A singular thread of control defined Elian Thorne. His upbringing, a masterwork of parental sculpting, had forged a nature as rigorously ordered as the ducal archives. Showing weakness, even the faintest tremor of vulnerability, felt akin to stripping bare in the Grand Duke's presence – a profound betrayal of self.
Indeed, even amidst the most unsettling court machinations, Elian could maintain a remarkable stillness. His face remained a placid mask, his posture unwavering. This often led courtiers to dismiss him as a placid, unreactive presence, a well-polished but ultimately uninteresting ornament of the court.
They did not comprehend. Anger was not absent; it was transmuted. Each emotional upheaval, every slight, every calculated humiliation, had not dissipated but solidified, hardening into an impenetrable shell. With each passing season, genuine provocation became an increasingly rare, almost mythical, occurrence.
This held true, too, for every interaction concerning Lord Valerius.
His unflappable demeanor was precisely what permitted Elian to remain within Valerius’s orbit. Elian was a credit to House Thorne, his conduct impeccable enough to spare his family concern. He held a respectable, if ancillary, position within the Academy’s complex social hierarchy. That position, painstakingly cultivated, he intended to preserve.
“Elian.” Valerius’s voice, a gravelly pronouncement, cut across the morning chatter.
“My lord?”
“Your tone. It grates.”
Kael, lounging on an ornate bench nearby, offered a dry chuckle. “Unlike your countenance, my lord, which is ever a delight.”
Valerius merely scoffed, a ripple of disdain. Jests about his coarse features, if they held any sting, were quickly forgotten. His pride resided elsewhere.
“Kael, you know no decent ladies of the court?” Valerius continued, his gaze already drifting. “You keep such… boorish company.”
“Decent, my lord?” Kael’s response was a feigned innocence. He toyed with a silver signet ring, spinning it idly.
“Do not play the fool, fool.”
Kael only shrugged, offering no further reply. Valerius seemed to expect none. His eyes, sharp and predatory, fixed on a solitary figure huddled at the farthest end of the refectory – Rhys, a junior scion from a minor house.
“A modest demeanor, perhaps. An agreeable spirit…” Valerius mused, the words spoken with a disturbing, almost clinical, detachment.
Valerius was a creature of crude impulse. His appetites, unrestrained since his early adolescence, were a matter of common, if whispered, knowledge. His harassments, lacking any pretense of subtlety, had only grown more brazen with time.
---
This end of summer recess, approaching the Autumn Equinox, Rhys had been left utterly isolated. Yet, even this complete ostracization failed to sate Valerius.
The entourages of young lords like Valerius often operated with similar intent but distinct methods. His immediate coterie – Lord Grenfell, Sir Gideon – would linger, a few minutes past the bell, awaiting his command. Meanwhile, other junior courtiers, scholars from less prominent houses, would flee the moment the luncheon gong resounded.
In my first year at the Academy, I had been counted among Valerius’s close companions. But by the second, that alliance fractured. Lord Grenfell had made a casual, careless remark: “Elian always dines with Kael, does he not? So dreadfully deliberate.” Without so much as a word from me, I found myself quietly excluded.
The most galling part? Valerius had not cared. My presence or absence made no ripple in his self-possessed world. A wave of indignity, hot and sharp, prickled under Elian’s skin. He glanced at Valerius.
“Am I truly so… slow in my repast?” Elian asked, his voice carefully level.
“Naturally. You sit there, chewing like a cow ruminating, while the rest of us conclude luncheon in five short minutes.”
“Indeed,” Sir Gideon added, “we are ever delayed for falconry practice because of your measured pace.”
“Ah.” A quiet exhalation.
“A wager match awaits us with the cadets from the next wing today, so dine with Kael.”
His pride, a stiff, fragile thing, forbade Elian from pleading to remain. Besides, the chronic indigestion that had plagued him through his first year was undoubtedly a consequence of rushing his meals to match their frantic speed. And honestly, the very thought of clinging to Valerius, like a barnacle to a galleon’s hull, repulsed him. So, Elian offered no protest, no desperate plea.
Thus, he was excised from the group. His own inclinations, his own will, held no sway.
Attempting a pose of studied indifference, Elian’s gaze inadvertently met Kael’s. Kael, still slouched on his bench, casually bouncing the silver signet ring, observed him before speaking, his tone disarmingly flat.
“When do you attend the refectory?”
A beat of silence stretched.
“My usual time is in ten minutes.”
