Two days later, a small, crisply folded note appeared in the cubby of my personal effects. My fingers, stained faintly with ink from morning studies, traced the elegant script. It was a formal request, written on heavy vellum: “Elian, could you meet me in the Archives Annex for a moment before fencing practice today?” For a flicker, the absurd thought of a romantic overture crossed my mind. Then I remembered Lumina College, its venerable, all-male halls echoing with nothing but scholarly pursuits and the faint, dusty scent of old parchment. The notion dissolved, leaving behind a familiar warmth of self-deprecation. I nearly forgot the note entirely. My mind, a labyrinth of forgotten dialects and half-translated runes, had already moved on to the intricacies of the Old Rhaetic script, due for a translation exercise before midday luncheon. It wasn't until the clatter of sabres from the lower quadrangle signaled the approach of fourth period – fencing practice – that the note resurfaced. Donning the pristine white breeches and padded jerkin for practice, a reluctant curiosity nudged me toward the Archives Annex. I imagined some junior scholar seeking assistance with a research query, perhaps a translation too complex for their limited grasp of ancient tongues. A minor diversion, nothing more. Barnaby Finch stood amidst towering shelves, each packed with centuries of Lumina’s accumulated knowledge. His slight frame seemed lost between the shadowed stacks of folios and scrolls. Black hair, meticulously combed flat, contrasted with a pallid, anxious face. He chewed nervously on a fingernail. “Barnaby?” My voice, usually a quiet murmur, sounded sharper than intended in the hushed space. His small head snapped up, eyes wide behind his spectacles. A quick, almost desperate wave. His smile, bright and guileless, reminded me of his first day at Lumina. A familiar prickle of irritation stirred within me. “What is it? Why here?” Barnaby’s plump fingers twisted, a nervous dance. Dust motes, disturbed by my sudden arrival, shimmered in the single shaft of light piercing a high arched window. “I… I have something to say…” “Well?” I shifted my weight, eager to depart. The thought of being seen alone with Barnaby, a frequent target of schoolyard whispers, twisted in my gut. I cultivated an image of polite helpfulness, extending just enough aid to avoid censure, but never fostering genuine intimacy. Such entanglements bred rumors, and rumors bred unwanted attention. Barnaby, oblivious to my simmering discomfort, continued to bite his thumb. His gaze darted around the cavernous annex, a mix of apprehension and fragile resolve warring on his face. Each time his lips parted, they snapped shut again. A sigh escaped me, barely audible. I’d never particularly cared for Barnaby. His timid uncertainty, which others might find endearing, only grated on my already taut nerves. A sudden rush of frustration tightened my chest. Perhaps I was oversensitive today. My head felt a tangled mess, a perpetual ache behind my eyes. “Barnaby, forgive me, but fencing practice begins soon. Can you just state your purpose?” Perhaps the irritation wasn't solely directed at Barnaby. A deeper, more general vexation had gnawed at me for days. My stomach churned, a familiar protest against unnamed anxieties. I felt a desperate urge to lash out, to find some outlet for the pressure building inside. As these thoughts spun, Barnaby finally seemed to make a decision. His voice, small and reedy, broke the silence. “Elian… I… you see, I…” “Yes?” My response was flat, distracted. I rubbed the back of my neck. The bell for practice would sound any moment. I imagined reaching out, prying his small mouth open, dragging the words from him. Suddenly, the heavy oak door of the Archives Annex swung inward. Both Barnaby and I turned. Cassian Thorne stood framed in the doorway, chest heaving. His eyes, though, weren’t on me. They were fixed on Barnaby. Heavy breaths rasped in the quiet space. He had run. A suffocating pressure seized my chest as I pictured him tearing through Lumina’s manicured grounds, searching. Cassian exhaled, a sharp, angry sound, and strode into the room. My hand, still at my neck, fell to my side. His gaze flickered between Barnaby and me, a fierce, accusatory glare. “Why are you here with him?” His voice was low, raw with suppressed fury. His fists clenched, then relaxed, then clenched again. Beneath my carefully constructed composure, my insides writhed. After a long, heavy silence, Cassian’s eyes finally settled on me. The intensity of his stare felt like a physical assault. “What the blazes, Cassian.” Please, I begged him