A peculiar fixation had taken root, one Elian Vance tried to prune, but which only seemed to coil tighter around his thoughts. Lately, he found himself drawn to the unusual sight of Kaelan Thorne and Finnian leaving the Academy together. Not side-by-side, never quite equal. Kaelan, the volatile noble, would exit, then Finnian, quiet and tentative, would follow. A simple curiosity, Elian told himself, a cartographer’s desire to map the invisible currents between people.
Yet, a sour premonition clung to the edges of his mind, like the Veridian mist that seeped into the city’s every crack. This was a box he knew better than to pry open, a mechanism of intricate, cruel hope and bitter despair. Even understanding the danger, the irrational compulsion gnawed.
“Foolish,” he muttered, the word a rasp in the quiet hum of his workshop.
His judgment, usually as precise as his ink-work, was clouded. Still, he found himself trailing Finnian and Kaelan from a discreet distance after classes dismissed. Rain pattered the grey flagstones, reflecting the sooty light of a fading afternoon.
He did not follow for long.
Moving with a light tread Kaelan would never notice, Elian watched Finnian’s gaze fix on the broad back of the noble ahead. The scene itself felt wretched, framed by the peeling paint of a disused archway, the rusted grates of a canal bridge, and the dented chassis of a parked steam-lorry. Cheap, forgotten things. Kaelan strode, Finnian trailed. And Elian, a silent observer, felt the cold press of inadequacy.
His retreat was swift, a quiet shame burning in his cheeks. Back in the cool, lamp-lit solitude of his chamber, he considered his aborted pursuit. A wry satisfaction settled. He had been curious, yes, but what further ugliness might he have witnessed? Better this way. Better not to know. He was no fool to force open such a dark box for a fleeting impulse.
Finnian’s discomfort around Kaelan remained, a palpable tension in the Academy halls. Kaelan’s obsession, meanwhile, seemed to sharpen, an unblinking focus. No, Elian corrected himself, Kaelan hated him. Or at least, Finnian hated Kaelan. And rightly so. Who could feel anything but loathing for someone who, not long ago, had been a source of such casual cruelty? A small, dark corner of Elian’s heart felt a flicker of perverse vindication. He had not intervened, had he? Perhaps that, too, had been for the best.
He laced his fingers behind his head, staring at the intricate, polished brass fixture of his ceiling lamp. Born into a respected, if not dominant, house of scribes, Elian had known a life of quiet privilege. He had never been denied a single tome, a precise instrument, or a journey to a rare archive. Until Kaelan Thorne. That arrogant noble had taught him the bitter lesson that desire, even when held close, does not always bend to will. A truth Elian suspected Kaelan was now learning, too.
The world possessed an unforgiving edge.
Elian had mastered restraint, burying his deepest feelings beneath layers of careful observation. Kaelan, in contrast, wore his raw emotions with a startling lack of awareness, especially when his gaze lingered on Finnian. The intensity, the sudden, unnatural yearning, must unsettle Finnian. Elian knew that specific, agonizing pressure. He had endured it. Kaelan, however, could not. Instead of finding a path to Finnian’s favor, he pushed, he demanded, earning only further disdain. For Elian, this worked out perfectly.
“Remain oblivious, Kaelan,” he murmured to the empty air.
Or better still, for Finnian to finally tire and simply leave. Elian didn’t delude himself that Kaelan would ever turn to him. Such a wild, consuming emotion, he knew, terrified Kaelan as much as it did himself. He simply wished for a day when the ache of his own feelings for Kaelan would subside, and for Kaelan to find his peace elsewhere. An improbable fantasy, he knew. The gears of Veridian did not spin so simply.
To exacerbate the brewing tension, Kaelan shifted his regular study desk. Of all the empty spaces in the vast Academy chamber, he chose a seat directly behind Elian, near the grand observation window. Finnian, who had previously occupied a more central position, now sat closer to Elian’s other side, a subtle shift that went largely unnoticed by others, but not by Elian. The atmosphere, already fraught, thickened. Elian’s original desk partner, a younger noble named Callan, offered a strained nod to Elian and Lysander, caught between awkwardness and outright discomfort.
