Alistair Finch knew, with the chilling certainty of a winter draught, that his standing at Solstice Academy had irrevocably fractured. Cassian Thorne, once his closest confidante, now regarded him with open contempt, a visceral loathing that had curdled in the wake of the incident in the Archives Antechamber. Cassian’s carefully cultivated veneer of decorum, so meticulously maintained for his House’s elders, had crumbled, revealing a raw, petulant fury beneath.
Beside Cassian, invariably, sat Lord Julian Vane. Julian now occupied the seat Alistair once claimed, a silent testament to the gaping chasm between them.
Alistair prided himself on his self-possession, his ability to mask the true tempest of his emotions beneath a placid exterior. Yet, even he could not feign indifference. He would not allow himself to become a pitiable figure, a disgraced relic clinging to a faded memory. Dignity, however tattered, remained a paramount concern. He lacked the courage, the sheer audacity, to approach Cassian as if nothing had transpired.
He felt himself sinking into a familiar morass of melancholy and aimless ennui. Moments of petty vengeance, sharp and bright, would occasionally ignite within him, only to be extinguished by the cold logic of self-preservation. He endured, as he always had.
Cassian, that impetuous heir, seethed with an envy and resentment as childish as it was fierce. Its genesis was starkly clear: Julian Vane.
Regardless of Cassian’s intent, Alistair found his animosity for Julian deepening. Julian, never truly Alistair’s to begin with, had not merely stolen Cassian’s attention but had inadvertently steered Cassian’s hatred toward Alistair himself. A venomous suspicion coiled in Alistair’s gut – Julian seemed a cunning, malicious presence. Yet, he knew such feelings defied reason. Blaming Julian offered a convenient scapegoat, a means to navigate this wretched labyrinth of circumstance.
He always made rational choices. Julian, he knew, was merely a leaf caught in Cassian’s tempestuous current. This understanding ensured Alistair never betrayed the slightest flicker of hostility toward the young lord.
Part of it was a profound embarrassment, a reluctance to expose the raw, ugly jealousy festering within him. Another part was the stark realization that any outburst against Julian would only mark Alistair as a fool. Such a display would undoubtedly solidify Cassian’s disdain and, worse, invite the withering judgment of their peers—to be branded as ‘unnatural,’ a stain upon his lineage.
“This is truly insufferable.”
He hated it. A burning, visceral hatred, sharper even than the sting of Cassian’s open scorn. The thought of his house’s name, already fragile, further tarnished, was unbearable.
Lysander Cross, irritating and blunt, drifted into his thoughts. He couldn’t pinpoint why Lysander, of all people, occupied his mind. Perhaps it was simply the sheer proximity, the shared hours they now endured. If Lysander were to glimpse the shadowed corners of Alistair’s mind, what caustic remark would he offer? Something cutting, no doubt:
‘So, Lord Finch harbours unseemly affections, does he? A disgrace to the Laurel.’
Images of Lysander’s sneering face, etched with disdain, made Alistair’s fists clench. The horror of such exposure clawed at his throat. He would rather wither and die than let anyone uncover his secret.
Friendships at Solstice Academy, Alistair knew, were often as shallow as a spring puddle. Once the rift between Cassian and himself became undeniable, his connections to Cassian’s former circle naturally frayed. Amusingly, Lord Gareth, a peripheral member of Lysander’s usually boisterous clique, had sought him out yesterday with a remarkably pointless inquiry.
“Lord Finch, Lysander was looking for you earlier.”
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“No idea, he merely was.”
An exasperated sigh escaped Alistair’s lips. It was always like this—trivial exchanges devoid of substance. He understood the unspoken message: he was now perceived as aligning more closely with Lysander’s faction than with Cassian’s.
Their ties weren’t entirely severed, of course. Occasionally, during fencing practice or a chance encounter in the morning, polite, stiff greetings were exchanged. This mostly involved Elias Vance.
“Alistair, good morning.”
“Elias. Morning.”
He recalled one particularly awkward exchange when Elias had muttered something under his breath.
‘Cassian behaves… strangely lately. His manner with Lord Vane… it’s unsettling, isn’t it?’
Alistair must have adopted a particularly unpleasant expression, for Elias seemed to mistake it for agreement. Elias then prattled on about Cassian compelling Julian to sit beside him, grasping his arm with an unnatural possessiveness.
Alistair clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth before delivering his icy response.
‘I hold no interest in such… distasteful matters, Elias.’
