A morning’s light, diffuse through the arched windows of the Valerius solar, felt gentler than the preceding day. Swelling on Lyraeus’s cheek had receded, leaving only a faint discoloration beneath the skin, a ghost of the indignity he’d suffered. It was a bruise, yes, but one easily dismissed as the consequence of a clumsy fall, rather than a deliberate strike. He could face the Imperial Academy without drawing undue attention, a small comfort he clung to fiercely.
Yet, the Academy’s hallowed halls, usually a murmur of scholarly discourse, hung heavy with an unspoken tension. He felt it settle upon his shoulders the moment he stepped from his carriage, a cold weight far heavier than his remaining discomfort. Whispers, hushed and sharp, preceded him into the Grand Lecture Hall.
Instinctively, Lyraeus’s gaze sought out Theron of House Thorne. Theron, whose presence always seemed to precede Kael of House Volkov’s. Theron, who typically arrived with an almost desperate punctuality. Today, he was late, slipping in just as the Head Magister called the roll.
Lyraeus stilled, breath caught in his throat. He saw Theron’s face, and a fresh wave of nausea coiled in his gut. A jagged split marred Theron’s lower lip, a dark bruise blossoming beneath one eye, eclipsing the pale discoloration that had been on Lyraeus’s own face. This was no mere bump. This was a brutal tableau of suffering.
Guilt, cold and sharp, pierced Lyraeus. He had entertained, for a fleeting, petty moment, the thought that Theron deserved some measure of Kael’s wrath. Seeing the extent of the damage now, he felt a profound disgust with his own childish cruelty.
“By the Serpent’s Scales…” he murmured, the words catching in his throat.
Theron, his eyes darting nervously, moved with a hesitant shuffle toward his designated bench. An invisible thread seemed to pull his gaze across the chamber, fixing it upon Lyraeus. For a prolonged, excruciating moment, their eyes met. Theron’s expression locked into a startled grimace, a flicker of raw fear. He wrenched his head away, his movements stiff, as if repulsed, before slumping onto his seat, his back to Lyraeus.
That odd, visceral rejection left Lyraeus with a prickle of unease. A glance across the hall clarified the strange reaction. Lord Kael, seated with an insolent slouch, glared daggers directly at Lyraeus, a predatory glint in his storm-grey eyes.
“Damn this all,” Lyraeus muttered. He should have feigned illness. The Academy felt less like a sanctuary of learning and more like a viper’s nest.
In the days that followed, Theron, who had once orbited Lyraeus with an almost slavish devotion, avoided his presence entirely during breaks. At the midday repast, he vanished from the communal dining hall, reappearing later, always at Lord Kael’s side.
Lyraeus, left to his own counsel, found himself at a small table with Ser Alaric. A gnawing urge to seek out Kael and Theron, to understand the shifting currents of their association, pricked at him. Yet, he quelled it. A part of him, an honest, fearful part, dreaded what he might witness.
Surely Kael would not resume his brutal discipline… not again, after the last incident. But Theron’s battered face, a persistent image in Lyraeus’s mind, made such hopes feel hollow.
Ser Alaric, ever the picture of insouciant ease, chattered through their meal, oblivious to the storm brewing within Lyraeus. His observations, usually about the questionable fashion choices of a minor Baroness or the surprisingly good vintage of the spiced wine, were a welcome distraction.
“A palpable tension in the air, wouldn’t you agree, Lyraeus? My nerves nearly frayed themselves into a common thread.” Alaric leaned back, a theatrical sigh escaping him.
“You seemed quite unperturbed enjoying that chilled sorbet yesterday, Alaric.” Lyraeus watched him, a corner of his mouth twitching.
“A performance, my friend. Utter dedication to the art of indifference. One must consume sorbet with conviction, even when one’s very soul trembles.” Alaric winked, a roguish grin splitting his face. “Especially when it’s meant to be savored.”
Lyraeus, unable to resist, nudged Alaric’s calf lightly under the table. Alaric feigned a pained expression, rubbing his chin. For a moment, Lyraeus thought he saw a flicker of something beneath the jocularity, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. He must have imagined it.
---
Life possessed an unnerving capriciousness. From their first, rather unfortunate encounter, Lyraeus had harbored no intention of cultivating any closeness with Ser Alaric. Indeed, he’d found Alaric’s irreverent wit and casual disregard for courtly decorum rather irritating. Yet, here they were, and Alaric had become an unexpected anchor.
Alaric’s lighthearted demeanor, his flippant dismissal of grand pronouncements, possessed a curious power to prevent Lyraeus from drowning in the weighty currents of courtly anxiety.
Once, Lyraeus had scorned these very qualities, labeling Alaric as shallow, unserious. Now, he found himself relying on that levity, a precarious lifeline amidst the suffocating solemnity. Had Kael and Lyraeus’s friendship not fractured, he might never have recognized how profoundly he needed Alaric’s presence.
