A week crawled by, each day a new layer of frosted silence between us. Lord Kaelen moved through the ancient halls of Lumina College like a storm cloud, his retinue trailing in his wake. My own days were spent in a careful pantomime of indifference. I found solace, or perhaps just distraction, in the company of Valerius and a scattering of other students, maintaining a facade of unaffected normalcy. The gilded ceilings of the Grand Hall, the hushed rustle of parchment in the archives, the distant chimes of the Lumina clock tower—all were backdrops to this quiet, internal struggle.
Most frustratingly, this unspoken schism meant I was no longer privy to the currents of Lord Kaelen’s daily life. His circle, once tangentially mine, was now a distant shore. I caught only stray whispers, fragments carried on the wind of academic gossip, often filtered through Valerius’s cynical observations. My pride, a stubborn knot in my chest, forbade me from asking directly, yet my curiosity gnawed. A ridiculous charade, I knew.
Valerius often sat by the arched window in the scriptorium, a slim volume of satirical verse resting unread beside him, his gaze fixed on the bustling courtyard below. When I sought news of Kaelen, I approached him there. Without glancing up from the game console he’d purloined from young Baron Rothgar, Valerius would offer a clipped reply. “Oh, Kaelen? Out again.” The words always left me without retort.
My breath hitched. A damnable brute.
I understood the violent temper that coursed through Lord Kaelen. He was instinct made flesh, a creature of raw, untamed impulse—a beast, through and through. The thought simmered. “Attended another of those clandestine duels, perhaps?” I ventured.
“No, not this time,” Valerius replied, his fingers flying across the console buttons. He leaned back, his neck craning as if wrestling the phantom opponent on the screen. “A formal introduction, arranged by Lady Isolde’s aunt. The kind where the families have already exchanged pleasantries and portfolios.”
He paused, a flicker of a smirk playing on his lips. “They met, Elian. And then, without so much as a polite farewell to the chaperones, they simply *departed*.” Valerius scoffed, shaking his head. “Though, the girl was no shrinking violet. Agreed to leave with him without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Why not?’ she apparently said.”
A bitter taste filled my mouth.
“Both utterly without decorum, wouldn’t you say?” he added, a dry laugh escaping him. It wasn’t admiration. His voice, usually light, was edged with a derisive scorn that, for the first time in days, eased a tension in my shoulders. I perched on the edge of the carved oak desk, tapping his shoulder, a small, grateful pressure. Valerius shifted, making room for me to settle properly.
Valerius was the only soul who spoke of Lord Kaelen’s questionable escapades with such open, unfiltered criticism. For that, I tolerated him.
“Disgustingly cool,” I murmured, echoing his sentiment.
“Indeed. I, for one, am not cool at all,” he declared, almost boastful.
His self-deprecating pride drew a dry chuckle from me.
“Is one meant to be ‘cool’ as a scholar?” I asked, arching a brow.
“No such ‘meant to be,’ Elian. One acquires these things with… experience. Human nature, you see.” He smirked, eyes still fixed on the game.
“Is that why you remain unmarried?” I teased, a rare spark of levity.
Finally, Valerius powered down the console. He looked at me, an incredulous grin spreading across his face, and tapped my hand still resting on his shoulder. “I shall file a formal complaint for harassment.”
“Harassment? How so?”
“If the recipient feels discomfort, it is harassment. Lumina College statutes are quite clear.”
“Valerius, you are truly insufferable.”
“Pervert.”
My slipper, embroidered with the Vance crest, slipped from my foot as I swung it idly. Ignoring it, I nudged Valerius’s leg with my sock-clad heel. He feigned being shoved back, then casually offered me a two-fingered salute. His raised hand revealed a small, silver crucifix, always wrapped around his left wrist, tarnished with frequent handling. I nudged his leg again, a little harder.
“That crucifix doesn’t suit you.”
“Why not?” His tone turned unexpectedly serious.
Now, why the sudden earnestness?
“It simply… clashes with your temperament.”
“Clashes? How peculiar. Do I not strike you as a devout adherent?”
“No. It looks like an affectation. A fashionable bauble.”
“It is not.” A quiet defiance settled on his features.
I should have realized it, given his family’s historical affiliation with the Faith of the Twin Stars. But I’d dismissed it, assuming his religiosity was as performative as his occasional pronouncements on moral philosophy. Yet, Valerius's family had, for generations, been pillars of the old faith. More astonishing, Valerius himself claimed deep piety. I found it impossible to reconcile with his irreverent manner. He couldn’t even recite the most basic litany without stumbling.
