Alistair awoke to a faint ache behind his left eye, but the swelling had largely subsided. Ointment, surely. Or perhaps the grudging mercy of the Fates. A residual bluish shadow, like the ghost of a forgotten bruise, was all that remained. A minor blemish, easily dismissed by even the most critical eyes in Solstice Academy. Manageable. He moved through the dawn-lit corridors, a fragile lightness in his step. The oppressive weight of yesterday’s humiliation felt, for a fleeting moment, like a distant memory. Yet, the air within the scholars’ common room was heavy, thick with a tension that choked the usual morning chatter. Whispers died on tongues. Heads turned subtly. Alistair’s gaze swept the room, seeking a familiar figure. Lysander Blackwood. Just before the first bell tolled, Lysander slipped through the grand archway, nearly late. His entrance drew a collective, silent intake of breath. Then Alistair saw him. A shock coursed through Alistair, freezing his breath in his lungs. He had, in a moment of childish pique, entertained a dark thought: that Lysander deserved a taste of the same indignity. But seeing him now, Alistair felt only a cold, sickening wave of guilt. Lysander’s face was a ruin. His lower lip was split, a jagged ruby line. One eye, swollen to a grotesque purple mound, was almost completely shut. A profound remorse, sharp and metallic, tasted on Alistair’s tongue. He loathed his own petty cruelty, his own fleeting, dark satisfaction. “Gods above…” Alistair muttered, the words barely a whisper. Lysander hesitated at the threshold, his gaze skittering across the assembled students before snagging on Alistair’s own. He stared, a flicker of something unreadable in his good eye, then his jaw tightened. He averted his gaze sharply, shuffling quickly to his desk, avoiding Alistair entirely. “What in the name of the Ancestors?” Alistair murmured, a strange unease settling in his gut. Instinctively, Alistair looked around. The answer was immediate. Kaelen Thorne, seated at the head of a small coterie, was glaring at Alistair with an intensity that promised violence. His dark eyes, usually cold and calculating, burned with a predatory fire. “Damnation,” Alistair breathed. He should have feigned illness. Regret, a bitter draft, filled his mouth. After that grim morning, Lysander, who had once sought Alistair’s company, now avoided him. During the brief recesses, he kept his distance, his posture hunched, his eyes downcast. At the midday repast, Lysander vanished, presumably with Kaelen Thorne, to some undisclosed corner of the sprawling academy grounds. Left alone amidst the bustling hall, Alistair found himself sharing a table with Lord Julian Vance. A restless itch pulsed beneath Alistair’s skin, a compulsion to seek them out, to discover the truth. But his pride, brittle and fragile, refused. He admitted, with a fresh wave of self-loathing, he was too afraid of what he might uncover. Surely, Kaelen would not strike Lysander again. Not so severely. It was not Alistair’s affair, he told himself, yet Lysander’s battered face haunted his thoughts, a constant, nagging wound. Julian, meanwhile, remained as unburdened as a spring breeze, his usual lighthearted banter filling the silence, oblivious to the storm raging within Alistair. “See, Alistair? I told you the air was thick enough to carve with a bread knife. My nerves were practically humming.” Julian gestured vaguely with a pastry. “You seemed quite unperturbed enjoying your frozen custard yesterday,” Alistair replied, a dry note in his voice. “Give a man some credit. I masterfully suppressed my anxieties.” Julian winked, a roguish grin spreading across his aristocratic features. “Custard, after all, is meant to be consumed with a certain gusto.” Annoyed, Alistair nudged Julian’s calf with his foot, earning a soft chuckle. Julian rubbed his chin, a hint of something resembling sheepishness in his expression. It couldn’t be. Julian Vance, sheepish? --- Life possessed a cruel, intricate unpredictability. From their initial encounter, Alistair had never intended to forge any bond with Julian Vance. In truth, Alistair had found him… insufferable. Yet, here they were, Julian now the closest approximation of a confidant Alistair possessed. Julian’s easy humor, his flippant remarks, held a peculiar power. They prevented Alistair from sinking too deeply into the suffocating mire of his own thoughts. Once, Alistair had despised those very qualities, dismissing Julian as shallow and inconsequential. Now, he leaned on that levity, a precarious anchor in the volatile sea of Solstice. If Kaelen Thorne and Alistair had maintained their former closeness, Alistair knew he would never have recognized the quiet, vital necessity of Julian’s presence. After that morning, Kaelen Thorne began to detach himself from their usual coterie. Some days, he vanished with Lysander Blackwood. Other times, he drew a few other students into his orbit. There were even instances when