Alistair Finch possessed a formidable, if often invisible, self-control. His existence, from swaddling bands to the starched collar he now wore, had been meticulously sculpted by his parents’ exacting hands. Such rigorous regulation had not merely shaped his habits; it had forged his very nature. He harbored a profound aversion to displaying vulnerability. It was a weakness, an open wound in a world that preyed upon such things. Thus, even when faced with the most turbulent emotional storms, he could navigate them with an almost unsettling composure. This peculiar trait often led his peers to dismiss him as a placid, unexcitable fellow, devoid of genuine passion or temper. But their assessment was flawed. It was not that anger or sorrow eluded him; rather, every emotional disturbance he had ever endured had been painstakingly hammered into a protective shell, layer upon resilient layer. Over time, it had become a formidable barrier, rendering him almost impervious to true provocation. Even when confronted with the mercurial whims of Lysander Thorne, this composure held fast. It was this very trait that permitted his precarious presence within Thorne’s orbit. He was a decent enough sort, his academic record impeccable, his quiet demeanor unlikely to cause his parents any public consternation. He occupied a respectable, if ancillary, position within the intricate social hierarchy of the university. It was a position he had laboriously constructed, and one he was determined to preserve. “Finch, a moment.” Dominic Blackwood’s voice, rough as unturned earth, cut through the low hum of the morning lecture hall. Alistair looked up from his meticulously annotated Greek text. “Yes, Blackwood?” His tone, he knew, was carefully neutral, betraying nothing. “What is that infatuating lilt in your voice? It curdles the air.” Dominic lounged in his chair, a study in casual defiance, despite the strictures of their shared institution. “Perhaps it’s your sensibilities that are curdled, Blackwood,” Alistair replied, a thin smile playing on his lips. It was a rare, almost imperceptible jab, carefully measured. Dominic merely snorted, unoffended. An insult, Alistair knew, only stung if it held an echo of truth. Dominic Blackwood was too self-assured to be pricked by such a minor thrust. “Blackwood, do you know any suitable young ladies?” Lysander Thorne interjected, not bothering to look at either of them, his gaze already drifting. “You seem to possess a remarkably wide acquaintance.” Dominic lifted a single, dark eyebrow. “Suitable? Pray tell, Thorne, what constitutes ‘suitable’ in your discerning eyes?” “Oh, don’t play the fool, Blackwood. You know precisely what I mean.” Lysander’s voice was laced with an impatience that hinted at deeper currents beneath his polished surface. Dominic chuckled, idly tossing a small, polished stone he’d found on the street, but offered no further answer. Lysander, it seemed, wasn't truly invested in the response. His attention had already settled, with an almost predatory intensity, on a hunched, shabby figure at the far end of the lecture hall: Edgar Pinter. “...A delicate, perhaps, almost cherubic face, and a spirit pliable enough to not resist one’s attentions. Yes, that might be pleasant.” Lysander mused aloud, oblivious, or perhaps indifferent, to the chill his words cast. Lysander Thorne was, beneath his superficial charm, impulsive, often crude, prone to sudden bursts of temper, and utterly thoughtless. Since the nascent stirrings of adolescence, he had been a slave to his fleeting desires, and his nature required no further proof. Thus, Lysander’s particular brand of harassment, devoid of subtlety or restraint, had only grown more blatant, a crude bludgeon rather than a rapier. By this oppressive August, with the summer term drawing to a close, Edgar Pinter had been left in complete, agonizing isolation. Yet, even that desolation seemed insufficient to sate Lysander Thorne. Though Lysander’s coterie and others like it operated at similar echelons within the university’s rigid social order, their behavior diverged notably. His immediate cronies — Phileas, Benedict, and Percival — would linger minutes after the bell, awaiting his command. Meanwhile, others from the West Wing — Quentin, Silas, and Theron — would bolt from the room the moment the lunch bell tolled, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere Lysander created. In his first year, Alistair had been a fixture within Thorne’s primary group. But by the