A cold dread had settled within Julian’s bones since the incident in the forgotten archives. Lysander Thorne, once his closest confidante, now wore an undisguised contempt like a newly acquired coat of arms. Gone was the polished veneer of filial obedience he presented to the Institute's governors.
Now, Alaric Valerius, a quiet shadow Julian had barely noticed before, occupied the carved seat beside Lysander in every lecture hall, every meal. His presence was a constant, unsettling counterpoint to Julian’s newfound ostracism.
Julian, for all his careful composure, could not feign indifference. A quiet shame simmered beneath his reserved exterior, a raw wound refusing to scab. He refused to be a cowering figure, a pathetic ghost haunting the periphery. Yet, the courage to address Lysander, to mend the fractured bridge between them, eluded him like a phantom limb.
A spiraling melancholia became his shadow, clinging to him through the vast, echoing halls of Eldoria. Sometimes, a vengeful ember flickered, a petty desire to wound as he had been wounded. But always, endurance was his solitary companion.
Young Lysander, typically so controlled, now evinced a childish envy, a raw resentment aimed squarely at Julian. Its genesis was clear, its source undeniable: Alaric Valerius.
Julian’s animosity towards Alaric deepened with each passing day. He was not Julian’s to begin with, but this quiet boy had not only claimed Lysander’s full attention; he had somehow weaponized Lysander’s affection, twisting it into hatred for Julian. A viciousness, both subtle and profound, seemed to emanate from Alaric, whether intentional or not.
Feelings, Julian knew, often defied logic. Blaming Alaric offered a fleeting respite, a scapegoat to shoulder the crushing weight of his misery. Yet, a deeper, rational part of him recognized Alaric was merely a pawn, swept along by Lysander’s volatile currents. He therefore guarded his expressions, preventing any hostile emotion from marring his features when Alaric was near.
Partly, he was too mortified to reveal the gnawing jealousy. Partly, he knew that to lash out at Alaric would only cast him as a desperate fool. Such a display would only deepen Lysander’s scorn, and worse, brand Julian with the Institute's most damning epithet: “unnatural.”
“...This is a blight.”
He despised it. A visceral loathing tightened his throat. More than Lysander’s open animosity, he detested this internal rot, this creeping sense of corruption.
Caspian Thorne, Lysander’s cousin, a boisterous figure Julian had increasingly found himself allied with, came to mind. Julian could not pinpoint why, only that Caspian was the most persistent irritation in his recent days. If Caspian ever glimpsed the dark tendrils of Julian’s thoughts, what biting remark would he offer? Perhaps:
‘Ah, young Blackwood, turns out you're just a queer, disgusting specimen after all?’
A knot of revulsion twisted in Julian’s gut. The image of Caspian’s disdainful gaze sent a cold tremor through him. He would rather peel his own skin than allow such a revelation.
Friendships in Eldoria were as delicate as frost on glass. As Lysander and Julian’s breach became undeniably apparent, Julian’s connections within Lysander’s former circle thinned to transparent threads. Amusingly, Peregrine, often an isolated satellite within Caspian’s orbit, had yesterday initiated a desultory conversation with Julian.
“Julian, Caspian was looking for you earlier.”
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“He merely was.”
A sigh escaped Julian. Always these aimless exchanges, devoid of any genuine intent. It was evident now that the Institute gossips had re-categorized Julian, placing him firmly in Caspian’s boisterous faction.
Connections with Lysander’s group, however, were not entirely severed. Occasionally, during a fencing drill or a chance encounter in the dawn-misty courtyards, polite acknowledgments were exchanged. Though this was primarily limited to Elias Vance, a quieter presence in Lysander’s former retinue.
“Greetings, Julian. Morning.”
“...Morning, Elias.”
Julian recalled a particularly awkward exchange. Elias, leaning close, had murmured under his breath.
‘Lysander has been… peculiar lately. His interactions with Alaric… don't they strike you as rather unsettling?’
A sour grimace must have contorted Julian’s face, for Elias seemed to interpret it as agreement. Elias continued, detailing how Lysander would compel Alaric to sit beside him, seize his arm with proprietary grip, refusing to release him.
Julian’s knuckles whitened, his teeth grinding. He forced the words through a constricted throat.
‘Such distasteful dalliances hold no interest for me.’
Elias instantly recoiled, silence falling between them.
Recently, Elias Vance had been observed cultivating a closer rapport with Caspian and his companions. He seemed a quiet opportunist, seeking a passage from Lysander’s increasingly erratic shadow. Perhaps his whispered confidences to Julian were an attempt to solidify this new allegiance.
