A cool compress, surprisingly potent, had indeed worked its modest magic overnight. Elian pressed a fingertip to his cheek. The tender ache remained, a subtle throb beneath the surface, but the livid bruise had softened, its purplish hue fading to a faint, mottled grey. The swelling had receded significantly.
He studied his reflection in the polished silver of his dressing mirror. A casual observer might conclude he had merely struck his face against a doorframe, or perhaps stumbled in the dim light of dawn. It was a manageable injury, one that invited dismissal rather than scrutiny.
A fragile sense of reprieve settled over him. Perhaps this day would not be entirely lost to humiliation.
He arrived at the Imperial Academy. Immediately, the air thickened. A palpable disquiet hummed beneath the usual murmur of noble students, like a discordant bass note in a polished courtly piece. Heads turned too quickly, gazes darted away.
Elian’s internal unease sharpened. He scanned the familiar faces, searching. His breath hitched when Lord Peren entered the study hall, just as the first chime sounded, narrowly avoiding tardiness.
He forgot, for a moment, to even breathe.
Peren’s face was a ruin. His delicate lips were split, a dark scab forming at the corner. One eye was swollen, nearly shut, rimmed with the angry purple that had yesterday marred Elian’s own skin. A suffocating wave of nausea washed over Elian. He had, in a moment of childish pique, wished a similar fate upon Gareth. Now, seeing Peren, the shame burned hotter than any physical blow.
This was not what he had envisioned. Not this brutal, visible desecration.
Peren hesitated by the doorway, his eyes flitting across the room with a hunted intensity. His gaze, as if drawn by an invisible thread, found Elian’s. For a long, agonizing moment, their eyes locked. Then, Peren flinched violently, a choked grimace twisting his features. He averted his gaze sharply, hurrying to his customary seat without another glance.
An odd, hollow sensation settled in Elian’s chest. He glanced around instinctively, trying to decipher Peren’s strange reaction. The answer became immediately, chillingly clear.
Lord Gareth Beaumont sat at his desk, perfectly still. His eyes, dark as polished obsidian, were fixed on Elian with an intensity that promised retribution. There was no mistaking the raw, murderous intent simmering beneath that placid facade.
“A curse upon this day,” Elian murmured, a profound regret flooding his veins. He should have remained home, cloistered within the safety of his family’s antechamber, far from the piercing scrutiny of the Argentum elite.
***
The academic day unfolded in a haze of whispered anxieties. Peren, once so eager to engage with Elian, now seemed to shrink from his presence. During the short intervals between lectures, Peren vanished, always in the wake of Lord Gareth, their destinations unknown.
Elian found himself alone. A part of him yearned to pursue them, to demand answers, to intervene. Yet, a deeper, more primal fear rooted him to the spot. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, he would never actually seek them out. He dreaded what he might witness if he did.
Surely Gareth would not inflict further harm. Not after such a public display. But Peren’s battered face haunted Elian’s thoughts, a constant, nagging ache.
He sought the solitary refuge of the garden courtyard for the midday repast. Lysander Thorne, ever the pragmatic distraction, joined him at a small marble table. Lysander’s easy, almost flippant manner often grated on Elian’s more reserved sensibilities. Today, however, that very levity provided an unexpected anchor.
“You seem tense today, Elian,” Lysander observed, biting into a candied fig with unnecessary enthusiasm. “The air fairly crackles with unspoken woes.”
“You appeared quite unburdened whilst debating the merits of various exotic teas yesterday,” Elian replied, his voice carefully neutral.
“Ah, but I merely masked my profound inner turmoil with stoic grace,” Lysander declared, winking. “A true art form, wouldn’t you agree?” He gave a theatrical shrug, nearly dislodging a cascade of amber curls.
Elian, exasperated, nudged Lysander’s shin with his foot. Lysander merely chuckled, rubbing his chin with a curiously bashful expression. Or so it seemed. Elian dismissed the thought. Lysander was rarely bashful.
Life possessed a peculiar capriciousness. From their first encounter, Elian had never intended closeness with Lysander. In truth, he had found Lysander’s boisterous nature tiresome. Yet, here they were, sharing confidences in a quiet courtyard, Lysander now the closest confidant Elian possessed.
Lysander’s lightheartedness, his utter disregard for the heavier currents of imperial politics, served as a balm. He prevented Elian from succumbing entirely to the suffocating weight of his anxieties. Previously, Elian had disdained these very qualities, labelling them shallow. Now, he found himself relying on that buoyancy, that unthinking optimism, to keep himself tethered. Had his friendship with Gareth remained unbroken, Elian might never have recognized this nascent reliance on Lysander’s presence.
