A potent balm, a restorative unguent of alchemically charged lunar thistle, had worked its silent miracle. When Julian rose, the faint throb in his cheek had receded. The swelling, once an angry, purpling welt, was now a mere bluish shadow, a bruise that could easily be dismissed as a minor mishap, a clumsy brush against a doorframe. It was… manageable.
He dressed with a renewed, albeit fragile, sense of composure. The weight in his chest had lightened, if only by a fraction. Today, he would return to the Academy.
Yet, the moment Julian stepped into the main Lecture Hall, the atmosphere seemed to congeal. It hung heavy, thick with an unspoken tension, a palpable unease that prickled at his senses. Lord Kaelen Varrick was already there, a dark, still presence at the front of the room.
Julian’s gaze, almost involuntarily, darted across the rows of polished mahogany. He scanned for Lysander, his heart a tight knot of dread and a bizarre, unwelcome curiosity. Just as the Prefect called for attention, Lysander slipped through the archway, narrowly avoiding censure for tardiness.
Julian’s breath hitched. He forgot to blink.
Yesterday, a bitter part of him had conjured cruel images, a fleeting wish that Kaelen, in his rage, might have struck Lysander too. Seeing him now, Julian felt a crushing wave of self-loathing. Lysander’s face was a ruin. His delicate lower lip was split, a dark scab forming, and one eye was swollen to a grotesque puffiness, far worse than Julian’s own injury had ever been. A suffocating sense of shame washed over Julian, burning hotter than any slap. How could he have harbored such childish, vindictive thoughts?
“By the Mother Crystal…” Julian murmured, the words barely a whisper.
Lysander entered hesitantly, his eyes, the one still visible, darting nervously around the room. Then, as if tethered by an unseen thread, his gaze snagged on Julian’s. He froze, his expression locking into a startled grimace, a flicker of pain and shame. He quickly averted his eyes, shuffling to his usual seat beside Kaelen, shrinking into himself.
“What in the Void…”
That strange, evasive reaction left Julian with a disquieting chill. He instinctively glanced around the room. The reason became immediately, painfully clear. Lord Kaelen Varrick was glaring at him, a predatory glint in his eyes that promised slow, agonizing retribution.
“Damn it all.” Regret, sharp and sudden, pierced through him. He should have feigned illness, remained cloistered in his rooms.
After that grim morning, Lysander, who had, until recently, sought Julian’s company with timid eagerness, avoided him entirely during breaks. At midday, he disappeared from the Refectory, vanishing with Kaelen to some undisclosed corner of the Academy grounds.
Left to his own devices, Julian found himself, once again, sharing a table with Lord Alaric. A restless urge clawed at him, a desperate need to find Lysander, to confirm his safety. But a colder, more pragmatic part of him held back. He hated to admit it, but he was too afraid. Afraid of what he might witness. Surely, Kaelen wouldn’t be hitting him again… Right? It wasn’t truly Julian’s place to interfere, yet the image of Lysander’s battered face made indifference impossible.
Lord Alaric, oblivious to the storm raging within Julian, maintained his usual amiable banter, a light counterpoint to the oppressive mood.
“See? I told you the air was thick enough to carve with a ceremonial dagger. I nearly choked on my morning brew.” Alaric took a slow sip of his own spiced nectar.
“You seemed quite unbothered when you offered me that candied ginger yesterday.” Julian’s voice was clipped, betraying his irritation.
“Give me some credit, Thorne. I merely concealed my disquiet. A master of composure, that’s me.” Alaric winked, a playful glint in his eyes. “My house demands it, you understand.”
Julian, sighing, nudged Alaric’s calf beneath the table with his foot. Alaric simply chuckled, rubbing his chin with a contemplative air, a flicker of something Julian couldn’t quite decipher in his gaze. It couldn’t be right. Alaric was always so straightforward.
---
Life was truly an unpredictable current. From their very first, rather vexed, encounter, Julian had harbored no intention of cultivating any closeness with Lord Alaric. In truth, he hadn’t much cared for him at all. And yet, here they were. Alaric, in his own peculiar way, had become the closest thing to a confidant Julian possessed.
Alaric’s lighthearted demeanor, his flippant remarks, held a curious power. They kept Julian from sinking too deeply into the crushing weight of his anxieties, the labyrinthine machinations of noble politics and arcane power.
In the past, Julian would have scorned these very qualities, dismissing Alaric as shallow, unserious, unworthy of the Academy’s prestige. But now, he found himself relying on that very levity, a tether to keep his spiraling thoughts grounded. Had Kaelen and he remained close, remained the inseparable pair, Julian might never have realized the quiet, unexpected strength he drew from Alaric’s presence.
After that day, Kaelen began to isolate himself further from their usual circle. Sometimes, he’d vanish with Lysander. Other times, a select few of their peers would accompany them. There were even instances when some outright refused, their expressions uneasy, shaking their heads with a chilling mixture of fear and distaste.