“That suits me as well.” A polite fiction. In truth, Elian had never dined at such an hour before. Yet, the instinct for survival, for maintaining a social anchor, even if it was Kael, urged adaptation. The first time Elian took luncheon with Kael alone, he left half his meal untouched, feigning a lack of appetite. Kael merely arched an eyebrow.
“What are you, eighteen and still a child with your victuals?”
“Does it concern you?” Elian shot back, a flash of annoyance. What right did Kael have to pry?
“Honestly, you’re like a ward.”
“Even adults do not consume the preserved fish with that cloying white sauce.”
In their first year, Valerius and Elian had been nearly inseparable. But by the second, those moments had dwindled dramatically, largely due to Kael’s constant presence. Still, Elian had no grounds for complaint. Kael, despite his lack of formal title, somehow outranked him in the peculiar pecking order of Valerius’s circle.
Kael and Valerius’s companionships overlapped considerably, mostly comprised of younger courtiers and cadets notorious for their indolence and disregard for Academy strictures. These were the types who would forge permission chits or slip away from lessons, exploiting the lax oversight of tutors who seldom verified their whereabouts.
Valerius, ever mindful of his House’s scrutiny, generally remained in lessons until dismissal. As for Kael, whose reputation was almost as ill-favored, Elian had once inquired why he bothered to adhere to the Academy’s schedule. Kael’s response had resonated.
“Do you truly deem me so pathetic?”
“No, but your… companions are such.”
“Companions? What rubbish are you speaking? They are not my companions. They are dross.”
“What?”
“A cadet’s duty is to attend his lessons and acquire knowledge, yes?”
“That is true.”
“Do not lump me with that dross. It irks me.”
“My apologies.”
“I sought no apology.”
Of course, the statement held a peculiar logic, but to hear it from Kael, a youth whose so-called friends skipped lessons at least once a week, felt absurd. Regardless, Elian found himself spending most of his second year in the Academy with Valerius and Kael. He considered it a sacred space, a delicate equilibrium that no one else could intrude upon. It would have been perfect without Kael, but surprisingly, they coexisted better than anticipated. Elian did not like him, yet Kael was not so insufferable as to compel a swift departure. He was merely… vexing.
But Rhys, the quiet junior, turned even those days into a harrowing ordeal.
---
Today, however, felt subtly different from the norm.
“Curse it. Lord Grenfell and Sir Gideon, those insolent wretches,” Valerius swore, clutching his head as the fourth period neared its close. His voice, edged with frustration, cut through the rustle of parchments.
Hearing his pronouncement, Elian instinctively turned, his tone carefully calibrated, tinged with a delicate, secret anticipation. “Have they again excused themselves?”
“Fools.”
“How unfortunate. With whom will you take luncheon, then?” Elian’s fingers, betraying his carefully constructed composure, tightened almost imperceptibly on the back of his chair. A fragile flicker of hope ignited within him. Valerius let out a heavy sigh, then looked to Kael, who sat idly beside him.
“Kael, I shall join you two today.”
“Do not. No invitation was extended, my lord,” Kael replied, his voice a flat, unceremonious drone.
“Continue with that insolence, and I shall see your tongue silenced.”
“By the gods, today truly stirs in me the desire to strike you, Valerius.”
“Attempt it, imbecile.”
“Bold words for a lord who would otherwise dine alone.”
Elian could no longer restrain himself. He interjected, a polite yet urgent tremor in his voice. “Come, let us all dine together. We cannot permit Lord Valerius to take his meal in solitude.”
His desperation, however carefully veiled, must have been evident. Valerius smirked, a triumphant gleam in his eyes, glancing at Kael with a sly, knowing grin.
“You see? I possess truly devoted companions.”
Kael merely scowled, then deliberately shoved Valerius’s silver quill box from the desk, sending it clattering to the flagstones. Whether Kael favored Elian or not held no consequence. What mattered was Valerius joining their table for luncheon.
It had been so long since they had shared a meal. Elian felt such a peculiar thrill that he even forced himself to consume a portion of the preserved fish, a dish he abhorred.
But Valerius paid little mind to his own plate. His eyes, like a falcon scanning for prey, swept the expanse of the refectory. Elian, too fixated on Valerius’s every subtle shift, barely noticed Kael casually pilfering a candied fruit from his own platter. Then, without warning, Valerius’s eating utensil clattered against his tray, and his free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing by.
Looking up, Elian saw it was Rhys.
“Sit here,” Valerius commanded, gesturing to the vacant seat beside him. “You have no other place at table.”