I maintained my vigil of avoidance. Whenever our paths crossed in the lecture halls or the refectory, my gaze would brush Lord Kaelen’s before snapping away. The courage to initiate conversation still eluded me. Perhaps I feared to lose. The pathetic notion that the one who cares more, loses—it was a childish fear, yet it held me captive. I simply could not bring myself to speak.
Lord Theron, however, often spoke to me. I was, perhaps, the only one who offered him even a sliver of a response. But each day brought new bruises to his face, a fresh marring of his pale skin, an undeniable testament that Lord Kaelen continued his cruel ritual somewhere out of my sight. A beast marking its territory.
A frown creased my brow at the sight. Theron, catching my gaze, averted his head, trying to conceal the purpling marks along his jaw. He was a creature of flinching shadows.
Four more days bled into the Lumina calendar. One quiet morning, alone in the cool classroom, I pressed my face into my hands. I wanted no part of this sordid play. The distance between Lord Kaelen and me widened, a once-small gap now a yawning chasm. Opening my eyes felt like staring into an abyss. The bruises on Theron’s swollen eyes, stark as a heraldic seal, made me recoil from both of them. I yearned to simply vanish.
Then, a cruel stroke of luck, or perhaps just fate’s capricious hand, intervened. Lord Theron ceased attending the college. Magister Thorne, our lecturer in classical rhetoric, termed it an ‘absence,’ but the tell-tale hesitation in his voice spoke of truancy. I almost cheered aloud, a silent, shameful triumph.
Lord Kaelen, meanwhile, spent his lessons fidgeting with his slate, snapping at the footmen who delivered messages, or, on one memorable occasion, striking an unfortunate lackey for daring to voice a complaint. A part of me felt smug. Another part reveled in a strange, detached sense of superiority. I convinced myself that soon, once Theron officially transferred or simply vanished from the college rolls, Kaelen’s interest would wane. He would turn back to me. Confident in this deluded hope, I waited.
A few more days dissolved into the rhythmic drone of academic life.
“Lord Kaelen seems quite subdued,” Valerius remarked, his voice a low hum against the backdrop of students packing their satchels. My heart gave a heavy thud. I yearned to twist my head, to steal a glance at Kaelen’s face, but I could not. When it came to matters of the heart, I was a coward. I could only strain to interpret Valerius’s words, conjuring an image of Kaelen’s troubled expression in my mind.
Nothing shifted, even as the day wore on, as all classes ended. I clung to the belief that tomorrow would bring change. Grand tides do not turn in a single day, I reasoned. I waited. Then, as I slung my heavy satchel over my shoulder, Valerius spoke again, his words laced with an unnerving knowingness.
“You argued with Kaelen, didn’t you?”
I turned, a reflexive jerk, at his blunt question. “Indeed.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve still not reconciled since that rather public scene in the refectory?”
“...”
“My word, this has certainly festered longer than I’d anticipated,” Valerius said, shrugging, his hands tucked into the pockets of his tunic. I avoided his probing gaze, mumbling a facile excuse.
“Frankly, Kaelen went too far. Such blatant aggression… seeing someone bullied like that, it’s just… unsettling.”
“Unsettling? How so?”
“Well, Theron is a fellow student, isn’t he?”
“And?”
“The way Kaelen treats him… they are both young men of noble houses, and it’s simply… gross. I wish he would cease.”
“Remarkable.”
“...”
“You are surely destined for the celestial spheres, Elian.”
His response, a dry rasp, was steeped in sarcasm. My face, already warm, flushed. Annoyed by Valerius’s malicious tone, I glared at him. He merely smirked, utterly unconcerned. That knowing expression felt like an exposure, and my skin burned. I spun on my heel, ignoring his mocking grin, and strode from the classroom.
Hurrying down the long, echoing corridor, intent on reaching the sanctuary of my private chambers, a hand suddenly clamped onto my shoulder. Assuming it was Valerius, intent on further teasing, I spun around, irritation bubbling, and yanked my arm free. It was not Valerius. It was Magister Thorne, his usually benign face etched with an unfamiliar gravity. Startled, I quickly composed my expression.
“My apologies, Elian. Did I alarm you?”
“Oh, no, Magister. Not at all. Merely… surprised.”
“I see. I am truly sorry, but… might I trouble you for a brief moment of your time?”
“Magister?”
“Just a moment, please.”
The young Magister’s earnestness was unusual, so I nodded, a knot forming in my stomach.
“Today, Elian, Lord Kaelen requested Lord Theron’s private address,” Magister Thorne began, his voice cautious, barely above a whisper.
