Elian's breath hitched, a faint tremor in his chest. Kaelen had just vanished into Lysander's room, leaving a lingering scent of expensive cologne and an unsettling silence in the corridor. Regent Lysander's words still echoed, the phantom weight of Silas’s name pressing down on him. A familiar ache, deep and old, stirred.
Moments bled into an unbearable quiet. A sudden, sharp urge pulsed beneath Elian's ribs.
Stepped forward, Elian found himself drawn to the door. Lord Kaelen, ever the dramatic, had left it ajar. Inside, Lysander lay perfectly still, face pale against the pristine pillow. A bandaged hand rested outside the pristine white blanket. Not a mark marred his face, despite Kaelen’s fabricated tale of a brawl.
His heart throbbed with a strange, bitter rhythm. Lysander, ever the golden child, even in repose. How easily he commanded attention, how effortlessly he garnered sympathy. Elian had watched it for years.
A dark, potent thought bloomed. The quiet scholar, always unseen, always overlooked. A whisper of indignation, long suppressed, finally clawed its way to the surface.
Pursed lips, Elian leaned closer. A bead of saliva, thick and viscous, gathered on his tongue. He didn't have to do this. Could have remained Elian Vance, the unassuming archivist, the quiet shadow. Yet a profound, unbidden impulse seized him.
Spit landed, a glistening pearl, right on Lysander’s cheek.
No desperate love, no self-sacrificing compassion. Only raw, unadulterated spite. It felt vile. It felt... liberating. A surge of forbidden power.
"Remarkable," Kaelen's voice, silken and amused, cut through the quiet. He emerged from the bathroom adjoining Lysander’s room, a towel draped over one arm, a faint smile playing on his lips. His eyes, keen and knowing, fixed on Elian. "A truly magnificent display of affection, Elian."
Panic seized Elian. His hands fumbled for the edge of the blanket. He smeared the spit away, pressing the soft wool against Lysander's unblemished skin, praying he hadn't left a mark.
Kaelen clapped softly, a low, appreciative sound. Leaned against the doorframe, he watched Elian with an unnerving intensity. "This must be it, then. Pure joy."
"What… what is?" Elian whispered, his voice hoarse.
"A shared sentiment, my dear Elian." Kaelen's smile widened, revealing a flash of white teeth. "A mutual dislike. Tell me, do you despise him as much as I do?"
Elian merely stared. They exited the infirmary, the polished corridors stretching long and empty. Kaelen hummed a jaunty tune, his footsteps light. Elian walked beside him, mind racing, a cold knot forming in his stomach.
Suddenly, Kaelen stopped humming. Turned to Elian, his gaze sharpened. "Right, Elian."
"Yes, Lord Kaelen?"
"Fancy a small excursion today? Just the two of us?"
His tone held a subtle condescension, an implied command masquerading as an invitation. A familiar unease prickled Elian's skin.
Took another step, Elian paused. "Whatever suits Lord Kaelen."
Kaelen moved then, quick and fluid. Stepped ahead, then turned, placing a hand on Elian's shoulder. His touch felt light, assessing, like a handler sizing up a prize hound.
"Elian," Kaelen said, his voice laced with an almost imperceptible hint of satisfaction. "I believe I finally appreciate you."
The words, though seemingly complimentary, carried a distinct flavor of patronage. Elian felt his jaw tighten. Was this a moment to challenge, to reclaim a sliver of dignity? Or simply to nod, to acquiesce, to ensure a measure of peace?
Thought raced. The easier path, always the easier path. Lumina was a fragile ecosystem of alliances and veiled threats. Why complicate things further?
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched Elian's lips. He shrugged, affecting an air of cool indifference. "I suppose we found ourselves on the same page, for once."
"Same page?" Kaelen repeated, his eyes glinting. His grin stretched slow and deliberate under the dim gaslight of the corridor. "Ah. So you truly abhor Lysander."
The mockery in his voice was undeniable, yet devoid of true malice. A chill, detached amusement. Elian glanced at the tall, arched window, where the darkening sky bled into shades of bruised violet.
Kaelen’s reflection shimmered faintly in the glass, a faint smile on his face. "My thanks."
For what? For the venomous act in the infirmary? For the unspoken understanding? Kaelen offered no clarification, leaving the true nature of his gratitude delightfully ambiguous.
