Alistair noted the subtle puffiness around Lysander Vane’s eyes, a tell-tale sign of another night spent defying Academy curfews. Feigning mild annoyance, Alistair slid a chilled crystal goblet, beaded with condensation, across the polished mahogany desk. Its contents, a brisk citrus-infused draught, promised to cut through the lingering traces of revelry. Without fail, such a tonic awaited Lysander on mornings following his more egregious escapades. His delicate features, after all, were notoriously prone to swelling. “Enough with the preening, Vane. Drink that before you resemble a pufferfish.” “Alistair, my savior. Thank you.” Lysander's voice, though a touch rough, held its usual magnetic charm. “Did your Lord Father not grace you with one of his lectures this morning?” Alistair inquired, a faint tremor of resentment prickling beneath his composure. “Not thanks to you, Finch.” Lysander offered a casual shrug, a flash of self-satisfaction in his gaze. Alistair merely pursed his lips, suppressing a more pointed retort. He turned to settle into his own seat, his eyes drawn to a meticulously scrolled gazette unfurled on the adjacent desk. That desk, he knew, belonged not to him, but to Valerius Thorne. Lysander, all lithe, languid grace, occupied the seat directly before Alistair. Valerius, a man of more imposing stature, naturally sat beside Lysander. Alistair, ever conscious of his own slightly leaner frame, often cursed his average height, finding scant solace in the fact he still commanded a view of Lysander’s broad back from his second-to-last row seat. It was a small, foolish comfort, yet a comfort nonetheless. Burying the familiar prickle of jealousy, Alistair shamelessly gestured towards Valerius. “When did Thorne arrive?” “No idea. He was already here when I drifted in.” Lysander’s reply was airy. “Remarkable. How does one who departed early last night still appear to have wrestled with a griffin?” Barely had Alistair finished speaking when a soft rustle broke the quiet. The gazette slid to the floor, revealing Valerius’s half-lidded gaze. His eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over Alistair and Lysander before he opened his mouth wide, emitting a profound, unhurried yawn. “...I told myself just another hour, then, well.” His words were thick with a pleasant weariness. Indeed, yawns proved infectious. Lysander mirrored the gesture, stretching his jaw before his face scrunched into a smug grin. “This rogue. Looks like he spends his nights in duels, yet harbors a more scholarly soul than some of the Scribes.” “Piss off, Vane.” Valerius’s voice was a low rumble. “As you wish, you brute.” Whether Valerius truly grasped Lysander’s playful mockery, he simply leaned back, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest. Alistair watched him for a beat, their eyes meeting for a fleeting instant. Valerius turned his gaze to the lofty arched windows, then back to Alistair. A peculiar tickle beneath Alistair’s skin prompted him to scratch his shoulder, deflecting his attention back to Lysander. The early morning atmosphere within the Solstice common room possessed a fragile, almost pleasant quality. These casual exchanges often set the day’s languid rhythm. Soon, other scions – the likes of the proud Alders and the boisterous Blackwoods – would gravitate towards Lysander, their faces alight with admiration, eager to devour his latest tales. The familiar ritual would unfold: whispered conversations, indulgent laughter, and, eventually, the arrival of the Senior Prefect to commence the day’s lectures. For young men hailed as the most promising, the most sought-after within the Academy, it marked a surprisingly wholesome genesis to the day. Yet, they were still merely youths, barely stepping into their majority. And narratives of wild, messy dalliances from the previous night, particularly those involving Lysander, always left a faint, unpleasant taste in Alistair’s mouth. Still, he played his part, feigning amusement, offering polite smiles. Despite it all, Alistair often found these mornings tolerable, almost agreeable. But everything shifted six weeks past. The reason, in its stark simplicity, was Silas Croft. “Look, Croft’s here.” A hushed voice, heavy with contempt, drifted from a knot of students. “Gods, the sight of him.” Another scoffed, “Does that pathetic wretch not even consider sparing us his presence after such a public humiliation?” Elara Alder, her chin tilted in exaggerated disdain, openly mocked Silas. At the tip of her perfectly manicured finger, Silas Croft shuffled into the common room. His shoulders were hunched, his face obscured by a curtain of lank, dark hair. He moved towards a lonely desk in the front row, deposited a worn satchel, and immediately slumped over it. Watching his cowering form, Alistair felt a sigh, thick with an almost alien irritation, catch in his throat. Silas Croft was, in a word, pathetic. His voice, when he dared to speak, was reedy, his frame slight — a dismal excuse for a scion, despite his family’s respected, if minor, lineage. As the murmurs in the