Lord Theron, a scion from a lesser but ambitious house, was one such instance. Julian encountered him scrambling over a low parapet near the Academy’s lower gardens, clearly attempting to avoid a Prefect patrol. Theron, with a hurried, almost conspiratorial air, confessed that Kaelen had been ordering the others, one by one, to strike Lysander. Julian’s face twisted in disbelief, a wave of cold horror washing over him. Theron, sensing his reaction, quickly added that he’d been avoiding Kaelen’s group for weeks now because of it. He mentioned he was on his way to the Aethernet Lounge with Lord Vayne and hastily departed, urging Julian not to misunderstand.
Lord Vayne, a quiet, studious youth, had been close to Kaelen during their first year. But after being assigned to different Arcane Houses, their bond had noticeably frayed.
Later, at midday, Julian and Alaric sought a moment of quiet in the Academy’s enclosed courtyard. They purchased chilled sweetened elixirs from a passing vendor. The cold sweetness spread across Julian’s tongue, offering a momentary, fleeting solace. But beneath that brief reprieve, a bitter knot of unease tightened in his chest. Still, he maintained his composure, determined not to betray his inner turmoil.
“Is that palatable?” Alaric, already half-finished with his own brightly colored potion, eyed Julian’s with a curious hunger.
“Would you care to sample?” Julian, half-teasing, brought his goblet, sticky with his own touch, close to Alaric’s lips. Without hesitation, Alaric smirked, a corner of his mouth lifting, and took a deep draught.
“Hey! Did you truly…?”
“You offered.”
“That’s… uncouth. And why such a prodigious sip?”
“It was but a single measure.” Grinning, Alaric shrugged, unrepentant. It was a rare, peaceful interlude. In stark contrast to Julian’s internal chaos, the crisp autumn air was clear, the sky a serene azure.
Where were Kaelen and Lysander now? A few places within the Academy’s labyrinthine halls sprang to mind, but Julian didn’t go looking. Perhaps he was afraid of what truth he might uncover.
He tried his utmost not to think of Kaelen. But the harder he strove, the more acutely he realized just how much space the man occupied within his mind, a sprawling, toxic vine that had rooted itself deep.
How long would it take to excise such a presence? How much agonizing effort would it demand? Julian did not know. It felt like being adrift in a vast, arid desert, not merely sorrowful and suffocating, but terrifying, an unbearable desolation.
Sometimes, he retreated within himself, like a scholar grappling with a complex sigil, stepping back to discern the elusive patterns. When the weight became too overwhelming, he would, occasionally, confide a fragment of his turmoil to Alaric. And, well, that was that.
Abruptly, Julian addressed him. “Alaric.”
“Julian?”
“…Do you believe blossoms might ever unfurl in a barren wasteland?”
The question was so raw, so utterly bereft of his usual scholarly detachment, that Julian felt a flush of embarrassment the moment the words left his lips. He scratched at his temple, awkward. But Alaric did not mock him.
“They will.”
“…”
“They must. Existence, as it is, holds enough… sharp edges.” Hearing those simple words from Alaric—a man Julian had never imagined capable of such depth—made him realize just how futile his desperate hope was. How much time would it take for him to relinquish these meaningless attachments?
“…Indeed. Existence is often cruel.”
Kaelen Varrick. That reckless, destructive scion. Why did he seem so intent on breaking the loyal, devoted part of Julian that still stirred every time their paths crossed? Kaelen, who appeared to have abandoned all the basic decorum expected of an Academy student, now came and went as he pleased. And always, by his side, a pale, silent shadow, was Lysander.
As the situation grew increasingly suspicious, the Lecture Hall buzzed with a simmering mixture of unease and hushed intrigue. It became undeniably clear: Kaelen’s violence was escalating. And so, too, was the fog of resentment toward him, slowly spreading throughout their class. None of it felt right.
Thus, when Julian saw Kaelen dragging Lysander by the wrist down the grand hallway, he stopped in his tracks. Watching them, his gaze flickered between Kaelen’s hard profile and Lysander’s slumped form, before he finally spoke, his voice surprisingly steady.
“Your House Lord is concerned for your comportment, Kaelen.” It was not an apology, nor was it flattery—it was a lie. The extent of Julian’s battered pride would allow nothing more. But since Kaelen had always held a strained relationship with his father, he likely wouldn’t discern the falsehood. And even if he did, Julian could always argue that, at this rate, Kaelen’s father would soon have ample cause for concern.
He always made sure to leave himself an escape route.
“If someone is to bear the brunt of your… displeasure, ensure it is only you. What transgression has Lysander committed?”