Later that afternoon, the common room emptied, leaving only Caspian and Julian.
Caspian leaned against the ancient, stone-hewn hearth, observing Julian with an unreadable gaze. Was it disregard or scrutiny? Julian, piqued, averted his eyes, opting for silent defiance.
“Blackwood.”
“What is it, Thorne?”
“Let’s procure some candied violet confections after our final lecture. The ones we shared last time were rather exquisite.”
Caspian, ignoring Julian’s rebuff, lazily tossed a polished sphere of petrified wood across the vast chamber. The sphere bounced erratically, threatening the delicate porcelain figurines adorning the shelves, yet no one dared voice a complaint.
He held no regard for the Institute’s solemn atmosphere. Indifferent, utterly selfish. Julian watched the sphere’s wild trajectory, a frown deepening his brow, finally breaking his silence. Irritation sharpened his tone.
“You mean the one you devoured entirely yourself? You acquired it solely for your own consumption, did you not?”
“Hardly. I simply found the colour appealing.”
“So my preference held no sway?”
“How was I to discern your desires? You offered no counsel.”
The sphere had come to rest near a young scholar poring over a tome. Caspian extended a hand, motioning for it. The scholar hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the sphere, placing it carefully in Caspian’s palm. Caspian, nonchalantly spinning the sphere between his fingers, addressed the retreating student.
“My gratitude, simpleton.”
Such an insufferable temperament.
‘Simpleton this, dullard that.’ Every utterance from his lips grated on Julian’s nerves.
Indeed, it defied all reason that one as obnoxious as Caspian Thorne would now seek Julian’s company instead of Lysander’s. He dined with Julian, sat with him in lectures, accompanied him on errands. Lysander was admittedly absent, but Caspian could easily dispatch a missive or arrange a clandestine meeting if he so desired.
A thought struck Julian, unbidden, and he voiced it without much deliberation.
“Why do you no longer seek Lysander’s companionship these days?”
Caspian, mid-motion of casting the petrified wood sphere against the ancient stone wall, froze. A puzzled expression settled on his features as he turned to Julian.
“You quarreled with him,” he stated.
“I?”
“Indeed. You and Lysander.”
“I am aware. I was the one embroiled in the altercation. What relevance does that hold for you?”
“Your pronouncements are truly peculiar. It is because you are my associate.”
Caspian’s gaze raked over Julian, openly scrutinizing. Uneasy, Julian averted his eyes and retorted.
“Yet, you were also Lysander’s associate.”
“Remarkable. Your wit is unparalleled. Pray tell, are you implying you are not my associate?”
Now his tone was laced with incredulity, a finger jabbing lightly in Julian’s direction.
“No, I am your associate. But you were also Lysander’s. Why then do you champion my cause?”
“Well, I have known you longer.”
“What preposterous notions do you entertain? Our association was forged through Lysander, was it not?”
“Hark! What fabrications do you utter? We cultivated proximity in our first year!”
“When?”
“Verily, you are an insolent wretch. Astounding. In the refectory, we exchanged glances with such frequency!”
“Ah… that distant time.”
“So, was I the sole individual who perceived us as associates? You charlatan. Hence, upon finding ourselves in the same curriculum, I was the one who first approached you! And you dare to disavow this? Unfathomable. My disappointment in you is profound.”
“Oh.”
“Astounding. Simply… astounding. How could you inflict such an indignity upon me?”
“Very well, I offer my apologies. I am contrite, do you understand?”
Julian hastily mumbled his penitence, a flicker of memory revealing those awkward, yet surprisingly recurrent, encounters from their first year.
So, *that* fell within his definition of “association.” Julian felt utterly defrauded. How could one interpret those fraught glances as anything but veiled hostility? They were precisely that, stark and unmistakable. A chilling realization struck: was it not Lysander who first proposed shared meals, but… Caspian?
The truth landed like a cold, heavy stone, leaving Julian stunned. It was unsettling, profoundly shocking. Still, unwilling to embroil himself further in Caspian’s convoluted logic, he feigned comprehension and offered a nod.
“Alright, alright. I grasp it. My apologies.”
“I was gravely displeased just now.”
Caspian fixed Julian with a brief, piercing glare. At times, the labyrinthine workings of Caspian’s mind remained an impenetrable mystery.
“And furthermore, Lysander Thorne is behaving in a profoundly aberrant manner.”
A shiver traced Julian’s spine.
“That fellow is presently quite deranged. He has always possessed a peculiar temperament, but this? This is beyond the pale. Truly.”
He gripped the petrified wood sphere with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with an index digit. The sight conjured images of Elias Vance and other hesitant classmates who had attempted to broach Lysander’s peculiar conduct with Julian.
