A peculiar, almost morbid curiosity began to unfurl within Lysander. For too long, he had meticulously avoided Cassian, mapping his movements like a battlefield strategist. Now, a new obsession took root: observing Cassian's own fixation on Aeliana Vance. It was the insidious interest of a man trapped in a gilded cage, watching another pace in a similar confinement.
From Theron’s casual reports, Cassian haunted Aeliana’s periphery, a shadow rather than an equal companion. He imagined Aeliana, a spirited girl, trailing Cassian’s imposing figure like a moth drawn to a dangerous flame. The image was unsettling, igniting a disquieting premonition within Lysander. He recalled ancient texts warning against opening forgotten reliquaries, for they promised not only despair but a cruel, intoxicating hope that defied reason.
A whisper escaped his lips, a confession to the silent academic chambers: “I must be losing my mind.”
Indeed, reason felt distant. Yet, compelled by this strange, dark current, Lysander found himself following Aeliana after the day’s final lecture on chronomancy.
He did not need to venture far.
Cautious not to draw attention, Lysander observed Cassian from the vaulted archway of the Great Hall. Cassian, standing near a series of ancient, enchanted tapestries depicting the Dominion's founding, watched Aeliana. She was engrossed in conversation with a minor baron’s daughter, her silver hair catching the arcane glow from the hall's crystalloids. The hall was a testament to Aurelian Academy’s enduring grandeur—polished obsidian floors, soaring columns inscribed with wards, the distant hum of active spell-circles. Yet, the scene unfolding within its hallowed space was primal, base. One student observing another, and Lysander, a third, watching them both from a remove.
Everything about it felt raw, pathetic. He turned back.
Later, in the cloistered quiet of his private study, Lysander reflected. A perverse satisfaction settled within him. Yes, curiosity had gnawed, but had he persisted, who knew what depths of uncomfortable truth he might have unearthed? This was better. Better not to know. He was not so foolish as to pry open a forbidden vault for mere fascination.
Cassian’s relentless fixation on Aeliana intensified, casting a pall over her natural cheerfulness. She seemed wary of him now, perhaps even genuinely fearful. No, not perhaps. It was undeniable. How could she feel anything but dread toward a man whose attention felt less like admiration and more like a binding spell? A flicker of smug satisfaction stirred in Lysander’s breast. At least he had not intervened early on to ease Cassian’s path. Perhaps, in its own twisted way, that had been for the best.
Lysander laced his fingers behind his head, staring at the enchanted ceiling of his chamber. Luminescent glyphs shimmered there, a silent reminder of his life’s opulent fortune. Born into a prominent house, an only child, every arcane text and rare ingredient had been his for the asking.
“Damn it all.”
He had once believed himself invincible, capable of anything. Until he had fallen into the perilous orbit of Cassian. That arrogant scion had shown him the cruel truth: life did not bend to every whim, even for a Thorne. And now, Cassian, too, was learning that bitter lesson at Aeliana’s indifferent hand.
Ah, the world possessed a merciless cruelty.
Lysander, at least, had mastered the art of concealment, burying his desires beneath layers of meticulous study and controlled demeanor. Cassian, however, was a storm of raw emotion, his yearning for Aeliana an undeniable aura that clung to him. The sudden, aberrant nature of his feelings must have been disorienting.
Lysander understood. He had felt it too. But while he had endured in silence, Cassian lashed out, his clumsy attempts at affection only earning him Aeliana’s aversion. For Lysander, this suited him perfectly.
“Please, just remain blind,” he murmured to the empty air.
Or better still, let Aeliana grow weary and retreat from the Academy altogether. He did not wish for Cassian to turn his attention to him. Such a possibility, such a dangerous, potent love, terrified him to his core.
He yearned for one thing above all: a day when his heart no longer ached for Cassian, and for Cassian to find solace elsewhere. That was all. But the currents of fate rarely flowed as one wished.
Then came another shift. Aeliana, perhaps seeking a refuge, began frequenting the same obscure corner of the Academy library as Lysander. It was a secluded alcove, rarely visited, a sanctuary for arcane scholars. She chose a small writing desk directly across from his, an unlikely spot for someone her height, often blocking the ancient runic inscriptions he needed to reference. Aeliana’s usual study companion, a young woman from House Valerius, greeted Lysander with an awkward, flustered smile, caught between deference and discomfort.