"Let's proceed," Kaelen announced, already moving.
"Yes," Elian murmured, following. From that moment, a strange, uncomfortable affinity for Kaelen began to take root within him. A peculiar liking, born of darkness.
---
Lately, Elian found his gaze drifting toward Kaelen more often. It felt involuntary, almost drawn by an unseen thread. Not that Kaelen was subtle.
Kaelen possessed a peculiar blend of aristocratic refinement and coarse, almost vulgar candor. His disdain for superficiality, though often expressed with shocking crudeness, resonated with a part of Elian.
"Such drivel," Kaelen scoffed one afternoon, leaning back in his ornate chair, a rare, forbidden cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He had just endured another pompous debate on the nuances of courtly etiquette. "All grand pronouncements, no substance. Like a eunuch extolling the virtues of masculine prowess."
The other scholars, mostly younger nobles, shifted uncomfortably. They respected Kaelen’s lineage, feared his wit.
"Tell me, Elian," Kaelen continued, flicking ash onto the polished slate floor. "Do you not find these displays of performative virtue… tiresome?"
Elian merely inclined his head, a noncommittal gesture. He always felt more comfortable observing the intricate dances of social interaction than participating.
Kaelen's lectures, often delivered unbidden and uninvited, were always about exposing hypocrisy. Later that week, Kaelen held court amongst a group of older students, their voices hushed, expectant.
"Empty boasting," Kaelen declared, dismissing a conversation about conquests at the local taverns. "These louts parade their fleeting encounters like battle scars. A woman, to them, merely a trophy to be collected, regardless of how she's procured."
He savored the silence, then continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, yet loud enough to carry across the room. "These paltry tales of tavern wenches and 'passionate dalliances' are no different than the crude illustrations found in cheap penny dreadfuls. All show, no true intimacy. Just base satisfaction."
M any of the boys, their faces still flushed from their own embellishments, grumbled. Gareth, a boisterous student with a perpetually disheveled mop of hair, snorted. "And what would Lord Kaelen know? He’s never been seen with a mistress. Perhaps he prefers his books to a woman's company."
Kaelen’s eyes, usually alight with cynical amusement, narrowed slightly. A cold, sharp edge entered his voice. "Gareth, my dear boy, just because one does not wallow in the same pigsty as the common rabble does not mean one is ignorant of its stench."
He leaned forward, a predator scenting weakness. "Ignorance, Gareth, is believing that experience is limited to mere physical acts. My knowledge, unlike yours, is not gleaned from drunken fumbles in alleyways or whispered schoolboy rumors. It comes from study, from observation. From knowing how the world truly works."
Gareth blustered, but Kaelen cut him off.
"Listen closely, you unlettered fools. Since your minds seem incapable of grasping anything beyond the crude basics, allow me to enlighten you."
A delicate finger, almost scholarly in its precision, touched the center of Kaelen's tongue. He demonstrated, exaggeratedly, a specific technique, then widened his mouth, pushing his finger deeper until it neared his throat. He described, in vivid, precise detail, several more acts, his words laced with a mocking clinical detachment.
"You see," he concluded, withdrawing his finger with a flourish. "These are but a few techniques, known to those who bother to educate themselves beyond the confines of their own limited anatomies. Your boasted 'conquests' are but child's play, mere fumbling. Your enthusiasm, tiresome. Learn to read, gentlemen. Expand your horizons beyond your own meager… endowments."
Laughter, hoarse and uncomfortable, rippled through the group. Kaelen had, once again, asserted his intellectual and social dominance through sheer, brutal wit.
---
Elian had been near the front of the class, ostensibly discussing a translation assignment with Cassian, a fellow scholar known for his fierce academic competitiveness. Cassian, despite consistently placing higher in rankings, always eyed Elian with a nervous suspicion, as if expecting Elian to somehow usurp his position.
"This passage," Cassian began, pointing to a difficult line of ancient Aethelredian script on his parchment. "The nuance of the verb 'to relinquish' here... I find it rather ambiguous." He peered at Elian’s work.
Elian feigned a thoughtful frown. "Indeed. A truly complex inflection. I confess, I found myself stumbling over it." He paused, then offered, with an almost imperceptible hint of smugness, "Perhaps even... erred in its interpretation."
Cassian's nervous tension eased, replaced by a subtle, self-satisfied smile. "Truly? I thought I had it correct, but I wasn't entirely certain."
