A cool breath across Elian’s cheek woke him. Not a whisper of divine solace, but the simple efficacy of Professor Thorne’s unguent, thick with the scent of crushed belladonna. The swelling had receded significantly, leaving only a faint, bruised pallor that skillful lamplight might conceal. It was manageable, a shadow of the violence rather than its full imprint. People could dismiss it, if they cared to look, as a clumsy stumble on the uneven cobbles of the Lumina grounds. He navigated the hushed corridors, the grand, arched windows filtering the morning light into long, precise rectangles on the polished stone floor. His heart, however, felt anything but light. A leaden anticipation weighed on him, a premonition that the atmosphere within the Scriptoria would be oppressive, thick with unspoken tensions. He scanned the room instinctively for Barnaby Finch. The younger student slipped in just as the first chimes for morning lecture began, narrowly avoiding the censure of the Prefect on duty. Barnaby’s gaze, usually so deferential, darted around the faces of his classmates, avoiding direct contact. Elian froze. A gasp caught in his throat, unvoiced. He had harbored, in a dark corner of his mind, a fleeting, ugly thought that perhaps Barnaby deserved a taste of Cassian’s ire. That thought now curdled into raw shame. Barnaby’s face was a ruin. A lip split, swollen and crusted, one eye almost completely closed, a lurid purple blooming across his temple where Elian’s own cheek had been struck. A suffocating wave of remorse washed over him. He felt sickened by his own callousness. “By the Mother’s grace…” he whispered, unheard. Barnaby, as if pulled by an invisible tether, finally met Elian’s gaze across the room. His eyes, swimming with unshed tears, widened in a fresh grimace of pain. He flinched, turning sharply, and shuffled to his accustomed desk, shoulders hunched, completely avoiding Elian. *What in the name of the Scribes…* That peculiar, almost terrified reaction left Elian with a chill. He glanced around, and the reason became brutally clear. Cassian Thorne, leaning back in his chair with an air of studied indifference, was watching Elian. Not watching, but glaring—a predatory intensity that promised retribution. *Oh, curse this entire day.* Regret, sharp and bitter, flooded Elian. He should have feigned an illness, hidden himself away. After the morning lectures, Barnaby, who had once sought Elian’s counsel with an almost desperate eagerness, now pointedly avoided him during the brief recesses. He vanished at the midday chimes, disappearing with Cassian Thorne to some unknown corner of the expansive college grounds. Left alone, Elian found himself walking toward the Collegium market with Marius Volkov. A part of him, a frantic, desperate part, urged him to search for Barnaby and Cassian, to confront them. But he knew he wouldn’t. He hated to admit it, but he was too afraid of what he might find. Surely, Cassian wouldn’t be striking Barnaby again. Right? It wasn’t truly Elian’s place to intervene, yet Barnaby’s battered face was etched into his memory, making detachment impossible. Marius, meanwhile, strolled beside him, an aura of carefree nonchalance about him, oblivious to the storm churning within Elian’s mind. “See? I told you the Scriptoria was thick with it this morning. Could’ve cut the tension with a butter knife.” “You seemed perfectly composed, devouring those spiced cakes yesterday,” Elian murmured, not truly listening. “Give me some credit, Vance. I’m a master of emotional suppression when confectioneries are involved.” Marius winked, a flash of genuine amusement in his eyes. “Besides, cakes are meant to be devoured.” Annoyed by the triviality of it all, Elian nudged Marius’s calf with his foot. Marius rubbed his chin, a faintly sheepish expression softening his usual smirk. Or so it seemed. Elian shook his head. He must be imagining it. *** Life possessed a cruel, capricious unpredictability. From their first, rather ungraceful encounter, Elian had held no intention of cultivating any closeness with Marius Volkov. In truth, Marius’s boisterous nature had grated on Elian’s nerves. Yet, here they were, and Marius, with his flippant remarks and effortless charm, was fast becoming the closest person Elian knew within the cold, elegant confines of Lumina. Marius’s lighthearted demeanor and utterly irreverent tone held a peculiar power, preventing Elian from sinking too deeply into the crushing weight of his anxieties. He had once dismissed these very qualities as shallow, proof of Marius’s unserious nature. Now, Elian found himself clinging to that levity, a tether in a turbulent sea. Had Cassian and he remained bound by their old, fragile friendship, Elian doubted he would have ever realized how profoundly he needed Marius’s grounding presence. After that day in the Archives Annex, Cassian Thorne began to distance himself from their usual coterie of friends. Sometimes, he’d vanish with Barnaby Finch, other times, he’d draw a few others into his orbit. There were even moments when some of their classmates flat-out