A sudden, unbidden curiosity seized me, a thought like a sliver of ice in the depths of my mind. I found myself pondering the route Lord Lysander Blackwood and Lord Alaric Vane took from the Imperial Arcane Academy each day. This was not a profound academic inquiry, merely the idle pique of a heart entangled in unwanted sentiment. From casual observation, it never appeared Lord Lysander walked abreast of Lord Alaric. No, the scion of House Blackwood always lingered a step or two behind, a shadow rather than a companion. Yet, the image persisted: Lysander, a fully-grown man, potent with burgeoning arcane power, trailing Alaric as if tethered by an unseen thread. Indulging this nascent curiosity brought a prickle of unease. It felt like prising open a forbidden grimoire, one sealed against all reason. A tiny coffer containing not just despair, but a cruel, mocking hope that surpassed it. Despite this chilling premonition, the urge to glimpse inside was irresistible. "...I must be losing my wits." Indeed, my judgment had deserted me. Nevertheless, after the day's final lecture on ancient warding spells, I followed Lysander. My pursuit did not last long. Moving with a scholar's practiced stealth, careful to avoid Alaric's notice, I watched Lysander. His gaze was fixed on Alaric’s retreating back. They navigated the Academy’s peripheral pathways, past cracked cobblestones and weather-worn gargoyles, beneath archways where fading sigils barely clung to the stone. These were the less grand, more utilitarian sections, far from the polished marble of the main noble quadrangles. Two figures in such a humble setting: Alaric leading, Lysander following, and I, a distant observer. Everything about the scene struck me as pathetic, utterly devoid of dignity. I turned away. My chest tightened, a familiar pressure. --- Later, within the hushed confines of my study, the aether-light fixture above casting intricate shadows, I found a measure of satisfaction in my retreat. Curiosity, a dangerous daemon, had been quelled before it could unleash true chaos. Who knew what further indignities, what unsettling truths, I might have witnessed had I persisted? Better this way. Better not to know. I was not so foolish as to shatter Pandora's Box for a fleeting impulse. Lysander’s fixation on Alaric only intensified with each passing week. Alaric, for his part, still seemed to harbor a deep-seated apprehension, perhaps even outright disdain, for Lysander. A flicker of satisfaction warmed me; Alaric's hatred, after all Lysander's unwarranted provocations and displays of dominance, felt entirely justified. My decision not to intervene in Lysander's earlier cruelties now felt like a perverse stroke of foresight. Lacing my fingers behind my head, I reclined in my plush chair, staring at the crystal lamp. Its facets refracted the light into a thousand miniature suns, a stark reminder of my fortunate existence. Born into wealth, cherished as the only heir to House Thorne, I had rarely been denied anything my heart desired. "...Damn it all." I once believed I could achieve anything. That conviction shattered the moment I succumbed to this absurd affection for Lord Lysander Blackwood. That man had become the cruel reality, the unyielding wall demonstrating life’s capriciousness. And I felt a bitter certainty Lysander himself was now learning that same harsh lesson. Ah, the world could be mercilessly cruel. At least I, Julian Thorne, had mastered the art of control, the intricate dance of concealing my feelings. Lysander, however, was so consumed by his own turbulent emotions that he remained oblivious to the stark, almost feral hunger in his gaze when he looked at Alaric. That sudden, abnormal surge of possessiveness must have been disorienting for him. I understood his turmoil intimately; I had endured it myself. But where I had suppressed, Lysander only acted. Instead of seeking Alaric’s favor, he merely earned his abhorrence. For me, this twisted dynamic worked quite well. "Please, just remain so utterly blind," I murmured to the empty air. Or better yet, let Alaric weary of the whole ordeal and simply depart the Academy, severing all ties. I did not wish for Lysander to turn his affections toward me. No, this species of devotion terrified me. I harbored but one wish: for a day to arrive when this wretched love for Lysander withered and died within me, and for Lysander to find his own peculiar brand of solace elsewhere. That was all. But of course, the world rarely bends to such simple desires. --- Another unsettling shift came to pass. Lysander relocated his seat within the Grand Arcanum Lecture Hall. Of all the vacant positions, he chose the one directly in front of Alaric’s customary place. A truly inconvenient spot, considering his imposing stature; he quite effectively blocked Alaric’s view of the teaching dais. Alaric’s original seatmate, a minor noble of House Cynos, offered Kaelen and me an awkward, strained greeting, his expression a mingling of embarrassment and discomfort. "Greetings, Lords." Kaelen and I exchanged a brief, almost imperceptible glance, then offered curt