***
After that day, Lord Gareth began to drift from their usual circle of acquaintances. Sometimes, he would disappear with Peren, their absence noted but uncommented upon. On other occasions, a few more compliant youths would accompany him. There were moments, too, when others flatly refused Gareth’s summons, shaking their heads with uneasy, nervous expressions.
Sir Kael, a younger noble from a lesser house, was one such example. Elian encountered him scaling a low garden wall, attempting to evade a particularly zealous tutor. Kael, a study in nervous energy, confessed that Gareth had been ‘encouraging’ others to inflict minor indignities upon Peren, ‘one petty slight at a time.’
Elian’s face tightened in disbelief. Kael, misinterpreting the reaction, quickly added that he had been avoiding Gareth’s circle of late precisely because of it. He then mentioned he was on his way to an illicit card game with Master Thorne, Lysander’s cousin, and implored Elian not to misunderstand his intentions. With that, he scrambled over the wall and vanished.
Master Thorne, once a close associate of Gareth in their first year, had since drifted apart, finding himself in a different academic coterie.
At the midday repast, Elian and Lysander revisited the courtyard. They shared a chilled pastry, its delicate sweetness momentarily soothing. But beneath that fleeting relief, a bitter knot of unease tightened within Elian’s chest. He held his ground, determined not to betray his inner turmoil.
“Is it to your liking?” Lysander inquired, eyeing Elian’s half-eaten treat, his own already devoured.
“Perhaps a taste?” Elian offered, half-teasing. He brought the pastry, sticky from his own touch, close to Lysander’s lips. Without a moment’s hesitation, Lysander grinned, revealing a flash of teeth, and took a substantial bite.
“Are you quite serious? You truly ate that?” Elian exclaimed, feigning disgust.
“You offered it,” Lysander replied, his voice muffled by the pastry.
“That is… indelicate. And why such a prodigious bite?”
“A single, decisive mouthful,” Lysander countered, shrugging. It was a deceptively peaceful moment. In stark contrast to Elian’s internal tempest, the crisp autumn air was clear, the sky an unblemished azure.
Where were Gareth and Peren now? A few desolate corners of the academy came to mind, places where shadows clung and whispers died. Elian did not seek them out. He feared what he might discover.
He tried his utmost not to contemplate Gareth. Yet, the more he wrestled with the thought, the more acutely he realized how much space Gareth occupied within his mind. How long might it take to excise such a presence? How much arduous effort would it demand? He did not know. The prospect felt like wandering lost in a vast, endless desert—not merely desolate and suffocating, but terrifying, unbearable.
Sometimes, he simply retreated inward. Like an ancient scroll whose faded script defied comprehension, he stepped back, attempting to discern the meaning of it all. When the weight became too crushing, he occasionally spoke with Lysander. And, well, that was that.
Suddenly, a question escaped him.
“Lysander.”
“Yes?”
“Tell me… do you believe a bloom might ever grace a scorched wasteland?”
The question felt so intensely personal, so deeply emotional, that Elian flushed the moment the words left his mouth. He scratched his head awkwardly, expecting Lysander’s usual jest. But Lysander did not mock him.
“They will,” Lysander said, his voice unusually soft.
“...”
“They must. Life, after all, is wretched enough.”
Hearing such profound words from Lysander—a person Elian had never imagined capable of such sentiment—only underscored the futility of his own desperate hope. How much time would it demand to relinquish these meaningless affections?
“Yes. Life is truly wretched.”
Gareth Beaumont. That infernal lord. Why did he seem so intent on destroying the loyal, tail-wagging creature Elian became in his presence? Gareth, who appeared to have abandoned all semblance of noble decorum, now came and went from the academy as he pleased. And always, a silent, fearful shadow, Peren remained at his side.
As the pattern grew increasingly suspicious, the academy hummed with a mix of unease and intrigue. It became clear: Gareth’s petty cruelties were escalating. And so, too, was the fog of resentment, slowly spreading through their cohort. None of it felt right.
So, when Elian saw Gareth dragging Peren by the wrist down a deserted corridor, he stopped. He observed them, his gaze flitting between Gareth’s rigid back and Peren’s bowed head, before finally speaking.
“Your father concerns himself with your conduct, Lord Gareth.”
It was not an apology, nor was it flattery. It was a carefully constructed fabrication. That was the meager extent of Elian’s pride. But since Gareth held his father, the Duke Beaumont, in such disregard, he would likely not discern the falsehood. And even if he did, Elian always left himself an escape route: at this rate, the Duke would indeed soon have ample cause for concern.
