Lysander's gaze fell upon Valerius, slumped gracefully over a tome of forbidden incantations. A faint, tell-tale flush lingered high on Valerius's cheekbones, a legacy of the previous night's indulgences. Lysander felt a familiar flutter of unease, tempered by a strange, proprietary satisfaction. Valerius's visage, even when slightly dishevelled, possessed an undeniable allure.
A vial of potent-laced dew, chilled just so, slid across the polished mahogany. Lysander placed it beside Valerius's hand.
"A simple restorative," Lysander murmured, his voice low. "For the lingering effects of… nocturnal pursuits. It should dispel any lingering weariness."
Valerius stirred, a slow, languid stretch that rippled through his expensive silks. His eyes, the color of twilight, opened, finding Lysander. A slow smile curved his lips.
"My meticulous Lysander," Valerius purred, taking the vial. "Ever the thoughtful alchemist. My father's temper, I heard, was rather formidable this morning."
A faint heat rose in Lysander’s cheeks. "A minor misdirection was all that was required," he replied, careful to keep his tone even. "A plausible explanation for your… delayed return."
Valerius chuckled, a low, rich sound. "And I am, as ever, in your debt. Such a reliable confidant." He winked, then drained the vial in one swift gulp, the cool liquid a stark contrast to his inner warmth.
Lysander merely inclined his head, a muscle twitching near his jaw. That casual debt, that easy assumption of his loyalty, was both a comfort and a slow-burning poison. He turned to settle into his own nearby study carrel. It was then he noticed Kaelen.
Lord Varrick sat across the hall, by a leaded window, bathed in the pale morning light. A thick grimoire lay open on his lap, but Kaelen's eyes were closed, his expression serene, betraying no hint of a late night's revelry. Lysander felt a familiar, sharp twist in his gut. Kaelen had arrived even earlier than Lysander, always effortlessly composed.
"When did Varrick arrive?" Lysander inquired, the question clipped.
Valerius glanced over. "Hours ago, I imagine. He seemed to materialize from the morning mists, as is his habit."
"He attends those illicit gatherings?" Lysander pressed, a tremor he hoped Valerius wouldn't detect in his voice.
Valerius merely shrugged. "Who can say with Kaelen? He moves through the shadows, always observing. Perhaps he was merely a silent participant. Or perhaps he never left the Academy at all, cloistered away in some forgotten archive."
Kaelen stirred then, as if sensing their conversation. His eyes, the hue of ancient silver, opened slowly, sweeping over Lysander and then Valerius. He offered a faint, almost imperceptible nod before returning his attention to the grimoire. Lysander felt a strange prickle beneath his skin. He scratched his wrist, then forced his attention back to Valerius.
---
Solaris Hall, though sparsely populated at this hour, held a pleasant hum. Whispers and the rustle of parchment filled the space. Soon, other lesser nobles, students like Torvin and Renwick, would drift in. They would gravitate towards Valerius, their faces alight with admiration, eager for tales of his daring exploits. The usual Academy day would unfold, a predictable rhythm of gossip, laughter, and the inevitable drone of a lecturer’s voice.
For these scions of powerful houses, destined for influence, it was a surprisingly mundane start. Yet, Lysander often found himself performing, feigning amusement at Valerius's recounted escapades, even as a bitter taste coated his tongue. Valerius's casual conquests, the ephemeral alliances forged in hedonistic abandon, always left Lysander with a sense of disquiet. He played the part of the amused confidant, burying his discomfort.
Still, these mornings held a fragile peace. But that peace had fractured a month past. And the reason, Lysander knew with a sinking certainty, was Elara.
A hushed murmur rippled through the hall. "Elara is here."
"Gods, must he infect our mornings with his gloom?"
"Still skulking about after his latest disgrace? Some people have no shame."
A student, a minor noble named Jorvin, pointed with an exaggerated flourish. Elara stood just inside the arched doorway, his shoulders hunched, his plain woolen cloak drawn tight as if to hide himself. His dark hair fell over his eyes, obscuring his face. He shuffled towards a secluded desk in a far corner, placed a worn satchel upon it, and immediately bowed his head. Lysander watched the small, hunched figure, a sigh of irritation escaping his lips.
Elara was painfully unremarkable. His frame was slight, his features unassuming. A commoner, or perhaps from a fallen house, he possessed none of the inherent charisma or arcane prestige expected within the Academy. As the murmurs swelled, Valerius fixed a cold, hard gaze on Elara's back, a low curse rumbling in his throat. Lysander hated it. That intensity, that sudden, focused disdain – it frayed his nerves.
