A nervous tremor ran through Elian’s thigh, a secret current beneath the heavy wool of his trousers. Theron, perched on the edge of the study table, made a casual gesture of blowing a kiss towards him, a smirk playing on his lips. Elian merely tore at a stale pastry, watching him, the dryness in his mouth mirroring the sudden parched feeling in his throat.
The spiced almond tart remained untouched on his desk. He sucked on a candied ginger root, the sweet heat a mild distraction from the awkward conversation with Theron. He knew precisely why it felt so unsettling, though he refused to acknowledge it. The truth shimmered, clear without looking, tangible without touching, yet what he grasped was only a cold, damp mist.
He twirled the candied root between his lips.
Was Lysander truly staying with Lord Vane? Lysander Thorne, whose recent academic record was as scandalous as his rumored liaisons, now under the patronage of a notorious libertine. Elian had heard the whispers, hushed and sharp, in the common rooms. It seemed clear, then, that Lysander, Lord Vane, and even young Alaric—who trailed Lysander like a shadow—were all caught in the same, dangerous current. Their lives, for all their noble privilege, were heading for a stark, predictable path.
“Someone pilfered my archival chalk! Confess now, or I swear by the High Codicil, I’ll find you!”
Young Master Kaelan shouted, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the study salon. He completely disregarded the other students, heads bent over ancient scrolls and illuminated texts. The rest were no different. Seraphina, ever impatient, jabbed Kaelan’s arm.
“Fool. The fees you owe me for that dueling wager could buy you a hundred of those common chalk sticks.”
“My chalk! My rare, imported chalk!”
The back of the salon, near the towering shelves of forbidden grimoires, dissolved into a chaotic din. Kaelan and Seraphina wrestled playfully, oblivious to the displeased looks from the senior scholars near the front.
“That one’s been particularly vexing lately,” Theron murmured, his voice a silken thread against the low hum of the room.
Elian turned, eyes meeting Theron’s across the polished oak of the table. Theron, without warning, reached out. Elian sat stiff, mesmerized by the perfectly trimmed nails of Theron’s hand. Theron’s long fingers twined around the candied ginger root Elian held, like a snake coiling around prey.
Theron tugged, slow and deliberate.
A sticky, sweet warmth glided across Elian’s tongue, a sudden coolness where the ginger had been. It vanished. Theron popped the morsel into his own mouth, a soft *smack* sound filling the quiet. His lips curved into a sly, unsettling smile.
“I’ll enjoy this, Vance.”
He licked his lips, slow and languid, as if cleansing them. Theron’s eyes, heavy-lidded, met Elian’s. He laughed, a low, throaty sound.
“Why the sudden chill, Vance?”
Theron often laughed. His laughter, however, rarely brought warmth.
“It’s… unhygienic,” Elian managed, his voice a strained whisper.
“Don’t you know? Exchanging saliva is a most ancient, most *natural* way to boost immunity,” Theron purred, leaning closer. His breath, warm with ginger, ghosted across Elian’s face.
“That’s truly grotesque,” Elian said, clamping his mouth shut, as if its very form might crack under the tension. Theron merely placed his hand on his own thigh, sweeping up to his knee, arching his back in a languid stretch. Elian curled his fingers, burying them deep within his palms.
He knew. He knew he was an idiot for letting it happen.
With his hand resting on his knee, Theron sat askew, chewing the ginger root. He shrugged, a careless gesture.
“You said you abhorred the taste of citrus?”
He sucked on the ginger, a soft whistling sound escaping his lips. A remarkably ordinary sound from Theron’s lips, considering the man himself.
“That was ginger root,” Elian replied, his voice flat.
“Then it’s quite fine. I adore ginger,” Theron said, and annoyingly, he continued to savor the candied root, as if it were a rare delicacy he had just acquired.
---
Another day passed. As the Goldenwood trees outside the College walls began to shed their leaves, Lumina anticipated the harsh winter to come. The sky, a perfect, unblemished cerulean, grew sharper and heavier, pressing down on the ancient stone. Professors spoke with renewed urgency about the weight of their legacy, and students sensed a grave duty to etch their names into history. Yet, there were always exceptions.
Master Kaelan, Seraphina, young Alaric, and others, excluded from the hallowed halls of exemplary scholars, were like discardable pawns, meant to highlight the brilliance of the majority. As time wore on, the consequences for their wanderings softened, interest in their misdeeds waned. The only difference was that Lysander Thorne, with his notoriously influential family, made him a conspicuous nuisance.
