Two days. Two days since Lysander Thorne’s scholarly desk, a heavy slab of polished elm, had been toppled. Now, the lingering scent of charred vellum drifted from the communal braziers in the main hall. He’d seen the remnants: fragments of Lysander’s precious codices, ancient texts on obscure alchemical languages, their meticulously inked pages reduced to brittle ash. A faint, bitter smell clung to the air, an emblem of ruin. It took little effort to pinpoint the instigator. During the period of Arcane Linguistics, Valerius, a scion of House Delacroix, sat at the front, a smirk playing on his lips as he met the gaze of Theron, Lysander’s cousin. Later, whispers rippled through the scriptorium. Valerius, it was said, had openly boasted in the latrine, recounting the destruction of Lysander’s personal library with a gleeful disregard. “A brave display,” Elian murmured, the words hollow in his own ears. A rough, wooden crate, splintered at the edges, rested beside a discarded stack of damaged scrolls in the cloister’s recycling bin. It seemed to contain the aftermath, the visible wreckage of the slow, grinding conflict between Lysander and some unseen adversary. Lysander, two days prior, had lost a battle he likely hadn’t even acknowledged. Motives were clear enough to Elian. At first, he’d dismissed it as common college cruelty. But a peculiar, unnameable current had begun to surface. Even Lysander’s closest peers had noted the escalating oddities in his conduct, the feverish intensity in his eyes. His animosity towards a particular rival—a scholar from House Vermillion—was becoming an undeniable, possessive fixation, far beyond mere academic rivalry. The moments when Elian witnessed Lysander’s volatile outbursts, a certainty solidified: this wasn’t simple bullying, but a descent into something darker. Yet, even as the tide of opinion turned, Elian felt no compulsion to intercede, no guilt to assuage. He wasn’t foolish enough to willingly step into a brewing storm. Defending Lysander, he knew, would brand him with a certain image: compassionate, perhaps even loyal. But within the intricate, shifting alliances of Lumina’s student body, where countless perceptions of a single person co-existed, even one observer would begin to question. *Why?* The thought alone sent a shiver down his spine. Leaning back against the cold, carved stone of the alcove, Elian closed his eyes. Perhaps a brief respite. He craved, for a fleeting instant, a world where, upon opening his eyes, everything would be exactly as he desired. Slumber beckoned, a silent invitation. A sharp rap against the crown of his head jolted him upright. He rubbed the tender spot, his gaze snapping open. Across the quadrangle, Theron was also raising a hand to his forehead, a faint frown marring his otherwise smooth brow. “Gods, that stung.” “Why are you sleeping mid-morning, Vance?” Theron asked, a mocking lilt in his voice. “Hardly your concern. What was that, anyway?” “Ah, this?” Theron grinned, unapologetic, and casually lifted the polished walking cane he’d tucked beneath his arm. Its silver pommel glinted in the sunlight. “A fortunate find. Discovered it in the collegium lost-and-found. Someone clearly had no further use for it.” Elian’s expression tightened with an irritable twist. Theron, Lysander’s cousin, always seemed to be involved in some peculiar escapade. The blow hadn’t been severe, yet Elian’s fingers instinctively traced his scalp, a phantom worry about his usually meticulous hair. Theron, meanwhile, spun, nudging a stone bench aside with the toe of his boot, then settled onto it with an effortless grace that belied the casual movement. He tossed his leather satchel onto his lap, transforming it into an impromptu cushion, and slumped forward, resting his chin on the worn hide. “You rouse me from my rest only to indulge in your own?” Elian grumbled, twisting to face him more fully. Theron’s every utterance seemed to invite a retort. Elian nudged Theron’s outstretched foot with his own in a flash of irritation. Theron’s lips curved upwards, a faint smirk. “My dear Vance, is it truly proper to harass an individual who has sustained an injury? A barbarian, truly.” The playful blend of sarcasm and genuine accusation made Elian scoff. He kicked at Theron’s cane this time. It toppled towards the younger man, but Theron, without even lifting his head from his satchel, raised a hand and snagged it mid-air with casual precision. Unfazed by the interruption, he chuckled, a low, guttural sound, then spoke abruptly. “I’ve had a question for you.” “And what is that?” “That… wasn’t merely a stumble, was it?” Damn. Was it truly so obvious? Elian's cheek hadn’t been visibly marred, merely a slight reddening along the jawline. He paused for only a breath, then swept a hand over his face, a gesture of casual dismissal. “A clumsy moment, nothing more.” “Ha.” Still resting his chin on his bag, Theron let out a soft, knowing exhalation. “Indeed?” His eyes flicked to Elian, then a finger, long and slender, pointed directly at him. Elian didn’t quite grasp his intent. “What is it?” “You are quite brazen.” As Theron smiled, leaning his cane against his shoulder, Elian found his thoughts momentarily unraveling. What precisely was he implying? “…Brazen in what way?” “I don’t believe you simply lost your footing…” “…” Theron’s words, usually veiled in ambiguity, now held a quiet, unsettling edge. His gaze was unnervingly still. Bright irises, ringed by a darker pupil, fixed on Elian with an almost predatory intensity. It felt like tracking the flight of an arrow, knowing it was aimed, but unsure of its impact point. And this arrow was pointed squarely at him. Elian’s mind went blank. Two words echoed, insistent and frantic: *Impossible. He couldn’t have.