Alistair Finch possessed an unnatural degree of self-control. Years spent navigating the treacherous currents of Aethelgard’s faded nobility, and the stringent expectations of his parents, had forged it within him. Exhibiting vulnerability was anathema, a weakness he abhorred above all else. Consequently, even amidst the most turbulent emotional storms, he could present a façade of remarkable composure.
Such stoicism often led others to label him dispassionate, even dull. They mistook his stillness for apathy. It was not that rage, or sorrow, or humiliation bypassed him; rather, each searing disturbance had hardened into a resilient shell. Over time, that protective layer grew so thick, so impermeable, that few things truly pierced it.
This held true, even for the egregious provocations of Callum Blackwood.
His carefully cultivated temperament allowed Alistair to remain within Blackwood’s orbit, a precarious but vital position. He was a capable scholar, diligent enough to soothe his parents’ anxieties, and he occupied a respectable, if subordinate, rung on Solstice Academy’s intricate social ladder. He would preserve that position, a fragile edifice built with painstaking effort.
“Finch,” Callum’s voice cut across the murmurs of the Common Room. “Come here.”
“Yes, Blackwood?” Alistair replied, his tone even, though a subtle tension coiled in his gut. His hands, resting on his lap beneath the table, clenched momentarily.
“Your voice,” Kaelen Thorne drawled from a plush velvet armchair, a half-eaten pastry balanced on his knee. “It grates. Like a rusty hinge.”
“At least my vocal cords function,” Alistair retorted, the words slipping out before he could truly censor them. A dangerous flick of Kaelen’s eyebrow was his only response.
“Amusing,” Callum snorted, dismissing the exchange. “Thorne, do you ever encounter any worthy ladies? You’re surrounded by so many… commoners.”
Kaelen raised a sardonic brow. “Define ‘worthy.’ Pedigreed, perhaps? Or merely those with an agreeable dowry?”
“Don’t play the wit, Thorne,” Callum snapped, waving a dismissive hand. His gaze, however, already drifted across the chamber, fixating on a figure hunched over a dusty tome in the corner. Elias Vance.
“A modest intellect, perhaps. And a suitably docile temperament,” Kaelen mused, ignoring Callum’s impatience. He tossed a small, polished pocket-orb into the air, catching it with practiced ease.
Callum Blackwood, heir to a formidable mercantile empire, was impulsive, crude, and singularly thoughtless. His appetites, whether for dominance or more base urges, had been unrestrained since his first year. Elias Vance, a quiet boy from a minor house, had become his latest, most public fixation. Blackwood’s harassment, devoid of any genuine restraint, grew increasingly blatant as the midsummer break drew to a close.
By this afternoon, Elias Vance had been utterly isolated. Yet even that was not enough to sate Callum Blackwood.
Callum’s coterie operated with a specific rhythm. His immediate sycophants—Lord Merrick and young Sir Gareth, for instance—would linger after the bell, awaiting his command. Meanwhile, others from the West Wing, like the Everard twins or young Master Rhys, bolted from the lecture hall the moment the summons for the mid-day repast chimed.
During his first year, Alistair had been a marginal part of Blackwood’s group. That changed in his second. Merrick, a hulking lout, had made a flippant comment one day: “Finch eats with Blackwood, doesn’t he? Gods, you chew like a ruminant.” Without any input from Alistair, his exclusion was settled.
The most stinging part? Blackwood hadn’t cared. Whether Alistair stayed or left made no difference to him. A bitter taste coated Alistair’s tongue. He glanced at Blackwood, his voice a quiet murmur.
“Am I truly such a… slow consumer?”
“Of course, you are. You sit there, dissecting every morsel, whilst the rest of us finish our repast in five minutes flat,” Merrick grumbled, rubbing his stomach.
“Indeed. We’re always late to fencing practice because of your languor,” Gareth added.
“Ah.” Alistair’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly.
“We’ve a challenger’s bout with the scholars from the next wing today, so… break bread with Thorne.”
His pride, a stiff, unyielding spine, prevented him from asking to stay. Besides, the constant indigestion he’d suffered all through his first year, rushing his meals to keep pace, confirmed this was perhaps a blessing. And honestly, the thought of clinging to Blackwood, like a barnacle to a galleon’s hull, disgusted him. So, he offered no plea, no protest.
Just like that, he was out of the circle. His own will, his silent objections, held no weight.
Attempting an air of indifference, Alistair’s eyes met Kaelen Thorne’s. Kaelen lounged on his desk, still idly tossing the pocket-orb, and raised a brow before asking, “When do you break fast?”
“…”
“I generally venture to the Refectory in ten bell-rings.”
