A chill lingered in the grand scriptorium, even with the aether-lamps humming overhead, casting a sickly silver sheen on the polished obsidian tables. Lysander Thorne occupied a central seat, as was his due, though his gaze rarely met Elian’s anymore. Instead, it was fixed on Kaelen, perched uncomfortably beside him, a pale moth drawn to a predator’s flame. Lysander’s possessiveness hung heavy, a miasma that Elian felt in the clenching of his jaw, the subtle tremor in his drawing hand.
After the incident in the Arcane Repository, where Elian’s meticulous mapping had inadvertently exposed Lysander’s recklessness, the cold animosity had become an open wound. Lysander, once a distant but acknowledged peer, now radiated disdain. His polite mask had shattered, revealing a simmering resentment that Elian could almost chart, curve by curve.
He might conceal the truth of his own heart with the precision of a master forger, but Elian was no actor. He couldn’t pretend indifference, couldn’t wear a brave face when shame burned at his neck. To be seen as a pathetic, cowering thing was a fate worse than any insult. So, he kept his distance, his lips sealed, the echoes of their last confrontation still sharp in his memory.
Days blurred into a monotonous cycle of melancholic observations and stifled boredom. Sometimes, a vengeful flicker ignited within him, a fleeting urge to redraw Lysander’s perfect world into a chaotic scrawl. But always, the impulse was snuffed out by a deeper weariness. He merely endured.
Lysander, heir to one of Veridian’s great Houses, acted with the petulance of a spoiled child. His envy, his festering resentment, were clear. Kaelen, the unassuming commoner now ensnared in Lysander’s orbit, was the catalyst. Elian’s quiet fury towards Kaelen was illogical, a bitter, twisted knot in his gut. Kaelen hadn't belonged to him, not truly. Yet, the sting of Kaelen’s presence felt like a theft, a double blow that not only robbed him of Lysander’s distant acknowledgement but also inflamed Lysander’s hatred.
Kaelen was a vicious variable, Elian thought, tracing an invisible line on his parchment. A scapegoat, perhaps, for the misery that clawed at him. A way to rationalize the chaos. Our feelings defy logic, he knew. He understood, intellectually, that Kaelen was merely swept up in Lysander’s volatile current, a lesser cog caught in a powerful mechanism.
Never once did Elian let his hostile emotions surface towards Kaelen. Part of it was the searing embarrassment of his own jealousy, a hidden shame he couldn’t bear to expose. Part of it was the cold, hard calculus of social survival. To lash out at Kaelen would be to appear unhinged, to invite Lysander’s further wrath, and to be branded with the darkest stigma of all: Veil-Touched. The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine.
“...This is utterly wretched,” Elian murmured, pressing a thumb against his temple. He hated it all, a visceral, sickening revulsion that eclipsed even the sting of Lysander’s hatred. His mind, unbidden, conjured the image of Corvus, loud and irreverent. Corvus, who had been a constant, if jarring, presence lately. What would he say if he knew the depths of Elian’s quiet turmoil? “So, Elian, turns out you’re just a wretched, Veil-Touched deviant, eh?”
His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms. The imagined sneer on Corvus’s face, the cutting tone, made his stomach churn. He would rather peel the skin from his bones than let that truth be known. No one, absolutely no one, could ever know.
Friendships in Veridian were often built on brittle foundations. When Lysander’s rejection became undeniable, his small coterie of admirers began to drift from Elian as well. Amusingly, Renard, a usually silent member of Lysander’s inner circle, had approached him yesterday with an awkward, pointless question.
“Elian, Corvus was asking for you.”
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“No idea. Just… asked.”
Empty exchanges, devoid of genuine connection. The subtle currents of the scriptorium had shifted. Elian was now seen as being aligned with Corvus’s boisterous faction, not Lysander’s exclusive set. The ties with Lysander’s group weren't entirely severed, of course. Passing greetings might be exchanged in the grand halls, during a shared meal in the academy refectory. But mostly, it was just Renard.
“Elian! Good morning.”
“...Morning, Renard.”
That morning, after one such terse exchange, Renard had leaned in conspiratorially, his voice a low murmur. “Lysander’s been acting… odd lately. His manner with Kaelen… isn’t it rather unsettling?”
Elian must have grimaced, because Renard seemed to interpret it as agreement. He went on, detailing how Lysander had forced Kaelen to share his study bench, how his grip on Kaelen’s arm seemed to linger, possessive and strange. A shiver of disgust ran through Elian, though it had nothing to do with Kaelen.