The truly pitiable one was Alaric. Had he not become entangled with Lysander, he might have pursued a respectable career, perhaps even earning a minor stipend for his modest archival skills. Or, if his family hadn’t recently lost its ancestral lands, stripping them of their meager status. Elian, however, decided to ignore everything happening outside the structured confines of his own studies. This, he reasoned, was the wisest decision for his life.
And so he lived, until the day he had to face the inevitable.
Everything held the potential for disruption. Especially Lysander Thorne, who accelerated his path to that potential without any discernible plan.
Lysander Thorne returned to the main hall.
---
Elian clicked his tongue, a barely audible sound. Through the partially opened doors of the Grand Lecture Hall, he could glimpse Lysander Thorne slumped over a lectern, near the podium. Lysander’s father, Lord Thorne, had apparently found him. It felt awkward, nearly a month after Lysander had vanished from Lumina’s registers, for him to simply reappear. If one were to abscond, one might as well go to some truly remote province, not simply lurk around the College grounds as if waiting to be discovered.
He tapped his fingers on the ornate carvings of the doorframe.
Entering felt utterly uncomfortable.
His gaze fell on the back of Lysander’s head. A few strands of his notoriously thick, unruly hair stuck up, catching the light. There was a time, long ago, when Elian might have occasionally smoothed them down, under the guise of a casual gesture. Now, that memory seemed so distant, so blurred, Elian decided to release any lingering attachment. He turned to descend the grand staircase. He knew nothing good came from encountering Lysander when few eyes were watching.
The College was a place of endless scrutiny. Even if Lysander merely struck up a conversation, rumors would undoubtedly begin: *Lysander Thorne and Elian Vance, seen conversing alone.* These tales would inevitably be blown out of all proportion. The worst scenario, he dreaded, would be Lysander’s temper, which was as legendary as his charm. The thought of being humiliated by Lysander was enough.
The best possible outcome was if Lysander ignored him entirely. But Elian wasn’t foolish enough to rely on such a slim chance. The wisest choice was to eliminate the possibility of a bad situation altogether, especially when no one important would witness it.
So, he returned to the main ground floor and loitered near the ancestral portrait gallery, only blending into the crowds of students gathering for evening lessons ten minutes before the bells chimed. He then found the spot where he should have already been sitting, poring over ancient linguistic puzzles.
He tried not to show any interest in the disruption caused by Lysander’s return, or rather, he tried to hide the significant interest he actually felt. His consistent efforts seemed to be paying off.
Yet, Lysander Thorne remained his greatest variable. A bitter tide of frustration and revulsion washed over him. Damn it. Discomfort and anxiety gradually consumed his emotions, a phenomenon that only intensified after Theron’s arrival at Lumina.
Theron approached Lysander as if it were the most natural thing, even offering a pleasant greeting.
“Well met, Thorne. It’s been an age, hasn’t it?”
His friendly tone was so absurd it stunned Elian. For a moment, curiosity overcame his pervasive anxiety. He looked up. Theron stood with his satchel of scrolls slung over his shoulder, pulling at the corner of his mouth in a broad, yet calculating smile. Lysander merely nodded, offering no verbal response.
“What a frosty reception, Thorne. Where’s the wit, the warmth?” Theron asked, his voice dripping with faux concern. He nudged Lysander’s lectern with his foot. The gesture seemed utterly inappropriate given that Theron himself had, through various subtle means, accelerated Lysander’s social downfall within Lumina’s strict academic hierarchy. Elian, however, unwilling to bother with such petty matters, attempted to refocus on the genuine problems laid out on his own desk. That effort was disrupted as Professor Atherton, a gaunt scholar of ancient runes, entered for the morning roll call.
The Professor seemed genuinely pleased that Lysander had returned, but a clear shadow of guilt crossed his face as he scanned the empty seat where Alaric usually sat. *Still absent*, he seemed to imply. What a timid, fragile soul, Elian thought, speaking of Alaric.
“Alaric isn’t here today, either,” Professor Atherton murmured to himself, then finished with a slight tap on the attendance book on his desk. The words hung in the air, weighted with unspoken meaning.
The incident occurred quicker than expected.
Lysander rummaged through the small drawer of his lectern, pulling out a stained, tattered copy of a rare Elvish lexicon. He grimaced at its filthy state. A couple of students, who had left their own lexicons in the common room lockers, raised their hands and excused themselves. Lysander’s expression darkened further as they departed.