refused, their expressions a mixture of unease and outright fear. Elian stumbled upon Lysander Vale, a normally meticulous scholar, scrambling over a low wall near the Old Observatory, clearly avoiding a watchful Prefect. Lysander, wiping dust from his velvet tunic, recounted with a nervous laugh how Cassian had been ordering the others to strike Barnaby, each delivering a single, calculated blow. Elian’s face must have betrayed his disbelief, for Lysander quickly added that he’d been avoiding Cassian’s group lately precisely because of it. He mumbled something about meeting Julian Aster for a game of chess in the common room and hurried off. Julian Aster, once a close confidante of Cassian’s during their first year, had drifted away after they were assigned to different academic Houses. At midday, Elian and Marius found themselves at a small market stall just beyond the Collegium gates, purchasing iced cherry tarts. The cold sweetness spread across Elian’s tongue, a fleeting balm to his frayed nerves. But beneath that momentary relief, a bitter knot of unease tightened in his chest. He held his composure, determined not to let his turmoil show. “Good, isn’t it?” Marius asked, eyeing Elian’s tart hungrily as he munched on his own, a brightly colored, sugar-dusted confection. “Want a bite?” Elian offered, half-teasing, bringing the tart—sticky with his own saliva—close to Marius’s mouth. Without a moment’s hesitation, Marius grinned, lifted one corner of his lip, and took an enormous bite. “Hey! Did you actually just do that?” “You offered.” “That’s… unsanitary. And why did you take so much?” “It was just one bite, Vance.” Marius shrugged, a picture of insouciance. It was a remarkably peaceful moment. In stark contrast to Elian’s internal tempest, the crisp autumn air was clear, calm, and filled with the distant chimes of the college bell tower. *Where were Cassian Thorne and Barnaby Finch now?* A few unsavory places came to mind, but Elian did not go looking. Perhaps he was afraid of what he might find. He tried, with a desperate futility, not to think about Cassian. But the harder he tried, the more he realized the vast, echoing space Cassian occupied within his mind. How long would it take to purge such a devotion? How much effort would it require to untangle the threads of a friendship once so cherished? He did not know. It felt like being lost in a vast, endless labyrinth, not just sorrowful and suffocating, but terrifying and utterly unbearable. Sometimes, he retreated within himself, like an ancient manuscript slowly fading, its truths becoming harder to decipher. When the weight became too overwhelming, he would occasionally find himself talking with Marius. And that, it seemed, was that. Suddenly, an impulse seized him. “Marius,” Elian began, his voice barely a whisper. “What is it, Vance?” “Can a shattered quill ever write true again?” The question felt so intensely emotional, so utterly vulnerable, that Elian felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck the moment the words left his lips. He scratched his head awkwardly, bracing himself for Marius’s usual mockery. But it did not come. “It can,” Marius said, his voice unusually soft. “It must.” Elian blinked. “Life’s already enough of a miserable scroll, Vance. Some things just have to be.” Hearing those words from Marius Volkov—a person Elian never imagined capable of such quiet profundity—made him realize the profound futility of his desperate hope. How much time would it take for him to relinquish these meaningless attachments? “Yes,” Elian sighed, the words heavy. “Life’s a miserable scroll.” Cassian Thorne. That insufferable lout. Why did he seem so intent on breaking the loyal, tail-wagging creature Elian became every time he saw him? Cassian, who seemed to have abandoned all the basic tenets of collegiate decorum, now came and went from lectures as he pleased. And always, by his side, was Barnaby Finch. As the situation grew increasingly suspicious, the student body buzzed with a mix of unease and intrigue. Whispers circulated—Cassian’s casual cruelty was escalating. And so was a fog of resentment toward him, slowly spreading through their cohort. None of it felt right. So, when Elian saw Cassian dragging Barnaby by the wrist down a secluded gallery leading to the Archives, he stopped dead in his tracks. Watching them, his gaze flickered between their faces before he finally spoke, his voice surprisingly steady. “The Dean has noticed your… recent absenteeism. Your family’s reputation, Cassian. It is not without its obligations.” It was not an apology, nor flattery—it was a lie. A calculated fabrication. That was the extent of Elian’s pride, his desperate, clinging attempt at control. Cassian, notoriously estranged from his own lineage, would likely dismiss it as trivial. But Elian always ensured he had an escape route. “If someone must bear the brunt of your temper, let it be you. What has Barnaby Finch ever done?” “Move, Vance.” The moment Elian mentioned Barnaby’s name, Cassian’s gaze, previously dismissive, snapped onto him, blazing with an