From this alone, one undeniable truth emerged: Lysander Thorne’s impeccable reputation was in freefall.
“Unnatural.”
The word—the most feared, the most damning stigma in the cloistered world of Eldoria’s scholars—sent a chill through Julian. His body trembled imperceptibly at the sheer implication. Simultaneously, a wave of profound relief washed over him that his own secret remained unblemished, unknown. Did that sudden solace betray a deeper self-preservation, a valuation of his own precarious standing above Lysander’s downfall?
A prickle of unease ran through Julian. He met Caspian’s gaze, feeling akin to a blasphemous acolyte concealing a dark heresy from the very Eye of Judgment.
“Truly, I,” he murmured, the words catching in his throat.
Then, a laugh escaped him—a strange, brittle sound, a fusion of terror and bitter derision.
It was almost comical that, to the observing eyes of the Institute, he was now Caspian Thorne’s closest confidant. In truth, he was no different—a criminal branded with an unspoken stigma, merely awaiting discovery. Only months ago, he had been Lysander Thorne’s closest friend. And yet, here he was, sequestered in a perilous trap from which he had barely escaped.
He had merely avoided capture. That was all.
---
It was the pre-dawn hour, a time when Eldoria slept deepest beneath its perpetual mist. A message, emanating from an unknown number, arrived unexpectedly. A missive at four in the morning. Half-slumbering, Julian momentarily wondered if the unsettling events of his recent days were merely phantoms of a restless dream. Though he had carefully avoided Lysander, protecting his own fragile composure, a desperate hope seized his heart that the message might be from him.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes with frantic haste, checking the sender once more. His emotions warred: a part of him prayed for a mundane spam message, perhaps an illicit offer from a distant merchant. But as his gaze fell upon the content, he knew with a sickening certainty it was not Lysander.
“Julian, I regret to disturb you at this untimely hour. Might you step outside your residence for a brief moment? My sincerest apologies. I am truly contrite.”
“Only once. This solitary occasion.”
Lysander Thorne would never, under any circumstance, offer such an abject apology.
Among Julian’s peers, only two familiars ever dared to address him by his given name, Julian. Of those two, only one possessed such a pitiable, desperate timbre. How had Alaric Valerius, of all people, ascertained his private residence within the sprawling Eldorian grounds? The moment Julian registered the sender, his features twisted into a scowl of pure distaste. He harbored no desire to confront him—never wished to see him. Alaric’s presence was inherently unsettling.
Yet, despite his internal protestations, Julian swung his legs from the silken covers, buttoned his dark academic tunic, and rose. He moved to his chamber door, but halted before passing through, resting his forehead against the cold, carved frame with a profound sigh.
“...A pestilence upon this.”
It was all so overwhelmingly complicated, like a knot of poisoned vines twisting within his gut. That was the only description that approached the truth. He clutched at his chest, where his heart hammered a frantic rhythm. He had always prided himself on his meticulous scholarship, on his vast lexicon culled from countless ancient texts, yet none of the words he commanded could fully encapsulate this intricate, tangled mess of emotions.
It was simply… an affliction.
The sharp hatred he felt for Alaric Valerius, the vivid memory of Alaric’s face, bruised a lurid violet that day, and the desperate, calculated days Julian had spent cultivating distance between Alaric and Lysander all swirled together in a churning maelstrom. Biting his lip until the coppery taste of blood bloomed, he fiddled with the ornate doorknob, then, closing his eyes against the encroaching dawn, turned it with a decisive, bitter twist.
In the small, private garden, the cold morning dew clung to the air, a harbinger of the approaching Eldorian autumn. To avoid the slick, verdant grass, Julian stepped carefully onto the cool, polished marble stones that formed a path through the lawn. The biting chill of dawn compelled him to pull his jacket tighter around his slender frame. His bare toes, peeking from the front of his worn slippers, carried him inexorably towards the front gate.
He paused there for a moment, clicking his tongue lightly against his teeth, then grasped the wrought-iron handle. The mournful creaking of the hinge made him flinch, and he opened the gate even more slowly, drawing out the inevitable.
Beyond the gate, bathed in the pale, anemic glow of the lone gaslight on the Institute’s cobbled thoroughfare, stood Alaric Valerius in his pristine school uniform. His head was bowed, a posture of abject humility, as he idly scrawled invisible, senseless shapes on the damp ground with the tip of his polished shoe.
“...Alaric Valerius.”
At Julian’s hushed voice, Alaric’s head snapped up with the swiftness of a startled deer.
“Julian, Julian!” he cried, his voice hoarse, desperate.