common room swelled, Lysander glared daggers at Silas’s bowed back, muttering a string of curses under his breath. Alistair hated it. That raw sensitivity of Lysander’s, so rarely seen, so easily provoked. It grated on Alistair’s nerves. Snatching the gazette that had moments ago shielded Valerius’s face, Lysander balled it in one hand. Then, with a casual, almost practiced toss, he hurled it at Silas’s head. *Thud*. A soft, dull sound, and Silas’s head slumped further onto his desk. “Damnation. Do not parade that miserable visage before me first thing in the morning.” Silas buried his face deeper in his arms, doing precisely as Lysander commanded. Yet, Lysander watched this with simmering disdain, then kicked his own desk, a sharp, resounding *thwack* against the ornate wood. “Croft! Are you deaf?” Lysander’s voice snapped, sharp as a whip. When Lysander abruptly stood, his voice rising, Silas, still hunched, stammered a reply, his voice trembling like a dry leaf. “Y-yes, Vane.” “Lift your head. Look at me. And speak properly.” Did Lysander even comprehend the sheer nonsense of his demands? The utter absurdity of it all drew a bitter, self-deprecating laugh from Alistair’s lips. Whether or not Lysander noticed Alistair’s reaction, he rose and slowly approached Silas. With every deliberate step Lysander took, the unpleasant feelings within Alistair grew more vivid, more raw. Lysander closed the distance between them. Just that proximity, that impending confrontation, made Alistair feel as if he were losing his grip on emotions he had meticulously suppressed for weeks. This was not the same shade of jealousy Alistair felt when Lysander’s easy camaraderie drew him close to Valerius. Alistair knew, instinctively. Deep down, he harbored something just as sinister, just as dark, as Lysander did. That was why watching Lysander with Valerius eventually became a tolerable, even predictable, ache. But Lysander’s interactions with Silas, those unsettling rituals, gnawed at Alistair with increasing ferocity. His hands began to tremble, and he clenched them tightly, burying them under the desk, desperate to conceal their tremor. Lysander kicked Silas’s desk, hard. The heavy piece of furniture shook violently, almost toppling over. Silas jolted upright, a desperate gasp escaping his lips, his voice still ragged. “S-sorry, Vane.” Lysander stood over him, silently looking down at Silas’s pale, drawn face. Silas’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, on the precipice of shattering. Yet, in that charged moment, Alistair felt as though he were the one about to break, to burst into tears. Lysander never commanded Silas to perform pointless errands, never forced him into obvious servitude. But he always kept his eyes on him. If Silas left for the lavatories during a break, Lysander would still be watching his retreating figure, even as he conversed casually with Alistair and Valerius. Alistair knew, because he never stopped watching Lysander. To be truthful, Alistair’s initial impression of Silas Croft had been unremarkable. His complexion was not the clearest, perhaps, but his youthful features gave him a face that was easy on the eyes. When Silas smiled, it felt genuinely open, and even his neutral expression carried a certain unburdened quality. Before Lysander began his torment, no one held particular dislike for Silas. He seemed a boy raised in a warm, unruffled environment. While not overtly sociable, preferring to spend his time absorbed in his studies, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor. Most considered Silas a decent, if quiet, sort. Since he never flaunted the affection he’d received growing up, he garnered even more subtle praise. Humble, reserved, pleasant, and inexplicably bright — that was Silas Croft. But Alistair had never particularly *liked* him. He didn’t hate him either — he simply hadn’t cared. To say Silas wasn’t even a flicker on his internal radar would be a more accurate assessment. Yet, whenever Alistair found himself conversing with Lysander, or Valerius, or any of their circle, and Silas’s name surfaced, Alistair would offer a casual, almost instinctive lie, “Oh, Croft? He’s perfectly alright. Agreeable enough.” Lysander, much like Alistair, hadn’t paid Silas much mind at first. Lysander was never the type to concern himself with the quiet, scholarly types. After Silas transferred into their cohort in the month of May, he and Lysander exchanged not a single word until June. Such was the initial, innocuous state of affairs. But one day, everything changed. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane current of events. It happened immediately after the midday meal. Looking back, Alistair didn’t think he had ever regretted an action as profoundly as he regretted what transpired that day. Silas, true to form, had claimed a secluded corner seat in the common room during the afternoon break, deeply engrossed in a bound volume. He was the sort of person who found profound solace in the world of books. Alistair, on the other hand, possessed a rather performative habit of being overly familiar with individuals of good repute. That was why, when he chanced upon Silas, Alistair initiated a conversation about the book Silas was reading. Alistair was not much of a reader himself; feigning cultured intellect was more his forte. “You must truly enjoy your tomes, Croft, to be so absorbed.” “Oh? Yes, I suppose so.” Silas’s voice was soft, startled. At the time, Silas and Alistair were still little more than distant acquaintances. Perhaps that distance made the approach feel less… fraudulent. “Have you reached the conclusion of that particular volume?” “Almost, Vane. I’m quite close to the end.” “Then close it now. The ending will disappoint you. It is one of those narratives where the final pages unravel all the preceding beauty.” Alistair offered, his tone carefully calibrated. “You’ve read it before?” Silas’s eyes widened slightly. “Indeed, some time past.” To satisfy his intellectual vanity, Alistair always sought out reviews and critiques of the books he *pretended* to read, ensuring he had something to offer in future conversations. Drawing on those carefully memorized fragments, he delivered a critique — not a genuine one, merely enough to sound informed. Silas smiled then, brightly, genuinely pleased. It caught Alistair off guard. “You’re the first person I’ve met who’s read this book, besides myself.” “Oh… truly?” Alistair felt a faint flush. “Yes, but I shall still finish it. Contemplating why the ending unfolded as it did, that’s part of the enjoyment, wouldn’t you agree?” “Well, of course. Opinions often diverge.” “Hearing you say that, Vane, makes me look forward to it even more.” That smile still lingered as an uncomfortable, almost cloying memory. Was it some instinctive unease Alistair had felt even then? After that day, Silas Croft began seeking Alistair out with surprising frequency. Though Alistair found it somewhat tiresome, often wondering, *Why me?*, he never outright rejected him. Silas, with his unblemished reputation, was hardly the worst person to keep within one’s orbit. After all, books — outside of scholarly texts and tactical manuals — were practically foreign objects to most scions their age. Even if someone possessed the leisure, books were little more than glorified footrests to them. For Silas, Alistair was likely the sole person around who could engage in such peculiar discourse. That particular day was one of those routine encounters. Yet, it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days in Alistair’s life. Valerius Thorne was to blame. To this very moment, Alistair could not fathom why he had acted with such inexplicable impulse. Why he, a man who never meddled in others’ affairs, chose to stick his nose where it distinctly did not belong. Why Valerius, of all people, had left his most recent tactical exercise draft wide open on his desk, visible to every passing student. Alistair, a man who loathed having his own grades revealed, naturally assumed Valerius would share that sentiment. So, Alistair, with a vague sense of propriety, flipped the parchment over to conceal it. That was when his eye caught it: Valerius’s score. Eighty-one points. He blinked in disbelief, then checked again. It was undeniably eighty-one. Considering the notoriously stringent grading thresholds for these exercises, it would barely secure a Fourth Tier standing. But still, it was towards the higher end of that tier. It marked the first instance one of Alistair’s preconceptions had been shattered. A small, disorienting shock to realize Valerius was not quite the lost cause he had always imagined. Naturally, that made Alistair’s mind drift to Lysander’s scores. Now, *he* was the true academic wasteland. A scion who would mark every question with a “2” and then sleep through the remainder of the assessment, Lysander had never once achieved a respectable score. Perhaps that was why Alistair felt such a confusing mix of emotions — like he’d stumbled upon a discarded but salvageable artifact amidst common refuse. A scion he’d once disdained proved more capable than the one he begrudgingly admired. That strange, unsettling realization must have thrown Alistair off balance, because he did something he normally never would have done. It was nothing grand. He simply seized a nearby quill and scribbled a brief note at the top of Valerius’s parchment. *Valerius, focus on the logistical questions. You’ll achieve Third Tier soon enough. Well done. —A.F. P.S. My apologies for viewing your score without permission. I merely intended to cover it and chanced to see.* The sheer arrogance of evaluating another’s grade and offering unsolicited counsel made Alistair’s cheeks burn with a faint embarrassment, so he added a rambling post-script to justify himself. He could not articulate why he had written it in the first place. At the time, he must have been utterly beyond himself. In retrospect, it was clear this marked the first, calamitous mistake in what would become a complex web of entanglements. Every great unraveling, after all, begins with a single, poorly fastened thread.

The Weight of a Glare