Elian pressed his teeth together, the bones in his jaw prominent. “I find such trivialities utterly without interest,” he stated, his voice flat. Renard’s expression immediately shuttered, and he backed away.
Recently, Renard had been quietly attempting to ingratiate himself with Corvus’s group. He seemed to be seeking an escape, a quiet exodus from Lysander’s oppressive shadow. Perhaps his hushed confidences were merely a clumsy attempt to bridge that gap.
Today, as often happened, only Elian and Corvus remained in the quiet scriptorium, the others having dispersed to their various lessons.
Corvus leaned against a tall archive shelf, arms crossed, his gaze a lazy appraisal of Elian bent over his maps. Whether he was ignoring Elian or simply contemplating, Elian couldn’t say. Annoyed, Elian turned his head, mirroring the indifference.
“Elian.”
“Yes?”
“After lessons, let’s find some candied frost-wafers. Those lime ones from the Promenade last week were quite good.”
Corvus disregarded Elian’s attempt at a silent standoff. He lazily tossed a small, intricate fiddle-sphere across the chamber. The sphere, carved from polished grav-wood, arced erratically, threatening to strike the delicate crystal chandeliers, yet no one dared utter a word. Corvus simply did not care for the established atmosphere. He was indifferent, selfish, a force unto himself. Elian watched the sphere’s wild trajectory, a frown deepening on his face, finally breaking his silence. Corvus’s shamelessness sharpened his tone.
“Were those not the frost-wafers you consumed entirely yourself? You purchased them for your own pleasure, did you not?”
“Well, I did fancy the green ones.”
“So, my preferences were entirely unconsidered?”
“How was I to know what you desired? You offered no declaration.”
By then, the fiddle-sphere had rolled to a stop near a junior scribe. Corvus extended a hand, motioning for it. The young student hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the sphere, placing it gingerly in Corvus’s outstretched palm. Corvus twirled the grav-wood toy casually as the student retreated.
“Much obliged, scripling.”
An irritating disposition, truly. ‘Scripling this, drone that.’ Every pronouncement from his lips seemed designed to grate. It defied all logic that someone as abrasive as Corvus spent his leisure hours with Elian, rather than Lysander. He ate with Elian, studied near Elian, attended lectures in his vicinity. Lysander might be occupied, but a message, a brief meeting, would be simple enough for Corvus.
The thought, a sudden, intrusive flicker, escaped Elian’s lips before he could censor it.
“Why do you no longer seek the company of Lysander Thorne?”
Corvus, mid-toss, froze. The fiddle-sphere hovered in his hand. He turned to Elian, an odd, puzzled cast to his features.
“You quarrelled with him,” he stated.
“I?”
“Indeed. You and Lysander Thorne.”
“I am well aware. I was the one engaged in the quarrel. What relevance does that hold for you?”
“You utter the most peculiar pronouncements. It is because you are my associate.”
Corvus scrutinized Elian, his gaze disconcertingly direct. Feeling a prickle of unease, Elian averted his eyes, posing a counter-question.
“You were also associates with Lysander Thorne, however.”
“Remarkable. You are quite amusing. Pray tell, are you suggesting you are not my associate?”
Corvus’s tone was incredulous, a pointing finger aimed at Elian’s chest.
“No, I am your associate. But you were equally associated with Lysander Thorne. Why then do you align yourself with my faction?”
“Well, I have known you for a longer span.”
“What nonsense do you utter? Our acquaintance began through Lysander Thorne, did it not?”
“Listen, Elian. What precisely are you saying? We were close during our first year!”
“When, precisely?”
“Truly, you are an utter rascal. Unbelievable. Back in the refectory, we would exchange gazes constantly!”
“Ah… at that juncture.”
“So, was I alone in perceiving our friendship? You deceiver. That is precisely why, upon finding ourselves in the same curriculum, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge that? Unfathomable. I am deeply disappointed in you.”
“Oh.”
“Astounding. Truly, astounding. How could you inflict such an injustice upon me?”
“Very well, I apologize. I am sorry, indeed.” Elian mumbled a hasty apology, a fleeting recollection of those awkward, yet strangely frequent, shared glances from their first year. So *that* had been within Corvus’s “category of friendship.” He felt rather swindled. How could anyone interpret those wary stares as anything but mutual suspicion? They were filled with hostility, plain and simple. Wait. Did that mean the initial suggestion for shared meals hadn’t originated with Lysander, but… Corvus?
The realization struck him with the force of a hydraulic press, leaving him momentarily disoriented. It was unsettling, almost shocking. Still, unwilling to delve deeper into the discomfiting past, he feigned comprehension and nodded.