second year, a subtle shift had occurred. It began with Benedict’s flippant remark one afternoon: “Finch dines with Blackwood now, doesn’t he? Always so… deliberate with his portions.” Without any direct input from Alistair, he found himself subtly, but undeniably, excluded. What stung most was Lysander’s utter indifference. Whether Alistair stayed or left made no discernible difference to the young lord. It was a dismissal more cutting than any explicit rejection. Alistair, feigning nonchalance, quietly addressed Lysander. “Am I truly so slow in my repast?” “Of course you are. You sit there, chewing each morsel with the dedication of a ruminant, while the rest of us conclude our luncheon in five swift minutes.” Lysander barely glanced at him, already gathering his notes. “Indeed, Finch. We’re invariably late for our billiards game because of your meticulous mastication,” Phileas added, a sneer barely veiled. “...Ah.” A single, hollow word. “We have a wagered match with the fellows from the next hall today, so do eat with Blackwood, old boy.” Silence descended. Alistair’s pride, a fragile but unyielding thing, prevented him from begging to stay. Besides, he reasoned, the persistent dyspepsia he’d suffered throughout his first year was likely due to rushing his meals to keep pace with Thorne’s less refined table habits. And, honestly, the very thought of clinging to Lysander like some unwanted barnacle disgusted even him. He did not plead. He did not protest. Just like that, he was out of the core group. His will, his wishes, were utterly immaterial. Trying to project an air of complete indifference, Alistair found his gaze meeting Dominic Blackwood’s. Dominic, the only other person remaining in the echoing hall, was draped across his desk, idly bouncing the polished stone. He looked at Alistair, then casually inquired, “When do you take your luncheon?” “...” “I usually venture forth in about ten minutes.” “Yes. That suits my schedule perfectly.” In truth, Alistair had never eaten at such an hour before. But the raw instinct for survival kicked in, sharp and undeniable. If he wished to remain within anyone’s circle, even Blackwood’s, he had to adapt. That first luncheon with Dominic alone, Alistair left half his food untouched, feigning a sudden lack of appetite. Dominic, ever observant, raised an eyebrow. “What are you, a grown man still particular about his fare?” “And what concern is it of yours, Blackwood?” Alistair retorted, a flash of irritation he couldn’t quite suppress. “Frankly, Finch, you possess the palate of an infant.” “Even adults, Blackwood, do not consume fish cutlets with quite such a vulgar abundance of tartar sauce.” Alistair snapped back, glaring. The man was insufferable. His very presence grated. In their first year, Alistair and Lysander had been almost inseparable, their shadows often falling together across the hallowed flagstones of the university. But by the second year, those moments had dwindled, significantly, and it was largely due to Blackwood’s intrusive influence. Still, Alistair knew he had no right to complain. Dominic Blackwood, in some strange, unspoken hierarchy, outranked him. Blackwood and Thorne’s associates often overlapped, a motley collection of students from the lower academic strata of their year. These were the types who would forge falsified lecture passes or sneak out of class, exploiting the lax attitudes of tutors too jaded to verify their whereabouts. Lysander, ever mindful of his parents’ watchful eyes, usually remained in class until the final bell. As for Dominic, whose reputation for insubordination was almost as infamous, Alistair had once asked him why he bothered to stick around. His response had resonated. “Do you imagine me to be so pathetic?” “No, but your… associates are often absent.” “Associates? What in God’s name are you prattling about? They are not my friends. They are dregs.” “What?” “A student’s duty, Finch, is to attend his lectures and glean knowledge, is it not?” “...That is indeed true.” “Then do not presume to lump me in with such dregs. It offends my sensibilities.” “My apologies, then.” “I was not soliciting one.” Of course, it was a perfectly reasonable statement. Yet, hearing it from Dominic Blackwood, a man who habitually cavorted with students who skipped lessons at least once a week, felt utterly absurd. Regardless, Alistair found himself spending the majority of his second year in the uneasy company of Lysander Thorne and Dominic Blackwood. He considered it a sacred, if