A week after the curious incident in the Arcane Duelling Hall, the aftermath of Lysander’s disappearance continued to ripple through the Academy. Not with the open clamor of scandal, but with a subtle, pervasive unease, like a poison seeping into the stone foundations.
Today, the object of unfortunate public display was a meticulously crafted Runesmithing automaton, built by a promising Third-Year acolyte named Elara. It lay in pieces, scattered across the public courtyard, its intricate brass gears and arcane circuitry irrevocably fused, a molten ruin. Whispers followed the perpetrator, a gaunt young man named Kael, who now trailed Lord Valerius’s retinue with an uncomfortably triumphant grin. He’d been observed later, openly boasting of the ‘accidental’ sabotage.
*How brazen,* Julian thought, observing from a shadowed archway. He held a bound text on elemental transmutations, its weight a familiar comfort. He saw Elara, her face pale, being consoled by a junior proctor. No one stepped forward to truly condemn Kael. The implication was clear: Elara lacked sufficient patronage to protect her work. Another cautionary tale.
Two days prior, Julian had meticulously cataloged the precise angle of Kael’s smirk, the nervous deference of the students around him. Elara had, in some quiet fashion, lost a battle without ever realizing she was fighting. The motive was simple, brutally clear. Initially, Julian had considered it mere petty jealousy, but the pervasive undercurrent of silent approval among Kael’s peers suggested something deeper. Elara’s proximity to Lysander, however fleeting, now painted her as a target. The tide of opinion had shifted, not against Kael, but against the unlucky victim.
Julian felt no compulsion to intercede. Such an act would only implicate him further, tie him to Elara’s dwindling fortunes. He was not so foolish as to ruin House Thorne’s delicate position with his own two hands. He knew precisely how such an intervention would be perceived. Perhaps kind, even loyal. But within the Academy’s intricate web, where reputations were currency, any such altruism would immediately raise a chilling question:
*Why?*
That chilling thought silenced any nascent impulse for intervention.
He rested his head against the cool stone of the archway, closing his eyes for a moment. He wished, fleetingly, that when he opened them, the world would conform to his desires. He was almost drifting into that quiet space between waking and sleep. Then, a sharp, resonant tap echoed against his forehead, startling him.
Julian jolted upright, his hand instinctively flying to the spot. Lord Orion Valerius stood before him, a faint, unsettling smirk playing on his lips. His own hand rested casually on the pommel of a polished obsidian staff, its tip still humming with residual arcane energy.
“Why are you slumbering first thing in the academic day, Thorne?” Orion drawled, his voice a low, melodic rumble.
“Merely contemplating, my Lord. Not sleeping,” Julian replied, his voice a calm, practiced counterpoint. He rubbed his forehead, subtly checking for any disarray in his carefully styled dark hair. Orion merely chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across flagstones.
Orion flicked his wrist, and the obsidian staff twirled once, then slammed its base against the stone floor with a reverberating thud. He then leaned against it, his posture impossibly languid, a predator at rest. His bag, crafted of fine dragonhide, was tossed onto a nearby bench, serving as an improvised armrest.
“You rouse me from contemplation merely to loiter?” Julian’s tone held a hint of calculated annoyance. He nudged a loose stone with the toe of his boot.
“I merely worried for your mental acuity, Thorne, ensuring you did not drowse through a vital observation. It matters little if I do. My own scores are already an amusing curiosity.”
“Hardly,” Julian murmured, twisting his body to face Orion more fully. Everything Orion said seemed to invite a measured rebuttal. He resisted the urge to push the other’s polished boot with his own. Orion’s smirk widened.
“Tell me, Thorne, is it permissible to disturb one still recovering from… an unfortunate incident?” The words were playful, yet laced with a subtle barb. Julian flinched internally, but his expression remained impassive.
Julian scoffed, the sound carefully calibrated for indifference. This time, he did lightly kick the base of Orion’s staff. It tilted, but without even shifting his weight, Orion merely tightened his grip, catching it effortlessly. He didn’t bother to alter his relaxed posture. Instead, he let out a low, silent laugh, then spoke, his voice dropping slightly.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“Yes, my Lord?”
“That wasn’t merely a stumble, was it?”