"Then you should consult Master Elborn," Elian suggested, his tone carefully neutral. "My grasp of Aethelredian syntax is… imperfect at best on such subtle points."
"Oh, but your memory for archaic dialects is renowned, Elian," Cassian countered, his smile becoming more pronounced. He enjoyed being the one offering assistance, even if subtly. "I merely wished to double-check my understanding before approaching the Master. Your insights are always so… precise."
Elian nodded, a silent acknowledgment. They both wore their masks well, each feigning humility, each guarding their intellectual territory. Cassian, for all his intelligence, often mistook Elian’s quiet nature for a lack of ambition.
Suddenly, a raucous cheer erupted from the back of the classroom, shattering the fragile peace.
"Torvin, you madman! Do it again!"
"By the Ancestors, this fellow is utterly deranged!"
"Kaelen! Look at this! Pure genius!"
The giggles escalated into full-throated cackles. Elian felt Cassian stiffen beside him. Cassian muttered under his breath, "Such boorish behavior… a disgrace to Lumina." He then glanced nervously at Elian, remembering Elian’s occasional proximity to Kaelen’s circle.
"It is… rather distracting," Elian conceded, pushing aside Cassian’s parchment. He turned slowly, curiosity and apprehension stirring.
Cassian followed his gaze, a look of bewildered disgust settling on his face.
"Ugh, ugh, ugh—!" a guttural sound escaped Torvin.
Torvin, a burly student usually found sleeping through lectures, was now in the center of a boisterous circle. He held a glass bottle of sparkling cider, its long, slender neck poised at his mouth.
He was shoving the bottle's neck into his mouth, his lips sealed around it, one hand gripping the cold glass. Then, with a slow, deliberate rhythm, he began to move it in and out.
Elian felt a cold wave wash over him. His brow furrowed. "What… what are they doing?"
"I… I can’t quite discern," Cassian stammered, his face blanching.
But Elian knew. They both knew. The sheer, grotesque vulgarity of it stunned them into a horrified silence.
"By the Saints, what is happening…?" Cassian whispered, his voice barely audible.
The green glass slid further into Torvin’s mouth, then withdrew, then plunged deeper still. A wet, sloshing sound accompanied each thrust, growing louder, more pronounced. The surrounding boys erupted in wilder cheers, a frenzied chorus.
"Torvin, you beast!"
"He’s got skill, that one!"
The bottle twisted and turned, sometimes pulling completely free, sometimes sinking to the hilt. Torvin’s tongue, visible through the transparent glass, worked furiously, sealing the opening, demonstrating his appalling technique. The pace quickened.
Spread-legged on his chair, Torvin bent at the waist, peering down at the floor, as if intently focused on some invisible mark. Foamy, white bubbles streamed from the corners of his mouth. The sparkling cider, agitated, fizzed down his chin, dripping onto the ancient wooden floorboards.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" The boys chanted, their voices rising in a gasping, rhythmic crescendo. Bent double, Torvin suddenly straightened.
At the exact same moment, he yanked the bottle from his mouth.
The trapped foam, under pressure, burst forth, frothing violently. It sprayed down his chin, splattered onto his uniform tunic, catching the light in a sickening sheen.
"He's coming! He's coming!" The boys shrieked, a mix of disgust and exhilaration.
Torvin lowered the now half-empty bottle towards his crotch, holding it aloft like a phallus. Then, with a theatrical flourish, he began to shake it vigorously.
Th e boys around him recoiled with exaggerated cries of alarm, throwing up their arms. It was useless. Their pristine uniform sleeves were splattered with the sticky, sweet cider.
"Ugh, foul! That's utterly vile!"
Kaelen, who had been observing the entire spectacle from his corner, now let out a sharp, barking laugh. His eyes met Elian's across the room, a challenge, a shared, knowing depravity reflected in their depths. A dark, unsettling amusement, a silent question: *Do you understand now, Elian? The true nature of man?*
Elian felt a cold, empty sensation bloom in his chest. He turned away from Kaelen's gaze, his eyes sweeping over the scattered boys, their faces a mixture of mirth and genuine revulsion. This was Lumina. This was the gilded cage. And beneath its elegant veneer, something rotten festered. The taste of spit, bitter and shameful, rose in his mouth again.