A singular, unyielding composure defined Elian Vance. Years of parental expectation, sharp as a guilder's edge, had carved it into his very nature. Vulnerability, he considered a public disembowelment. It was a weakness he had meticulously purged from his visible self, a deep-seated revulsion against exposing any raw nerve.
Emotional tumult, no matter how fierce its currents, always met a placid surface. He could endure with an almost unsettling calm, a quiet fortress built against the world. Often, he was simply called dull, unremarkable. It wasn’t that the fires of anger never stirred within him. Instead, each emotional disturbance, every slight or injustice, had merely hammered another rivet into his protective shell. Over time, little could truly breach it, little could provoke him into overt reaction.
This held true, even for the insidious games Lord Kaelen played.
His carefully constructed position within Lumina’s subtle hierarchies, a place he’d meticulously carved out, felt paramount. It was a space of perceived safety, however fragile. He clung to it with the quiet desperation of a drowning man to driftwood.
“Elian.”
“Lord Kaelen?” Elian's voice, level as always, masked the tremor that rippled through his chest.
“What is that tone? It grates.”
“Ah, like the squeak of a rusty gate?” Elian’s retort, a rare, almost imperceptible jab, felt like a dangerous gamble. He watched Kaelen, bracing.
“Amusing.” Kaelen merely laughed, a sound like gravel churning. Lysander Thorne, perched nearby, didn't stir, but a subtle shift in his weight caught Elian’s eye.
“Lysander, do you not know any decent company? You always seem surrounded by… such.” Kaelen gestured vaguely with a languid hand, encompassing the entire, echoing Refectory.
“What manner of company?” Lysander’s voice was a low murmur, barely audible over the clatter of silverware.
“Presentable ones.”
“Explain ‘presentable.’”
“Do not play the fool, Thorne.”
Lysander offered a faint, almost mocking smile, tossing a polished river stone in his palm. He gave no further answer. Kaelen, however, already seemed bored with the exchange. His gaze, predatory and heavy, settled on a disheveled figure at a distant table: Lord Tristan Aethelred.
“Perhaps… someone with a quiet demeanor and a delicate constitution might be refreshing,” Kaelen mused, his voice carrying an unpleasant sweetness.
Lord Kaelen, Elian knew, was an engine of impulse, crude as unrefined ore, prone to bouts of violence both physical and psychological. Since his early years at Lumina, his dark appetites had been evident. Kaelen’s harassment, devoid of any nuanced cruelty, grew ever more blatant.
By this late summer, Lord Tristan had been reduced to an isolated pariah. Yet, even this wasn't enough to satiate Kaelen.
Other cliques at Lumina, while operating with similar undercurrents of power, displayed varied behaviors. Kaelen’s immediate cronies—the boisterous Lord Emrys and the sycophantic Master Gawain—would linger after the bell, waiting for Kaelen’s signal. Meanwhile, lesser nobles from the West Wing, like Master Alden and Lord Silas, would bolt from the Refectory the moment luncheon was announced.
During his first year, Elian had been firmly within Kaelen’s orbit. Second year, however, had seen a shift. Master Gawain, with a dismissive flick of his wrist, once remarked, “Elian takes his meal with Thorne, doesn’t he? Always so… deliberate.” Without his input, without a word, Elian found himself quietly nudged out.
Most humiliating of all? Kaelen hadn’t cared. His presence, or lack thereof, made no difference to the young Lord. Damn him. Elian had glanced at Kaelen, his voice barely a whisper, an ache behind his ribs.
“Am I truly so slow in my meal?”
“Of course. You pick and prod like an aged scholar dissecting a manuscript, while the rest of us finish luncheon in mere moments.”
“Aye, we are always tardy for fencing practice because of you,” Emrys had added, his broad grin a sneer.
“Oh.” The single syllable felt like a stone dropping into a well.
“We have a wagered bout with the students from the next hall today. Go and take your meal with Thorne.”
Pride, a brittle thing, prevented any plea. Besides, the constant indigestion from rushing his meals, trying to keep pace with Kaelen’s wolfish consumption, had plagued his first year. And honestly, the very thought of clinging to Kaelen like a barnacle to a ship’s hull disgusted even him. So, he hadn't protested. He hadn't pleaded.
Just like that, he was out. His will, his preference, utterly irrelevant.
Attempting an air of indifference, Elian found his gaze meeting Lysander Thorne’s. Lysander lounged on a bench, idly spinning his river stone. He looked at Elian, a glint in his pale eyes.
“When do you take your meal?”
Elian swallowed, the silence feeling vast.
“I usually proceed in ten minutes, or so.”
“Yes, that suits me well.”