*Damn it all.* Was it that transparent? Julian had been so careful to conceal the lingering bruising, the residual stiffness. He hesitated for only a breath, then ran a hand over his jaw, affecting nonchalance.
“An unfortunate misstep, my Lord. A loose paving stone.”
“Hah.” Orion’s chin remained resting on the staff, but his eyes, sharp as obsidian shards, flicked to Julian. He pointed a long, elegant finger. “You are truly shameless, Thorne.”
Julian’s mind momentarily seized. *What is he implying?*
“What, my Lord, is shameless?”
“I don’t believe you merely fell.”
“…”
Orion’s words, usually cryptic, now carried a quiet, unsettling menace. His gaze was unnervingly still. Bright irises held dark pupils that bore into Julian. It was like watching the tip of an arrow, its trajectory uncertain, but undeniably aimed at him. Julian’s mind went blank. Two words hammered in his head: *No way. He couldn’t know. No way. He couldn’t know.*
Then, Orion’s eyes narrowed further.
“It looked more like you ran into something… or someone.”
His long, serpentine eyes curved upward at the corners. Julian’s throat dried. His breath hitched in his chest. A silent gulp. Orion parted his lips, and Julian couldn’t even blink.
“If the others were to discover the truth, it would be quite… undignified, wouldn’t it?”
“…”
“I shall endeavor to keep your secret.” Orion raised the hand holding his staff to his lips, whispering the words, then gave a slow, deliberate wink. The breath Julian had been holding slammed against his ribs like a caged beast.
Orion didn’t wait for a reaction. He casually ran a hand through his dark, artfully disheveled hair, then pointed at Julian again.
“But did you truly attempt to emulate my coiffure, Thorne? A rather pedestrian effort, I must say.”
Julian was utterly speechless. Orion crinkled his nose in exaggerated disapproval.
“Anyway, I intend to observe the courtyard from this vantage point for a while.” He settled back against his staff, closing his eyes, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Staring at the powerful young Lord, Julian finally managed to mutter, “My Lord, I have not altered my hairstyle.”
“Oh, indeed?” Orion’s muffled voice rumbled from behind his staff.
---
Fourth period. As soon as the Arcane Theory lecture concluded, the junior proctors distributed the quarterly academic commendations. Orion Valerius clutched his parchment in one hand, scanning the rankings, and suddenly let out a dramatic sigh.
“Ah, I’m quite thoroughly undone.”
Julian glanced at his own commendation, noted his top-tier scores, then folded it precisely in half and slipped it into the inner pocket of his finely tailored tunic. He looked back at Orion, who was still sighing, head thrown back, revealing the sharp line of his throat.
Julian, fixing his gaze on the bobbing Adam’s apple, remarked, “Your scores, my Lord, indicate a commendable grasp of Arcane Linguistics.”
“Who cares for mere linguistics? It’s the practical applications that truly matter, Thorne.” Then, Orion unexpectedly asked, “Tell me, Thorne, which House, truly, wields the greatest influence?”
Julian realized something peculiar about Lord Valerius—his concept of allegiance was strangely transactional.
“Why ask me, my Lord? Yours is a House of immense power.”
“Julian, don’t be coy. You are a scholar of repute. Surely, you understand the deeper currents.”
“I merely study the theoretical, my Lord. House Thorne’s influence is… historical.”
Orion, who had been leaning back with insolent grace, suddenly snapped forward. Their eyes met, and before Julian could consciously register it, he instinctively averted his gaze towards the bustling Academy grounds outside the window, pretending interest in a passing sky-chariot. Yet, a sharp prickling sensation spread across his chest, as if he’d been caught in a forbidden act.
He stared absently out the window, then shifted his focus towards the immaculate collar of Orion’s tunic. The crisp, dark fabric rested against his neck, but with every exaggerated movement, the elegant line of his collarbone flashed into view.
“So? Care to join me at the House Valerius evening soirée, Thorne?”
“My Lord, I am not accustomed to such grand gatherings.”
“Ah, why not? Come. One attends the Valerius gatherings, and they are showered with favor. Access to restricted archives, introductions to influential patrons, the occasional secure passage through administrative scrutiny…”
“My Lord, do not tell me you attend for such… practical reasons?” Julian raised an eyebrow, a subtle challenge.
