A week of strained silence stretched between them. Lysander Thorne buried himself deeper in ancient ciphers and obscure magical theories, feigning indifference. He meticulously transcribed a relic text on elemental convergence, his quill scratching a rhythm against aged parchment. This quiet labor, usually a balm, felt like a hollow performance. Cassian Vane was not important, he told himself. Their paths were merely coincidental. Yet, an invisible cord hummed, taut and vibrating, whenever Cassian passed. Lysander felt its pull, even as he steadfastly looked away.
He sought solace, as ever, in Theron’s company. Theron, with his keen observations and blunt wit, offered a casual anchor. Other junior arcanists and scholars might flutter about, but Theron alone seemed to pierce Lysander’s practiced composure.
Most vexing was the distance from Cassian’s inner circle. Lysander now lacked direct whispers, the casual chatter that fed his unacknowledged curiosity. Bits of news, often laced with cynical remarks, drifted from Theron’s acquaintances. When a particular hunger for information gnawed at him, Lysander found himself drawn to Theron’s alcove in the Grand Archives.
Lysander nursed a cup of chilled herbal infusion, carefully positioned next to Theron’s latest experiment in alchemical resonance. “Any… unusual occurrences at the recent Soirée of Whispers?” Lysander inquired, feigning mild academic interest in noble political machinations. He kept his gaze fixed on a complex runic array Theron was sketching.
Theron, without glancing up, idly rotated a polished jade charm between his fingers. It was an ancient thing, intricately carved, thought to ward off planar intrusions. “Ah, Vane. Still out cavorting, by the sounds of it.” The reply was delivered with characteristic disinterest, yet it left Lysander momentarily breathless.
“Damn impudent brute.” Lysander muttered under his breath.
He could almost picture Cassian’s volatile disposition, his raw, instinct-driven power. A primal force, cloaked in noble lineage.
“Another duel, perhaps,” Lysander ventured, picturing the clash of arcane energies.
“No, a private gathering this time,” Theron corrected, adjusting the tilt of his work lamp. “Lady Aeliana Vance apparently caught his eye. They departed the manor within the hour, leaving a veritable trail of scandalized whispers.”
Lysander’s fingers tightened around his cup. “Within the hour?”
“Indeed. Some speculated a rapid arcane bond. Others simply called it… expeditious. Lady Vance, for her part, showed no hesitation. A remarkably dispassionate agreement, from all accounts.”
“...”
“A truly brazen pair,” Theron added, a wry twist to his lips.
No admiration colored his tone. Only a detached amusement, almost derision. For the first time in days, Lysander felt a peculiar lightness. He leaned against Theron’s desk, lightly pressing a hand to his friend’s shoulder. Theron shifted, making space, a small acknowledgment of gratitude.
Theron was the only one who openly dared to criticize Cassian Vane’s lack of decorum, his flagrant disregard for social niceties. For that alone, Lysander found him endurable.
“They’re disgustingly cavalier,” Lysander remarked, the words tasting like ash.
“True enough. But I, for one, prefer a dash of decorum.”
Theron’s tone, almost boastful, elicited a short, sharp laugh from Lysander.
“Is decorum not a prerequisite for a scholar of the Arcane Arts?”
“Not a prerequisite, no. Acquired, perhaps. Humanity’s rationality, as it were, is a slow and arduous cultivation,” Theron smirked, his eyes still fixed on his schematics.
“Is that why your own patronage offers remain largely unconsidered?” Lysander teased.
Theron finally set down his quill. He turned, an incredulous smile gracing his features, tapping Lysander’s hand on his shoulder. “I shall file a formal complaint with the Arch-Consuls for undue provocation.”
“How is this provocation?”
“If the recipient feels discomfort, it is provocation, Thorne.”
“Theron, you’re insufferable.”
“A charlatan.”
Lysander’s slippered foot swung idly, brushing a forgotten scroll to the floor. Ignoring it, he nudged Theron’s leg with his sock-clad foot. Theron feigned a dramatic push-back, then casually offered a hand gesture of pure insolence. His raised hand revealed the jade charm, always nestled against his wrist. Lysander lightly kicked his leg again.
“That charm hardly suits you.”
“Oh? Why ever not?” Theron asked, a sudden seriousness in his voice.
Why this sudden gravitas?
“It simply… lacks your usual scholarly asceticism.”
“Lacks? Peculiar. Do I not strike you as one deeply attuned to ancient warding lore?”
“No. It looks like a trinket.”
“...A powerful trinket, nonetheless.”
Lysander reflected. Theron’s lineage, though not of the highest houses, was renowned for its archivists, meticulous and somewhat superstitious. His family had long guarded forgotten wards and protections, hidden away in a remote mountain demesne. Theron claimed to be a devoted student of such forgotten magics. Yet, he rarely demonstrated their practical application, preferring theory and cynical observation.