In truth, he had never eaten at that hour. But survival instincts, sharp and cold, asserted themselves. To remain within any group, even Lysander’s quiet orbit, adaptation was essential. That first meal, sitting opposite Lysander, Elian left half his food untouched, feigning a sudden lack of appetite. Lysander, an eyebrow arched in mild amusement, merely commented.
“What are you, eighteen and still particular about your provender?”
“What concern is that of yours?” Elian shot back, a flicker of petulance.
“Truly, you are like a child.”
“Even adults do not consume the spiced fish with such liberal dollops of tartare.” He glared, annoyed. What did Lysander care?
First year, Kaelen and Elian had been nearly inseparable. But by the second year, those moments had dwindled. Lysander Thorne, in his quiet way, had become the new constant. Still, Elian had no right to complain. Lysander, by birth and intellect, outranked him.
Lysander’s and Kaelen’s circles overlapped, primarily comprising lesser noble students often at the lower echelons of Lumina’s academic register. These were the types who would forge permission slips for early dismissal or sneak out of lectures, exploiting the casual indifference of tutors who rarely confirmed their whereabouts.
Kaelen, ever mindful of his parents’ watchful eyes, generally remained in classes until their conclusion. As for Lysander, whose reputation held its own quiet infamy, Elian had once asked why he bothered to remain.
Lysander’s response had stuck with him.
“Do you think me that pathetic, Vance?”
“No, but your… associates often are.”
“Associates? What nonsense is that? They are not my friends. They are dross.”
“What?”
“A scholar’s duty is to attend lessons and acquire knowledge, is it not?”
“That is true.”
“Do not lump me with dross such as them. It irritates me.”
“My apologies.”
“I was not soliciting one.”
It was a perfectly reasonable statement. Yet, hearing it from Lysander Thorne felt absurd. This was the same youth whose so-called friends absented themselves from Lumina’s halls at least once a week.
Regardless, Elian spent most of his second year in the quiet company of Lysander Thorne. He had come to consider it a sacred, if unspoken, arrangement, a space no one else could easily intrude upon. It would have been perfect without Lysander’s occasional, irritating barbs, but surprisingly, they had forged a truce. He didn't *like* Lysander, but he wasn’t so insufferable that Elian would storm away. Merely… annoying.
Lord Tristan Aethelred, however, turned even those days into a creeping nightmare.
---
Today felt subtly different from the usual routine.
“Damn Emrys and Gawain, those cowards,” Kaelen cursed, running a hand through his already disheveled hair as the fourth period neared its close.
Hearing his voice, Elian turned immediately, a flicker of raw, desperate hope igniting within him. “They absconded again?”
“Fools.” Kaelen’s lips thinned.
“How unfortunate. With whom will you take luncheon, then?” Elian's fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair, a barely perceptible tremor. The hope was a dangerous thing, a fragile bird fluttering in his chest.
Kaelen let out a heavy sigh, turning to Lysander, who still idly spun his river stone.
“I shall take my meal with you two today.”
“Do not. No one offered invitation,” Lysander replied, blunt as an axe blade.
“Keep that insolence, and I shall see it silenced.” Kaelen’s voice dropped, laced with venom.
“By the Mother, today truly makes me wish to strike your face, Kaelen.”
“Go on, then, fool.”
“Bold words for one who would otherwise break bread alone.”
Elian couldn’t hold back. His voice, usually so restrained, pushed through. “Come now, let us all take our meal together. We cannot abandon Lord Kaelen to dine in solitude.”
His desperation must have been glaring. Kaelen smirked, a triumphant flash in his eyes, glancing at Lysander with a sly, infuriating grin.
“See? I possess loyal companions.”
“....” Lysander’s only response was a silent, simmering glare.
“What say you, Lysander? Elian proves quite useful, does he not?”
Lysander scowled. With a sharp flick, he sent Kaelen’s polished inkwell clattering to the flagstones. Whether Lysander favored Elian or not mattered little in that moment. What mattered was that Kaelen would join them for luncheon.
It had been so long since they’d shared a table, a genuine memory from the past. Elian was so thrilled he forced himself to consume a side dish of pickled gherkins, a food he detested.
But Kaelen’s attention wasn’t on his food. His eyes swept the Refectory, cold and assessing, like a predator scanning for prey. Elian, too fixated on Kaelen, hardly noticed Lysander casually pilfering a candied apricot from his tray. Then, without warning, Kaelen’s fork clattered to his plate. His free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing their table.
Looking up, Elian saw the pale, terrified face of Lord Tristan Aethelred.
“Sit here,” Kaelen commanded, nodding toward the empty seat beside him. His voice was silky, deceptively gentle.
“You have no one else with whom to eat, in any case.”