“Of course, Thorne. How else does one begin? One does not commence with grand ideological fealty. One considers, ‘Ah, they offer unparalleled opportunities. This House must be exceptionally strong.’ And then, little by little, their respect for that ‘strong House with generous patronage’ blossoms into unshakeable allegiance. The initial motivation, the process itself, these are inconsequential. What matters is that now, I *am* pledged.”
Orion Valerius, Julian thought, often spouted such brazen pronouncements. Sometimes, it was simple arrogance. But sometimes, it was the kind of ruthless pragmatism that even Julian, with all his ingrained loyalty to House Thorne’s legacy, found himself tempted by. This, he realized, was the latter.
He ran a hand through his carefully swept-back hair. But a few stubborn strands kept falling into his eyes, so he shook his head, once, sharply. His thin dark hair swayed. He gathered the errant strands near his temples, and finally, the tickling sensation lessened. He had been so distracted lately that he’d forgotten to trim his hair.
With Lysander and Cassian absent, the front of their lecture hall, where they often sat, felt noticeably emptier. There was no longer any reason to glance in that direction.
Six days ago, one of the Imperial Proctors had summoned Julian to their office, inquiring if he had heard from Lysander.
Julian answered honestly, without hesitation. “No, Proconsul. I have not.”
“You still haven’t mended your… differences with Lysander, then?”
Julian offered a small, bitter smile, perfectly calculated. In truth, his heart felt anything but light.
“No, Proconsul. Lysander… was rather incensed with me.”
“Lysander was incensed with *you*?” The Proconsul’s brow furrowed.
“Indeed.”
Rumors already circulated, so the Proconsul was not entirely oblivious to the implications of Julian’s words. “Very well, Thorne. You may return to your studies.” As he sat down, the Proconsul muttered under his breath. Judging by the snippets Julian caught, it was mostly complaints about Lysander’s unpredictable nature and frustration over a reprimand from House Aethel’s seneschal.
Julian pretended not to hear the pathetic monologue and turned away, but he still listened, subtly. That was how he grasped the full, tense atmosphere within the Proconsul’s office.
Later, after his private study session at the House Thorne library, Lysander’s own father, the formidable Lord Aethel, called him. He asked the same question as the Proconsul—if Julian knew of Lysander’s whereabouts.
Julian gave him the same, carefully worded answer. “No, Lord Aethel. Lysander has not reached out to me.”
— *I see…*
“I am truly sorry I cannot be of any assistance.”
— *No, Thorne. There is nothing for you to apologize for. It is quite alright.*”
Lately, Lord Aethel had been calling more frequently than usual. And each time, the conversation unfolded in the same, strangely deliberate manner. There was something unnervingly persistent about the way he kept trying to tie Lysander and Julian together. Julian had hurried to end the call.
Honestly, there was nothing for him to apologize for. But he offered his regrets anyway—to be perceived favorably. It was the same instinct that compelled courtiers to praise an unsightly heirloom. A social convention. A form of etiquette that facilitated a civilized, if ruthless, society.
He didn’t believe adults saw him as a fool. If anything, his politeness was more akin to a refined pantomime performed by a skilled scholar. He always knew his place. And since he put in the effort to be liked, to appear diligent and harmless, he was bound to become a well-regarded, trusted figure.
Even if, one day, he made a mistake so blatant it caused powerful brows to wrinkle, they would likely forgive him. That was the groundwork he meticulously laid.
Unlike some ill-advised students, Julian Thorne was navigating his life with calculated precision. Perhaps, from an Archon’s perspective, his way of thinking was nothing more than a narrow-minded, petty trick to wriggle out of trouble. But among his peers, it was undeniable—he was someone who knew how to handle unpredictable situations with subtle wisdom.
If proof were needed, one only had to observe young Master Cassian’s former associate, Lord Kael.
---
Lord Kael, now openly ingratiating himself with Orion Valerius’s faction, was the most desperate to secure his new patron’s favor. Because of that, he now also affected a strange friendliness toward Julian, recognizing Julian’s newfound, if uneasy, association with Lord Valerius. Though Kael had once been among Cassian’s more vocal supporters, he was now making it very clear that his loyalties had shifted.