Valerius snatched a stray academic scroll from a nearby table, one filled with intricate arcane diagrams. With a flick of his wrist, he crumpled it into a tight ball. Then, with a casual, almost bored toss, he hurled it at Elara's head. It struck with a soft thud. Elara's head slumped further onto his desk.
"Cease parading that miserable aspect, Elara," Valerius commanded, his voice sharp enough to cut the morning air. "Not in my presence, at least."
Elara placed his arms on the desk and buried his face in them, doing precisely as Valerius had ordered. Yet, Valerius watched him with an unsettling disdain. He kicked his own carrel, sending a faint vibration through the floor.
"Well? Are you quite deaf? I demand a response."
Valerius rose abruptly, his voice echoing. Elara, still hunched, stammered a reply, his voice thin and trembling.
"Y-yes, Lord Aurelian."
"Lift your head. Look at me. Speak with clarity."
Did Valerius even comprehend the absurdity of his demands? Lysander felt a bitter laugh catch in his throat.
Regardless of Lysander’s silent judgment, Valerius strode towards Elara. With each purposeful step, an unpleasant sensation coiled tighter in Lysander's stomach, growing more vivid, more raw.
Valerius closed the distance between himself and Elara. The sight alone made Lysander feel as if the precarious control he held over his own emotions was slipping.
This was not the same sharp pang of jealousy he felt when Valerius grew close to Kaelen. Instinctively, Lysander knew. Deep down, he harbored something just as sinister as Valerius did. That was why watching Valerius with Kaelen, though painful, eventually became bearable. But his interactions with Elara unsettled him, gnawing at him with increasing intensity. Lysander's hands began to tremble. He clenched them tightly, pressing his nails into his palms, hoping to hide the tremor.
Valerius kicked Elara's desk with more force. The ancient wood groaned, threatening to topple. Elara jolted upright, his eyes wide with alarm, his voice still unsteady.
"M-my apologies, Lord Aurelian."
Valerius stood over him, silently gazing down at Elara's pale face. Elara's eyes glistened, unshed tears threatening to spill. Yet, in that moment, Lysander felt as if it were his own eyes that might burst into tears.
Valerius never forced Elara into menial tasks. Instead, he simply watched him, a predator observing its prey. If Elara left for the lavatorium during a break, Valerius's gaze would follow his retreating figure, even as he conversed with Lysander and Kaelen. Lysander knew this because he never stopped watching Valerius.
---
To be truthful, Lysander's initial impression of Elara had been unremarkable. Elara's skin was clear enough, his features youthful, his face easy to forget. When he smiled, it held a genuine light, and even his neutral expression carried a certain quiet brightness.
Before Valerius's torment began, no one truly disliked Elara. He seemed a soul raised in quiet contentment, perhaps even warmth. While not gregarious, preferring solitude amidst his scrolls, there had been no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor. Most students considered Elara a decent, if forgettable, presence. Since he never flaunted any supposed affection, he earned even faint praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant – that was Elara.
Lysander, however, had never particularly warmed to him. He harbored no hatred, merely indifference. To say Elara wasn't even a mote in his peripheral vision would be more accurate. Yet, whenever Lysander spoke with his acquaintances, or with Valerius and Kaelen, and Elara's name arose, Lysander would find himself casually fabricating, saying, "Elara? He seems… unobjectionable. Diligent, perhaps."
Valerius, like Lysander, had initially paid Elara no mind. Valerius was never one to concern himself with the quiet academic fodder. After Elara had transferred from some lesser province Academy a few months prior, he and Valerius hadn't exchanged a single direct word until recently. That was how things had been.
But one day, everything shifted. A small, sharp deviation in the mundane flow of their lives. It happened just after the midday meal. Looking back, Lysander believed he had never regretted an action as profoundly as he regretted what transpired that afternoon.
Elara, as was his custom, had sequestered himself in a shadowed alcove of the Grand Library, immersed in an ancient codex. He was the sort of individual who found solace in the dusty wisdom of forgotten ages. Lysander, conversely, possessed a habit of cultivating superficial friendliness towards those with unblemished reputations.
That was why, when he chanced upon Elara, he struck up a conversation about the tome Elara was devouring. Lysander wasn't a casual reader of such esoteric texts himself, preferring to dissect them for arcane theory. But pretending to be cultured, to possess a breadth of obscure knowledge, was precisely his style.
"You find such ancient lore captivating, then?" Lysander began, his voice carefully modulated.
Elara started, his gaze lifting from the heavy pages. "Oh. Yes, I suppose so, Lord Thorne."