“Move, Thorne.” The moment Julian uttered Lysander’s name, Kaelen’s gaze locked onto him, sharp as a drawn blade. Julian’s chest felt as though it would burst from the sheer pressure of Kaelen’s enmity. He despised Kaelen. And yet, pitiful, pathetic Lysander stood glued to Kaelen’s side, his eyes, brimmed with unshed tears, looking at Julian as though he might shatter at any moment.
“Unless you desire to suffer another… lesson, as you did last time, remove yourself.”
“K-Kaelen, please,” Lysander stammered, his voice trembling, a desperate plea. Only then did Kaelen cease his threats. His gaze, now singular in its focus, settled solely on Lysander. Julian could only see the rigid line of Kaelen’s back as he turned away from him.
“L-Lord Varrick, I said, your father is worr—”
“…”
Lysander, on the precipice of tears, clutched at Kaelen’s arm, attempting to halt his advance. Watching that piteous scene unfold was unbearable. It was so excruciating that Julian closed his eyes, a desperate attempt to sever the connection.
After a long moment, Kaelen finally looked at Lysander, then turned and walked back into the Lecture Hall. For the remainder of the day, he remained there—a chilling echo of a few weeks prior, when he had first begun to withdraw.
---
The long-anticipated day of the Imperial Arcane Exhibition had arrived. A grand, magically enhanced shuttle-car had been chartered to transport them to the outlying Imperial Archives Annex, where ancient relics and newly discovered artifacts were displayed. While a few students grumbled about being dragged away from their practical magical studies, most were exhilarated by the chance to escape the Academy’s confines, even for a single day.
There was no need to pack provisions; they would return shortly after the exhibition concluded. The Prefects offered only a few half-hearted warnings before releasing them. They were not mere initiates anymore. There was no giddy excitement keeping Julian awake the night before. He viewed it as just another academic outing—depart without a tome, return without a tome. But he had no inkling that today would be the day his bottled-up frustrations, his desperate hopes, would finally shatter. He had always anticipated its eventual demise, but never with such abrupt, brutal force.
As was their established custom, Julian expected to sit beside Kaelen whenever they were not confined to the formal Lecture Hall. After all, Julian had, for years, been Kaelen’s closest companion, his most trusted confidant. He hadn’t even considered where Alaric would sit, as he had never traveled by shuttle-car with him before.
At first, a familiar unease stirred in Julian, a baseless fear that Alaric might somehow claim the seat nearest Kaelen. Reflecting on it now, such a thought felt utterly pathetic. Neither Julian nor Alaric would ultimately occupy that particular spot.
When they arrived at the shuttle-car platform, Julian found their assigned vehicle already humming with latent arcane energy. He climbed aboard, seeking their customary seats. The five rear benches were already claimed by a boisterous group of classmates, including Lord Theron, who waved at Julian, then hesitated, his gaze drifting towards Kaelen’s preferred bench.
“Thorne! There’s space here!” Theron called out, a strange hesitancy in his tone.
“…Right.” Of course. Julian had always been the one to sit beside Kaelen. But today, a tremor of apprehension ran through him as he approached Kaelen’s bench. He exhaled slowly, a faint wave of relief washing over him when he saw that the space beside Kaelen was still empty. Swallowing hard, he felt a twinge of desperate determination.
It was his place. His pride—the last, fragile shard of his self-worth he stubbornly clung to—compelled him to claim it, even after Kaelen had struck him because of Lysander.
He nervously touched the smooth, enchanted leather of the seat for a moment, his eyes sweeping across the other occupants of the shuttle-car, before quietly asking, “Kaelen… This seat…”
“It is not reserved for you, Thorne. Seek another position.” Before Julian could even finish his question, Kaelen cut him off, his gaze fixed stonily on the shuttle-car entrance. Following Kaelen’s line of sight, Julian saw Lysander timidly making his way toward them. Julian clenched his fists, the words he had intended to utter dying in his throat.
“…Very well. As you wish.” He tried to infuse his voice with an indifferent tone, though his heart felt as though it had been shredded into countless, jagged pieces.
He quickly retreated from the bench, his eyes frantically searching the shuttle-car. He spotted an empty space near Alaric’s small group, directly in front of where Alaric was already seated. Relieved, Julian hurried over, dropping into the seat, and spoke without waiting for a response. “Alaric. Join me.”
There was no answer. When Julian looked closer, he realized Alaric was already fast asleep, his head resting against the enchanted window, bouncing gently with every subtle tremor of the shuttle-car. Alaric always seemed to doze off during morning transits, and today was no exception. Shaking his head at Alaric’s absurdly relaxed posture, Julian carefully slid his coin pouch between Alaric’s head and the window, offering a small cushion. He leaned back into the unyielding seat.
Across the narrow aisle, Julian caught a glimpse of dark, rich brown hair. It was Kaelen’s—his height, more imposing than most of their peers, made him easy to distinguish. Though Julian could not clearly see their faces, he knew. Lysander was now seated beside him.