The scent of aged parchment and cold stone filled the scriptorium, a familiar balm that usually quelled the persistent ache in Elian’s chest. A week of Kaelen’s distant coolness had solidified into an icy barrier, yet the noble lord still dominated Elian’s thoughts, a restless current beneath the calm surface of his work. Elian’s quill hovered over a faded alchemical diagram, but his mind refused to focus on the intricate sigils.
He had seen Kaelen twice this morning. Once, striding through the cloistered walkways, head high, a group of fawning novices trailing in his wake. Later, through the ornate glass of the Great Hall, Kaelen had been positioned near the far end, close to where Lord Theron usually took his morning meal. Elian had averted his gaze, a knot tightening in his stomach.
Curiosity, a vile, insatiable beast, had begun to gnaw. He found himself charting Kaelen’s movements, a quiet, almost furtive reconnaissance. Kaelen no longer frequented the more scandalous haunts of the city, at least not with the same overt abandon. His pursuits, it seemed, had narrowed, focusing with predatory precision on Theron.
One afternoon, Elian, tasked with cataloging recent acquisitions in the Collegium’s eastern wing, found himself near the small, seldom-used conservatory. Voices carried through the stained-glass windows, Kaelen’s clear and resonant, Theron’s a hesitant murmur. Elian paused, his breath catching. It was a simple, base urge to know, a sliver of jealousy he recognized with chilling clarity. A forbidden door, once opened, could never be truly shut.
He pictured it: the hothouse air, the exotic flora, and Kaelen, surely too close, his dark eyes fixed on Theron. Theron, no doubt still flinching from the phantom pain of his recent injuries, trapped in Kaelen’s intense orbit. A bad feeling prickled Elian’s skin. He felt like a fool, standing there, eavesdropping, his scholarly composure crumbling.
“This is madness,” he whispered, pressing a hand to his forehead. The chill of the stone wall seeped into his palm. It was pathetic. He turned away, the faint murmur of voices fading behind him. He didn’t want to know. He truly didn’t.
Later, in his solitary chambers, illuminated only by the flicker of a single lamp, Elian found a grim satisfaction in his decision. What could he have gained from further observation? Only a deeper entanglement, a clearer view of something he was better off ignoring. He wasn't so foolish as to pry open a box that promised only despair, albeit laced with a cruel, tempting hope.
Kaelen's preoccupation with Theron had intensified, and Theron, despite his new, unsettling serenity, still seemed wary, almost fearful of Kaelen's relentless attention. Elian found himself experiencing a faint, unsettling gratification at Theron's discomfort. Kaelen's dark fascinations were, for now, directed elsewhere. This was safer. Better.
Elian leaned back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head, eyes tracing the intricate plasterwork on his ceiling. A delicate frieze of laurel leaves and mythical beasts, painstakingly crafted. His life had been a carefully curated existence, a world of ancient texts and quiet contemplation. Born into a respected, if not overtly wealthy, scholarly lineage, he’d always believed his intellect could conquer anything, could unravel any mystery. Until Kaelen.
That unsettling lord had exposed the raw nerve of Elian's deepest fears: inadequacy, rejection, the terrifying chaos of genuine human connection. Love, or whatever this burgeoning feeling was, didn't adhere to logic or reason. It was a foreign language, and Elian, the master archivist, found himself utterly illiterate.
Kaelen, for all his aristocratic polish, seemed similarly consumed, incapable of masking the intensity of his focus on Theron. He acted with an almost juvenile impulsiveness, starkly contrasting Elian’s own tightly controlled emotions. Elian maintained his carefully constructed façade, his neutrality a shield. He wished Kaelen would remain oblivious to the currents Elian felt. Or better yet, that Theron would simply tire and escape. This kind of raw, demanding emotion terrified him.
He craved but one thing: for a day when the sharp ache of Kaelen's presence no longer resonated so deeply, and for Kaelen to find his affections elsewhere, far from Elian's guarded heart. But the world, Elian knew, rarely granted such simple mercies.
The rumors Valerius relayed grew more specific. Kaelen had ceased his boisterous carousing, his 'blind dates' now a thing of the past. The lingering scent of city decadence no longer clung to him during morning lectures. He sat, silent and watchful, often at the periphery of Theron’s chosen circle.
“A new leaf, then,” Valerius drawled one afternoon, observing Kaelen across the dining hall. “Or perhaps merely a new target for his singular affections.” Valerius swirled the amber liquid in his goblet, a cynical smirk playing on his lips. “Less messy, I suppose, than involving half the city’s eligible young ladies.”
Other young lords in Valerius’s retinue chuckled, nudging each other. Lord Hendryk, a boorish youth known for his tasteless jokes, mimed a doting gesture, puckering his lips towards Kaelen’s back. Kaelen’s jaw tightened. He shot a glare over his shoulder, a silent warning.
“Steady on, Hendryk,” Valerius murmured, though his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Lest you become the next object of Lord Kaelen’s… *attentions*.”
Hendryk paled, his mock gestures abruptly ceasing. A ripple of nervous laughter followed. Kaelen’s reputation, Elian knew, was not to be trifled with. He was formidable, even when merely contained. Elian watched him, then felt his own gaze drop to his hands, resting on his lap. He had rarely, if ever, felt such an acute, insistent pull toward another person. It left him raw, exposed.