somewhat tainted, space that no one else could intrude upon. It would have been perfect, he often thought, without Blackwood. Yet, surprisingly, they got along better than anticipated. He did not like him, no. But Blackwood was not so intolerable that Alistair would storm off in a fit of pique. He was simply… annoying. But Edgar Pinter, poor, wretched Edgar Pinter, managed to turn even those days into a nightmare of burgeoning dread. Today, however, felt subtly different from usual. “Damnation. Benedict and Phileas, those wastrels,” Lysander cursed, rubbing his temples as the fourth period drew to its close. Alistair, hearing the familiar annoyance in his voice, immediately turned. “They’ve absconded again?” His tone, he knew, held a forbidden flicker of anticipation. “Foul imbeciles.” Lysander shook his head in disgust. “How inconvenient. With whom will you take luncheon, then?” Alistair asked, his fingers tightening imperceptibly on the back of his chair. A desperate, foolish hope began to bloom in his chest. Lysander let out a heavy sigh, then looked pointedly at Dominic Blackwood, who was still lounging beside him. “Today, I shall endure your company for luncheon.” “Do not bother. No one extended an invitation,” Dominic replied, his voice blunt as a cudgel. “Continue with that insolence, Blackwood, and I shall shut your mouth for you.” Lysander’s eyes narrowed. “Good God, Thorne, today truly tests my patience. I feel a strong urge to rearrange your face.” “Attempt it, then, you blithering fool.” “Such grand declarations from a man who would otherwise be forced to dine in solitude.” Alistair could hold back no longer. He interjected, his voice carefully calibrated to sound conciliatory, “Come, let us all dine together. We cannot simply abandon Thorne to eat alone.” His desperation must have been glaringly evident. Lysander smirked, a triumphant glint in his eyes, and glanced at Dominic with a sly grin. “You see, Blackwood? I possess truly devoted companions.” “....” “What do you say, Blackwood? Finch proves quite useful, does he not?” Dominic scowled, then deliberately, with a jarring clatter, shoved Lysander’s meticulously arranged pencil case off the desk, sending its contents scattering across the floor. Whether Dominic liked Alistair or not was irrelevant. What mattered, profoundly, was that Lysander had consented to join them for luncheon. It had been so long since they had shared a meal, a fragile intimacy Alistair craved, that he felt a thrill of secret joy. He even forced himself to consume a portion of boiled cabbage, a side dish he abhorred, simply to maintain the illusion of pleasant communal dining. But Lysander was not paying attention to his food. His eyes, keen and restless, scanned the opulent dining hall like a predator searching for elusive prey. Alistair, too focused on Lysander, failed to notice Dominic pilfering a particularly choice sausage from his own plate. Then, without warning, Lysander’s silver-plated chopsticks clattered to the table. His free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing by their table. Looking up, Alistair saw it was Edgar Pinter. “Sit here, Pinter,” Lysander commanded, nodding toward the single empty seat beside him. “You have no one else to dine with anyway.” Edgar’s face, already pale, flushed a vivid crimson. His eyes darted frantically around the crowded hall, landing briefly on Alistair with a desperate, unspoken plea, before he bit his lip and slowly, reluctantly, sank into the seat Lysander had indicated. Alistair felt stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Lysander Thorne concern himself with Edgar Pinter’s friendships? And the very reason Edgar possessed no friends was entirely Lysander’s cruel doing. Lysander hated it when anyone so much as spoke to Pinter, let alone befriended him. A bitter, acrid taste rose in Alistair’s throat. Unconsciously, he slammed his spoon onto his porcelain tray, the sound unnaturally loud and jarring in the refined atmosphere. But the only one who reacted to the abrupt noise was Edgar, who flinched violently and looked at Alistair with wide, nervous eyes. Lysander, however, remained fixated on Pinter, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Damnation. In that moment, Alistair felt the formidable, protective shell he had painstakingly built over the years beginning to crack, to splinter under an unprecedented internal pressure. He tried desperately to halt the rupture, but he found he could not. Perhaps he was nearing