“Good afternoon,” Callan managed.
Lysander and Elian exchanged brief, knowing glances, offering a curt dip of their heads. Callan’s forced chuckle died a quiet death, unreturned. Neither felt inclined to offer warmth.
Kaelan settled into his new spot without a word, his presence a palpable weight. Elian wished, with a silent desperation, that this uncomfortable stasis might endure for another year, another season. That this fraught moment might one day dissolve into nothing more than a faint, half-forgotten dream.
Further ripples of change spread through the Academy. Kaelan, once notorious for his decadent weekend sojourns into the city’s seedier districts, seemed to have curtailed his indulgences. Gossips from Lysander’s circle hinted the wild nights hadn’t ceased entirely, but at least Kaelan no longer regaled his peers with boasting tales, nor did the cloying scent of forbidden tinctures cling to him in morning lessons. For Elian, this offered a small reprieve. He no longer had to endure the phantom tang of Kaelan’s escapades so intimately.
“Kaelan, no more carousing, then? Not like this?” Lord Peren, a broad-shouldered student from a minor house, swayed suggestively, his hands gesturing obscenely towards his lower regions. Kaelan’s face twisted, a flash of pure disgust. He flicked a quick glance at Finnian, then snarled at Peren.
“You oaf! I told you to keep your crude talk to yourself!”
“Suddenly so coy, are we?” Peren persisted, a smirk on his lips.
“Mention that again, Peren, and you’ll regret it.”
“Come now, Kaelan—”
“Silence!”
Peren flinched, then shrugged, deflating. Other students who had been listening in, clearly disappointed. Kaelan, with his imposing stature and air of dangerous experience, had once been the perfect conduit for the lurid fascinations of high-born boys brimming with untamed urges. Many of Kaelan and Lysander’s peers had already dabbled in clumsy transgressions. Compared to clueless novices, they were easily stirred. With Kaelan’s silence, their attention now drifted to Lysander. But Lysander only bared his teeth, a curl of revulsion on his lips.
“Filthy curs.”
“Ah, there he goes again, Lysander with his sanctimony.”
“A true fanatic, that one. What a waste of good breeding.”
Laughter rippled through the grand chamber, loud but brief. Most of the group had ventured into forbidden territories, but Lysander, for some reason, had not. While they teased him good-naturedly, calling him a prude, none actually disrespected him. He was Lysander, after all. He carried a lighthearted, almost careless air about him that made his sharp words and aloofness seem less cutting, more charming. Many remarked he didn’t match his intimidating visage.
“Cease that glaring, you lout. You’ll curdle my blood.”
“His face truly frightens the weaker sort.”
“Do you have a death wish, you overgrown slugs?”
Lysander scowled, and the group roared with laughter, though the jest itself felt thin. Several students lingering in the back of the room, perhaps his associates, or merely hangers-on, contributed their own forced laughs and vacuous chatter. Elian, seated amidst them, stared blankly at his hands, lost in the intricate patterns of a folded map tucked beneath his desk.
If his memory served, he had never felt that particular stir for a woman. He supposed that made him different, right from his first breath. He had felt arousal, yes, watching certain illicit projections involving both sexes, but a woman’s form had never sparked a personal fantasy. The former, he suspected, was about the raw intensity of the act itself; the latter, simply an absence of personal desire.
He had once, long ago, been dragged by Kaelan to the entrance of a clandestine gambling den in the Lower Spires, not even making it past the grim-faced bouncer. He lacked the false documentation. Instead, he had waited outside, enduring the chill, until Kaelan emerged. Brothels? The thought sickened him. He couldn’t comprehend the appeal. For these reasons, the students jokingly dubbed him “Abstinent Vance,” though his abstinence felt less chosen, more inherent.
A quiet sigh escaped him.
The others, absorbed in Lysander’s retorts, failed to notice. Taking advantage of the brief distraction, Elian glanced at Kaelan, who sat in silent intensity. Kaelan’s gaze was, as always, fixed on the back of Finnian’s head, where Finnian meticulously reviewed his notes across the room. A familiar regret twisted Elian’s gut. Why had he looked? Why had the curiosity persisted? To divert himself, he posed a question to Lysander.
