Elias Thorne held himself with an almost unnatural stillness. His life, a meticulous arrangement of scholarly pursuits and guarded interactions, had forged a formidable bulwark against emotional tumult. He loathed the thought of his vulnerabilities exposed, a weakness he could ill afford in the serpentine coils of the occult orders. Thus, even when faced with the rawest provocations, a quiet, almost clinical composure remained his default. Others often mistook this for indifference, a lack of spirit. They called him dull. Yet, it was not an absence of feeling. Every wound, every slight, every flicker of outrage had merely contributed to the shell, hardening its surface. Over years, it had become nearly impenetrable. Little could truly pierce him now. This held true, even for Alistair Finch. This very trait allowed Elias to persist within Alistair’s toxic orbit. A quiet scholar, he remained unremarked by the Elder Council, and held a precarious, if overlooked, position within the order’s social strata. He clung to this, a fragile structure he had painstakingly erected. “Thorne.” Alistair’s voice, a languid drawl, cut through the morning chamber's stale air. “Still moping like a stray cat?” Elias inclined his head, a gesture of deference. “My apologies, Alistair. Merely considering the efficacy of the philtre.” “Philtre my arse. You always sound like a crypt-keeper.” Alistair chuckled, a low, guttural sound, unfazed. Insults only stung if they found purchase. Elias offered no reply, merely stirring the dregs in Alistair's emptied cup. “Blackwood,” Alistair continued, ignoring Elias, his gaze shifting to Marcus. Marcus Blackwood, ever present, a silent, unsettling fixture at Alistair’s side. “Don’t you know any… receptive souls among the initiates? Someone fresh?” Marcus, without looking up from the tome he perused, answered, “Receptive to what, precisely? Your particular brand of philanthropy?” “Don’t play coy, damn it.” Alistair’s voice hardened, but a smile touched his lips. “A delicate creature, perhaps. Untainted. A pretty face, a pliable will.” His eyes, like a predator's, flickered to the far end of the grand hall where Julian Vance sat, utterly deflated, nursing a chalice of watered wine. --- Julian Vance had, by this August twilight, become entirely isolated. This, however, provided Alistair Finch with no lasting satisfaction. While Alistair’s immediate coterie—the like of Master Hemlock and Dame Clarisse—would linger, awaiting his pronouncements, others from the lesser houses, such as Acolyte Gray and Novice Sterling, would vanish the moment the dinner gong tolled. Alistair's circle, and those like it, operated on similar levels of depravity, though their methods varied. Elias had once been a more central fixture in Alistair’s inner circle. But as the second year of his apprenticeship wore on, this changed. It began with a dismissive comment from Hemlock: “Thorne always lags behind, doesn’t he? Takes him ages to even finish his soup.” Without his input, without a word of explanation, Elias found himself subtly ostracised, relegated to the periphery. The most galling aspect? Alistair had not cared. His presence or absence made no tangible difference to the Grand Vizier’s calculations. Damn it. Elias glanced at Alistair, a question he dared not voice tightening his throat. He remained silent. Later, he found himself alone with Marcus in the antechamber, preparing for the evening repast. He spoke quietly, almost to himself. “Am I truly so… slow?” Marcus, polishing a crystalline decanter with meticulous precision, replied without looking up. “Slower than a hibernating badger. You chew your words like cud. We’re often delayed in our… diversions, awaiting your ponderous digestion.” “Indeed,” Marcus added, a dry, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. “Alistair often loses patience.” Elias swallowed. “…Oh.” “We have a rather pressing engagement with the Cravenwood Coven tonight,” Marcus continued, as if discussing trivialities. “You might find yourself more comfortable dining apart.” Elias’s pride, a brittle thing, prevented any plea to remain. Besides, the chronic indigestion he’d endured during his first year, rushing through meals to keep pace with Alistair’s swift, erratic schedule, was a persistent memory. And, truth be told, the notion of clinging to Alistair’s coattails, a parasite latching onto a greater one, disgusted even him. So, he offered no protest. And just like that, he was out. His will, his preferences, utterly disregarded. Attempting an air of indifference, Elias found his gaze meeting Marcus Blackwood’s. Marcus, lounging on a velvet chaise lounge, a small, polished obsidian orb tossed idly in his hand, watched him with disconcerting intensity. “When do you typically break your fast, Thorne?” Elias hesitated. “It varies.” “I usually venture to the mess hall in roughly ten minutes.” “Yes. That… that works for me too,” Elias managed. In truth, he had never eaten at such a late hour. But survival instincts, honed through years of academic