Lysander spent the following days meticulously avoiding Cassian. Whenever their paths intersected in the Academy’s bustling halls, Lysander offered a fleeting glance before swiftly turning away.
He still lacked the courage to engage him directly. A faint, ignoble fear of losing. The idea that whoever desired more, lost more—a pathetic notion, he knew. Still, even with the absurdity clear, Lysander could not bring himself to break the silence.
In stark contrast, Aeliana Vance, now a constant shadow at Cassian’s side, often caught Lysander’s eye. The subtle tremor in her hand as she held her grimoire, the pallor beneath her eyes, the way her shoulders seemed to curve inward as if shielding herself from an unseen weight. These were not bruises of the flesh, but marks of an intense, perhaps overwhelming, arcane attention. Cassian’s possessive interest left its own kind of visible imprint. Lysander found the sight unsettling. When he frowned, a flicker of awareness passed over Aeliana’s face, and she would quickly turn away, as if to hide the evidence.
Four more days drifted by. One quiet morning, alone in the antechamber of the Divination Hall, Lysander buried his face in his hands. He wished to avoid the dreadful tableau unfolding before him.
Distance between him and Cassian Vane widened, growing starker with each passing day. What had been a delicate gap threatened to become an unbridgeable chasm of despair. Opening his eyes felt like the rift would swallow him whole. Aeliana’s subtle signs of distress were as obvious as a sigil on a scroll. This made Lysander even more reluctant to acknowledge either of them. He longed for evasion.
Then, as if a minor daemon had granted a fleeting favor, Aeliana Vance ceased attending the most visible Academy lectures. Master Elara, an instructor of Arcane Etiquette, called it a temporary withdrawal, but the hesitation in her voice betrayed a deeper truth: an unacknowledged absence, perhaps even a flight. Lysander almost permitted himself a quiet exhalation of relief.
On the other hand, Cassian Vane spent his classes in a state of agitated restlessness. He would tap arcane glyphs into the air, a constant shimmer of uncontrolled energy around his fingertips, or snap an irritated word at a junior arcanist whose incantation faltered.
A part of Lysander felt a smug satisfaction. Another part savored a strange, precarious superiority. He convinced himself that soon, once Aeliana officially departed or simply vanished, Cassian would lose interest, his formidable gaze returning to Lysander. Confident in this belief, he waited patiently for the moment to arrive.
Days blurred into weeks.
“Cassian Vane seems unusually… subdued,” Theron remarked offhandedly. Lysander’s heart gave a heavy thud in his chest. He longed to turn and observe Cassian, but pride held his head stiffly forward. In matters of the heart, or perhaps merely of fierce academic rivalry, he was a true coward. He could only listen to Theron’s words, conjuring images of Cassian’s altered demeanor.
But nothing shifted. Day wore on, classes concluded. Lysander clung to the promise of tomorrow. Grand shifts did not occur in a single solar cycle. He continued his vigil, and when the final bell chimed, signifying the end of studies, as he slung his satchel over his shoulder, Theron spoke again, a strange note in his voice.
“You had a falling out with Vane, didn’t you?”
Lysander turned reflexively at the abrupt question.
“Indeed.”
“Still unresolved since that incident in the Refectory?”
“...”
“Remarkable, this prolonged silence,” Theron said, shrugging, his hands tucked into the deep pockets of his robes. Lysander avoided his gaze, muttering an excuse.
“To be frank, Cassian overstepped. Such blatant disregard for a lesser noble’s dignity… it feels deeply improper, do you not agree?”
“Improper?”
“Yes. The manner in which Cassian treats Lady Vance… it is unseemly. A stain on Academy decorum. I wish he would desist.”
“How principled of you.”
“...”
“The Ancestors will surely mark your path to the Aetherial Plains.”
Theron’s response to Lysander’s carefully chosen words was saturated with sarcasm.
Annoyed by Theron’s malicious tone, Lysander glared. Theron, unperturbed, simply smirked. Seeing that expression, Lysander felt as if some hidden motive had been laid bare, and a flush crept up his neck. Swiftly, he turned his back on Theron’s mocking grin, striding out of the classroom.
As he hurried down the cloister, intent on returning to his quiet chambers, a hand suddenly touched his shoulder. Assuming it was Theron, Lysander spun, irritation bubbling, and pulled his arm free. It was not Theron, but Master Elara. Startled, Lysander quickly composed his expression.
“My apologies, Thorne. Did I alarm you?”
“Oh, no, Master. Merely surprised, that is all.”
“I see. I am truly sorry, but… might I have a moment of your time?”
“A moment?”
“But for a second. Please.”