“That… that suits me as well.”
In truth, Alistair had never dined at that hour. But primal survival instincts had already kicked in. If he wished to remain in *any* circle, even Thorne’s, he had to adapt. The first time he shared the mid-day repast with Kaelen alone, he left half his platter untouched, feigning a sudden lack of appetite. Kaelen merely raised an eyebrow.
“What are you, eighteen years of age and still a gourmand’s fuss?”
“What concern is it of yours?”
“Frankly, Finch, you possess the palate of a pampered child.”
“Even adults do not consume glazed quail with truffle reduction when the cook has oversalted it,” Alistair shot back petulantly, a flicker of genuine irritation flashing in his eyes. What right did Thorne have to judge?
During their first year, Blackwood and Alistair had been almost constant companions. By the second, those instances had dwindled significantly, largely due to Thorne’s presence. Yet Alistair had no right to complain. Thorne, son of a Marquess, outranked him significantly.
Thorne and Blackwood’s various circles overlapped considerably, mostly comprising the more dissolute students, those who regularly languished at the bottom of the academic rankings. These were the sorts who’d forge early-dismissal chits or sneak from morning lectures, exploiting the lax attitudes of proctors who rarely confirmed their whereabouts.
Blackwood, mindful of his powerful parents’ scrutiny, typically remained in lectures until the end. As for Thorne, whose reputation was almost as infamous for his irreverence, Alistair had once asked him why he bothered to stick around.
Thorne’s response had stuck with him.
“Do you truly deem me so pathetic, Finch?”
“No, but your… associates. They are all like that.”
“Associates? What preposterous notion is that? They are not my companions. They are dregs.”
“What?”
“A scholar’s duty is to attend his lectures and glean knowledge, is it not?”
“…That is true.”
“Do not lump me with dregs like them. It rankles.”
“My apologies.”
“I did not request your contrition.”
His logic, of course, was sound. But hearing it from Kaelen Thorne, a constant provocateur, felt absurd. This was the same youth whose so-called friends skipped scholarly sessions at least once a week.
Regardless, Alistair found himself spending most of his second year in the company of Callum Blackwood and Kaelen Thorne. He considered this strange arrangement a sacred space, one no one else could easily intrude upon. It would have been perfect without Thorne, but surprisingly, they coexisted better than expected. Alistair did not like him, but Thorne was not so intolerable that Alistair would storm off. He was simply… vexing.
But Elias Vance would soon turn even those days into a harrowing ordeal.
Today felt subtly different from the usual routine. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the Refectory’s air.
“Blast it all. Merrick and Gareth, those blithering fools,” Callum cursed, raking a hand through his dark hair as the fourth lecture neared its conclusion. Alistair, hearing his voice, instinctively turned, a flicker of anticipation in his chest.
“They… they reneged again?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral.
“Incorrigible oafs.”
“Unfortunate. Who will you break fast with, then?” Alistair’s fingers, hidden from view, tightened around the back of his chair. A sliver of hope, sharp and dangerous, pierced his composure. He fought to keep it from his expression.
Callum let out a heavy sigh, then looked at Thorne, who was sketching idly on a parchment beside him.
“Thorne, I’m joining your table today.”
“Don’t. No one extended an invitation,” Thorne replied blandly, without looking up.
“Continue with your insolence, and I’ll ensure you have little left to say.”
“Gods, Blackwood, today truly tests my restraint not to strike you.”
“Attempt it, you fool.”
“Grand words for a solitary patron,” Thorne retorted, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
Alistair could no longer contain himself. He interjected, his voice perhaps a shade too eager. “Come, let us all share the repast. We cannot simply abandon Blackwood.”
His desperation must have been evident. Blackwood smirked, a triumphant glint in his eye, and cast a sly glance at Thorne.
“See? I possess loyal allies.”
“…”
“What do you think, Thorne? Finch proves quite useful, does he not?”
Thorne merely scowled and nudged Blackwood’s quill box off the table with his knee, sending it clattering to the flagstones. Whether Thorne liked Alistair or not ceased to matter. What mattered was that Blackwood joined their table for the mid-day repast.
It had been so long since they had truly dined together. Alistair felt a thrill that was almost painful. He even forced himself to consume a portion of the unappetizing stewed cabbage, a dish he detested.
But Blackwood paid little attention to his platter. His eyes, sharp and predatory, scanned the vast Refectory like a falcon seeking prey. Alistair, too focused on Blackwood, barely noticed Thorne pilfering a candied fig from his own plate. Then, without warning, Blackwood’s eating implement clattered, and his free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing by.
Alistair looked up, a cold dread rising. It was Elias Vance.