“So, truly, will you remain chaste until some fabled union?”
Lysander, lounging in his chair as if it were a throne, fixed his gaze pointedly on Elian’s lap. The stare was so unnerving, Elian instinctively crossed his legs. What in the blazes?
“You are not my intended, Vance, so why the concern? Are you offering to remedy the situation?”
“...”
Predictably, Lysander’s jests always carried a malicious undertone. The others chuckled. Elian delivered a sharp kick to Lysander’s shin. Such was the monotonous rhythm of his days, an endless, repeating cycle.
---
Alone in his private chamber, Elian’s thoughts often unwound, drifting into fantastical hypotheticals. Today, he wondered what it might have been like had his affections landed on Lysander instead of Kaelan. It seemed, in many ways, a less torturous path. If he had loved Lysander, he would have been spared the specific agony of Kaelan’s messy, public entanglements.
Still, his heart would ache.
Neither Kaelan Thorne nor Lysander would ever return his feelings. But at least the pain would not be compounded by the specter of Finnian.
The thought curdled, dissolving into a familiar mix of inferiority and frustration. In the end, he simply wished for graduation to come swiftly, for Kaelan Thorne to become a distant memory.
---
He had started, unconsciously, to place his hands beneath his desk whenever he sat. This habit, a silent confession, had begun in his second year of middle school, and the catalyst had always been the same – men. His thumb idly traced the intricate buckle of his trousers, thoughts swirling. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? The faint metallic click of the clasp against his nail filled the hushed room. Just as he applied pressure to release it, a soft rap sounded at his door.
“Elian? Are you studying?”
“—Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!”
His heart leaped into his throat. Clearly, the stars were not aligned for such a private indulgence. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Confound it.
---
Kaelan Thorne had become particularly grating lately. Sometimes, when Finnian’s glance strayed towards Elian, Kaelan would deliberately interject, drawing Finnian into conversation. Finnian, caught in the middle, would flick his eyes towards Elian, his lips parting as if to speak, only to press them shut. Then, as if wary of Kaelan’s simmering presence, he would lower his head, answering in the barest whisper.
“Y-yes, Kaelan…”
The pattern was established.
Finnian, subtly, sought Elian out more, and started calling him “Elian.” Aside from a select few Masters, almost no one used his given name, so the change was stark. Finnian seemed to believe he was being discreet, but his caution was thin. The worst part was Kaelan’s inability to conceal his discomfort whenever Finnian dared such a familiarity.
“Finnian, stop bothering Elian while he studies.”
“What?”
“Leave him to his work. Is that unclear?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes, Kaelan…”
When Finnian stammered, avoiding his gaze, Kaelan immaturely slammed his fist against the desk leg beside him. Elian pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, clueless Finnian seemed to believe Kaelan no longer cared about him using “Elian.” He grew bold, using the name with a casual ease, as if it were the most natural thing.
“Uh, Elian… sorry to disturb your studies.”
Elian froze, staring in disbelief. Was Finnian utterly mad? Kaelan was right there. Sure enough, Kaelan’s fist pounded the desk again. Damn it all.
“Hey! Finnian!”
“...Huh?”
The air instantly soured. Kaelan’s anger was raw, undeniable.
“I told you.” His voice dropped, laced with menace. “I told you not to call him ‘Elian,’ didn’t I?”
“...W-well…”
“Call him Master Vance. That is his name – Master Vance.”
Kaelan’s gaze, sharp and predatory, speared Elian. Elian detested that look, instinctively lowering his head. At that moment, Lysander, seated beside him, casually draped an arm over Elian’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured close to Elian’s ear.
“Kaelan Thorne, if you persist, you’ll ruin everything.”
“What in the blazes are you talking about, Lysander?”
“I’m saying you will live to regret this.”
Lysander smirked, and Elian felt a flicker of irritation. For one reason only.
“Kaelan Thorne…”