almost feral fury. Elian’s chest felt like it would burst from the weight of it. He hated him. And yet, pitiful, pathetic Barnaby stood glued to Cassian’s side, his tear-filled eyes looking at Elian as if he might crumble at any moment. “Unless you wish to feel my fist again, move.” “C-Cassian, please,” Barnaby stammered, his voice trembling as he tugged at Cassian’s sleeve. Only then did Cassian stop speaking. His intense gaze was fixed solely on Barnaby now. Elian could only see the rigid line of Cassian’s back as he turned away. “As I said, your family’s—”“ Barnaby, on the verge of tears, clung to Cassian, desperate to prevent further escalation. Watching that pitiful scene unfold was unbearable. It was so excruciating that Elian closed his eyes. After a prolonged moment, Cassian looked down at Barnaby, then spun on his heel and walked back toward the Archival Annex, Barnaby still clutched by the wrist. For the rest of the day, Cassian remained within the Annex’s hallowed, dusty walls—just as he had weeks ago, following their last confrontation. *** The long-anticipated day of the scholarly exposition at the Lyceum Antiqua had arrived. A large, ornate passenger carriage, typically used for visiting dignitaries, had been rented to transport their cohort across the city. While a few students grumbled about being dragged away from their studies, most were excited at the chance to escape the cloistered routine of Lumina, if only for a single day. There was no need for elaborate preparations; they would return shortly. The professors offered only a few half-hearted warnings before allowing them to board. They were not green first-years. There was no giddy excitement keeping Elian awake the night before. He viewed it as just another day – leave without his archiving satchel, return without it. He had no idea that today would be the day his carefully bottled-up frustration, his gnawing sense of rejection, would finally shatter. He had expected it to come eventually, but not with such sudden, brutal finality. As was tradition, Elian usually found himself seated beside Cassian Thorne whenever they left the confines of the lecture halls. After all, he had been Cassian’s closest, most devoted companion. He hadn’t even considered where Marius Volkov would sit, having never travelled with him in such a formal setting. At first, a tremor of wary apprehension ran through Elian. He was almost afraid Marius might attempt to claim the seat closest to Cassian. Thinking back on it now, it was pathetic. Neither Elian nor Marius would ultimately occupy that spot. When they arrived at the carriage, parked ceremonially in the Quadrangle, Elian climbed aboard to find their assigned seating. The rear five seats were already claimed by a boisterous group of classmates, including Lysander Vale, who waved at Elian, then hesitated, pointing vaguely toward Cassian Thorne’s seat. “Vance! There’s a space here!” “Oh, right,” Elian murmured. *Of course.* He had always been the one beside him. But today, a strange hesitancy made him pause as he approached Cassian’s empty seat. He sighed, a faint tremor of relief passing through him, when he saw that the seat beside Cassian was still vacant. Swallowing hard, he felt a fresh surge of determination. It was *his* spot. His pride—the last, fragile thing he stubbornly clung to—compelled him to sit there, even after the humiliation Cassian had inflicted because of Barnaby Finch. He nervously touched the gilded armrest of the seat for a moment, glancing around the half-filled carriage. He quietly asked, “Cassian… This seat…” “It’s not yours, Vance. Go sit elsewhere.” Before Elian could finish, Cassian cut him off, his voice flat, his gaze fixed on the carriage entrance. Following his line of sight, Elian saw Barnaby Finch timidly making his way toward them. Elian’s fists clenched. He swallowed his words, the bitter taste of defeat coating his tongue. “Fine. Whatever.” He tried to infuse his voice with indifference, though his heart felt as if it had been shredded into a thousand pieces. He quickly vacated the seat, his legs moving on their own accord, and scanned the carriage. He found an empty spot near Marius’s group, directly in front of where Marius was already settled. Relieved, Elian rushed over, practically collapsing into the plush velvet seat. He spoke without waiting for a response. “Marius. Sit with me.” There was no answer. When Elian looked closer, he realized Marius was already asleep, head lolling against the window, bouncing gently with every subtle sway of the carriage. Marius always seemed to doze off in the mornings, and today was no exception. Shaking his head at Marius’s ridiculous posture, Elian slid his small, leather-bound volume of obscure poetry between Marius’s head and the window, then leaned back into the uncomfortable seat. He glanced across the aisle, catching a glimpse of dark, neatly tied hair. It was Cassian Thorne’s—taller than most of their cohort, making him easy to spot. Though Elian couldn’t see clearly, he knew who was sitting beside him. Barnaby.

A Shattered Quill, A Silent Bell