“Sit here,” Blackwood commanded, nodding toward the empty seat beside him. “You’ve no other companions to break bread with, after all.”
Elias Vance’s face flushed a deep crimson. His eyes darted frantically, briefly locking with Alistair’s before he bit his lip and slowly, hesitantly, sat in the indicated chair.
Alistair felt stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Blackwood care about Vance’s companionship? And the reason Vance had no companions was entirely Blackwood’s doing. Blackwood detested anyone who showed Elias even a shred of civility.
A bitter, metallic taste flooded Alistair’s mouth.
Unconsciously, he slammed his silver implement onto his platter, the sound a jarring clang against the murmur of the hall. Only Elias reacted, flinching and looking at Alistair with a nervous start. Blackwood, however, remained fixated on Elias.
Damn it. In that moment, the protective shell Alistair had painstakingly built over the years began to crack, a hairline fissure appearing in its smooth surface. He fought to contain it, but the tremors spread. Perhaps he was nearing a breaking point he hadn’t known existed.
Desperately clinging to denial, Alistair snapped at Elias.
“Elias. You should depart.”
“H-huh?”
“Ignore Blackwood. It is permissible for you to go. Now.”
“Finch,” Blackwood’s voice dropped, dangerously low. The air crackled around them.
When Alistair told Elias to leave, Callum Blackwood, who had ignored the loud clamor of the spoon, finally ground his teeth and glared at Alistair. That glare, a burning brand, solidified Alistair’s resolve. He fixed his gaze stubbornly on Elias.
“I shall manage him. You may depart.”
“Uh, o-okay.” Elias’s voice was barely a whisper.
“And Blackwood, desist already.”
“Indeed, I concur,” Thorne chimed in through a mouthful of food, his words barely intelligible. His sudden interjection felt misplaced, an unwelcome jape. He chewed and swallowed deliberately, slowly, before glancing between Alistair and Blackwood, continuing with an irritating smirk.
“What are you staring at? My appetite falters.”
As always, Thorne’s unnecessary provocations grated on Alistair’s nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter how he presented himself. Ignoring him, Alistair turned back to Blackwood.
“Leave Vance alone.”
“Who in the seven hells are you to command me, Finch?” Blackwood shot back, his voice rising.
“It’s tiresome for the rest of us to observe.” Alistair did not blink, holding Blackwood’s furious gaze. Blackwood slammed his fist on the table. The sudden impact made Elias, still sitting awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Thorne, on the other hand, chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender.
“Count me out of this particular skirmish.”
He licked a drop of water from his lips and added, “Let us decide by majority vote. I am neutral. Finch desires his departure. Blackwood wishes him to remain.”
For the record, Thorne was one of the few who called him ‘Finch’ with such casual familiarity, and Alistair found it irritating every time. That irritation, a prickle beneath his skin, slipped into his tone now.
“Stop interfering. Your vote carries no weight.”
“Why not? There is another person right there.” Thorne, unfazed, smirked and pointed at Elias, motioning toward him with a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Vance not a person?”
“You are deranged.”
“Why is he so silent? Let him speak his mind.”
As if Elias could possibly articulate a single coherent thought in this charged atmosphere. Alistair sighed at Thorne’s thoughtless antics, picked up his implement, and idly stirred his leftover rice. That’s when Blackwood tapped his finger on the table, a chilling staccato.
“If you declare your departure, your prospects at Solstice will swiftly wane, starting this very day.”
Tears began to well up in Elias’s large eyes, which glimmered as he looked at Alistair, a silent plea for rescue. Damn it. Alistair pressed his lips together, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
“It is well. I will deter him,” Alistair said, trying to reassure Elias.
“Finch,” Blackwood growled, his voice tight with barely suppressed fury.
Alistair forced himself to meet Blackwood’s gaze, pretending to be calm, but he felt the overwhelming urge to buckle, to give in to the suffocating pressure. To suppress it, he lifted his eyes to the high vaulted ceiling for a brief moment, then lowered his head, replying with forced nonchalance.
“What?”
“You…”
Blackwood clenched his fist, glaring at Alistair with an intensity that felt like a scorching brand. Still, Alistair had to endure it. Every instinct screamed that he could not leave Elias to Blackwood’s tender mercies.
But Blackwood’s focus shifted back to Elias.
“I-I shall go,” Elias stammered, his voice trembling like a leaf.
“…”
“Th-thank you, Finch.”
Elias hurriedly pushed himself from the table and departed, his footsteps uneven, almost a stumble. As soon as he was gone, Blackwood turned abruptly, his gaze hardening on Alistair.