“If someone is to bear the brunt, let it be you alone. What transgression has Lord Peren committed?” Elian demanded, his voice trembling despite his efforts.
“Out of my way.” Gareth’s voice was a low growl. The moment Elian mentioned Peren’s name, Gareth’s gaze locked onto him, sharp as daggers. Elian’s chest felt as though it would burst from the sheer pressure of it. He loathed him. And yet, pitiful, pathetic Peren stood glued to Gareth’s side, his eyes, wet with unshed tears, fixed on Elian with a desperate, pleading look.
“Unless you wish a repeat of your previous encounter, remove yourself.”
“G-Gareth, please,” Peren stammered, his voice thin with terror, clinging to Gareth’s arm. Only then did Gareth halt his advance. His focus shifted solely to Peren. All Elian could see was the rigid line of Gareth’s back as he turned away.
“As I stated, your father expresses— ”
Peren, on the verge of outright weeping, clutched at Gareth, attempting to physically restrain him. Watching that pitiable scene unfold was unbearable. It was so excruciating that Elian closed his eyes, his fists clenching at his sides.
After a moment, Gareth cast a long look at Peren, then spun on his heel and walked back into the study hall. For the remainder of the day, he remained there—just as he had a few weeks prior.
***
The long-anticipated day of the annual scholarly excursion to the Imperial Botanical Gardens had arrived. A fleet of carriages had been commissioned to transport them. While a few older scholars grumbled about diverting secondary students from their more rigorous studies, most were excited for the opportunity to escape the academy walls, even for a single day.
No provisions were necessary, as they would return before dusk. The tutors offered only a few half-hearted warnings before allowing the students to embark. They were not children of the lower houses, after all. There was no giddy excitement keeping Elian awake the previous night. He regarded it as just another day—depart without satchel, return without satchel. He had no premonition that today would be the day his bottled-up frustrations would finally burst forth. He had expected the inevitable, but not with such abruptness.
Customarily, Elian was seated beside Gareth whenever they ventured beyond the confines of the study hall. He was, after all, Gareth’s closest companion. He had not even considered Lysander’s seating arrangement, having never before travelled thus with him.
At first, a familiar flicker of apprehension crossed Elian’s mind—the irrational fear that Lysander might claim the coveted seat closest to Gareth. Thinking back upon it, the sentiment now seemed utterly pathetic. Neither Elian nor Lysander would ultimately occupy that position.
When the carriages arrived in the academy courtyard, Elian boarded the designated conveyance and sought his usual place. The five seats at the rear of the carriage were already claimed by a boisterous group of peers, including Sir Kael, who offered a quick wave, then hesitated, pointing discreetly towards Gareth’s customary seat.
“Lord Vance! A place here!” Kael called out softly.
“Ah, yes.” Elian murmured.
Of course. It had always been his spot. Yet today, Elian hesitated as he approached Gareth’s seat. He swallowed hard, a fragile flicker of determination igniting within him. He sighed with a silent, premature relief when he saw the seat beside Gareth was still empty.
It was his place. His pride—that stubborn, tenacious core of his being—compelled him to claim it, even after the humiliating blow inflicted upon him for Peren’s sake.
He nervously touched the velvet armrest for a moment, his gaze sweeping across the other occupants of the carriage, before quietly addressing Gareth.
“My lord… this seat…”
“It is not yours. Find another.” Gareth cut him off, his voice flat, his gaze fixed resolutely on the entrance of the carriage. Following Gareth’s line of sight, Elian saw Peren making his timid way towards them. Elian’s fists clenched. His words died in his throat.
“...Very well. As you wish.” He managed to sound indifferent, though his heart felt as though it had been shredded to pieces.
He quickly vacated the spot and scanned the carriage. He found an empty seat near Lysander’s group, directly in front of where Lysander was already settled. Relieved, Elian hurried over, collapsed into the seat, and spoke without waiting for a response.
“Lysander, take this seat beside me.”
No reply. Elian looked closer. Lysander was already asleep, his head lolling against the window, bouncing gently with every slight jolt of the carriage. He always seemed to doze off in the mornings, and this occasion was no exception. Shaking his head at Lysander’s ridiculous posture, Elian slipped his coin purse between Lysander’s head and the pane, creating a makeshift cushion. He leaned back into the uncomfortable, plush seat.
Across the narrow aisle, he caught a glimpse of dark, neatly styled hair. It was Gareth’s—he was taller than most of their peers, making him easy to spot. Though Elian could not see clearly, he knew.