Elias fell silent immediately, clearly rebuffed.
Lately, Elias Vance had been subtly attempting to curry favour with Lysander Cross and his companions. He seemed to be discreetly charting a course away from Cassian’s increasingly erratic shadow. Perhaps his confidences were merely an attempt to secure a new alliance.
Today, as was now customary, only Lysander and Alistair remained in the common room, the other scholars having dispersed. Lysander, leaning casually against the polished oak panelling, regarded Alistair with an unblinking gaze. Whether it was disinterest or an assessment, Alistair couldn’t discern. Annoyed, he averted his gaze, electing to return the favour.
“Finch.”
“What is it, Cross?”
“Let’s acquire some candied ginger after lessons. The batch we tasted last time was rather exceptional.”
Lysander disregarded Alistair’s attempt at aloofness. As he spoke, he lazily tossed a small, polished onyx sphere across the room. The sphere bounced erratically, threatening to collide with an antique globe or a stack of scrolls, yet no one dared voice a complaint. Lysander, utterly indifferent to the atmosphere, possessed a selfish ease.
Watching the sphere’s unpredictable trajectory, Alistair finally broke his silence. His irritation at Lysander’s brazenness sharpened his tone.
“Do you mean the ginger you consumed entirely by yourself? You purchased it for your own pleasure, as I recall.”
“Well, not precisely. I merely prefer the green variety.”
“So my preference was not a consideration?”
“How was I to divine your desires? You remained silent.”
By then, the onyx sphere had rolled to the foot of a display cabinet. Lysander extended a hand, motioning for it. One of the nearby scholars hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the sphere and placed it in Lysander’s palm. Lysander casually spun the sphere on his fingertip, offering a parting remark to the retreating scholar:
“My thanks, simpleton.”
Lysander’s personality grated on Alistair’s nerves. ‘Simpleton this, lackey that.’ Every word from his mouth was insufferable.
Honestly, it made no logical sense that someone as obnoxious as Lysander Cross now chose Alistair’s company over Cassian Thorne’s. Lysander ate with him, studied beside him, attended lectures with him. Cassian might be distant, but Lysander could easily dispatch a courier or arrange a clandestine meeting if he wished.
The thought materialized unexpectedly, and Alistair voiced it without much deliberation.
“Why do you no longer seek out Cassian Thorne these days?”
Lysander, mid-act of tossing and catching the onyx sphere against the panelling, froze. Then he turned, his expression puzzled.
“You quarrelled with him,” he stated.
“I?”
“Yes. You and Cassian Thorne.”
“I am aware. It was my quarrel. How does that pertain to you?”
“You utter the strangest pronouncements, Finch. It is because you are my companion.”
Lysander scrutinised Alistair with an unnervingly blatant gaze. Feeling a prickle of unease, Alistair avoided his eyes and posed another question.
“You were also companions with Cassian Thorne, were you not?”
“Remarkable. You are quite amusing. Pray tell, are you suggesting you are not my companion?”
Lysander’s tone now held an incredulous edge as he pointed a finger at Alistair.
“No, I am your companion. But you were also Cassian Thorne’s. So why do you align yourself with me?”
“Well, because I have known you for a longer duration.”
“What nonsense are you speaking? Our acquaintance began because of Cassian Thorne, did it not?”
“Finch. What, precisely, are you saying? We were close even in our first year!”
“When was this?”
“Truly, you are an impossible man. By the Laurel. In the Refectory, we exchanged glances constantly!”
“Ah… those instances.”
“So, was I alone in perceiving us as companions? You scoundrel. That is why, upon finding ourselves in the same lecture hall, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge it? Unfathomable. I confess, I am quite disheartened.”
“Oh.”
“By the Mother. Unbelievable. Simply… unbelievable. How could you inflict such an injustice upon me?”
“Very well, I apologise. My apologies, is that sufficient?”
Alistair mumbled his hasty apology, dimly recalling those awkward yet surprisingly frequent encounters from their initial year. So, such hostile stares fell within Lysander’s peculiar definition of ‘friendship.’ Alistair felt swindled. How could one possibly interpret those baleful glares as anything but antagonism? And wait, did this mean the initial suggestion of dining together had not come from Cassian, but… from Lysander?
The realization struck him like a sudden blow, leaving him momentarily stunned. It was unsettling, verging on shocking. Yet, unwilling to become further entangled, Alistair feigned comprehension and nodded.
“Alright, alright. I understand. My apologies.”
“I was profoundly vexed just now.”