Since he rarely studied, possessing or not possessing the textbook likely didn’t matter to him. The real issue for Lysander, sensitive as he was to even the slightest slight, was probably that an item marked with his name had been deliberately defiled. Or, perhaps, other, more valuable items were missing.
Everyone in the lecture hall knew the truth, but as if by unspoken agreement, no one uttered a single word. Not about who had sullied Lysander’s texts, nor about who had instigated the act.
“Who was it?”
As soon as the lecture ended, the moment everyone had unconsciously anticipated began. Lysander, hands in his impeccably tailored trousers, chin lifted, demanded answers. Those who disliked confrontation slipped out of the hall, while those intrigued glanced around, eyes darting. In that charged atmosphere, Theron, holding a thoroughly dirty, almost unrecognizable piece of fine charcoal, scribbled something into a parchment scroll. He spoke nonchalantly.
“Whatever do you mean, Thorne?”
“Who?” Lysander pressed, his voice taut.
“Who, what? You need to articulate your thoughts if you wish to be understood,” Theron replied, his tone dripping with mock helpfulness.
The audacity was staggering. Truly brazen. Lysander knew his precious, rare lexicons and inscribed writing implements hadn’t just vanished by chance. For someone as attuned to social and academic hierarchy as him, akin to a wild stag sensing a predator, it was an undeniable challenge. Moreover, Theron’s failure to answer 'who' was complicit, an acknowledgment of the truth in all but name. Even a fool would understand this. Yet, Theron continued to jest, as if unaware of the severity of the situation.
“Did you even *have* such materials, Thorne? You were always just sprawled across some velvet chaise, nursing a brandy, or sleeping through Professor Atherton’s lectures.”
Theron laughed again, needlessly. There was no way Lysander would let that slide.
“Enough, Theron. Was it you, Vance?” Lysander snapped.
Naturally, Elian was implicated. This was utterly predictable; any fool could see it. He flinched, a small, involuntary movement.
“...No,” Elian managed, his voice barely audible.
In this lecture hall, few were as volatile or less civilized than Lysander Thorne, prone as he was to foolish outbursts. Lysander must have felt his downfall acutely, every gaze, every empty space, filled with unspoken judgment and remembered slights. Yet, those of them sharing the same space pretended as if nothing untoward had happened.
“Come now, Thorne, would our model student, Vance, treat such revered texts with such disrespect?” Theron interjected, a subtle mocking lilt in his voice.
“Theron—damn it, why do you keep interfering?” Lysander’s voice rose, edged with fury.
“Interfering? If a friend faces an injustice, it is only right to offer aid,” Theron replied, feigning innocence, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
“What in the nine hells are you talking about, imbecile?”
“Imbecile? That’s a touch harsh, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Stop your obfuscation. Who else here could have fouled the atmosphere this much, and ruined my property, while I was gone, if not you two?” Lysander scoffed, his face twisting in a sneer. Only then did Theron slowly set his charcoal down on the desk. His lips still slightly puckered in a smirk. Lysander’s face contorted with unconcealed displeasure. Unable to contain his anger, Lysander hurled a nearby satchel of scrolls. Unfortunately, it struck Elian squarely in the chest.
“Ah!”
The impact wasn’t particularly painful, as the satchel wasn’t heavily loaded with tomes, but it was startling. Elian frowned, watching the leather satchel fall to his knees. The scrolls, tied with ribbons, spilled onto the stone floor.
“This madman simply throws things now,” Theron remarked, his voice already laced with genuine annoyance, the last vestiges of his playful smirk vanishing. At that moment, Lysander slowly lifted the corners of his mouth.
“Ah, I see,” he said, a glint in his eyes. It was the look of someone who believed he had won, had finally understood. What did he think he understood? Elian’s furrowed brow wouldn’t relax.
“Theron. Vance. You two—conspiring?”
“What?” Elian was at a loss for words, bewildered. Theron’s face, which had been momentarily serious, twisted into an expression of theatrical shock. Elian was more bewildered than Lysander, who had lost his academic materials. It seemed Theron felt the same, though for different reasons.
“Thorne, forgive me, but your words are so utterly incoherent, I couldn’t quite catch them.” Despite clearly hearing every word, Theron placed his palm near his ear—a blatant, calculated mockery. And from Elian’s observations, Theron rarely stopped at a single jest. This was just the beginning of his provocation. Sensing the uneasy air, Elian stood. Meanwhile, Theron slowly extended his pinky finger, tracing a pattern on the polished wood. Lysander’s eyes narrowed dangerously.