After that day, Kael began to withdraw from their usual circle. Sometimes, he’d disappear with Theron in tow, his voice a low, insistent rumble. Other times, a select few from their cohort would follow, their expressions a mix of unease and forced joviality. There were even moments when some pointedly refused, shaking their heads with visible reluctance.
Dame Elara, a usually boisterous member of their academic set, was one such example. Lyraeus encountered her attempting to scale a low courtyard wall, presumably to avoid a particularly zealous Magister. With a mixture of amusement and genuine discomfort, Elara confided that Kael had been instructing others to administer “corrective measures” upon Theron—a blow here, a shove there. Lyraeus’s face twisted in disbelief. Elara, sensing his reaction, quickly added that she had been avoiding Kael’s company of late. She then mentioned her intent to visit a scribe’s guild with Master Joric, asking Lyraeus not to misunderstand her. With a hurried wave, she departed.
Master Joric, a scholar of some repute, had once been a close companion to Kael during their first year at the Academy. But assigned to different mentors, their paths had diverged.
At midday, Alaric and Lyraeus procured chilled sorbets from a vendor within the Academy grounds. The icy sweetness spread across Lyraeus’s tongue, offering a momentary balm. But beneath that fleeting relief, a bitter knot of unease tightened in his chest. He held his composure, determined not to betray his inner turmoil.
“A fine treat, this, isn’t it?” Alaric, engrossed in his own brightly colored citrus sorbet, eyed Lyraeus’s cup with a covetous glint.
“Care to sample?” Lyraeus, half-teasing, brought his sorbet—a little sticky from his own indulgence—close to Alaric’s lips. Without a moment’s hesitation, Alaric smirked, lifted a corner of his lip, and took a generous bite.
“Alaric! Did you truly?” Lyraeus exclaimed, a flush rising to his cheeks.
“You offered.” Alaric shrugged, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Disgusting… And such a large bite!”
“Just one.” Alaric grinned, shrugging a shoulder. The moment, despite Lyraeus’s internal chaos, was remarkably peaceful. The crisp autumn air, a stark contrast to his swirling thoughts, felt clear and calm.
Where were Kael and Theron now? Several locales within the Academy’s vast grounds came to mind, places where such ‘disciplinary actions’ might go unnoticed. Lyraeus did not go looking. Perhaps he truly feared what he might discover.
He tried his utmost to banish Kael from his thoughts. Yet, the harder he strove, the more vividly Kael’s presence consumed his mind. How long would it take to excise the remnants of an affection so thoroughly corrupted? How much effort would it demand? Lyraeus had no answer. It felt like being adrift in a vast, arid wilderness, not merely desolate, but terrifyingly, suffocatingly boundless.
Sometimes, Lyraeus retreated into the labyrinth of his own mind, like a cartographer lost in a foreign land, seeking patterns and meaning where none seemed to exist. When the pressure became too great, he spoke with Alaric. That, for now, was all.
Suddenly, a question escaped him.
“Alaric.”
“Hmm?”
“Do you believe that blossoms can ever grace a barren desert?” The words, so uncharacteristically raw, made Lyraeus flush with embarrassment the moment they left his lips. He scratched his head awkwardly, but Alaric did not mock him.
“They will.”
“...”
“They must. Life’s a wretched affair as it stands.” Alaric’s words, unexpectedly profound from a man Lyraeus had deemed incapable of such sentiment, struck a dissonant chord. How much longer before he could relinquish these futile, clinging emotions?
“Aye. Wretched indeed.”
Kael. That incorrigible brute. Why did he seem so intent on destroying the fervent loyalty Lyraeus had once held for him? Kael, who had abandoned even the most rudimentary tenets of courtly decorum, now came and went from the Academy as he pleased. And always, by his side, was Theron.
As the situation grew increasingly volatile, a palpable unease permeated their cohort. Kael’s violence, Lyraeus observed, was escalating. And with it, a creeping resentment toward him spread like a slow contagion through the academic ranks. None of it boded well.
So, when Lyraeus saw Kael dragging Theron by the wrist down a secluded corridor, he halted. His gaze shifted between their faces, before he finally spoke.
“Your father has expressed some disquiet over your recent conduct, Lord Kael.” It was not an apology, nor a plea. It was a calculated falsehood, a maneuver to protect his own pride. Kael, notoriously estranged from his stern father, would likely not discern the lie. And even if he did, Lyraeus could always argue that, at this rate, Kael’s father would soon have ample cause for concern.
He always ensured an escape route.
“If discipline is required, let it fall only upon you. What has Theron done to warrant such treatment?”