At that time, Elara and Lysander were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that distance made the interaction easier.
"Have you reached its conclusion?" Lysander inquired, feigning casual interest.
"Almost at the final warding," Elara replied, a faint smile touching his lips.
"Then I urge you to cease," Lysander stated, a note of authority entering his tone. "The ending will only disappoint. It is one of those texts where the resolution betrays the intricate build-up."
"You have studied it before?" Elara's eyes widened slightly.
"Indeed," Lysander confirmed, allowing a hint of scholarly gravitas to color his voice. "Some time ago, in my initial research into ancient elemental bindings."
To satisfy his intellectual vanity, Lysander meticulously scoured critiques and commentaries on all significant arcane texts. He always ensured he possessed an informed, if not entirely original, opinion. Drawing on these stored memories, he offered a pithy critique – not a genuine one, but just enough to sound discerning. Elara, unexpectedly, beamed. A genuinely pleased, unburdened smile. It startled Lysander.
"You are the first, Lord Thorne," Elara confessed, "who has spoken with me about this codex. Apart from its original scribe, I imagine."
"Oh... truly?" Lysander felt an odd flutter.
"Yes. But I shall still finish it. Unraveling the author's flawed reasoning for such a conclusion is, after all, part of the intellectual exercise."
"Naturally," Lysander conceded, a tremor he quickly suppressed running through his words. "Opinions on narrative closure invariably differ."
"Hearing your perspective only makes me anticipate the ending more keenly," Elara said, his smile still bright.
That smile, Lysander realized later, still haunted him. It lingered as an uncomfortable memory, an instinctive unease he'd felt even then.
After that day, Elara began to seek out Lysander more frequently. Though Lysander found it a mild annoyance, often thinking, *Why me, of all people?*, he never outright rejected the approaches. Elara, with his reputation for quiet diligence and his surprisingly astute observations on obscure texts, wasn't the worst individual to be seen associating with. For Elara, Lysander was likely the only peer who could engage in such academic discourse. Most others their age considered ancient codices little more than glorified doorstops.
That particular day was one of those routine encounters. Yet, it proved to be one of the most ill-fated.
Kaelen Varrick was the unwitting catalyst. To this day, Lysander could not fathom why he had acted as he did. Why he, who prided himself on never meddling in the affairs of others, had chosen to insert himself. Why Kaelen, of all individuals, had left his most recent Arcane Theory examination paper lying face-up on a communal study table for any passing student to observe.
Lysander, who meticulously guarded his own scores, naturally assumed Kaelen would desire similar discretion. So, he reached out, intending to flip the parchment over. That was when he saw it: Kaelen’s assessment grade. A stark, unexpected 'Excellent' in advanced theory, a mark Lysander himself had only just scraped.
Lysander blinked. He checked again. It was undeniable. Kaelen, the effortlessly charming, the cavalier companion of Valerius, possessed an intellect that rivaled, perhaps even surpassed, his own in certain esoteric fields. This shattered a long-held preconception. It was a minor shock, this realization that Kaelen was not merely a dilettante, but a prodigy in his own right. Lysander's mind, ever analytical, immediately drifted to Valerius's grades. Now, Valerius was the true academic 'garbage' – a brilliant mind, but one squandered on hedonism, barely achieving 'Passable' in the basic theory.
Perhaps that was why Lysander felt such a peculiar mix of emotions – like discovering a hidden gem amidst what he had dismissed as mere polished stone. The one he had resented for his effortless charm now possessed a profound aptitude, a depth that the one he adored, Valerius, conspicuously lacked. That strange realization must have unsettled him profoundly, because he did something he would normally never have contemplated.
It was nothing grand. He simply plucked a nearby quill and carefully inscribed a few lines of commentary at the top of Kaelen's paper.
"An astute grasp of Elemental Flux theory. Focus on the integration with planar projection, and a 'Distinguished' mark will be within reach. Well done. —L.T.
P.S. My apologies for observing your score without permission. I merely intended to obscure it from public view and happened upon the assessment."
The sheer arrogance of evaluating someone's hidden arcane aptitude and offering unsolicited advice made Lysander's ears burn. He scribbled the postscript, rambling to justify himself, a nervous tremor in his hand.
He could not articulate why he had even written it. At the time, he must have been utterly possessed. Looking back, it was clear this was the first mistake in what would become a series of entanglements. Every mess, Lysander knew, began with a poorly fastened first button.
If he hadn't written that note, he would not have seen Elara carrying a book down the hall, his path intersecting with Kaelen's…