A raw ache settled in Elian’s cheek, a constant reminder of the carriage ride, of Cassian’s cutting words. But the physical pain was a trifle compared to the corrosive guilt. He pictured Barnaby Finch in the Scriptoria, face a landscape of violet and ochre bruises. Cassian Thorne had been there, a possessive shadow, confirming the escalating animosity. Elian was a pariah now, adrift from his former cohort, consumed by Barnaby’s escalating torment.
He endured, a scholar stranded in the very halls that once offered sanctuary. Sometimes, a flicker of resentment would spark within him, a petty outrage at the injustice of it all. Yet, these embers quickly died, smothered by his pervasive sense of inadequacy.
Cassian’s hostility towards him, Elian knew, stemmed from Barnaby’s unexpected presence. Cassian’s erratic behavior, his possessiveness, seemed to grow from the boy like a poisonous vine. It was an irrational thought, Elian conceded, to harbor resentment for Barnaby. The boy was a victim, battered and vulnerable. But emotions, Elian understood, rarely bowed to logic. Barnaby had become a scapegoat for his own profound unease, for the sudden chasm in his social standing. He’d never show such ill will, of course. Displaying open animosity would only confirm his weakness, his foolishness, in the eyes of others. It would only deepen Cassian’s contempt.
His interactions with Cassian’s former circle had become brittle. They offered polite, strained nods in the Refectory, hurried whispers in the corridors. Now, gazes shifted. He was perceived as belonging to Marius Volkov’s orbit, a peculiar satellite tethered by circumstance. Lord Aris, usually a withdrawn figure with an obsession for obscure genealogical charts, approached Elian one afternoon in the Great Library. Aris fidgeted with the cuff of his velvet doublet.
“Lord Elian,” Aris murmured, his voice barely audible above the rustle of turning pages. “Marius Volkov… he sought you earlier.”
“Did he?” Elian kept his gaze fixed on a folio of illuminated saints.
“Yes. No reason given. Just… asked.”
Conversations like these were always vague, purposeless. Aris, like others, seemed to be quietly seeking new affiliations, sensing the shift in the social currents around Cassian. He mumbled something again, closer now, leaning in as if sharing a conspiracy.
“Cassian Thorne… his manner with Finch is… unsettling, wouldn’t you agree? He practically chains the boy to his side.”
Elian’s hand tightened on the ancient binding. “I wouldn’t presume to comment on others’ conduct,” he replied, his voice carefully neutral. Aris recoiled slightly, the unspoken agreement evaporating. The boy shuffled away, seeking his secluded corner among forgotten tomes.
Later, in the empty Scriptoria, Marius Volkov stood by the tall, arched window, sunlight catching the dust motes dancing in the air. He leaned against the stone frame, arms crossed, observing Elian with that disconcertingly direct gaze of his. Elian bent over a vellum scroll, feigning intense study, his heart a frantic moth against his ribs. He always found Marius’s presence a challenge to his carefully constructed composure.
Marius broke the silence, his voice a low rumble. “Elian. A walk to the Observatory? The air is crisp.”
Elian pressed his lips together, his irritation at Marius’s casual disregard for the prevailing atmosphere making his own tone sharper. “You mean to wander alone? You usually do.”
“Perhaps. But the contemplation is sharper with company.” Marius pushed off the wall, a glint in his eye. He didn’t care for the unspoken rules, the delicate dance of Lumina’s aristocracy.
Elian picked up a quilled pen, turning it between his fingers. He had to ask, the thought a persistent itch. “Marius… why do you not spend your time with Cassian Thorne, these days?”
His question hung in the quiet chamber. Marius paused, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You and he… you quarreled, did you not?”
“I did.” Elian nodded, a bitter taste in his mouth. “I was the one he chose to… excise. But how does that concern you?”
“You ask the most astonishing things, Elian. You are my friend.”
Marius’s eyes swept over him, an unnerving appraisal. Elian shifted, avoiding the intense gaze. “You were also close to Cassian, once.”
“Hardly.” Marius’s incredulous tone made Elian flinch. He extended a hand, pointing at Elian. “Are you suggesting you are not my friend?”
“No, I am… your friend,” Elian hastened to clarify. “But you and Cassian shared a… proximity. So why choose my side?”
“I have known you longer.”
“Known me…?” Elian frowned. “We became acquainted through Cassian, surely?”
“Elian. Back in our first term. We often found ourselves in the same corner of the Scriptoria, did we not? You with your obscure texts, I with my astronomical charts.”
“Oh… those times.” Elian remembered. Awkward, silent hours, punctuated by Marius’s occasional, unexpected comments on the cosmic order or the nature of memory.
