Elias Thorne. My given name Elias, my family name Thorne, yet few ever spoke the latter. For most, I remained simply ‘Elias,’ an unassuming echo in the gaslit halls of academe. Professor Blackwood, in our first year at the Scholarium of Hidden Arts, once remarked that ‘Thorne’ carried a gravitas Elias lacked. He preferred a surname. Hanley Thorne, he suggested, a distant, forgotten cousin of mine. The name stuck, a persistent burr. Only a select few continued to call me Elias, their voices carrying a different weight. I shall reserve that tale for a later accounting. Hanley Thorne—the moniker was a quiet irony. Elias, the true Elias, held little in common with the flamboyant figure conjured by such a name. From my stature to the very hue of my skin, my presentation was antithetical to the boisterous, self-assured archetypes of the occult world. Even my academic pursuits, the quiet deciphering of elder tongues, placed me at the fringes of the Scholarium’s hierarchy, far from the more martial or politically astute students. Did I then scorn those unlike me? In truth, I held a firm, if unstated, belief in the natural order of things, a societal architecture where each soul found its proper station. A logical man, I applied logic to all aspects of existence. My first encounter with Alistair Finch should, by all tenets of my internal philosophy, have led to a polite, perhaps dismissive, assessment. But no. A strange, unbidden force took root. His eyes, the colour of storm-darkened slate, seized upon me with an intensity that defied all reason, pulling me into their orbit. Alistair Finch exuded a singular aura, an indefinable etheric signature that clung to him like a phantom cloak. I could not name its precise components—perhaps burnt electrum, or the crushed petals of some forbidden night-blossom—but I felt its magnetic pull. Like a moth to an occult flame, I found myself drawn to him, compelled to engage in conversation, a transgression against my usual withdrawn nature. Often, I sought to justify our unlikely companionship, to unearth commonalities between Alistair Finch and myself. Both were scions of influential Houses within the labyrinthine occult network, true. We moved, in our separate spheres, amongst the so-called ‘popular’ factions of the Scholarium. Such superficial parallels offered meagre comfort, a threadbare cloak against the chill of deeper disquiet. Our institution, the formidable Scholarium of Hidden Arts, sat geographically poised between the ancient, stone-clad bastions of the oldest esoteric families and the sprawling, newer enclaves of the emergent, more audacious cults. My lineage, the Thorne name, belonged to the former, an ancient house steeped in forgotten lore, their influence subtle, scholarly, almost recessive. An only child to parents whose lives revolved around the meticulous preservation of knowledge, I grew up surrounded by dusty folios and hushed pronouncements. That my family held a revered, if quiet, position within the Occult Council was a truth often lost on those who saw only Elias, the diffident scholar. It was a golden burden placed upon my shoulders, shaping me, perhaps, into a creature of cunning intellect rather than overt power. Thankfully, Alistair Finch hailed from a well-established, though more tempestuous, lineage. Learning of this shared heritage, I felt a peculiar exhilaration, a faint tremor of validation. This superficial congruence provided the necessary justification, freeing me to approach him without hesitation. We gravitated towards each other, our alliance forming with an unsettling ease. Just as I navigated the treacherous currents of ancient scripts with an unmatched facility, Alistair Finch mastered the subtle art of arcane dueling and the acquisition of forbidden rituals. Quickly, he gathered about him the most formidable students, rising to the zenith of the Scholarium’s informal hierarchy within a scant month. Alistair Finch became, in short order, the most notorious figure within the hallowed halls of the Eastern Wing. --- Before him, a tightly shut door. It remained closed for an age, until a familiar gnawing pain flared in my gut, a physical manifestation of my unacknowledged turmoil. Just as my hand instinctively rose to press against my aching abdomen, the door yielded. Through the narrow gap, I caught a glimpse of Alistair’s flushed skin, the slight tremor in his hand as he released the latch. It swung back, threatening to conceal him once more. Desperate, I slipped inside before it could fully close. Within the room, Alistair already occupied the rumpled bed. He wore only a silk dressing gown, unfastened, a half-burnt stick of potent East Indian incense clamped idly between his teeth. A languid ennui, reminiscent of a spirit drained by some fervent, illicit ritual, clung to him. “Damn it all. My father presses again. Should his summons reach my private line, confirm we were poring over ancient texts together.” He idly clicked a polished obsidian lighter open and shut, never quite igniting the incense. Yet, his face bore the unmistakable signs of recent, strenuous exertion. My stomach, raw and tight, pulsed with a renewed ache. I rubbed it, approaching his bedside. Snatching the moist incense stick from his lips, my voice brittle with irritation, I snapped, “Why should I?” “Because we are companions.” Ah, yes. Companions. The way he drew out the word, infusing it with a casual finality, always cleaved my chest in two. It felt like a rending, a tearing of something vital. Yet, my expression remained shamelessly composed, a mask of