A cool dampness still clung to my cheek, a faint echo of the swelling that had disfigured me just hours prior. Whether a physician’s simple balm or some more subtle, alchemical intervention, the purple contusion had receded, leaving only a pale, bruised shadow. A bruise one might dismiss as a clumsy encounter with a heavy tome or the corner of a gas lamp. It felt manageable.
Heart lightened by this minor reprieve, I made my way through the dawn-kissed streets towards Blackwood Academy. Yet, the usual morning bustle within the iron gates felt muted, laden with an unspoken tension. The air in the grand lecture hall, typically alive with the rustle of papers and low, murmuring conversations, pressed down like a physical weight. Alaric Croft. His name was a silent whisper on every breath.
My gaze, almost against my will, sought out Silas Blackwood. He arrived just as Professor Abernathy began his droning recitation, slipping into his accustomed seat with an unnatural hesitancy. He almost avoided my eye, his movements stiff and cautious.
Then, I saw his face. A gasp hitched in my throat, though no sound escaped. My mind, usually a fortress of logical deduction, stalled. A half-joking thought, a cruel and fleeting wish from yesterday’s bitterness, clawed at my gut. I had thought, in a dark corner of my mind, that he deserved a taste of Alaric’s brutality. Seeing him now, the stark reality of his injuries, a wave of nauseating guilt washed over me.
One eye, a bruised plum-purple, was nearly swollen shut. His lips, split and crusted, bore the unmistakable mark of violence. Every line of his timid frame spoke of deep-seated fear. The sight was a sickening mirror to my own lesser wounds. A profound self-loathing curdled inside me, choking the very air from my lungs.
“Dear heavens…” I whispered, the words barely audible.
Silas eased himself onto the polished bench, his movements jerky, as if anticipating a sudden blow. His eyes, quick and darting, finally snagged mine. For a long, frozen moment, he simply stared, a flicker of something unreadable – fear? shame? – in his good eye. Then, as if recoiling from a spectral touch, he whipped his head away, hunching his shoulders as he settled deeper into his seat.
“What in blazes…?” The encounter left a peculiar chill in its wake. Instinctively, I scanned the room. Alaric Croft sat three rows ahead, his posture immaculate, yet a coiled menace radiated from him. His eyes, cold and sharp, were fixed on me, a silent, predatory glare that promised retribution.
“Damnation,” I muttered. I should have feigned an illness, remained cloistered in my chambers. Regret, sharp and acidic, pricked at me.
From that morning forward, Silas, who had once sought out my company with a hesitant eagerness, now moved like a ghost, avoiding my gaze during the short breaks between lectures. At the midday repast, he simply vanished, spirited away by Alaric to some undisclosed haunt.
Alone at a table in the hushed dining hall, I found myself sharing cold mutton and stale bread with Arthur Finch. A restless itch pulsed beneath my skin, an urge to seek out Alaric and Silas, to confront the escalating malice. But I knew I would not. A chilling premonition, a profound fear of what I might uncover, held me rooted to my spot.
Surely, Alaric would not subject Silas to further brutality… Would he? It was not my affair, not truly, yet the image of Silas’s bruised face refused to dissipate, a grim specter in my mind’s eye.
Arthur, ever the pragmatist, oblivious to the storm raging within my skull, kept up his usual, lighthearted patter.
“Did I not say the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a carving knife? Felt I might choke on my own trepidation.” He spoke around a mouthful of pastry.
“You seemed quite content devouring that sugared plum yesterday, Finch.” I pointed out, a wry twist to my lips.
“Give me some credit, Thorne. I endured with the stoicism of a true gentleman.” Arthur winked, a glint of mischief in his eye.
“Stoicism, or merely a voracious appetite?” I parried.
He rubbed his chin, a faintly sheepish expression on his face, though I quickly dismissed it. Arthur Finch rarely harboured genuine shame.
—
Life possessed a cruel, unpredictable wit. From our first meeting, I harboured no particular affection for Arthur Finch. Indeed, I found his superficial joviality rather grating. Yet, here we were, and he had become the closest semblance of companionship I possessed.
His easy demeanour, his flippant remarks, possessed a strange faculty for preventing me from succumbing entirely to the crushing weight of my own thoughts. In the past, I had scorned these very qualities, dismissing him as unserious, a mere dilettante. Now, I found myself relying on that precise levity, a bulwark against the encroaching gloom. Had Alaric and I remained inseparable, I doubted I would have ever perceived the quiet necessity of Arthur’s presence.
Following that day, Alaric began to distance himself from our usual circle. Sometimes, he would disappear with Silas. Other times, a select few would be drawn into his orbit. There were even instances when some lads flatly refused his summons, their faces pale with unease.