a breaking point he had never realized existed. Clinging desperately to denial, a denial of his own complicity, Alistair snapped at Edgar. “Pinter. Just leave.” “H-huh?” Edgar stammered, his eyes wide with confusion. “Do not heed Thorne. Simply go. It is perfectly fine.” “Finch,” Lysander said, his voice dangerously low, a viper’s hiss. When Alistair had told Edgar Pinter he could leave, Lysander Thorne, who had so pointedly ignored the loud clang Alistair had made moments before, finally ground his teeth and fixed Alistair with a glare that promised retribution. That menacing stare, far from cowing him, only solidified Alistair’s newfound resolve. He met Lysander’s gaze, stubbornly, unflinchingly. “I shall handle it. You may depart.” “Uh, o-okay,” Edgar whispered, already half-rising. “And Thorne, cease this tiresome charade already.” “Yes, I concur,” Dominic Blackwood chimed in through a mouthful of shepherd’s pie, his words barely intelligible. His sudden interjection felt utterly misplaced, utterly unnecessary. He chewed and swallowed with deliberate slowness before glancing between Alistair and Lysander, continuing with an irritating, almost insolent smirk. “What are you staring at? You’re quite spoiling my appetite.” As always, Dominic Blackwood’s unnecessary provocations grated on Alistair’s already frayed nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter how Alistair regarded him. Ignoring him, Alistair turned back to Lysander. “Leave Pinter alone.” “And who, pray tell, gives you leave to issue commands, Finch?” Lysander shot back, his face darkening. “It is tiresome for the rest of us to witness.” Alistair did not blink, holding Lysander’s furious gaze. Lysander, with a sudden, violent movement, slammed his fist on the heavy oak table. The abrupt impact made Edgar, who was perched awkwardly on the edge of his seat, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Dominic, on the other hand, merely chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender. “Count me out of this particular fracas.” He licked a stray drop of water from his lips, then added, “Let us decide by majority vote, shall we? I am neutral. Finch desires him gone, and Thorne insists he remains.” For the record, Dominic Blackwood was one of the few who called Alistair ‘Finch’, and he found it irritating every single time. That irritation, a faint but perceptible tremor, often slipped into his tone, just as it did now. “Do cease your meddling, Blackwood. Your vote holds no weight.” “And why not? There is another person right there.” Dominic, unfazed, smirked and pointed at Edgar, motioning toward him with a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Pinter not a person in your estimation?” “You are quite mad.” “Why is he so taciturn? Let him voice his own desires.” As if Edgar could possibly speak in this tension-filled atmosphere. Alistair sighed at Dominic’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his rice pudding. That’s when Lysander tapped a single, menacing finger on the table. “If you utter one word about leaving, Pinter, you will regret it until your dying breath, starting today.” Tears began to well in Edgar’s large, mournful eyes, which glimmered as he looked at Alistair, a silent, desperate plea for help. Damnation. Alistair pressed his lips into a thin, grim line. “It is fine. I shall stop him,” Alistair said, attempting to offer some frail reassurance to Edgar. “Finch,” Lysander growled, his voice tight with barely suppressed fury. Alistair forced himself to meet Lysander’s gaze, striving to maintain an outward calm, but he felt an overwhelming, almost primal urge to break down, to flee. To suppress it, he lifted his eyes to the elaborate plasterwork of the dining hall ceiling for a fleeting moment before lowering his head and replying, as nonchalantly as he could manage, “What is it, Thorne?” “You…” Lysander clenched his fist, glaring at Alistair with an intensity that felt as though it could burn through his very soul. Still, Alistair knew he had to endure. His instincts screamed that he could not, must not, abandon Edgar to Lysander’s cruel mercies. But then, Lysander’s lethal focus shifted back to Edgar. “I-I’ll go,” Edgar stammered, his voice trembling, broken. “Th-thanks, Finch.” Edgar scrambled to his feet, his movements hurried and unsteady, and fled the hall. As soon as his retreating form disappeared from sight, Lysander turned abruptly, his face a mask of cold, controlled fury, towards Alistair.

A Bitter Reckoning