disinterest. “Know this,” I uttered, the words tasting like ashes, “I shall settle this particular obligation, one way or another.” “A favour, then.” The chamber reeked of night-blooming jasmine, heavy and cloying, overlaid with the faint, ethereal trace of a feminine arcane signature. Honestly, it was Alistair Finch’s constant predilections that had schooled me in the identification of such subtle emanations. Whispers from his previous academies spoke of youthful indulgences, of rites performed in darkened antechambers and stolen moments in consecrated spaces. His infamous reputation for carnal pursuits stretched back to his mid-teens, a testament to his premature maturity. Indeed, Alistair’s appearance transcended his actual years. Most who beheld him for the first time mistook him for a man well into his third decade. His features, bold and sharply defined, imparted an aura of brooding sophistication, a world-weariness quite uncommon for one of his age. Upon his matriculation to the Scholarium, he openly frequented the city’s more exclusive, and often forbidden, occult salons whenever boredom threatened. Possessing ample funds, and somehow, a set of expertly forged arcane sigils granting access, he presented them with an audacious confidence. He consorted with women and men of striking countenance, their one-night rituals becoming a commonplace diversion. His exceptional allure played no small part in cloaking his hedonistic lifestyle. Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth possessed no singular remarkable quality. But, when harmonised, they conspired to form a countenance of inexplicably striking power. His presence was so refined, so commanding, that no one could credit him with being a mere student; most assumed him a master adept, at the very least a magister of two-and-thirty years. My gaze drifted about the chamber, feigning a search for something, though the act was utterly without purpose. The oppressive atmosphere, heavy with the aftermath of his recent escapade, threatened to churn my already unsettled stomach. “Where is Marcus Blackwood?” “He departed.” “...” “That craven wretch. A true lunatic, no matter how I examine his character. A pitiful jest.” Alistair rested his chin upon his hand, a dry, mirthless chuckle escaping him. I found myself frowning. Marcus Blackwood represented the second most potent source of my antipathy. Marcus only forged a closer bond with Alistair during our second year at the Scholarium. Despite my fervent desire to deny it, their shared pursuits and frequent companionship made their status as ‘friends’ undeniable. While Alistair reigned as the most celebrated student in the Eastern Wing, Marcus Blackwood had carved out his own formidable reputation within the distant Western Enclave. Still, our paths rarely intersected. Our only regular encounters occurred within the Grand Refectory, a sprawling hall shared by students from both Eastern and Western factions. Once, whilst navigating the midday throng, a nudge to my shoulder. A hushed voice whispered, “That is Marcus Blackwood.” Curiosity stirring, I rose on the balls of my feet, craning my neck for a better view. Amongst the sea of earnest, darkly robed students, a tall, sharp-featured youth stood out with startling clarity. I knew immediately it was he. “He possesses a most noxious countenance,” I murmured. One of Alistair’s lesser familiars, a young man named Gareth, replied, “Indeed, a rather acerbic mien. They say he is utterly self-absorbed.” My lips curled into a faint smirk, but I offered only a perfunctory nod in response. As much as I detested to admit it, I understood the unspoken rivalry that simmered between him and Alistair. This realisation only intensified my dislike, yet for reasons beyond my comprehension, I found my gaze unwilling to stray. A dazzling gloom—that was my first, indelible impression of Marcus Blackwood. By chance, our eyes met across the crowded hall. It was peculiar that he noticed my scrutiny, given the multitude of gazes undoubtedly fixed upon him. His long, narrow eyes and thin pupils held a striking, almost reptilian quality. Reflexively, I flinched, as if struck by an invisible force. ‘What are you observing?’ He must have deciphered the unspoken question upon my lips, for one of his eyes narrowed, a silent challenge. Honestly, I felt a distinct intimidation. I averted my gaze, feigning disinterest. Then, loud enough for Gareth beside me to hear, I pronounced, “He resembles a serpent.” Thereafter, Marcus Blackwood and I often exchanged glances, though we always maintained a strict, unspoken policy of mutual disregard. Whenever our eyes connected, he would be the first to lower his head, a subtle act of avoidance, only to lift his gaze moments later and lock them with mine once more. Nine times out of ten, he broke the connection first, yet I found myself mirroring his retreat on occasion. I ceased counting the instances after the eighteenth occurrence. --- As if by some perverse cosmic decree, Alistair Finch and I found ourselves assigned to the same advanced esoteric seminar in our second year. While a secret thrill ignited within me at this continued proximity, a familiar, unwelcome visage presented itself. It was truly astonishing—and utterly exasperating. For the first time, I received a proper, unhindered view of the face behind the infamous reputation: Marcus Blackwood. It was Marcus Blackwood who initiated the exchange. “Greetings. Would you care to join me for a repast?” Damn him. Just as everyone had anticipated, the two became inseparable. Alistair