some of them outright refused Kaelen’s summons, their expressions uneasy, their heads shaking subtly. One such refusal involved Elias Thorne, Kaelen’s distant cousin. Alistair encountered Elias scaling a low wall near the Academy’s herb gardens, ostensibly to avoid a particularly zealous proctor. Elias, with a mixture of amusement and discomfort, related how Kaelen had been commanding others to land a single strike upon Lysander. Alistair’s face twisted in disbelief. Elias, sensing Alistair’s reaction, quickly added that he’d been avoiding Kaelen’s group for precisely that reason. He mentioned he was heading to the city archives with Seraphina and asked Alistair not to misconstrue his absence. With a swift nod, he departed. Seraphina had been close to Kaelen during their first year, but after being assigned to different scholarly houses, their paths had diverged. At the midday repast, Julian and Alistair sought the Academy’s expansive courtyard, purchasing frosted treats from a vendor’s cart. The cold sweetness, a momentary balm, spread across Alistair’s tongue. Beneath that fleeting relief, however, a bitter knot of unease tightened in his chest. Still, he held his ground, his expression carefully neutral. “Is it palatable?” Julian asked, eyeing Alistair’s lemon ice with transparent longing, despite having a vibrant berry sorbet of his own. “Care for a taste?” Alistair, half-teasing, offered a spoonful, still damp with his own saliva, toward Julian. Without a moment’s hesitation, Julian smirked, one corner of his lip lifting, and took a generous bite. “You actually did that?” Alistair exclaimed, genuinely startled. “You offered.” Julian swallowed, a satisfied hum escaping him. “That’s… uncouth. And why such a prodigious bite?” “It was but a single mouthful,” Julian said, shrugging a shoulder, a glint in his eyes. A peaceful interlude, incongruous with Alistair’s inner turmoil. The crisp autumn air, a gentle caress, belied the growing storm within. Where were Kaelen and Lysander now? A few desolate corners of the Academy sprang to mind, but Alistair did not pursue them. Perhaps the fear of what he might find held him captive. He tried to banish Kaelen Thorne from his thoughts. Yet, the harder he strove, the more Kaelen’s image dominated his internal landscape, a constant, unwanted presence. How long would it take to excise such a figure from his mind? What arduous effort would it demand? Alistair did not know. It felt like being adrift in a vast, parched wasteland, not merely sorrowful and suffocating, but profoundly terrifying, unbearable. Sometimes, Alistair retreated into himself. Like a scholar poring over an ancient, fading text, he stepped back, trying to decipher the obscured truths. When the weight became too crushing, he found himself occasionally confiding in Julian. And, well, that was that. Suddenly, Alistair heard his own voice, raw and unbidden. “Julian.” “Alistair?” “...Do you believe flowers can bloom in a barren desert?” The question, so nakedly emotional, embarrassed Alistair the moment it escaped him. He scratched his head awkwardly, but Julian did not mock. “They will,” Julian said, his voice softer than Alistair had ever heard it. “...” “They must. Life, after all, is sufficiently wretched already.” Hearing those words from Julian Vance, a man Alistair had deemed incapable of such profound sentiment, solidified the futility of Alistair’s desperate hope. How much longer would he cling to these meaningless feelings? “...Yes. Life is wretched,” Alistair conceded, the bitterness a tangible thing. Kaelen Thorne. That indolent scion. Why did he seem intent on annihilating the loyal, tail-wagging devotion Alistair once harbored every time he saw him? Kaelen, who seemed to have cast aside every expectation of a Solstice scholar, now came and went from the Academy as he pleased. And always, a shadowed presence at his side, was Lysander Blackwood. As the situation grew increasingly unsettling, the scholar’s common room buzzed with a mix of unease and morbid fascination. It became unequivocally clear: Kaelen’s cruelties were escalating. A growing resentment, like a slow-creeping fog, began to permeate the class. None of it felt right. So, when Alistair saw Kaelen dragging Lysander by the wrist down a deserted hallway, he stopped. His gaze flickered between Kaelen’s rigid profile and Lysander’s bowed head, before he finally spoke. “Your father has expressed concern regarding your recent conduct, Kaelen.” It was neither an apology nor a flattery—it was a calculated falsehood. That was the extent of Alistair’s precarious pride. Kaelen, not particularly close to his father, likely wouldn’t discern the lie. And even if he did, Alistair had his mental escape route: at this rate, Kaelen’s father would soon have ample cause for worry. “If blows must be exchanged, ensure they fall solely upon you. What has Lysander Blackwood ever done?” Alistair’s voice, though carefully modulated, carried a subtle