One afternoon, I chanced upon Barnaby Rooke attempting to vault a low wall, clearly evading a watchful proctor. He confessed, with a nervous laugh and a shiver, that Alaric had been orchestrating a barbaric ritual, compelling others to strike Silas, one brutal blow at a time. My face must have contorted in horror, for Barnaby hastily added that he had been avoiding Alaric’s coterie of late. He mentioned he was bound for The Ember Club with Percival Shaw and entreated me not to misinterpret his involvement. Then, he was gone.
Percival Shaw had once been a close confidante of Alaric’s in our initial year, but their paths had diverged significantly after being placed in separate forms.
At midday, Arthur and I wandered to the Academy’s small confectioner’s stand. We procured small glasses of iced ginger cordial. The cold, sweet spice spread across my tongue, offering a fleeting, brittle solace. Yet, beneath that ephemeral relief, a bitter knot of unease tightened within my chest. I held my composure, determined not to betray the turmoil within.
“Quite palatable, Thorne?” Arthur asked, eyeing my glass as he sipped his own brightly coloured lemonade.
“You may try it,” I offered, a flicker of amusement. I held the glass, still slick with condensation and, perhaps, a trace of my lip, near his mouth. Without hesitation, he smirked, a corner of his lip lifting, and took a generous swallow.
“Finch! You actually drank that?”
“You invited it.” He shrugged, utterly unrepentant.
“Disgusting… And why such a prodigious draught?”
“Merely a taste.” Arthur grinned, a disarming, carefree gesture. It was, in that isolated moment, a peculiar island of peace. In stark contrast to my internal maelstrom, the crisp autumn air outside the grand hall was clear and utterly serene.
Where were Alaric and Silas now? Several unsavoury locations sprang to mind. I did not seek them out. Perhaps I feared what I might uncover if I did.
I struggled, desperately, to purge Alaric from my thoughts. Yet, the harder I strove, the more his presence loomed, an oppressive weight upon my consciousness.
How much time, how much arduous effort, would it require to untangle myself from this insidious attachment? I possessed no answer. It felt akin to being lost within a vast, trackless desert, not merely sorrowful and stifling, but terrifying and utterly unbearable.
Sometimes, I simply retreated. Like an explorer struggling to decipher fading glyphs upon a crumbling tablet, I found myself stepping back, attempting to grasp the wider context. When the burden grew too great, I would occasionally confide, in oblique terms, with Arthur. And for a time, that sufficed.
Then, abruptly, a strange question escaped me.
“Arthur, tell me.”
“Aye, Thorne?”
“…Do you believe flowers might bloom in a barren desert?”
The raw, unbidden sentiment of the query embarrassed me the instant it left my lips. I scratched at my temple, feeling a flush creep up my neck. But Arthur, unexpectedly, did not mock.
“They must.”
“…”
“Life is wretched enough without such a hope.”
Hearing those stark words from Arthur Finch – a man I had always considered incapable of such profound pronouncements – a cold wave of realization washed over me. How much longer must I cling to these futile, meaningless affections? How much longer until I finally surrendered?
“…Indeed. Life is wretched.”
Alaric Croft. That useless, venomous bastard. Why did he seem so intent on crushing the last vestiges of loyalty, of the pathetic, fawning devotion I still held for him? Alaric, who seemed to have abandoned every principle of decorum a young gentleman should uphold, now came and went from Blackwood Academy as he pleased. And always, a wretched shadow, Silas Blackwood trailed in his wake.
As the situation grew increasingly ominous, the whispers in the lecture halls escalated into a buzzing unease. Alaric’s violence, it became clear, was spiralling. And with it, a cold, resentful fog began to permeate the entire form. None of it felt right. None of it boded well.
So, when I saw Alaric dragging Silas by the wrist down a hushed Academy corridor, I found myself rooted to the spot. My gaze flitted between their rigid forms before a strangled protest escaped me.
“Your father worries for you.” It was no apology, no flattery. It was a calculated falsehood, a desperate gamble. Such was the paltry sum of my pride. But given Alaric’s strained relationship with his estranged parent, he would likely not discern the deception. And even if he did, I could always argue that, at this rate, his father would indeed have ample cause for concern.
I always, always left myself a path of retreat.
“If blows must be exchanged, ensure they fall upon your own head. What crime has Silas committed?”
“Out of my way.” The moment Silas’s name passed my lips, Alaric’s gaze snapped to mine, a palpable fury in their depths. My chest constricted, a suffocating weight. I despised him. And yet, pitiful, pathetic Silas, his eyes brimming with tears, stood glued to Alaric’s side, as if poised to shatter into a thousand fragments.