Finch, a man who relished his own audacious brilliance, found in Marcus Blackwood a kindred spirit, a rival subtly regarded as his equal. Marcus was formidable, successful amongst his peers, and held in high esteem. Their friendship was, in essence, an inevitability. Within the seminar, the question often arose: if Alistair Finch and Marcus Blackwood were to clash in earnest, who would emerge victorious? From my own estimation, such a confrontation would never truly manifest. While Alistair and I presented superficial contrasts, Alistair and Marcus Blackwood shared a remarkable similitude in temperament and ambition. Yet, a stark divergence existed between them. Marcus Blackwood possessed a peculiar, almost puritanical streak. Despite his ears bearing numerous piercings, an almost ragged display of youthful rebellion, he sometimes behaved with an astonishing rectitude. For instance, when Alistair found himself overcome by carnal impulses, he would simply select a suitable companion and engage in a night of shared rituals. When questioned about his nocturnal escapades, he would recount his steamy early morning adventures with unbridled pride. In stark contrast, Marcus Blackwood would merely laugh off the typical lewd remarks about illicit desires. Sometimes, he would even mock them outright by seizing the arm of a portly classmate, squeezing hard enough to elicit a yelp. “This corpulent wretch exhibits a more impressive bosom than most women. Perhaps redirect your appetites. And you, friend, look quite ghastly. Invest in a proper corset, would you? Cease parading those…offences—it is quite distasteful.” Even his coarse remarks were laced with an acidic sarcasm. Yet, when the opportunity presented itself, Marcus Blackwood would utter something baffling, such as, “My purity, my essence, is reserved for the True Lord of my future, in service of a greater arcane purpose.” That, then, was the profound difference. Alistair Finch once offered to procure for him a set of forged arcane sigils—an offer he had never extended to me—but Marcus Blackwood dismissed it as a useless diversion and staunchly refused. Alistair Finch’s circle of acquaintances found Marcus Blackwood’s eccentricities entertaining, but I did not. The reason was simple: his proximity to Alistair. And they roamed the Scholarium like blood brothers, inseparable. That alone sufficed to fuel my silent resentment. It was a slow, simmering jealousy, a venomous current beneath my calm exterior. Still, I managed to maintain a civil façade with Marcus Blackwood. One of my few strengths lay in the absolute concealment of my true sentiments, regardless of the circumstance. Besides, his closeness to Alistair remained an undeniable fact. Yes, every facet of my precarious social existence revolved around Alistair Finch. Truth be told, more days found me despairing at my own nature, frustrated by this servile attachment, than those spent contemplating Alistair. Often, I felt an utter fool. Yet, despite this internal torment, I remained unchanged. While Alistair tossed a few casual instructions my way before disappearing into an adjoining chamber for a ritualistic cleansing, I sat, lost in thought. A few minutes later, the insistent ring of his private scrying mirror shattered the silence. Fresh from his ablutions, Alistair retrieved the device from the bed and tossed it to me. I caught it, and through its etheric projection, discerned the stern visage of his father. Clearing my throat, I answered. Why did I even attempt to sound composed, I wondered? “Yes, Elias Thorne speaking.” “Elias? Are you presently in Junwoo’s, ah, Alistair’s company?” “Indeed, I am.” “Ah, I see. My concern was quite unfounded. I feared Alistair might be engaged in some regrettable pursuit again. You possess such a cultivated voice, Elias.” “I appreciate the compliment.” “No, truly. How fares your own arcane research?” “My work progresses well, thank you for inquiring. And your own efforts?” “Likewise. You speak with such elegance. If only Alistair possessed your decorum. That boy lacks all semblance of proper manners. So, you were engaged in joint studies?” “Yes. Alistair must have neglected to inform you. He has been quite absorbed in preparing for the mid-term examinations of ancient thaumaturgy.” “So, you have been together this entire time?” “Yes. He has not left my side.” “Well, that is a relief. If he is with you, I can rest assured he remains out of mischief.” “It is nothing, truly.” “No, it is something. With you present, he cannot stray into troublesome ventures.” “Truly, it is nothing. I shall ensure his safe return to the Scholarium.” “Excellent. Safeguard him. Maintain your friendship and avoid discord.” “Yes, of course. Farewell.” Deceptions flowed from my lips, smooth as polished obsidian. Ending the call, I tossed the scrying mirror back to Alistair. He mumbled a curt “A favour,” while adjusting his freshly donned attire. Without another word, I turned to depart. Alistair made no effort to detain me. “Until later,” was his sole pronouncement. It was, I knew, precisely as it should be. This was the sum total of our bond, our relationship, painfully laid bare. The chasm between us, vast and unyielding, became suddenly, acutely apparent. Perhaps that was why I quickened my pace, eager to escape the suffocating weight of his presence. On my hurried retreat, my throat inexplicably ached, a silent scream trapped beneath my skin. I hastened out of the establishment, leaving behind the jasmine and the heavy, bitter taste of self-deception.

A Clamour of Unbidden Yearnings