The morning light, typically a balm, felt a dull ache across Elian’s cheek. An alchemist’s salve had worked its slow magic overnight, drawing the lividity from the bruise. Yet, a ghost of puffiness remained, a faint violet blush beneath his skin, enough to catch the discerning eye but easily dismissed by those less observant.
He could manage this. A minor stumble, perhaps, in the shadowed galleries. It was a narrative he could construct.
But the Academy’s hallowed halls offered no such reprieve. A stillness hung heavy, a silence taut with unspoken tension. Elian, ever attuned to the subtle shifts in the court’s emotional currents, felt its weight press upon his very breath. His gaze, almost instinctively, sought the familiar frame of Lord Kaelan.
Kaelan appeared just as the chime for the first lecture faded, a hurried shadow slipping through the great oak doors.
...
The sight stole Elian’s breath. He forgot, for a disquieting moment, to even blink. He had harbored, in the darkest corners of his mind, a fleeting, almost vengeful thought—that perhaps Kaelan, too, might have tasted the Prince’s fury. Now, a suffocating shame choked him. Kaelan’s face was a tableau of violence. A lip split, swollen to an unnatural seam. One eye, half-closed, a bruised plum against his pale skin, far worse than Elian’s own passing affront. Remorse, sharp and bitter, curdled in Elian’s gut. Such petty, childish imaginings disgraced him.
“By the Crown’s grace...”
Lord Kaelan entered, his shoulders hunched, eyes darting like trapped birds. Then, as if tethered by an unseen thread, his gaze snagged on Elian’s. For a drawn-out moment, Kaelan stared, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, before his features seized into a startled, pained grimace. He wrenched his head away, shuffling towards his customary bench, his movements avoiding Elian entirely.
...A strange disquiet settled over Elian. His glance swept the lecture hall, interpreting the silent tableau. Prince Caelen sat by the tall, arched window, his dark eyes fixed on Elian with an intensity that promised retribution. A predator’s glare.
“By the Serpent’s coil,” Elian murmured, regret a cold stone in his stomach. He should have feigned illness.
After that day, Lord Kaelan, who once sought Elian’s counsel with such eagerness, retreated into himself. His voice, once readily offered during the brief intervals between lectures, became a ghost. At the midday meal, he vanished, a satellite drawn into Prince Caelen’s orbit, to some undisclosed corner of the Academy grounds.
Left in an uneasy solitude, Elian found himself sharing his repast with Lord Rennick. A restless urge clawed at him, a desire to seek out Caelen and Kaelan, to witness the truth of their interactions. But the impulse died, stillborn, choked by a profound fear. He hated to admit such weakness, yet the prospect of what he might uncover, what dark theater might be playing out, froze him.
Surely, Prince Caelen would not revisit such brutality upon Kaelan… not again. The thought was a trespass, Elian knew, none of his official concern. Yet, Lord Kaelan’s ravaged face lingered, a persistent echo, impossible to ignore.
Lord Rennick, meanwhile, remained a bastion of unruffled calm. His banter, light and airy, danced around the oppressive weight in Elian’s mind, utterly oblivious to the silent storm.
“Did I not tell you the hall hummed with unease? My nerves nearly frayed to silken threads.”
“You seemed perfectly composed, enjoying your chilled confection yesterday.”
“Give a man his due. I consumed it with admirable stoicism.”
Rennick offered a conspiratorial wink, a chuckle bubbling from him.
“A confection, after all, is meant to be savored.”
Elian, a flicker of annoyance stirring, nudged Rennick’s calf with his foot. Rennick merely rubbed his chin, a hint of something resembling sheepishness gracing his features. It seemed an incongruous expression.
---
Life, Elian often reflected, was a series of unforeseen currents. From their very first encounter, Elian harbored no intention of drawing close to Lord Rennick. Indeed, his initial impression had been one of mild disdain. Yet, here they were, Rennick now the closest companion Elian possessed within the Grand Ducal court.
Rennick’s unburdened mien, his flippant turns of phrase, possessed a peculiar power. They prevented Elian from succumbing entirely to the crushing gravitas of the court’s intricate machinations.
In earlier days, Elian had despised these very qualities, dismissing Rennick as trivial, unserious. But now, he found himself leaning upon that very lightness, a fragile anchor against the tides of his own tumultuous thoughts. Had Prince Caelen and Elian remained within their former, close orbit, Elian doubted he would ever have recognized the quiet necessity of Rennick’s presence.
After that disquieting day, Prince Caelen began to detach himself from their usual coterie. Sometimes, he would vanish with Lord Kaelan, swallowed by the Academy’s vastness. Other times, he would gather a select few, only for some to return, their faces shadowed, their heads shaking in uneasy refusal.