“Lord Kaelen?” The name felt like cold steel in my mouth.
It was clear that Magister Thorne, as a faculty member, could not possibly be ignorant of the unpleasantness unfolding in his class. Yet, he lacked the backbone to confront the toxic atmosphere directly. Still, he was not so heartless as to ignore it entirely. The fact that he sought me out now to discuss Theron proved that much.
“I am not accusing or blaming Lord Kaelen, but…”
“No, Magister, I understand. I find it… unsurprising,” I interjected quickly, my mind already racing.
“Well, given your consistent concern for Lord Theron, I wondered if you might… accompany Lord Kaelen to his residence. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
I could not answer immediately. My jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The unsettling intensity that Kaelen harbored for Theron now seemed to seep from the very stones of the college, creeping towards me, threatening to engulf me. I balled my fists, knuckles white. I could not, would not, stand still.
“Could I… perhaps have Lord Theron’s private slate number, then?” I asked, forcing my voice level.
“Ah, yes, of course. Allow me.” Magister Thorne fumbled with a small leather-bound ledger. “Here. Do try to contact him first.”
“Indeed. I shall speak with him. Do not concern yourself unduly, Magister.”
“Very well. I am relying on you, Elian.”
“Yes, Magister.”
Outwardly, I maintained a calm composure, but inside, a full-blown panic flared. Magister Thorne, looking vaguely uncomfortable, handed me Theron’s home slate number, copied from the student registry, before retreating down the corridor. I had to stop Kaelen. I absolutely had to prevent Kaelen’s strange, dangerous fixation from escalating. The moment Thorne was out of sight, I pulled out my own compact slate and immediately began to dial Theron’s number. My leg jittered uncontrollably. I clenched and unclenched my hand, waiting for the connection.
To my surprise, the call connected almost instantly.
“Hello?” A faint, reedy voice.
“It’s Elian Vance. Is this Lord Theron?” My words tumbled out, urgent and rushed. On the other end, a sudden clatter—something metallic falling, hitting wood—followed by a rustle of movement. A pause. Then, Theron’s voice, higher, strained.
“E-Elian? Elian! W-why… How… how did you acquire my number? Did you… already possess it?”
“No. I learned from Magister Thorne that Lord Kaelen inquired about your home address today. So I requested your number from him.”
“...”
“I merely wished to caution you. Be careful.”
“W-what about you? Are you safe? Even if you attempt to deter him…”
“Do not fret over my welfare. Focus on your own. Should you require more time away from the college, contact this number. I can intercede with Magister Thorne. I am, believe it or not, rather well-regarded.”
“...Thank you.” The gratitude in his voice was raw.
“If Kaelen attempts to harass you or assault you at college, inform me immediately. If you cannot speak directly, a discreet tap on the shoulder will suffice. It is always harder to mend what is already broken.”
“Understood.”
“Honestly, a transfer to another institution would be your best option.” I let the suggestion hang, hoping it would take root.
“...”
“In any case, consider it. For now, either pretend you are not home or go somewhere far away. Visit a distant relative’s estate.”
“O-okay…”
“Very well. I am disconnecting the call.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Elian.” After a prolonged hesitation, Theron’s voice came, soft and trembling. What in the blazes? Honestly, it made my skin crawl.
“T-thank you for always… assisting me.”
“It is nothing.” My reply was clipped.
“I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. U-until later.”
“Yes.”
“...Farewell.”
Farewell? I offered no reply to his overly dramatic parting, ending the call. The sound of Theron’s voice, lingering in my ears, was enough to send a shiver down my spine, leaving me thoroughly unsettled.
What precisely transpired with Lord Theron that night, I did not know. All I observed was that from the very next day, Theron resumed his attendance at Lumina. Within a week, the faint, almost translucent peach fuzz characteristic of youth began to reappear on his cheeks, no longer obscured by bruised skin. Theron also ceased his sudden, eager approaches to me, his demeanor subtly altered.
This abrupt shift in his behavior planted seeds of suspicion in my mind, an insidious tendril of doubt. And when all the visible marks on Theron’s face finally faded, leaving only a ghost of old trauma, I couldn’t help but feel a faint, fragile sense of hope—however illogical it seemed.
Then, two weeks later, Lord Kaelen approached me, without preamble.
“Elian.” His voice, deep and resonant, cut through the quiet of the corridor.
“...” My heart hammered against my ribs. I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, on a distant archway.
“Elian Vance.” He was closer now.
“...” My lips felt brittle, threatening to part with a gasp.
Could it be? Had Lord Kaelen finally grown weary of Lord Theron?