His self-imposed 'abstinence,' as Valerius once jokingly called his quiet nature, was a necessity. It protected him from this very vulnerability. He looked up, catching Kaelen’s intense gaze fixed on Theron, who was engrossed in a discussion with a history lecturer. A familiar regret pricked Elian. Why did he look? Why did he keep looking?
To break the spell, Elian turned to Valerius. “Do you truly believe, then, that Lord Kaelen’s… reformation will last?”
Valerius, lounging in his chair as if he owned the hall, turned his sharp gaze to Elian’s face. His eyes lingered, making Elian instinctively cross his legs, a tremor of unease passing through him. “Why, Lord Vance,” Valerius drawled, “are you offering to test his resolve yourself?”
Elian flinched. The others snickered. Elian kicked Valerius’s shin beneath the table. Such was the predictable rhythm of their days. Such was the ceaseless, internal drone of Elian’s own thoughts.
---
Alone in his rooms, the silence was heavy, broken only by the crackle of the hearth fire. Elian often found his mind drifting, creating elaborate scenarios. What if he had fallen for Valerius? Less volatile, perhaps. Predictable in his cynicism. It might have been simpler than this agonizing entanglement with Kaelen. He wouldn't have to endure this peculiar ache, this fear of Theron. But then, Valerius, like Kaelen, would never truly look at him, not in the way he craved.
The thoughts spiraled, feeding a quiet resentment, a familiar sense of inadequacy. He just wanted to graduate, to escape, to become a distant memory in Kaelen’s life. If he could only forget this feeling, erase it entirely.
Unconsciously, Elian’s hands drifted under his desk. He found himself toying with the ornate silver buckle on his breeches. The faint, rhythmic click of metal against his nails filled the quiet room. A faint flush crept up his neck. His thumb pressed against the release mechanism, a strange, urgent curiosity stirring within him. To explore this unfamiliar landscape, this foreign desire.
A sharp rap sounded at his door, startling him. “Lord Vance? Magister Thorne requires your presence.”
“Ah! Yes! Of course!” Elian stammered, pulling his hands away as if burned. Today was clearly not the day for such self-indulgence. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. The heat in his cheeks burned.
---
Kaelen had become overtly possessive. It was infuriating. Whenever Theron so much as glanced in Elian’s direction, Kaelen would immediately, conspicuously, engage Theron in conversation. Theron, caught in the middle, would flick his eyes toward Elian, his lips parting, as if to speak, only to close again. Then, as if wary of Kaelen’s scrutiny, he would lower his head and answer Kaelen in the faintest whisper. “Y-yes, Lord Kaelen…”
Theron, surprisingly, had begun to seek out Elian more directly. He would occasionally call him simply “Vance,” but with an unexpected informality that, from Theron, felt strangely intimate. Aside from his tutors, almost no one addressed Elian in such a manner. Theron seemed to think he was being subtle, but Kaelen’s discomfort was palpable.
“Lord Theron, do not distract Lord Vance from his studies.” Kaelen’s voice was a low growl one afternoon as Theron leaned towards Elian, a book open between them. Kaelen’s eyes were narrowed, his gaze like a physical weight.
“What?” Theron looked up, startled.
“Do not distract him. Is that not clear?” Kaelen’s voice tightened, a steel edge beneath the aristocratic drawl.
“Oh… uh, yes, Lord Kaelen…” Theron stammered, avoiding Kaelen’s gaze, shrinking back. Kaelen slammed his palm against the polished oak of the desk beside him, the sound sharp and jarring. Elian pretended not to notice, his quill poised over a parchment. He felt Theron’s relief, the quick shift away from Elian.
Infuriatingly, Theron seemed to believe that Kaelen’s irritation had passed. He grew bold again, casually using his informal address for Elian. “Vance,” he murmured, catching Elian's eye in the Great Library, “do you know the location of the treatise on—”
Elian stiffened. He stared at Theron in disbelief. Was he truly so oblivious? Kaelen was seated barely two tables away, his attention immediately snaring. Sure enough, Kaelen’s fist slammed against the leg of his own table, the resounding thud echoing through the vaulted space. A sharp intake of breath spread through the quiet hall.
“Lord Theron!” Kaelen’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and dangerous. “Have I not made myself clear?”
“...Huh?” Theron’s composure shattered. The atmosphere turned instantly sour.
“I told you.” Kaelen’s anger was blatant, undisguised. “I told you not to address Lord Vance in such a familiar manner.”
“W-well…”
“It is *Lord Vance*. Remember that. Always.” Kaelen’s gaze turned sharp, almost predatory, as he looked from Theron to Elian. Elian hated that look, a possessive, territorial gleam that made his skin crawl. He instinctively lowered his head.
At that moment, Valerius, who had been observing from his usual vantage point, casually draped an arm over Elian’s shoulders. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Elian’s ear, loud enough for Kaelen to hear. “Lord Kaelen, if you persist in this charade, you will truly make a fool of yourself.”
“What are you talking about, Valerius?” Kaelen’s eyes narrowed further.
“I am saying you will regret it.” Valerius smirked, a flicker of irritation passing through Elian. Not at Kaelen, but at Valerius. The tangled web tightened, knotting around Elian, drawing him ever deeper into the drama he so desperately wished to avoid.