Rhys’s face flushed scarlet. His eyes darted nervously, briefly meeting Elian’s, before he bit his lip and slowly, reluctantly, settled into the indicated seat.
Elian was stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Valerius concern himself with Rhys’s companions? And the very reason Rhys possessed no companions was entirely Valerius’s insidious doing. Valerius had made it agonizingly clear he abhorred any who dared show favor to Rhys.
A bitter, coppery taste rose in Elian’s throat.
Unconsciously, Elian slammed his spoon onto his platter. The sharp clang echoed, jarringly loud. But the only one who flinched, who registered the noise, was Rhys. His eyes, wide with apprehension, flickered to Elian. Valerius, however, remained fixated on Rhys.
Curse it. At that moment, Elian felt the protective shell he had so meticulously constructed over the years begin to crack. He fought against it, but the fissure widened. Perhaps he had reached a precipice he had not realized existed.
Desperately clinging to a denial he could not fully articulate, Elian snapped at Rhys. “Rhys. Depart.”
“H-huh?”
“Do not heed Lord Valerius. Simply go. It will be accounted for.”
“Elian,” Valerius’s voice, dangerously low, cut through the tension. He had ignored the loud clash of Elian’s spoon, but now, upon Elian’s direct defiance, he finally ground his teeth, his glare a burning brand. That glare, however, only solidified Elian’s resolve. He fixed his eyes stubbornly on Rhys.
“I shall manage this. You are dismissed.”
“Uh, o-okay.”
“And Valerius, cease this already.”
“Indeed, I concur,” Kael chimed in, his words barely intelligible through a mouthful of food. His sudden interjection felt strangely misplaced. He chewed and swallowed with deliberate slowness, then glanced between Elian and Valerius, a subtle, irritating smirk playing on his lips.
“What are you staring at? You are quite spoiling my appetite.”
As ever, Kael’s unnecessary provocations grated on Elian’s nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter how Elian appraised him. Ignoring Kael, Elian turned back to Valerius.
“Leave Rhys be.”
“Who are you, Elian, to issue me commands?” Valerius shot back, his face contorting.
“It grows tiresome for the rest of us to observe.”
Elian did not blink, holding Valerius’s furious gaze. Valerius slammed his fist on the table. The sudden impact made Rhys, who sat awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Kael, on the other hand, chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender.
“Count me out of this particular contention.”
He licked a stray drop of water from his lips and added, “Let us decide by majority. I am neutral. Elian desires his departure. Valerius commands his stay.”
For the record, Kael was one of the few who addressed Elian without his title, and Elian found it intensely irritating each time. That irritation, a subtle, corrosive acid, often seeped into his tone, just as it did now.
“Cease your interjections. Your vote holds no weight.”
“Why not? There is another person right there.” Kael, unfazed, smirked and pointed at Rhys, motioning toward him with a casual flick of his hand.
“What? Is Rhys not a person?”
“You are quite deranged.”
“Why is he so silent? Allow him to speak his own mind.”
As if Rhys could possibly utter a word in this suffocating atmosphere. Elian sighed at Kael’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his rice. That was when Valerius tapped his finger, a rhythmic, ominous sound, on the table.
“If you depart, Rhys, you will wish you had never seen another dawn.”
Tears began to well in Rhys’s large eyes, which glimmered as he looked at Elian, as though pleading for salvation. Curse it. Elian pressed his lips together, a tight, firm line.
“It is well. I shall dissuade him,” Elian said, attempting to reassure Rhys.
“Elian,” Valerius growled, his voice a tight, guttural rasp of anger.
Elian forced himself to meet Valerius’s gaze, pretending a calm he did not possess, but he felt the overwhelming urge to shatter, to break. To suppress it, he looked up at the vaulted ceiling for a brief moment before lowering his head and replying with forced nonchalance.
“My lord?”
“You…”
Valerius clenched his fist, glaring at Elian with an intensity that felt capable of searing through bone. Still, Elian had to endure. His deepest instincts screamed that he could not abandon Rhys to Valerius’s cruel machinations.
But Valerius’s focus, perhaps frustrated by Elian’s resilience, shifted back to Rhys.
“I—I must take my leave,” Rhys stammered, his voice trembling like a leaf in an autumn gale.
A heavy silence descended.
“Th-thank you, Lord Elian.”
Rhys hurriedly rose, his footsteps unsteady, and fled the refectory. As soon as he was gone, Valerius turned abruptly, his glare, now fully unleashed, settling on Elian.