“Lord Thorne.”
Lysander and Theron, who had been observing from a nearby arch, exchanged glances. Lysander offered a curt, almost imperceptible nod.
“Heh…”
The girl’s awkward laugh hung in the air, unanswered. Neither Lysander nor Theron held any interest in prolonging the exchange.
Aeliana settled into her chosen seat, maintaining a quiet demeanor. Lysander wished—no, he desperately prayed—that this delicate, awkward tension could persist, a frozen tableau, for the remaining terms. That someday, this fraught moment would fade into nothing more than a forgotten dream.
Another change rippled through the Academy. Cassian, known for his indulgent weekend carousels and boastful conquests, curtailed his notorious habits. Or so it seemed. Whispers among Theron’s circle suggested the cessation wasn't absolute, but the overt flaunting, the lingering scent of revelry, no longer clung to him during morning lectures.
For Lysander, this was a small mercy. He no longer had to endure the echoes of Cassian’s escapades at such close proximity.
“Still not indulging, Cassian? Still keeping your… *focus*?”
Lord Valerius, a boorish youth from a middling house, swayed suggestively, his hand making an obscene gesture near his crotch. Cassian’s face tightened into a snarl. His gaze flickered towards Aeliana, seated near the window, before he erupted.
“You oaf! I told you to keep that filth to yourself!”
“Why the sudden prudishness, then?”
“Utter another word on this, Valerius, and you’ll regret it.”
“Come now, Cassian—”
“I said, silence!”
“...Fine, fine.”
Their companions, a gaggle of young nobles, wore expressions of clear disappointment. Cassian, with his imposing stature and prematurely mature aura, had been the scandalous outlet for their own burgeoning curiosities. Compared to innocent novices, they found more easily titillation in his exploits. With Cassian’s tales now dried up, their attention drifted to Theron. But Theron merely bared his teeth in an expression of pure disdain.
“Filthy degenerates.”
“Ah, there he goes again! Theron, with his usual pronouncements!”
“He’s just a puritanical bore. Honestly, what a waste.”
Laughter rippled through the common room, loud but fleeting.
Most of the young lords had, by their age, ventured into forbidden territories, but for some unknown reason, Theron remained an anomaly. While they teased him good-naturedly, no one dared truly disrespect him. He was Theron, after all. At the same time, Theron possessed an odd, carefree detachment from everything, which made his actions seem casual, his caustic words easy to dismiss. Some found it charming, others approachable, often commenting that his intimidating countenance belied his easy manner.
“Still glaring like that, you brute? You’ll make me soil myself.”
“Indeed, his face could curdle milk.”
“Do you imbeciles harbor a death wish?”
Theron scowled, and the group erupted into another round of laughter, though the jest had long grown stale. Others, merely hangers-on at the back of the room, chimed in with their forced mirth, adding to the clamor. Lysander, sitting among them, stared blankly at his own lap, lost in thought.
If memory served, his own body had never once responded to a woman’s presence. Perhaps that simply meant he was formed differently, bent from birth. He had felt arousal, yes, witnessing certain arcane projections involving both men and women, but never had his fantasies centered on a woman’s form during solitary moments. The former felt more about the intensity of the sorcery, the latter a simple absence of desire.
He had once been coerced by Cassian into attending a clandestine gathering outside the Academy’s sanctioned limits, but Lysander had not even made it past the entrance. He lacked the appropriate ward-pass. Instead, he waited in the chill night air until Cassian emerged. Brothels? Repugnant. The mere thought of such places filled him with disgust. He could not fathom the allure.
Because of this, the others in their social circle jokingly called him “The Austere Scholar,” but in truth, his austerity was more or less involuntary.
A small sigh escaped him.
The others were too engrossed in Theron’s witty barbs to notice. Seizing the moment, Lysander glanced at Cassian, who sat in unusual silence. Cassian’s gaze was fixed on the back of Aeliana Vance’s head as she studied across the room.