“So, was I alone in seeing those glances as a developing camaraderie?” Marius’s voice held a theatrical edge of hurt. “Unbelievable. When we were placed in the same cohort, I approached you first, you reclusive scholar! And you deny such a foundational truth? I am profoundly disappointed.”
“I… I apologize.” Elian mumbled, a flush rising in his neck. He recalled those instances, moments he’d dismissed as mere coincidence or Marius’s odd predilections. To Marius, they had been gestures of nascent friendship. He felt a strange sense of being… outmaneuvered. He’d interpreted those shared spaces as nothing more than shared silence, perhaps even an unspoken rivalry of intellect. The thought that Marius had initiated their connection, not Cassian, was a startling revelation.
“Alright, alright. My apologies. I understand now.”
“Indeed. My feelings were quite bruised, I assure you.” Marius shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. He was an enigma. “And speaking of bruised… Cassian Thorne’s conduct is becoming quite… deranged.”
Elian remained silent. He thought of Lord Aris, of the whispered rumors. It was becoming clear: Cassian Thorne’s reputation, once unassailable, was in a rapid decline.
“He shows a disregard for all decorum,” Marius continued, tracing an invisible pattern on the windowpane. “His… fixation on young Finch. It speaks of an unraveling, a loss of control that frightens many.”
The words resonated with a cold dread. “Loss of control.” In Lumina, among these proud, ancient houses, it was a damning indictment. It spoke of a mind unhinged, a character corrupted. Elian felt a tremor, a familiar chill, ripple through him. A secret relief washed over him that his own veiled complexities remained hidden, known only to him. Did this relief mean he valued his own untouched reputation more than Cassian’s public downfall? The thought was a blasphemy.
He looked at Marius, feeling like a heretical priest hiding sacred texts. “Truly,” he whispered, a strange, choked sound that was half fear, half bitter amusement. It was almost comical. To others, he was now Marius Volkov’s closest companion. Yet, he was no different from any other marked man—a scholar branded with an unspoken stigma, hiding his own truths in the shadows. He had only managed to avoid being unmasked. That was all.
---
Dawn broke over Lumina College, painting the eastern spires in bruised purples and pale golds. Elian lay awake, the faint light seeping through his window. A shiver ran through him. A message had arrived in the pre-dawn hours, a hastily scribbled note delivered by an unknown hand, left beneath his door. Four in the morning.
His mind, still shrouded in sleep, struggled to process it. He yearned for the impossible, a note from Cassian, a reconciliation, despite everything. But the script, shaky and unfamiliar, shattered that illusion. It was not Cassian.
“Lord Elian, forgive my intrusion at such an hour. Could you… could you come outside? Just for a moment. I am truly sorry.”
“Please. Just this once.”
Cassian Thorne would never apologize. Never. The address was too familiar, too desperate. Only one person in this entire institution spoke with such pleading humility, and only one possessed such utter vulnerability. Barnaby Finch. How had he known where Elian’s lodgings were? A scowl twisted Elian’s face. He wanted nothing more than to ignore it, to never see Barnaby again. He was unpleasant, a catalyst for all this misery.
Despite his thoughts, Elian pushed himself from his bed. He buttoned his dressing gown over his nightshirt, his hands fumbling. He walked to the chamber door, then paused. His forehead rested against the cool wood. A deep, ragged sigh escaped him.
“Damn it all,” he muttered.
An oppressive weight settled in his stomach, a visceral knot of ash and ice. That was the only way to describe it. He clutched his chest, the heavy academic texts, the rare languages, the vast lexicon he possessed, offered no adequate words for this intricate, tangled mess of emotions. It was simply… complicated.
Hatred for Barnaby, an illogical, simmering resentment for the trouble he brought. The memory of Barnaby’s bruised face, a stark, accusing image. The desperate days Elian had spent trying to distance himself from the toxic orbit of Cassian’s cruelty. All swirled together in a bitter vortex.
He bit his lip, his fingers tracing the cold brass of the doorknob. He closed his eyes, then turned the handle with a decisive click. The scent of cold morning dew clung to the air, promising an early autumn chill. He stepped onto the flagstones of the path, avoiding the damp grass of the grounds. His slippers carried him silently towards the college gate. He paused, clicking his tongue in a gesture of conflicted resignation, then grasped the cold iron handle. The hinge groaned, a sorrowful sound in the pre-dawn quiet. He opened it slowly, cautiously.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the flickering gaslight on the cobbled lane, stood Barnaby Finch. His school uniform was rumpled, his head bowed, tracing patterns in the dust with the toe of his shoe.
“Barnaby Finch,” Elian said, his voice flat.
Barnaby’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with a desperate, hopeful light. “Elian! Elian, please…”