Lord Gareth was one such instance. Elian chanced upon him clambering over a low wall near the kitchen gardens, presumably to avoid a tutor’s watchful eye. Gareth, with a mixture of forced amusement and genuine discomfort, divulged Caelen’s latest decree: he was ordering the others to strike Lord Kaelan, one calculated blow at a time. Elian’s features tightened in disbelief. Gareth, sensing the unspoken judgment, hastily added that he had been avoiding Caelen’s group for precisely this reason. He was on his way to a private study with Lord Trystan, he added, hoping Elian would not misinterpret his words, before departing with a brisk nod.
Lord Trystan, Elian recalled, had once been a close confidante to Prince Caelen during their initial year at the Academy. But their paths had diverged when placed in different faculties.
At midday, Lord Rennick and Elian sought solace in the Academy courtyard, purchasing chilled confections from a vendor’s cart. The cold sweetness, a brief, fleeting benediction, spread across Elian’s tongue, momentarily quieting the clamor within him. But beneath that fragile respite, a bitter knot of unease tightened, a serpent coiling in his chest. Still, he maintained his composure, a mask of indifference perfected over years.
“Does it please your palate?”
“Would you care to sample?”
Lord Rennick, already indulging in his own brightly colored treat, eyed Elian’s with a boyish hunger. Half-teasing, Elian brought his confection—now marked with his own trace—close to Rennick’s lips. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rennick smirked, a corner of his mouth lifting, and took a substantial bite.
“By the Grand Duke’s beard! Did you truly partake?”
“You offered, did you not?”
“That is... unsanitary. And why such a prodigious bite?”
“It was but a single measure.”
Grinning, Rennick shrugged a casual shoulder. For a fleeting instant, a semblance of peace settled. A stark contrast to Elian’s internal tempest, the crisp autumn air was clear, the sky a serene canvas.
Prince Caelen and Lord Kaelan. Where were they now? A few shadowed alcoves, a forgotten garden pavilion, the training grounds—locations sprang to Elian’s mind. Yet, he did not pursue them. Perhaps the fear of discovery, of what raw truth he might witness, held him captive.
Elian tried to banish Prince Caelen from his thoughts. But the harder he strove, the more Caelen’s presence seemed to expand, filling every quiet corner of his mind.
How long, Elian wondered, would it take to excise such an attachment? How much inner struggle would it demand? He possessed no answers. It felt like being adrift in a vast, parched expanse, not merely sorrowful and suffocating, but profoundly terrifying, unbearable.
Sometimes, he would retreat. Like a hunter lost in a blinding storm, struggling to discern the trail, he would step back, seeking clarity. When the weight grew too immense, he would occasionally confide in Lord Rennick, a cautious sharing of the periphery, nothing more.
---
Suddenly, a question, unbidden, escaped his lips.
“Lord Rennick,” he began.
“Yes?”
“...Do you believe blossoms might ever break forth in a barren desert?”
It felt so raw, so utterly unguarded, that Elian’s cheeks warmed the moment the words departed him. He rubbed his brow, a gesture of awkward self-consciousness. But Rennick offered no mockery.
“They will.”
...A pause.
“They must. Life, after all, proves itself quite miserable without such small rebellions.”
Hearing such sentiment from Lord Rennick—a man Elian had never imagined capable of such depth—struck Elian with a fresh, aching realization of his own futile hope. How much more time must pass before he could relinquish these burdensome, meaningless affections?
“...Indeed. Life is quite miserable.”
Prince Caelen. That infuriating, destructive force. Why did he seem so intent on breaking the loyal, tail-wagging devotion Elian offered, time and again? Caelen, who seemed to have shed all pretense of ducal conduct, now came and went from the Academy as he pleased. And always, a shadowed echo, by his side, was Lord Kaelan.
As the unsettling dynamic deepened, the common study buzzed with a low murmur of apprehension and uneasy curiosity. Prince Caelen’s cruelties were escalating, this much was clear. A quiet fog of resentment, insidious and slow, began to creep through the ranks of their peers. None of it boded well.
So, when Elian observed Prince Caelen dragging Lord Kaelan by the wrist down the polished hallway, he stopped. He watched them, his gaze flitting between Caelen’s rigid posture and Kaelan’s drooping head, before his voice, carefully modulated, broke the oppressive silence.
“Your sire has expressed certain anxieties regarding your recent conduct.”
It was neither apology nor flattery—it was a carefully constructed fabrication. This, Elian reflected, was the extent of his dwindling pride, a flimsy shield. But Prince Caelen held little affection for his father, the Grand Duke. He would likely dismiss it as an empty warning. And even if he perceived the lie, Elian could always argue that, at this rate, the Grand Duke would indeed find ample cause for concern.
Elian always ensured he possessed an avenue of retreat.
“If a mark must be left, let it be upon your own person. What transgression has Lord Kaelan committed?”
“Move aside.”