And, as always, Lysander regretted it. Why had he looked? Why this insistent curiosity? To distract himself, he posed a pointless question to Theron.
“Are you truly resolved to maintain your celibacy until you find a suitable match?”
Theron, lounging in his chair with proprietary ease, abruptly fixed his gaze upon Lysander’s lap. The intensity of it was so unnerving Lysander instinctively crossed his legs. What in the blazes?
“You are not my intended, so why the sudden concern? Or are you making an offer, Thorne?”
“…”
Of course. Theron never missed an opportunity for a malicious jest. The others laughed, and Lysander kicked Theron’s shin beneath the table.
Such were his days – a monotonous, relentless cycle.
---
Alone in his chamber, Lysander often found himself lost in thought, contemplating endless scenarios. Inevitably, those thoughts sometimes drifted into strange, illicit fantasies.
Today, he wondered what it would have been like had his heart chosen Theron instead of Cassian. It seemed a less painful path. If he had loved Theron, he would have been spared the torment caused by Cassian’s erratic behavior and pursuit of others.
Even then, heartbreak would be his lot.
Neither Cassian nor Theron would ever return his affections, after all. But at least his heart would not ache because of Aeliana Vance.
That train of thought ultimately led to feelings of inferiority and a slow-burning anger. In the end, he simply wished to graduate quickly and become a stranger to Cassian.
---
At some point, Lysander began unconsciously resting his hands beneath his desk whenever he sat. This habit had taken root in his second year at the Preparatory School, and the cause was always the same – men.
As his fingers idly traced the intricate clasp of his favored arcane grimoire, he pondered. Should he? Or should he not? The faint click of metal against his nails filled the quiet room. Just as he applied pressure with his thumb to unfasten the latch, a soft knock sounded at his chamber door.
“Lord Lysander! Are you deep in study?”
“...Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!”
His heart nearly leaped from his chest. This was clearly not the day. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damn it.
---
Lately, Cassian had become an incessant irritant.
Sometimes, when Aeliana glanced at Lysander – perhaps seeking academic clarification or simply offering a polite acknowledgment – Cassian would deliberately interject, forcing a conversation with her. Aeliana, caught in the middle, would flicker her eyes towards Lysander, her lips parting as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if wary of Cassian’s looming presence, she would lower her head and offer the faintest reply.
“Y-yes…”
Just like that.
Aeliana subtly sought Lysander’s presence more frequently, and had even begun addressing him casually by his given name. Aside from his kin, almost no one called him 'Lysander,' so the change was starkly noticeable. She seemed to think she was being discreet, but she was not. The worst part was Cassian’s inability to conceal his discomfort whenever Aeliana dared such familiarity.
“Aeliana, desist from disturbing Lord Thorne’s studies.”
“What?”
“Cease bothering him. Do you not comprehend?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes…”
When Aeliana stammered and avoided his gaze, Cassian immaturely slammed his fist against the leg of a nearby table. Lysander pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, Aeliana, in her innocent oblivion, seemed to believe no one cared about her calling him ‘Lysander’ anymore. She grew bolder, using it with increasing casualness, as if it were simply normal.
“Uh, Lysander… my apologies for disturbing your research.”
Lysander stiffened, staring at her in disbelief. Was she utterly mad? Cassian sat a mere few paces away.
Sure enough, Cassian’s fist slammed against the table once more. Damn it.
“Aeliana!”
“...Huh?”
The air around them turned glacial instantly.
“I told you.” Cassian’s anger was palpable. “I told you not to call him ‘Lysander,’ did I not?”
“...W-well…”
“You will address him as Lord Thorne. That is his name – Lord Thorne.”
His gaze sharpened, almost predatory, as he looked at Lysander. Lysander hated that look, and instinctively lowered his head. At that moment, Theron, seated beside him, casually draped an arm over his shoulder. Theron’s low, distinctive voice murmured near Lysander’s ear.
“Cassian, if you persist in this, you will truly ruin yourself.”
“What in the nine hells are you babbling about, Theron?”
“I am merely stating you will come to regret it.”
Theron smirked, and Lysander felt a flicker of irritation. For one reason only.
“Cassian,