nods. My gaze remained impassive. "Haha..." The nervous laugh hung in the air, a fragile thing, but neither of us responded. We held no interest in polite pleasantries. Lysander settled beside Alaric without uttering a single word, maintaining a profound silence throughout the lecture. And I hoped – no, I desperately wished – that we might persist like this, suspended in this awkward tension, for another year and a half. That someday, this moment would dissolve into nothing more than a vague, forgotten dream. Further changes manifested. Lysander, who had once spent his weekends indulging in wild, nocturnal dalliances, finally curtailed that particular pastime. Or so it appeared. From snippets of gossip Kaelen’s coterie shared, he hadn't ceased entirely. But at least the boastful accounts of his conquests no longer echoed through the hall, nor did the faint, cloying scent of unbridled revelry cling to his robes. For me, this was a small mercy. I no longer had to endure the close proximity of his escapades. "Lysander. Not going to chase shadows again? Like this?" Seraphina of House Valerius, a striking noble student, swayed her hips provocatively before Lysander. Her hands, adorned with delicate rings, hovered near her robes' cinched waist, performing a crude, suggestive pantomime. Lysander’s face contorted with disgust at the vulgar display. He glanced sharply toward Alaric, then roared, his voice cutting through the subdued chatter. "You absolute imbecile! I told you not to flaunt such filth in public!" "Why this sudden shyness, my Lord? Has your reputation grown too grand for common delights?" "If you utter another word on that matter, Seraphina, consider yourself dead." "Lysander, dearest—" "I said, silence!" "...Fine, whatever you say." Others in the group were visibly disappointed. Lysander, with his tall frame and mature aura, had once been the perfect conduit for the burgeoning curiosities of young nobles brimming with restless energy. The scions and scionesses in Lysander and Kaelen’s informal circle were not entirely uninitiated; many had already fumbled through clumsy experiences. Compared to utterly ignorant innocents, they were more easily stirred. With Lysander no longer sharing his exploits, their attention drifted to Kaelen. But Kaelen only bared his teeth, his expression one of pure revulsion. "You filthy perverts." "Ah, there he goes again! Kaelen’s on his high horse." "He’s a fanatic, honestly. What a waste of good lineage." Laughter rippled through the hall, loud and fleeting. Most of the young lords and ladies in the group had, at some point, ventured into forbidden territories, but Kaelen Varr, for reasons unknown, had not. While we playfully teased him as an 'untouched scholar,' no one genuinely disrespected him. He was Kaelen Varr, after all. At the same time, Kaelen possessed a lighthearted, almost careless attitude about everything, which made his blunt actions seem casual, his sharp words easy to dismiss. Many found this either charming or refreshingly approachable, often remarking how his easygoing manner belied his intimidating features. "You lout, stop glaring at me like that. You’ll make me break my solemn vow." "Indeed, that fellow’s gaze could curdle milk." "Do you scurrilous wretches have a death wish?" Kaelen scowled, and the group burst into laughter again, though there was little true humor in it. Some lesser scions lingering at the back of the chamber, perhaps his acquaintances—or less than that—joined in with their feigned amusement, adding to the general din. As I sat among them, I stared blankly at my own clasped hands, lost in thought. ... If my memory serves, I have never felt a flicker of desire for a woman. I suppose that renders me, by default, bound to my own kind, from birth. Certainly, I have felt stirred watching certain arcane scrying spells depicting both men and women entwined, but never once have I fantasized about a woman’s form while in a moment of solitary indulgence. The former seemed more about the raw intensity of the situation, while the latter revealed a simple, profound lack of yearning. I had once been dragged to a clandestine parlor, a den of pleasure Lysander had frequented, but I didn’t even make it past the antechamber. My forged identification for a 'mature' establishment was entirely unconvincing. Instead, I waited outside until Lysander emerged. Brothels? Disgusting. The mere thought of such a place repulsed me. I often wondered what twisted impulse drove others there. Because of all this, the others in the group jokingly labeled me “Abstinent Thorne,” but in truth, my abstinence felt less like a choice and more like a forced reality. A small sigh escaped my lips. The others were too preoccupied with Kaelen’s indignant retorts to notice. Seizing the moment, I glanced at Lysander, who sat in silent intensity. His gaze, as ever, was fixed upon the back of Alaric Vane’s head, where Alaric diligently reviewed his notes across the hall. And, as always, I regretted it. Why had I looked? Why did I allow curiosity to sting me so? To distract myself, I posed a pointless question to Kaelen. "So, Kaelen, do