* *Impossible. He couldn’t have.* Then, Theron’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. “It appeared more as if you were… propelled.” His long, almost feline eyes curved upwards. Elian’s throat tightened. His breath hitched. He swallowed, a dry, audible rasp. Theron parted his lips, and Elian found he couldn’t even blink. “If word of such a spectacle were to reach the wrong ears, it would prove rather… undignified, wouldn’t it?” “…” “I shall endeavor to keep it a secret.” Theron raised the hand clutching his cane to his lips, whispering the last words, then offered a conspiratorial wink. The breath Elian had been holding slammed against his ribs, a caged bird beating frantic wings. Theron didn’t even await a reaction. This time, he ran a casual hand through his dark, perfectly styled hair, then pointed at Elian. “Though, did you perhaps attempt to emulate my coiffure? That is a rather uninspired choice, Vance.” Elian was speechless. Theron crinkled his nose in an exaggerated display of disapproval. “Regardless, I shall now resume my studies in slumber.” He yawned, a wide, unhurried motion, and buried his face deeper into his satchel. Staring at the back of his cousin’s head, Elian finally managed a strangled response. “I did not copy you. Nor did I alter my hair.” “Is that so?” Theron’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his makeshift pillow. --- “Merciful Mother, who forgives the sins of the world.” Theron mumbled a prayer, clutching his academic assessment in one hand. It was fourth period, just as the lecture on Ancient Runes concluded. Master Callius had distributed the monthly reports. Theron buried his face in his unsealed report card, scanned the unsatisfactory marks, and then dramatically threw his head back, letting out a profound sigh. “Ah, I am utterly doomed.” Elian glanced at his own report, noted the exemplary scores, then neatly folded it and tucked it into the inner pocket of his satchel. When he looked back, Theron was still sighing, his Adam’s apple bobbing prominently with each dramatic exhalation, almost chastising Elian for his stare. Fixing his gaze on Theron’s throat, Elian offered a quiet correction. “That particular invocation is not typically employed for such circumstances.” “Who truly cares? A prayer is merely a petition.” Then, abruptly, he asked, “Say, is it ‘Mother’ or ‘Lady’?” It was then Elian noticed the peculiarity of Theron’s spiritual inclinations – a strange, convenient form of piety. “Why solicit my opinion? It is your faith, after all.” “My dear Elian, do not be so obstinate. You are so intellectually gifted; I presumed you possessed all knowledge.” “I do not. And I am not a devotee.” Theron, who had been leaning back as far as he possibly could, suddenly shot forward. Their eyes met, and Elian, without conscious thought, instinctively averted his gaze towards the stained-glass window depicting the College founder, pretending not to have seen. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, a sharp prickle ran through his chest, as if he’d been caught in a minor transgression. He stared absently at the refracted light, then shifted his focus to the crisp, starched collar of Theron’s perfectly pressed tunic. The pristine linen framed his neck, but with every exaggerated movement, a flash of his collarbone, sharp and defined, became visible. “So? Will you join me for services this weekend?” “What? No.” “Ah, why not? Do come. They distribute generous alms on feast days and holidays. Freshly baked bread, spiced cider, even sweetmeats from the Collegium kitchens…” “Hold. Are you suggesting you attend solely for such provisions?” “Naturally.” Elian finally met Theron’s gaze, his eyes landing on the quill Theron had absently balanced on his upper lip. He’d resisted admitting it, out of a quiet pride, but at that moment, he had to concede: Theron possessed a striking handsomeness. What an insufferably smug individual. The quill, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted his voice into a slurred, faintly disgruntled mumble. “Yet, the way you frame it, it sounds as though I am pilfering. If offerings are freely given, what fault lies in accepting them?” “Can one truly call it faith if belief is predicated on such selfish motives?” “That is where all journeys begin, Elian. People do not commence with grand, existential convictions. They think, ‘Ah, the acolyte offers a delicious pastry. That priest must be benevolent.’ And then, little by little, their nascent belief in the ‘benevolent priest with pastries’ transmutes into absolute faith in the Divine. The genesis and the process are irrelevant. What truly matters is that, now, I believe.” Theron often spouted such peculiar logic. Even Lysander, on occasion, found himself entangled in its strange currents. Sometimes, it was merely nonsensical. But sometimes, it possessed a dark allure, a compelling perversion of truth that Elian himself found subtly tempting. This was one such occasion. Elian ran a hand through his perpetually falling fringe, sweeping the dark strands from his forehead. But they refused to stay. He shook his head, a slight, almost imperceptible tremor. His fine, dark hair swayed across his eyes. He gathered the errant locks at his temples, and finally, the tickling sensation subsided. He had been so preoccupied of late that he’d neglected his bi-weekly trim by the Collegium barber. With Lysander Thorne’s disappearance, the front of the classroom remained perpetually vacant. There was no longer any reason to direct his gaze towards that empty, accusing space. Six days prior, Master Callius, the Head Archivist and his tutor, had summoned Elian to his study. He inquired if Elian had received any communication from Lysander. Elian answered, truthfully and without hesitation. “No, Master. I have not.” “You and Lysander… you have not yet reconciled, have you?” Elian offered a small, bitter smile, precisely calibrated. In truth, he felt no inclination to smile at all. “No. Lysander… he grew quite vexed with me.” “Lysander grew vexed with *you*?” Master Callius’s brow furrowed slightly. “Indeed.” Rumors, of course, were already circulating. Master Callius was hardly oblivious to the undercurrents of Elian’s carefully chosen words. “Very well, Elian. I understand,” he said, dismissing him with a weary wave. As he settled back into his plush, leather-bound chair, he muttered to himself, a low, indistinct monologue. From the fragmented phrases Elian caught, it was mostly complaints about Lysander’s volatile temperament and the stern reprimands Master Callius had received from Lord Thorne, Lysander’s father. Elian pretended not to hear the pathetic soliloquy, turning to leave, yet still attuned, absorbing the atmosphere of the study. Later, after the evening meal, as Elian prepared for his private calligraphy lesson in his chamber, Lord Thorne himself called upon him. He posed the same question as Master Callius: did Elian know of Lysander’s whereabouts? Elian gave him the identical answer. “No, My Lord. Lysander has ceased all communication with me.” “—I see…” Lord Thorne’s voice was heavy with a paternal weariness. “I deeply regret that I cannot offer any assistance.” “—No, Elian. There is nothing for you to apologize for. It is… understandable.” Lately, Lord Thorne’s inquiries had become unusually frequent. And each time, the conversation unfolded in precisely the same, predictable manner. There was something oddly deliberate in his repeated attempts to bind Lysander and Elian together. Elian hurried to conclude the call. Honestly, there was nothing for him to apologize for. But he offered his apologies nonetheless—a subtle cultivation of goodwill. It was the same ingrained social instinct that prompted polite individuals to praise an unremarkable noble’s child. A social convention. A form of exquisite etiquette, essential for navigating the polished halls of their civilized society. He didn't believe the adults perceived his politeness as mere play-acting. If anything, his cultivated deference was akin to the sophisticated performance of a court jester—knowing his place, yet manipulating it with practiced ease. And because he invested such meticulous effort in being liked, he was destined to become a well-loved jester, one whose every utterance was met with a benevolent smile. Even if, one day, he made a blunder so blatant it wrinkled the brows of his noble audience, they would, without doubt, extend their forgiveness. This was the foundation he was carefully laying. Unlike some hapless fool, he lived his life with calculated wisdom. Perhaps, from the detached perspective of the Collegium’s elders, his machinations amounted to little more than narrow-minded, petty trickery. But among his peers, it was an undeniable truth: Elian Vance possessed a rare acumen for navigating unpredictable social currents. If one needed further proof, one had only to observe Quintus. Quintus, an aspiring scholar from a minor house, was the most transparent in his desperation to gain Theron’s favor. Because of this, he now extended a performative camaraderie towards Elian, who, in the eyes of their peers, had seemingly allied himself with Theron early on. Quintus, once a fervent follower of Lysander, now made it abundantly clear that he had shifted his allegiances, a mercenary of social standing.

The Scrutiny of Shadows