Tristan’s face flushed a deep crimson. His eyes darted around, lingering briefly on Elian, a silent plea. He bit his lip, then slowly, reluctantly, sank into the seat Kaelen had indicated.
Elian felt a cold shock. Stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Kaelen feign concern for Tristan’s isolation? And the reason for Tristan’s friendless state lay entirely at Kaelen’s feet. Kaelen had always abhorred any who dared approach Tristan.
A bitter, metallic taste filled Elian’s mouth, rising from somewhere deep within.
Unconsciously, Elian’s spoon clanged against his pewter tray, a harsh, jarring sound in the cavernous Refectory. Only Tristan reacted, flinching visibly, his eyes wide and fearful. Kaelen, however, remained fixated on his prey.
Damn it. In that moment, the carefully constructed shell, forged over years of quiet endurance, began to fissure. He tried to halt the cracking, but the effort was futile. Perhaps, unbeknownst to him, he had reached a breaking point, a hidden fault line.
Clinging desperately to denial, Elian snapped at Tristan, his voice tight.
“Tristan. Leave.”
“H-huh?” Tristan stammered, startled.
“Do not heed Kaelen. Simply go. It is permissible.”
“Elian,” Kaelen growled, his voice dangerously low, a rumble of thunder before the storm. Kaelen, who had ignored the loud clang of Elian’s spoon, now ground his teeth, his gaze sharp and venomous. That glare, far from deterring Elian, seemed to solidify his resolve. He fixed his eyes stubbornly on Tristan.
“I shall manage this. You may depart.”
“Uh, o-okay.” Tristan’s breath hitched.
“And Kaelen, desist from this nonsense.”
“Indeed, I think so too,” Lysander chimed in, through a mouthful of spiced game pie, his words barely intelligible. His sudden interjection felt utterly misplaced, almost rude. He chewed and swallowed, deliberately, slowly, before glancing between Elian and Kaelen, an irritating smirk playing on his lips.
“What are you staring at? You are quite spoiling my appetite.”
As always, Lysander’s unnecessary provocations grated on Elian’s nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter the circumstance. Ignoring him, Elian turned back to Kaelen.
“Release Tristan.”
“Who are you to command me, Vance?” Kaelen shot back, his eyes narrowing to slits.
“It is tiresome for the rest of us to observe.”
Elian held Kaelen’s gaze, unblinking. Kaelen slammed his fist onto the table. The sudden impact made Tristan, sitting awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Lysander, on the other hand, merely chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender.
“Exclude me from this.”
He licked a bead of water from his lips, adding, “Let us decide by majority. I am neutral. Elian wishes him gone. Kaelen says he remains.”
Lysander was one of the few who called Elian by his given name, and Elian found it endlessly irritating. That irritation, a faint tremor in his controlled facade, slipped into his tone now.
“Cease your meddling. Your vote does not even count.”
“Why not? There is another person directly there.”
Lysander, unfazed, smirked. He pointed at Tristan, a casual flick of his wrist. “What? Is Tristan not a person?”
“You are unhinged.”
“Why is he silent? Let him voice his preference.”
As if Tristan could possibly speak in this taut, suffocating atmosphere. Elian sighed at Lysander’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his lentil soup. That’s when Kaelen tapped his finger on the polished oak table, a chilling, deliberate rhythm.
“If you declare your departure, you are dead to me starting this very instant.”
Tears began to well in Tristan’s large, luminous eyes. They glimmered as he looked at Elian, a silent, desperate plea for rescue. Damn it. Elian pressed his lips together, a line of grim resolve.
“It is fine. I shall stop him,” Elian said, trying to infuse his voice with a calming, protective certainty.
“Elian,” Kaelen growled, his voice tight with barely suppressed fury.
Elian forced himself to meet Kaelen’s gaze, feigning a calm he did not possess. He felt an overwhelming urge to collapse, to shatter. To suppress it, he lifted his eyes to the vaulted ceiling for a brief moment, then lowered his head, replying with forced nonchalance.
“What?”
“You…”
Kaelen clenched his fist, glaring with an intensity that felt like a searing brand. Still, Elian had to endure. His instincts screamed that he could not abandon Tristan to Kaelen’s malice.
But Kaelen’s focus, for an agonizing moment, shifted back to Tristan.
“I-I shall go,” Tristan stammered, his voice trembling, broken.
“…” Elian’s resolve wavered, a cold dread seeping into him.
“Th-thank you, Elian.”
Tristan scrambled to his feet, a blur of motion. He fled, his footsteps unsteady, echoing across the Refectory’s flagstones. As soon as he was gone, Kaelen turned abruptly, his gaze, now devoid of amusement, settling entirely on Elian.