“Unless you desire another regrettable encounter, Thorne, move.”
“A-Alaric, please,” Silas stammered, his voice a reedy tremor, clinging to Alaric’s sleeve. Only then did Alaric cease his menacing pronouncement. His focus shifted, locked entirely upon Silas. I saw only the rigid set of Alaric’s shoulders as he turned from me.
“As I said, your father is— ”
“…”
Silas, on the precipice of weeping, continued to plead, attempting to restrain Alaric. Witnessing that piteous spectacle, my stomach churned. It was so excruciating, so utterly unbearable, that I squeezed my eyes shut. I could not bear to look.
After a moment that stretched into an eternity, Alaric looked once more at Silas, then pivoted sharply. He led Silas back into the lecture hall, their forms disappearing behind the heavy oak door. For the remainder of the day, Alaric remained within its hallowed confines – a rare occurrence, much like a few weeks prior.
—
The long-anticipated day of the Grand Excursion to the Museum of Esoteric Antiquities had dawned. A private coach had been commissioned to transport our form. While a few disgruntled scholars grumbled about the interruption to their studies, most buzzed with an illicit thrill at the prospect of escaping the Academy’s cloistered walls for a single day.
There was no need for elaborate provisions; we would return before dusk. Professor Abernathy offered only a few perfunctory warnings, his gaze already distant, lost in ancient texts. We were not callow schoolboys; there was no giddy excitement to keep us awake at night. I viewed it as merely another day – depart without a satchel, return without a satchel. I had no inkling that this would be the day my carefully bottled frustrations would finally fracture. I had anticipated its eventual arrival, certainly, but not with such abrupt, shattering force.
As was customary, I always occupied the seat beside Alaric whenever we were removed from the formal setting of the lecture hall. After all, I had once been his closest companion. I had not even considered Arthur’s seating arrangements, having never shared a coach with him before.
At first, a faint tremor of apprehension coursed through me, a ridiculous fear that Arthur might claim the seat nearest Alaric. Looking back, the notion was pathetic, a testament to my delusion. Neither Arthur nor I would ultimately occupy that hallowed space.
Upon our arrival, I spotted the Academy’s private coach gleaming in the morning light within the schoolyard. I ascended the boarding steps, my eyes already scanning for our assigned places. The back five seats were already claimed by a boisterous contingent of our classmates, amongst them Barnaby Rooke, who offered a half-hearted wave. His gesture then faltered, his finger pointing with hesitant uncertainty towards Alaric’s usual seat.
“Thorne! There’s a space here!” Barnaby called out, his voice slightly too loud.
“…Ah, yes.” The words felt like ash. Of course. It had always been my seat, a silent privilege. But today, a strange hesitation gripped me as I approached Alaric’s empty place. A quiet sigh of relief escaped me when I saw the space beside him remained vacant. I swallowed hard, a flicker of stubborn resolve igniting within my chest.
It was my prerogative. My pride – that last, tenacious fragment of myself I clung to – compelled me to claim it, even after the fresh memory of Alaric’s fist, all on account of Silas.
My hand hovered over the worn leather of the seat back for a protracted moment. I glanced across the hushed coach, then quietly, tentatively, began to speak.
“Alaric… This seat…”
“It is not yours. Find another.” Before I could even complete the sentence, Alaric cut me off, his gaze fixed, unblinking, on the coach’s entrance. Following his cold stare, I saw Silas Blackwood, small and timid, making his halting way up the steps. My fists clenched, my words caught in my throat.
“…Very well. As you wish.” I tried to inject a note of careless indifference into my voice, but my heart felt as if it had been meticulously shredded, piece by agonizing piece.
I abandoned the seat abruptly, my head snapping around to scan the remaining vacancies. I spotted an empty spot near Arthur’s group, directly in front of where he sat. With a surge of desperate relief, I practically flung myself into the seat. Before I even settled, I spoke, my voice a fraction too loud.
“Arthur, old chap. Do join me.”
No answer. When I glanced his way, I realized he was already deeply asleep. Arthur possessed an uncanny ability to doze off at the most improbable hours, and this morning was no exception. His head lolled against the window pane, bouncing gently with every jolt of the coach. Shaking my head at his utterly undignified posture, I slipped my worn leather wallet between his skull and the glass, then sank into the uncomfortable plush of the seat beside him. I leaned back, my gaze drawn, as if by an invisible thread, across the aisle.
I caught a glimpse of dark brown hair, unmistakably Alaric’s – he was taller than most of our form, easily distinguishable even from this distance. Though I could not see clearly, I knew exactly who occupied the seat next to him. And in that moment, a profound desolation settled over me, cold and complete.