“Alright, alright. I understand. My apologies.”
“I was genuinely quite vexed just now.” Corvus glared at him for a brief, intense moment. Sometimes, Elian truly despaired of understanding the machinations of Corvus’s mind.
“And furthermore, Lysander Thorne is behaving in a seriously deranged manner.”
“...”
“That individual is utterly unhinged at present. He has always been somewhat askew, but this? This is merely… well, *this*.”
Corvus grasped the fiddle-sphere with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The image brought to mind Renard and the other peers who had awkwardly attempted to broach the subject of Lysander. From their hushed tones alone, one truth emerged: Lysander Thorne’s reputation was in precipitous decline.
“Veil-Touched.”
The word—the most feared and damning stigma in the world of Veridian’s ambitious eighteen-year-olds—sent a cold tremor through Elian. His body shivered imperceptibly at the implications. At the same instant, a surge of perverse relief washed over him, a cold comfort that his own secret remained hidden. Did that relief signify a valuation of himself above Lysander? Unease gnawed at him. He looked at Corvus’s face, feeling like a blasphemous cartographer concealing a forbidden map before the Lord Regent’s Eye.
“Truly, I,” Elian muttered, a strange, choked laugh escaping him—a brittle mix of fear and derision. It was almost comedic that, to others, he was Corvus’s closest companion. In truth, he was no different; a criminal branded with an unholy stigma, merely adept at evasion. Only months prior, he had been Lysander Thorne’s acknowledged associate. Now, he merely hid, a survivor in a trap he had narrowly escaped.
He had only managed to avoid being caught. That was all.
---
It was the deepest hour of dawn. A message from an unrecognized cipher arrived unexpectedly, the chime cutting through the heavy silence of Elian’s small dwelling. A call at four in the morning. Half-asleep, he thought for a moment that the peculiar events of recent days were merely a fragmented dream. Though he had carefully avoided Lysander, meticulously charting a path of self-preservation, his heart still leapt, a foolish bird, at the thought that the message might be from him.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the gritty sensation anchoring him to reality, and re-checked the sender’s identifier. His feelings were a tangled mess. A part of him wished it were merely one of the ubiquitous spam messages offering dubious credit lines. But as he deciphered the cryptic content, he knew it was not from Lysander Thorne.
“Elian-ah, forgive this hour. Could you step outside? I am sorry. Truly sorry.”
“Just this once. One moment, please.”
Lysander Thorne would never proffer such an apology. Among his peers, only two used the familiar “Elian-ah,” and of those two, only one was so utterly pitiful. How had Kaelen even acquired his dwelling’s coordinates? The moment he saw the message, Elian’s face tightened into a scowl. He did not wish to see him—had never wished to see him. Kaelen was always… unpleasant.
Despite the immediate revulsion, Elian swung his legs from the cot, shrugged into a night-robe, and stood. He walked to his chamber door, but stopped short of opening it, resting his forehead against the cool, damp wood of the frame. A deep sigh escaped him.
“...Damn it all.”
The knot in his stomach was a cold, hard stone. Overwhelming. That was the only word. He clutched his chest, the fabric of his robe rasping against his skin. He had always prided himself on his precise vocabulary, on the vast lexicon gleaned from countless ancient tomes, yet not one word could fully express this intricate, tangled mess of emotions.
It was simply… complicated.
The hatred he felt for Kaelen, the phantom image of Kaelen’s bruised face from the Repository incident, and the desperate days he’d spent erecting a careful distance between them all swirled together in a sickening vortex. Biting his lip, Elian fiddled with the doorknob, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist. The heavy door swung inward with a faint groan.
In the narrow courtyard, the cold morning dew clung to the air, a precursor to the true chill of autumn. To avoid the wet moss that crept between the flagstones, Elian stepped carefully onto the cool, worn marble path. The predawn frost made him pull his robe tighter. His bare toes, exposed at the front of his slippers, carried him across the courtyard, past the skeletal, rain-slicked branches of a silent tree, all the way to the tall, iron-wrought gate.
He paused there for a moment, a quiet click of his tongue, then grasped the handle. The creaking of the rusted hinge made him flinch, a sound too loud in the oppressive silence. He opened the gate even more slowly, revealing the narrow alley beyond.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the guttering glow of a distant aether-lamp on the rain-streaked asphalt, stood Kaelen in his academy uniform. His head was hung low, shoulders slumped, as he idly scrawled invisible shapes on the ground with the tip of his worn boot.
“...Kaelen.”
At Elian’s voice, Kaelen’s head snapped up like a startled bird.
“Elian, Elian-ah!”
“What is it?”