Lysander glared at him briefly. Sometimes, Alistair truly could not fathom the labyrinthine workings of Lysander’s mind.
“And besides, Cassian Thorne is behaving quite strangely.”
“…”
“The man is utterly deranged at present. He has always been somewhat… eccentric, but this? This is beyond the pale.”
Lysander gripped the onyx sphere with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The sight brought to mind Elias Vance and the other scholars who had awkwardly attempted to confide in Alistair about Cassian.
From that alone, Alistair gleaned one stark truth: Cassian Thorne’s reputation was in precipitous decline.
“Unnatural.”
The word—the most feared and damning stigma in the world of eighteen-year-old scions, a death knell to any noble’s future—sent a tremor through Alistair. His body quivered almost imperceptibly at the implications. Simultaneously, a wave of cold relief washed over him, a relief that his own secret remained buried. Did that relief signify he valued his own preservation above Cassian’s?
Unease prickled at him. Alistair met Lysander’s gaze, feeling like a blasphemous acolyte concealing a forbidden text before the High Priest. “Truly, me,” he murmured, then let out a hollow laugh—a strange, brittle sound born of fear and derision.
It was almost farcical that, to others, he was now Lysander’s closest confidant. In truth, Alistair was no different—a criminal branded with an unspoken stigma. Only a few months prior, he had been Cassian Thorne’s chosen companion. Now, he found himself hiding in a precarious sanctuary, a filthy trap from which he had barely escaped. He had merely managed to avoid capture. That was all.
---
Dawn broke, an ethereal grey light bleeding into the chambers of Finch Manor. A message, from an unknown sender, arrived unexpectedly. A missive at the fourth bell of the morning. Half-asleep, Alistair briefly wondered if the preceding weeks, the recent turmoil, were merely a protracted dream. Though he had carefully avoided seeking out Cassian to protect himself, a flicker of hope, absurd and illogical, ignited at the thought that the message might be from him.
He rubbed his eyes hastily, scanning the sender’s cipher again. His emotions tangled. Part of him hoped it was a trivial administrative notice, or worse, one of those clandestine offers of illicit favours. But the moment his gaze fell upon the content, he knew, with a sinking heart, it was not from Cassian.
“Alistair, my deepest apologies for contacting you at this ungodly hour. Could you step outside your estate for a moment? I am truly sorry. Profoundly so.”
“Just this once. I beg you, just this one time.”
Cassian Thorne would never offer him such an apology, not in a thousand years.
Among his peers, only two individuals addressed him by his given name with such informal familiarity, and of those two, only one was capable of such a pitiable plea. How had Julian Vane even ascertained his private residence? The message twisted Alistair’s face into a grimace. He did not wish to see Julian—never wished to see him. Julian’s presence always brought a disagreeable knot to his stomach.
Despite his aversion, Alistair pushed himself from the silken sheets, buttoned his dressing gown, and stood. He walked to the chamber door, pausing with his forehead pressed against the cool wood frame, a deep sigh rattling from his chest.
“Damn it all.”
It was an overwhelming deluge of sensation, a sickening knot of emotions that defied articulation. He clutched his chest. He had always prided himself on his extensive vocabulary, honed through countless scholarly texts, yet no combination of words could capture the intricate, tangled mess within him.
It was merely… complicated.
The hatred he harboured for Julian Vane, the vivid memory of Julian’s bruised face from that fateful day, and the desperate strategies Alistair had employed to distance himself from the unfolding drama—all swirled together. Biting his lip, he fiddled with the ornate doorknob, then closed his eyes, twisting it with a decisive turn.
In the courtyard garden, the cold morning mist clung to the air, heralding the arrival of late autumn. To avoid the dew-laden grass, Alistair stepped carefully onto the cool, damp cobblestones. The predawn chill made him pull his dressing gown tighter around him. His bare toes, peeking from the front of his slippers, carried him across the grounds to the front gate.
He paused there, clicking his tongue softly, and gripped the heavy iron handle. The hinge’s creak made him flinch, and he opened the gate even more slowly, revealing the outside world.
Beyond the wrought iron, illuminated by the distant lantern light on the estate’s asphalt approach, stood Lord Julian Vane in his academy robes. His head was bowed, as he idly traced invisible patterns on the ground with the tip of his polished boot.
“Lord Vane.”
At Alistair’s voice, Julian’s head snapped up with the swiftness of a startled deer.
“Alistair, Alistair!”
“What is it—”