tremor. “Out of my way, Finch.” The moment Alistair spoke Lysander’s name, Kaelen’s gaze snapped to him, burning with unconcealed fury. Alistair’s chest felt like it might burst. He hated Kaelen. Yet, pitiful, pathetic Lysander stood glued to Kaelen’s side, his eyes brimming with tears, looking at Alistair as if on the verge of collapsing. “Unless you yearn for another taste of what befell you last time, step aside,” Kaelen hissed, a low, dangerous rumble. “K-Kaelen, please,” Lysander stammered, his voice trembling, reaching out to Kaelen’s arm. Only then did Kaelen cease his threats. His glare shifted, fixing solely on Lysander. Alistair could only see the back of Kaelen’s head as he turned away. “A-as I mentioned, your father is— ” “...” Lysander, his face a mask of distress, clung to Kaelen, attempting to dissuade him. Witnessing that pitiful scene unfold was unbearable. The raw anguish was so excruciating, Alistair closed his eyes. After a moment, Kaelen looked at Lysander, then turned and walked back into the common room. For the remainder of the day, he stayed there—just as he had weeks ago, when his rages had first begun to flare. --- The long-anticipated excursion day arrived. A grand air-skiff, usually reserved for more senior scholars, had been chartered to transport them to the ancient Aethelgardian Ruins exhibition. While a few students grumbled about being drawn away from their advanced studies, most embraced the chance to escape the Academy for a single day. There was no need for cumbersome satchels; they would return by dusk. The proctors offered only a few half-hearted admonitions before releasing them. They were not children of the junior houses anymore. The giddy excitement of earlier years had faded. Alistair viewed it as simply another day – depart unburdened, return unburdened. Yet, he held no inkling that this day would witness the eruption of his carefully bottled frustrations. He had expected it eventually, but not with such abruptness. As was customary, Alistair had always occupied the seat beside Kaelen whenever they were outside the strictures of the classroom. He was, after all, Kaelen’s closest associate in their immediate circle. Alistair had not even considered where Julian Vance would sit, having never before shared such a journey with him. At first, a flicker of apprehension crossed Alistair’s mind, a worry that Julian might claim the spot nearest Kaelen. Looking back, the thought was pathetic. Neither Alistair nor Julian would ultimately occupy that position. Upon their arrival at the launch pad, Alistair located their assigned air-skiff and boarded, making his way toward their usual section. The aft five seats were already claimed by a boisterous group of classmates, including Elias Thorne, who waved to Alistair, then hesitated, pointing discreetly toward Kaelen’s usual seat. “Alistair! A spot here!” Elias called, his voice carrying over the din. “...Right.” Alistair murmured. Of course. He had always been the one to sit beside him. But today, Alistair hesitated, his steps faltering as he approached Kaelen’s seat. He breathed a silent sigh of relief; the seat beside Kaelen remained vacant. Swallowing hard, a sliver of defiance solidified within him. It was his place. His pride—that stubborn, tenacious core of his being—compelled him to claim it, even after Kaelen’s recent betrayals. Even after the public slight. Alistair nervously touched the polished armrest for a brief moment, glanced across the cabin, and then quietly asked, “Kaelen… This seat…” “It is not yours, Finch. Find another.” Before Alistair could complete his question, Kaelen cut him off, his gaze fixed on the air-skiff’s entrance. Following Kaelen’s line of sight, Alistair saw Lysander Blackwood timidly making his way toward them. Alistair’s fists clenched. His words died in his throat. “...Fine. As you wish,” Alistair said, striving for an indifferent tone. His heart, however, felt as though it had been flayed. He quickly retreated from the seat, scanning the bustling cabin. He found an empty spot near Julian Vance’s group, directly in front of where Julian sat. Relieved, Alistair hurried over, collapsing into the plush seat. He spoke without waiting for a response. “Julian. Sit with me.” No answer came. When Alistair looked closer, he realized Julian was already asleep, his head resting against the enchanted viewport, bouncing gently with every subtle sway of the air-skiff. He always seemed to drift off in the mornings. Alistair shook his head at Julian’s absurd posture, then retrieved his leather-bound compendium and wedged it between Julian’s head and the glass. He leaned back into the comfortable seat, the subtle hum of the skiff filling the air. Across the aisle, he caught a glimpse of dark, finely braided hair. Kaelen Thorne’s. Taller than most of their classmates, Kaelen was easily identifiable. Though Alistair couldn’t see clearly, he knew that Lysander now occupied the seat beside him.

A Laurel Scorned