silently. Don’t look at me like that. Blame Barnaby. He called me here. Why fixate on me, your supposed confidant, with such venom? I was merely an unwitting participant. Even as the thought formed, Cassian’s eyes, burning with an almost feral light, remained locked on mine. Not the intensity of passion, but the cold fire of rage, jealousy, and madness. A face twisted by desperate, possessive affection. Pitiful. Despicable. “Why are you here with him!” So pathetic, Cassian. Utterly pathetic. I met his glare, my jaw tight. Yet, a strange, hollow sensation told me the pathetic one wasn’t him. It was me. Before I could fully process it, Cassian’s long stride had brought him directly before me. I looked into his face, and the world tilted. “...!” The impact was swift, disorienting. My body crumpled, striking the stone floor with a jarring thud. Only then did my mind piece together the sequence of events. “Impossible…” He had struck me. Cassian Thorne had struck me. My hand, trembling, went to my cheek. A dull throb began to bloom. I couldn’t believe it. How could he? How could he do this? “E-Elian!” Barnaby rushed forward, horrified. Cassian let out a guttural roar. “You cur! I told you to call me Thorne! No, don’t even call me that—don’t speak my name, you insolent fool!” Barnaby froze, his face draining of color. Cassian’s fury seemed to grow, consuming the small space. “I-I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry.” “You promised! You swore it! Damn you!” Barnaby took a hesitant step back, tears welling. But he shouldn't be the one crying. I should. Hot tears pricked my own eyes. Mercifully, before they could fully spill, Cassian cursed one last, violent oath. He seized Barnaby by the arm and dragged him from the annex. The heavy door slammed shut behind them, leaving me alone. Alone on the cold stone, I stared at the door. A sliver of late afternoon sunlight streamed through a crack in the frame. Something inside me snapped. The carefully constructed dam of my emotions burst, and tears flowed, hot and stinging. I hated everything. Barnaby, who had dragged me into this humiliating spectacle. Cassian, who had hit me. I wished them both banished from Lumina, from my life. A raw, miserable emptiness consumed me, a bystander reduced to a casualty in their twisted drama. --- I rose, my body aching, and skipped fencing practice. Instead, I made my way to the Head Proctor’s office, requesting an early dismissal. My swollen, reddened face lent credibility to my vague excuse of a sudden malaise. The Proctor, a stern but perceptive man, merely nodded, granting my request without further inquiry. Arriving home at the Vance estate, I collapsed onto my bed, seeking the oblivion of sleep. When I awoke, my face felt puffy, a dull bruise beginning to blossom along my jawline. Out of habit, I checked my discreetly charmed communication device, the Lumina equivalent of a personal handheld. A message from Marius Volkov, Cassian’s most trusted lieutenant, glowed on the screen. We rarely exchanged words, but some record of contact likely existed due to my forced proximity to Cassian. Damn him. For anyone else, I would have simply ignored it. But Marius was not ‘anyone else’. He commanded considerable influence among the upper-year students, a pragmatic counterweight to Cassian’s volatile nature. To ignore him was to invite deeper scrutiny. “Elian, you vanished rather abruptly.” A small sound of annoyance escaped me. I composed a delayed, deliberately light reply to his three-hour-old query. “Haha, wasn’t feeling quite myself.” I tried to inject an air of casual nonchalance. The thought of anyone discovering Cassian had struck me, especially because of Barnaby Finch, was unbearably humiliating. “Are you quite alright?” Marius, showing concern? The question felt alien, unsettling. A strange knot formed in my stomach. I powered down the device. Hours later, a wave of profound melancholy washed over me. Even Marius’s message felt heavy, suffocating. Other acquaintances, those I shared study sessions with, had also sent perfunctory inquiries. But none of it was what I truly wanted. No message from Cassian. Not one. I must be mad. Yet, I clung to a sliver of desperate hope, telling myself this was the fate of those consumed by an all-encompassing, maddening possessiveness. Even knowing the bitter truth, I lay like an idiot, doing what I did best: closing my eyes, turning a blind eye to reality. “…I’m not the only one,” I whispered. Perhaps Barnaby and I shared a similar, wretched fate. A strange, twisted, grotesque thought, intertwined with a selfish, wicked, childish hope. Another message illuminated