you genuinely intend to remain untouched until you formally enter a bond?" Kaelen, who was draped in his chair with an air of absolute ownership, suddenly looked directly at my hands, resting in my lap. His gaze was so persistent, so unnervingly focused, that I instinctively crossed my legs, a ridiculous attempt to shield myself. What in the Abyss? "You are not my betrothed, Julian, so why the sudden interest? What, are you offering to break my oath?" ... Of course. That rogue always deployed such malicious jests. The others chuckled, and I delivered a swift kick to Kaelen’s shin beneath the table. Thus, my days unfolded – a ceaseless repetition, each moment an echo of the last. --- Alone in my chambers, the silence often allows my mind to wander, contemplating all manner of intricate scenarios. Inevitably, these thoughts sometimes drift into strange, disquieting fantasies. Today, I found myself wondering what my life might have been had I fallen for Kaelen Varr instead of Lysander Blackwood. It seemed, even in the abstract, a far more tolerable situation. If my heart ached for Kaelen, I would at least be spared the heartbreak wrought by Lysander’s messy entanglements with other nobles. Even so, I would still know heartbreak. Neither Lysander Blackwood nor Kaelen Varr would ever return my affections, after all. But at least my heart would not twist in agony at the sight of Lord Alaric Vane. That particular train of thought always led, inexorably, to feelings of inferiority and a dull, simmering anger. In the end, I simply wished I could graduate swiftly and become a stranger to Lord Lysander Blackwood. --- At some indeterminate point, I began unconsciously placing my hands beneath my desk whenever I sat down. This habit truly solidified in my second year of arcane tutelage, and the impetus was always the same – the burgeoning, undeniable presence of men. As I absently fiddled with the ornate clasp of an ancient grimoire I was meant to be studying, my thoughts drifted. Should I? Or should I not? The faint metallic click of the clasp against my nails filled the quiet room. Just as I applied a tentative pressure with my thumb, intending to unfasten it, a gentle knock sounded at my chamber door. "Jules! Are you immersed in your studies?" "...Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!" My heart nearly leaped from my chest. Today was definitively not the day. Mortified, I buried my face in my arms. Damn it all. --- Lately, Lord Lysander Blackwood has become an unbearable irritant. Sometimes, when Alaric glanced my way, Lysander would deliberately initiate a conversation with him. Alaric, caught squarely in the middle, would flicker his eyes toward me, his lips parting as if to speak, only to press them shut again. Then, as if wary of Lysander’s palpable presence, he would lower his head and offer an answer in the faintest whisper. "Y-yes..." Just like that. A simple, almost pathetic acquiescence. Alaric, however, subtly sought me out more often and, to my surprise, began calling me "Jules." Aside from my family, almost no one addressed me by that familial diminutive, so the change was remarkably conspicuous. He seemed convinced he was being discreet, but his efforts were transparent. The most infuriating part was Lysander’s utter inability to conceal his discomfort whenever Alaric performed anything remotely daring. "Lord Alaric Vane, cease bothering Julian Thorne while he attempts to study." "What?" "I said, stop bothering him. Is that so difficult to comprehend?" "Oh... uh, y-yes..." When Alaric stammered and pointedly avoided his gaze, Lysander, with childish immaturity, slammed his fist against the desk leg beside him. I pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, the utterly clueless Alaric seemed to believe no one cared about his use of "Jules" anymore. He grew bolder, casually employing it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Uh, Jules... my apologies for interrupting your focus." I stiffened, staring at him in utter disbelief. Had he lost his mind? Lysander was seated directly beside him. Sure enough, Lysander pounded his fist on the desk again. Damn it. "Lord Alaric Vane!" "...Huh?" The atmosphere turned sour, thick with impending storm. "I warned you." Lysander’s anger was blatant, a raw, visible force. "I instructed you not to address him as 'Jules,' did I not?" "...W-well..." "Refer to him as Julian Thorne. That is his given name – Julian Thorne." His gaze, sharp and almost predatory, swung to me. I despised that look, and instinctively lowered my head, my shoulders hunching. At that precise moment, Kaelen Varr, seated beside me, casually draped his arm over my shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near my ear. "Lysander Blackwood, if you persist in this manner, you will truly unravel your own ambitions." "What in the Nine Hells are you muttering about?" "I am merely stating that you will live to regret this." Kaelen smirked, and I felt a brief, inexplicable flicker of irritation. For one reason only. Lysander Blackwood, this futile display will achieve nothing.

A Serpent's Shadow