The young instructor’s face was unusually grave. Lysander nodded.
“Today, Lysander, young Master Vane inquired about Lady Vance’s current domicile,” Master Elara stated cautiously.
“Cassian Vane?”
It was clear that Master Elara, as an instructor, could not possibly be ignorant of the tension within her classes. Yet, she lacked the authority or perhaps the boldness to directly confront a powerful noble like Cassian. Still, she possessed enough empathy not to entirely ignore it. Her approach to Lysander regarding Aeliana proved that.
“I am not accusing or blaming young Master Vane, but…”
“No, Master, I understand. His interest is… pronounced,” Lysander replied quickly.
“Well, as you have often shown a protective regard for Lady Vance, I wondered if you might… perhaps accompany Master Vane to her residence. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
Lysander could not answer at once. His jaw clenched tightly.
The implications of Cassian Vane’s intense focus on Aeliana Vance seemed to creep towards Lysander, flooding his senses, holding him rooted. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. He could not merely stand by.
“Might I… obtain Lady Vance’s contact ward, then?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Here, allow me to retrieve it for you. Attempt to establish contact first.”
“Naturally. I shall speak with her. Do not trouble yourself unduly.”
“Indeed. I shall rely upon you, Lysander.”
“Yes, Master.”
Outwardly, Lysander presented a calm demeanor. Internally, a frantic alarm clanged. Master Elara handed him Aeliana Vance’s personal communication sigil, plucked from the attendance ledger, then offered an awkward bow before departing the cloister.
Lysander had to prevent Cassian from reaching Aeliana. He absolutely had to prevent Cassian’s strange, possessive focus from escalating. The moment Master Elara vanished, Lysander pulled out his own arcane focus and immediately projected Aeliana’s sigil. His leg jittered nervously. He kept clenching and unclenching his hand as he waited for a connection. Surprisingly, the ethereal light of connection shimmered swiftly.
“Yes?” A voice, thin and reedy, replied.
“It is Lysander Thorne. This is Lady Aeliana Vance, I presume?”
As soon as he heard her voice, Lysander rushed to speak. A sudden clattering echoed from her end—something falling, striking another object, followed by a rustling. After a strained pause, Aeliana’s voice returned, laced with shock.
“L-Lysander? Thorne! W-why… How… how did you obtain my sigil? Did you… have it already?”
“No. I learned from Master Elara that Cassian Vane inquired after your current residence today. So I requested your contact sigil.”
“...”
“I merely wished to caution you.”
“W-what of you? Are you well? Even as you endeavor to restrain him…”
“Do not concern yourself with me. Focus on your own well-being. Should you require further absence from Academy attendance, communicate through this sigil. I possess a certain… influence with the instructors, believe it or not.”
“...Thank you.”
“Should Vane attempt any further… overtures at the Academy, inform me immediately. If direct confrontation is difficult, a simple gesture—a tap on the shoulder—will suffice. It is always harder to rectify an issue once it has manifested.”
“Very well.”
“Honestly, a temporary transfer to another arcane institute might be the wisest course.” Lysander slipped that suggestion in, hoping she would consider it seriously.
“...”
“At any rate, consider it. For now, either feign absence or seek refuge afar.”
“A-alright…”
“Good. I am concluding the connection.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Thorne.”
After a long hesitation, Aeliana’s voice came softly, trembling slightly. Why this sudden effusiveness? Honestly, it made Lysander deeply uncomfortable.
“T-thank you for always interceding on my behalf…”
“It is nothing of import.”
“I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. U-until we meet again.”
“Indeed.”
“...Farewell.”
Farewell? Lysander offered no response to her parting words and severed the connection. The very sound of Aeliana’s voice, pleading and overly grateful, sent a faint shiver down his spine, leaving him thoroughly unsettled.
What transpired with Aeliana Vance that night, Lysander never learned. All he knew was that from the next day onward, Aeliana began to attend the Academy once more. Within a week, the faint, desperate flutter of fear that had surrounded her, the subtle signs of exhaustion, began to dissipate. Aeliana also ceased her hesitant attempts to speak with Lysander, her demeanor shifting dramatically, becoming more guarded, almost serene.
The abrupt alteration in her conduct planted seeds of suspicion in Lysander’s mind. Yet, when all visible traces of her previous distress finally vanished, he could not help but feel a faint, unlikely sense of hope. The distraction, perhaps, was truly gone.
Then, two weeks later, Cassian Vane approached him, seemingly out of nowhere.
“Thorne.”
“...”
“Lysander.”
Lysander did not turn his head, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, upon an intricate gargoyle perched above a distant archway. But his lips felt as if they might part with a breathless gasp at any moment.
Could it be that Cassian Vane was finally sated with Aeliana Vance? Had his volatile interest, at last, spent itself?