competition and social maneuvering, kicked in. If he wished to remain associated, even with Marcus, he had to adapt. Their first solitary meal in the antechamber, Elias left half his plate untouched, feigning a sudden lack of appetite. Marcus, observing him with a raised eyebrow, remarked, “You are nearly thirty, Thorne. Still such a finicky child.” “What concern is that of yours?” Elias snapped, a rare flash of irritation. He despised Marcus’s casual condescension. “Frankly, you’re like a mewling infant.” “Even adults possess the good sense not to drown their game pie in that revolting currant jelly.” Elias shot back, glaring. What right had Marcus to judge his palate? The annoyance simmered. During their first year, Elias and Alistair had been almost inseparable, bound by a shared (if false) intellectual curiosity. But by the second, those moments had dwindled. Marcus Blackwood was the pivot point. Still, Elias had no right to complain. Marcus, though enigmatic, outranked him in Alistair’s estimation, holding a more permanent, unsettling place. Marcus and Alistair’s spheres of influence overlapped considerably, largely comprised of the more dissolute acolytes at the lower echelons of the order’s academic rankings. These were the types who would forge permission slips for forbidden rites or slip out of nocturne studies, exploiting the lax oversight of indifferent prefects. Alistair, ever mindful of his Elder parents’ scrutiny, typically remained within the confines of the lodge until dismissed. As for Marcus, whose reputation was almost as infamous, Elias had once asked him why he bothered to remain. Marcus had looked at him, his dark eyes like chips of flint. “Do you perceive me as so pathetic, Thorne?” “No, but your… associates… often exhibit such tendencies.” “Associates? What preposterous notion is that? They are not my associates. They are dross.” “Dross?” “A scholar’s duty is to attend instruction and absorb knowledge, is it not?” “That is correct.” “Then do not lump me with that dross. It offends my sensibilities.” “My apologies.” “I was not soliciting an apology.” It was, of course, a perfectly reasonable statement. Yet, hearing it from Marcus Blackwood, whose so-called friends routinely absented themselves from essential lectures, felt absurdly out of place. Regardless, Elias found himself spending most of his second year in the unsettling company of Alistair Finch and Marcus Blackwood. He had come to consider this arrangement a hallowed space, a fragile sanctuary no other could intrude upon. It would have been perfect without Marcus, but surprisingly, they coexisted with minimal friction. Elias harboured no affection for him, but Marcus was not so intolerable that Elias would simply abandon the dynamic. He was merely… vexing. --- Today, however, felt different. A palpable tension hung in the air of the dining hall. “Damn it. Hemlock and Clarisse, those craven fools,” Alistair cursed, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair as the fourth repast neared its conclusion. Elias, hearing Alistair’s voice, immediately turned, a flicker of unbidden anticipation stirring within him. “They’ve absented themselves again?” “Fools and charlatans.” “How inconvenient. With whom will you dine now?” Elias could not help the surge of faint hope. His fingers trembled slightly, gripping the back of his chair. Alistair let out a heavy sigh, looking at Marcus, who sat beside him, still immersed in his book. “Blackwood. I shall join you two today.” “Do not. No one issued an invitation,” Marcus replied, his tone utterly devoid of warmth. “Continue with that insolence, and I shall ensure your silence.” “By the Serpent, Alistair, today truly tests my patience. I am sorely tempted to strike you.” “Go on, then, fool.” “Brave words for a man who would otherwise be dining in solitude.” Elias could no longer restrain himself. He interjected, his voice surprisingly firm. “Come, let us all break bread together. We cannot allow Alistair to dine alone.” His desperation, he knew, must have been painfully evident. Alistair smirked triumphantly, glancing at Marcus with a sly, predatory grin. “You see? I possess truly devoted associates.” Marcus scowled, sweeping Alistair’s silver stylus case from the table with a flick of his wrist, sending it clattering to the flagstones. Whether Marcus tolerated Elias’s presence or not mattered little. What mattered was that Alistair had chosen to join their table. It had been so long since they had shared a meal, and Elias was so unaccustomedly thrilled that he even forced himself to consume the roasted parsnips he despised. But Alistair paid little attention to his plate. His eyes, keen and predatory, scanned the dining hall like a wolf seeking its prey. Elias, too focused on Alistair, failed to notice Marcus pilfering a devilled quail’s egg from his own tray. Then, without warning, Alistair’s fork clattered to the table. His free hand snaked out, seizing the arm of someone passing by. Looking up, Elias saw Julian Vance. “Sit here,” Alistair commanded, gesturing