“Move aside, Valerius.” The mention of Theron’s name ignited a dangerous spark in Kael’s eyes. His gaze, colder than winter ice, locked onto Lyraeus. Lyraeus’s chest felt constricted, as if a great weight pressed upon him. He detested Kael. Yet, pitiful, pathetic Theron stood glued to Kael’s side, his eyes brimming with tears, looking at Lyraeus as if on the verge of collapsing.
“Unless you wish to experience a similar misfortune as before, Lyraeus, depart.” Kael’s voice was a low growl.
“K-Kael, please,” Theron stammered, his voice trembling as he clutched Kael’s arm. Only then did Kael’s tirade cease. His gaze, now solely focused on Theron, offered Lyraeus a glimpse of the back of his head as he turned away.
“As I said, your father is quite concerned—” Lyraeus began again, a desperate attempt to regain control.
Theron, tears streaming down his face, clung to Kael, pleading with him. Witnessing that wretched scene unfold was unbearable. It was so exquisitely painful that Lyraeus closed his eyes.
After a prolonged moment of tense silence, Kael looked at Theron, then spun on his heel and walked back into the Grand Lecture Hall. For the remainder of the day, he remained there, his presence a dark blot against the gilded walls, just as he had done weeks ago.
---
The long-anticipated day of the scholarly expedition had arrived. A convoy of imperial coaches, adorned with the crests of various noble houses, had been commissioned to transport their cohort to the Imperial Archives. While a few muttered discontent about interrupting their rigorous studies, most were exhilarated by the chance to escape the Academy’s confines, even for a single day.
No need for elaborate preparations; they would return before dusk. The Magisters issued only a few perfunctory warnings before releasing them. This was no middle school outing, filled with giddy anticipation. Lyraeus considered it simply another day – depart without excess, return likewise. He had no inkling that today would be the day his carefully bottled frustration would finally erupt, though he’d long suspected it was inevitable.
Custom dictated Lyraeus’s place beside Kael, whenever they were not within the formal setting of the lecture halls. After all, he had once been Kael’s closest confidante, his chosen companion. He hadn’t even considered Alaric’s seating arrangements, never having journeyed with him in such a formal setting.
At first, a tremor of apprehension ran through Lyraeus. He worried Alaric might, in his characteristic boldness, claim the spot nearest Kael. In retrospect, such a fear seemed pathetic. Neither Lyraeus nor Alaric would ultimately occupy that seat.
Upon reaching the cobbled courtyard, Lyraeus located their assigned coach. Climbing aboard, he surveyed the interior. The rear benches were already claimed by a boisterous group of classmates, among them Dame Elara, who waved enthusiastically before her gaze faltered, pointing subtly toward Kael’s seat.
“Lyraeus! There’s space here!” she called, her voice a little too bright.
“Ah, yes.” Of course. That had always been his designated place. Yet, today, a subtle hesitation gripped Lyraeus as he approached Kael’s bench. He exhaled a silent breath of relief upon seeing the seat next to Kael still empty. Swallowing hard, a flicker of stubborn resolve ignited within him.
It was his rightful place. His pride—the last bastion of his dignity—compelled him to claim it, even after the indignity he had endured at Kael’s hands over Theron.
Lyraeus’s fingers brushed the velvet upholstery, his gaze sweeping the coach interior, before he quietly ventured,
“Kael… this seat…”
“It is not yours, Valerius. Seek another berth.” Kael’s voice, devoid of warmth, cut Lyraeus off mid-sentence. His gaze remained fixed on the coach entrance. Following Kael’s line of sight, Lyraeus saw Theron, hesitating at the threshold, timidly making his way toward them. Lyraeus clenched his fists, the unspoken words dying in his throat.
“...Very well. As you wish.” He tried to infuse his voice with an indifferent tone, but his heart felt as though it had been flayed.
He retreated swiftly from the seat, scanning the coach once more. An empty spot beckoned near Alaric’s small cluster of acquaintances, directly opposite where his friend was now slumped. A rush of relief flooded Lyraeus as he hurried over, dropping onto the bench, speaking without waiting for a response.
“Alaric. Sit with me.”
Silence. Alaric, Lyraeus realized, was already lost to slumber. He seemed perpetually inclined to doze in the mornings, and this occasion was no exception. His head rested awkwardly against the window, swaying gently with every jostle of the coach. Lyraeus, shaking his head at Alaric’s ridiculous posture, slipped his small scholar’s pouch between Alaric’s head and the window pane. Then, he settled back into the uncomfortable, padded seat.
Across the aisle, Lyraeus caught a glimpse of dark, neatly braided hair. Kael’s. He was taller than most of their peers, making him an easy figure to pick out. Though the angle prevented a clear view, Lyraeus could feel Kael’s presence, a cold shadow cast across the coach’s opulent interior. His mind, ever the cartographer, began to map the new, treacherous landscape of their fractured association.