The instant Elian uttered Lord Kaelan’s name, Prince Caelen’s eyes locked onto him, twin points of obsidian fire. Elian’s chest felt constricted, as if his very heart might burst from the pressure. He detested Caelen. And yet, pitiful, broken Lord Kaelan stood rooted to Caelen’s side, his eyes, swimming with unshed tears, fixed on Elian with a silent, pleading agony.
“Unless you desire another acquaintance with my fist, as before, step away.”
“C-Caelen, please,” Lord Kaelan stammered, his voice a tremor, reaching out to Caelen. Only then did Caelen’s harsh words falter. His gaze, now singular in its focus, settled solely on Kaelan. Elian saw only the stiff line of Caelen’s back as he turned away.
“A-as I stated, your sire is concerned—”
...Lord Kaelan, hovering on the precipice of tears, clung to Caelen, attempting to impede his path. The wretched scene, unfolding before Elian, became unbearable. It was so excruciating, he found himself closing his eyes.
After a strained moment, Prince Caelen looked at Kaelan, then spun on his heel and strode back into the common study. For the remainder of that day, he remained within its confines—a rare quietude, reminiscent of weeks past.
---
The long-anticipated day of the Scholastic Excursion had arrived. A grand Academy carriage had been commissioned to transport them to the ancient Grand Archives, a sprawling edifice of knowledge. While a few young lords grumbled about being torn from their rigorous studies, most reveled in the chance to escape the Academy’s confines, even for a single day.
There was no need for elaborate preparations; they would return by dusk. The tutors offered only a few perfunctory warnings before granting them leave.
They were no longer mere children, after all. No childish giddiness kept Elian awake through the preceding night. He viewed it as another day, a departure without burdens, a return similarly unburdened. He possessed no inkling that this particular day would be the crucible where his suppressed frustrations, long simmering, would finally ignite. He had anticipated its eventual eruption, but never with such suddenness.
As was customary, Elian expected to find himself seated beside Prince Caelen whenever they were beyond the official lecture halls. He was, after all, Caelen’s closest associate. He had not even spared a thought for Lord Rennick’s placement, having never shared such a journey with him.
At first, a flicker of suspicion pricked Elian. He eyed Rennick with a subtle wariness, fearful he might claim the prized seat nearest Prince Caelen. Retrospectively, the thought struck him as pathetic. Neither Elian nor Lord Rennick would occupy that particular privilege.
Arriving at the Academy courtyard, Elian found their formidable carriage waiting. He ascended the polished steps, seeking their designated places. The rear bench, accommodating five, was already claimed by a boisterous group of classmates, Lord Gareth among them. Gareth offered a wave, then hesitated, his hand wavering towards Prince Caelen’s bench.
“Elian! A place here!”
“...Ah, yes.”
Of course. It had always been Elian’s place, by Caelen’s side. But today, a hesitation, cold and sharp, pierced him as he approached Prince Caelen’s bench. A sigh, almost silent, escaped him when he saw the seat beside Caelen remained unclaimed. He swallowed hard, a fresh surge of determination hardening his resolve.
It was his space. His pride—that fragile, stubborn thing he clung to—demanded he claim it, even after Caelen’s hand had been raised against him, for Kaelan’s sake.
He touched the smooth, polished wood of the bench back, a nervous tremor in his fingers. His gaze swept the opulent interior of the carriage, then he spoke, his voice quiet, almost a plea.
“Forgive me, Prince, this particular bench...”
“It is not for you. Seek another place.”
Before Elian could complete his sentence, Prince Caelen cut him off, his eyes fixed intently on the carriage entrance. Following Caelen’s unwavering gaze, Elian saw Lord Kaelan, timid and small, making his way towards them. Elian’s fists clenched, his unspoken words dying on his tongue.
“...Very well. As you wish.”
He attempted to infuse his tone with indifference, though his heart felt as though it had been flayed, laid bare.
He moved swiftly away from the coveted bench, his eyes scanning the carriage. An unoccupied spot presented itself near Lord Rennick’s group, directly opposite where Rennick sat. A wave of relief, potent and welcome, washed over Elian. He hurried over, collapsing onto the cushioned seat, speaking without preamble.
“Lord Rennick. Sit here, with me.”
No answer came. Looking closer, Elian realized Rennick had already succumbed to slumber. He always seemed to drift into sleep in the early hours, and this morning was no exception. Rennick’s head rested against the glass of the window, bouncing gently with each subtle sway of the carriage. Elian shook his head at the undignified posture, then carefully slid his leather purse between Rennick’s head and the cold pane. He leaned back into the plush, yet uncomfortable, seat.
Across the narrow aisle, a familiar shade of dark brown hair caught his eye. Prince Caelen’s. Taller than most, his presence was undeniable. Though Elian could not see clearly, he felt the heavy weight of it.