to the empty seat beside him. “You have no other companions, in any case.” Julian’s face flushed scarlet. His eyes darted frantically, landing briefly on Elias, before he bit his lip and slowly, reluctantly, took the indicated seat. Elias was stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Alistair care about Julian Vance’s social standing? And the very reason Julian had no companions was entirely Alistair’s doing. Alistair actively resented any who showed even a glimmer of kindness to the new initiate. A bitter, coppery taste rose in Elias’s throat. Unconsciously, Elias slammed his spoon onto his porcelain tray, the sound unnervingly loud in the quiet hall. Julian Vance, who flinched, looked up nervously. Alistair, however, remained fixated on Julian. Damn it. At that moment, Elias felt the carefully constructed shell he’d built over the years begin to crack. He tried to halt the rupture, but it was beyond his control. Perhaps he was finally reaching a breaking point he hadn’t known existed. Desperately clinging to denial, he snapped at Julian. “Julian. Simply… leave.” “H-huh?” “Do not heed Alistair. Go. It will be fine.” “Thorne,” Alistair said, his voice dangerously low, a silken thread of menace. Alistair, who had ignored Elias’s earlier, jarring clang, now ground his teeth, his gaze burning into Elias. That glare, far from intimidating, only solidified Elias’s resolve. He fixed his eyes stubbornly on Julian. “I shall manage this. You may depart.” “Uh, o-okay.” “And Alistair, cease this charade.” “Yes, I concur,” Marcus chimed in through a mouthful of something Elias couldn’t quite discern. His words, though barely intelligible, carried an irritating, knowing inflection. He chewed and swallowed deliberately, slowly, before glancing between Elias and Alistair, continuing with an insufferable smirk. “What are you gaping at? You quite ruin my appetite.” As always, Marcus’s unnecessary provocations grated on Elias’s nerves. The man was infuriating, regardless of his posturing. Ignoring him, Elias turned back to Alistair. “Leave Julian Vance alone.” “Who in the abyss are you to issue commands?” Alistair shot back, his face contorting. “It is tedious for the rest of us to observe.” Elias did not blink as he met Alistair’s furious gaze. Alistair slammed his fist onto the polished mahogany table. The sudden impact made Julian, who sat awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Marcus, on the other hand, merely chuckled, lazily raising a hand as if in surrender. “Count me out of this.” He licked a drop of water from his lips, adding, “Let us decide by majority vote. I am neutral, Thorne wishes him gone, and Alistair insists he remains.” For the record, Marcus was one of the few who referred to Elias as “Thorne” with such familiarity, and Elias found it irritating every time. That irritation often slipped into his tone, just as it did now. “Cease your meddling. Your vote possesses no weight.” “Why not? There is another person right here.” Marcus, unfazed, smirked, gesturing towards Julian with a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Vance not a person?” “You are deranged.” “Why is he silent? Let him voice his own desires.” As if Julian Vance could possibly speak in this oppressive atmosphere. Elias sighed at Marcus’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his broth. That’s when Alistair tapped a finger on the table, a slow, deliberate rhythm. “If you depart now, Vance, you are a dead man to this order. Understood?” Tears began to well in Julian’s large, frightened eyes, which glimmered as he looked at Elias, a silent plea for rescue. Damn it. Elias pressed his lips together, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “It is well. I shall dissuade him,” Elias said, trying to reassure Julian. “Thorne,” Alistair growled, his voice tight with barely suppressed fury. Elias forced himself to meet Alistair’s gaze, feigning a calm he did not possess. He felt an overwhelming urge to collapse. To suppress it, he stared at the ornate ceiling for a moment, tracing the faded frescoes, before lowering his head and replying nonchalantly. “Yes?” “You…” Alistair clenched his fist beneath the table, glaring at Elias with an intensity that felt like a searing brand. Still, Elias had to endure. His instincts screamed that he could not abandon Julian to Alistair’s unchecked malice. But Alistair’s focus shifted back to Julian. “I-I’ll go,” Julian stammered, his voice trembling, utterly broken. “…” “Th-thank you, Thorne.” Julian hurriedly rose, his footsteps unsteady, almost a shuffle, as he fled the hall. As soon as he was gone, Alistair turned abruptly, his gaze following the retreating figure with an unnerving intensity. He said nothing, but his silence was far more chilling than any shouted threat. Elias watched Julian disappear, then slowly, deliberately, picked up his spoon, a dull ache settling in his chest. His facade, once so unyielding, felt dangerously thin. A single, profound crack now marred its surface.

A Crack in the Veneer