arthur scrutinized Elias from head to foot, his gaze uncomfortably direct. Elias averted his eyes, discomfort prickling him, and countered, “You were Silas Blackwood’s associate also, were you not?”
“Indeed. But you suggest I am not yours?” Arthur’s tone sharpened with incredulity, his finger pointing at Elias.
“No, I am your associate. But you shared a connection with Silas Blackwood. Why then do you side with me?”
“Well, I have known you longer.”
“What nonsense do you speak? Our acquaintance began through Silas, did it not?”
“See here. You are a truly vexing individual. Our acquaintance was firmly established in our first year!”
“When?”
“Truly, you are an insolent fellow. In the Academy refectory, we often exchanged glances!”
“Oh… those glances.”
“So, was I alone in perceiving a connection? You charlatan. That is why, upon finding ourselves in the same curriculum, I approached you first! And you do not acknowledge that? Unfathomable. I am quite disappointed.”
“Oh.”
“Astonishing. Truly. How could you slight me thus?”
“Forgive me. My apologies, then.” Elias mumbled a hasty apology, those awkward, frequent, yet utterly baffling encounters from their first year surfacing in his memory. Was *that* what Arthur considered friendship? Elias had always perceived those looks as veiled hostility. And had Arthur truly been the first to suggest they dine together, rather than Silas?
The realization struck Elias like a sudden downpour, leaving him stunned. It was unsettling, disquieting. Yet, unwilling to delve deeper into the discomfiting past, he feigned understanding and nodded. “Very well, very well. I comprehend. My apologies.”
“I was genuinely quite vexed just now.” Arthur glared briefly. Sometimes, Elias found Arthur’s mental processes utterly impenetrable.
“And furthermore, Silas Blackwood is behaving in an utterly unhinged manner.”
“…”
“The man is quite mad at present. He has always possessed a peculiar disposition, but this? This is beyond the pale.” Arthur gripped the river stone with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The gesture brought to mind Phileas and the other students who had hesitantly broached the subject of Silas. From their guarded whispers, Elias surmised one thing: Silas Blackwood’s reputation was in precipitous decline.
“Tainted.” The word, the most feared and damning stigma in their rarefied world of occult academia, sent a shiver through Elias. His body trembled subtly at the thought. At the same time, a surge of relief washed over him that his own private ‘taint’ remained undiscovered. Did that relief imply he valued his own standing above Silas’s ruin?
Uneasy, Elias met Arthur’s gaze, feeling like a blasphemous acolyte guarding a forbidden secret before a High Priest. “Indeed, Silas is,” he murmured, a strange laugh—a blend of fear and derision—escaping him.
It was almost farcical that, to others, he was Arthur Finch’s closest associate. In truth, he was no different—a scholar marked by an unholy inclination, an esoteric stigma. Just months prior, he had been Silas Blackwood’s most trusted companion. And yet, here he was, hiding in a precarious, filthy trap he had barely evaded. He had only managed to avoid outright capture. That was all.
---
It was the pre-dawn hour. A message, conveyed by an anonymous street urchin, arrived unexpectedly, slipped beneath the door of Elias’s modest lodgings. A note, delivered at four in the morning. Half-asleep, Elias momentarily wondered if the unsettling reality of recent days was but a dream. Despite his deliberate avoidance of Silas, a part of him—the foolish, hopeful part—leapt at the thought that the message might be from his former friend.
He rubbed his eyes, the rough fabric of his nightshirt chafing. His feelings were conflicted. Part of him hoped it was merely one of those unsolicited circulars for dubious elixirs. But as soon as he deciphered the hurried scrawl, he knew it was not from Silas.
“Thorne, I am truly sorry to disturb you at this hour. Could you step outside your residence for a moment? My sincerest apologies. Truly.”
“Just this once. I beg you.”
Silas Blackwood would never proffer an apology. Never. Among Elias’s acquaintances, only two used the familiar ‘Thorne’ without his full given name, and of those two, only one was this desperate. How had Alaric Croft even ascertained his address? The moment Elias read the missive, his face twisted into a scowl. He wanted no part of it. He did not wish to see Alaric—never wished to see him. Alaric was a catalyst for too much unpleasantness.
Yet, despite his internal protestations, Elias swung his legs from the bed. He buttoned his dressing gown over his nightclothes, the chill of the morning seeping through the thin cotton. He walked to his door, paused, his forehead resting against the cool wood, a deep sigh escaping him.
“Confound it,” he muttered.
It was an overwhelming sensation, a knot tightening in his stomach, precisely as if he’d consumed some vile, binding draught. That was the only way to describe it. He clutched at his chest. He had always prided himself on his extensive vocabulary, gleaned from countless volumes, yet none of the words he knew could adequately express this intricate, tangled mess of emotions.
It was simply… complicated. His simmering animosity towards Alaric Croft, the vivid memory of Alaric’s bruised face from that day in the antechamber, and the desperate, recent days spent meticulously crafting distance between himself and the Blackwood affair, all swirled within him. Biting his lip, Elias fiddled with the doorknob, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist.
Beyond the threshold, the cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding the arrival of an early autumn. To avoid the damp cobbles, Elias stepped carefully onto the cool flagstones that lined the narrow path. The pre-dawn chill made him pull his dressing gown tighter. His toes, exposed at the front of his slippers, carried him to the wrought-iron gate of his small garden.
He paused there, clicked his tongue in exasperation, and gripped the handle. The protest of the rusty hinge made him flinch. He opened the gate slowly, deliberately.
Beyond, illuminated by the flickering gaslight on the asphalted thoroughfare, stood Alaric Croft in his Academy uniform. His head was bowed, and he idly traced unseen patterns on the ground with the toe of his boot.
“Alaric Croft,” Elias stated, his voice barely a whisper.
At the sound, Alaric’s head snapped up with lightning speed.
“Thorne! Elias!”