the device, lying inert on my bedside table. An unknown number. “Elian, are you very unwell?” My brow furrowed. Who among my peers would address me so familiarly, with such an earnest, almost fawning tone? Marius? But this wasn’t his contact. Before I could ponder further, a second message arrived, relentless and infuriating. “I’m sorry. Truly sorry. It’s all my fault.” “I’m so sorry.” “Please, forgive me.” Three words or four, each one grated. I wanted to scream. With a frustrated growl, I hurled the device onto the heavy rug. How had that impudent boy acquired my direct contact? Barnaby Finch, who reputedly didn’t even possess such a device himself, sending me missives? Then it clicked. Oh. I had called him once, hadn’t I? A quick, necessary communication regarding a misplaced text, a rare instance of me reaching out beyond a polite nod. I cursed my own idiotic memory, letting out a ragged sigh. To vent the frustration, I pounded my fists against the soft mattress until exhaustion claimed me. Just before my thoughts faded into sleep, one last message echoed in my mind. “Please, don’t hate me.” Funny. I had hated him for months. The next morning, my face felt like a bruised, swollen gourd. --- I skipped College. No matter how diligently I pursued my studies, presenting such a disfigured face in the hallowed halls of Lumina was unthinkable. Dame Isolde, our stern but kind housekeeper, prepared a light luncheon for me. As I ate, she couldn’t resist a gentle scolding, urging greater caution. The meal itself was simple: a comforting porridge, bland but soothing, accompanied by delicate side dishes of seasoned asparagus and wild sorrel. I swallowed it quickly, barely chewing. As I set my spoon down and reached for a glass of water, Dame Isolde arrived to clear the dishes. Plate in one hand, she spoke. “Elian, you have a visitor.” “A visitor?” “Shall I admit them?” A friend. My heart fluttered, a tiny bird trapped in my ribcage. Before I could properly identify the emotion, my mind raced, conjuring a single image at the heavy oak doors. Could it be… Cassian Thorne? It seemed a wild, improbable fantasy, yet not entirely impossible. Few students from Lumina had ever crossed the threshold of the Vance estate. Only a select few even knew its location. If it was him, then surely, he had come to apologize, a belated surge of guilt finally compelling him. Cassian had never struck me before, not once. Yes, he must be worried, upset. “Yes, Dame Isolde. Please.” The fantasy solidified into certainty. Though I chastised myself for such naivety, a small, stubborn satisfaction bloomed. Despite everything, I still mattered to him. That thought, however fragile, filled me with an inexplicable warmth. I rose swiftly, my pace quickening with a surge of anticipation toward the grand entrance. But the figure waiting there was not the one I had imagined. “Yo, Vance. What’s the trouble?” Marius Volkov’s sharp-featured face greeted me with a playful, lopsided smirk. He held a small leather pouch, likely filled with sweet pastries from the village market. His eyes, though, widened. The smirk vanished. His voice, usually laced with an easy sarcasm, became unusually grave. “What the blazes happened to your face?” My knees almost buckled from the sudden, crushing disappointment. Marius? How did he even know where the estate was? “I… fell,” I replied, the words flat and hollow. Marius frowned, his lips twisting in that characteristic way he had before delivering a barbed remark. “You truly are an imbecile, aren’t you?” I didn’t argue. I merely rubbed my still-aching cheek. Embarrassment, hot and furious, surged through me. What a fool I was. Cassian didn’t see me as important. And here I was, like a hopeful, foolish hound, wagging my tail. “Here. Take this.” Marius offered a small, chilled ceramic pot. I accepted it, lifting the lid to reveal the contents. “…It’s mint sorbet.” “Is it? Didn’t notice.” “Figures. Why would you care?” “Blast, you’re testy.” “What are you even doing here, Volkov?” “What do you think? Came to check on you. Mind if I come in?” “Hey, wait!” Without hesitation, his long legs carried him past me, into the entry hall. He gazed around, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes for the old timber and vaulted ceilings. “Where’s your study?” “Volkov, where are you going?” “Where else? There’s nowhere else of interest in your house, is there?” I had no retort. He was right. All houses were largely the same, weren’t they? A knot of awkwardness tightened in my stomach. I followed Marius, who seemed intent on inspecting every detail of my ancestral home.

Chapter 2.1: The Echo in the Archives