Blackwood. My surname, echoing like a dry rustle of forgotten parchment, was Julian’s only true legacy. Yet, within the hallowed, mist-kissed halls of Eldoria Institute, I was simply ‘Blackwood.’ Lysander Thorne had been the first to address me as such, back in our first term, his voice a low, resonant hum. Ever since, the name clung to me, a peculiar mark of belonging I had never quite earned.
He was everything I was not. From his effortless grace to the easy dominion he held over others, Lysander Thorne seemed crafted from a different, rarer clay. Academically, he dabbled with an almost insulting brilliance, while I devoured tomes with a desperate, all-consuming hunger.
Did I despise him at first sight? My humble beginnings had taught me to recognize the subtle, cruel hierarchies of this world. And yes, my instinct was to resent his very existence. But a strange current pulled me toward Lysander. His eyes, the color of twilight caught in polished obsidian, had pierced through my defenses with an unsettling force.
Lysander Thorne possessed an almost imperceptible scent—a faint, colorless fragrance that reminded me of ancient vellum and frost-kissed iron. It was a contradiction, a mystery I longed to unravel. Like a moth drawn to a candle flame, I found myself circling his orbit, speaking when I should have been silent.
I often sought flimsy commonalities between us. We both inhabited Eldoria’s elite scholarly circles, albeit in vastly different capacities. We both claimed a place among the privileged, though my claim was built on crumbling ambition, his on unshakeable birthright.
The institute itself sat perched between two disparate worlds: the ancestral estates of the venerable old families and the distant, struggling hamlets from which scholars like myself might, with exceptional fortune, emerge.
My presence here was a testament to sheer, grinding will, my linguistic talents a painstakingly forged key to unlock doors that should have remained shut. This aptitude was my golden treasure, clutched in hands still rough from a life I sought to escape. Small wonder I had grown a little cunning.
Lysander, of course, belonged to the ancient bloodline of the Thornes, their name etched into the very foundations of Eldoria. Once I confirmed his lineage, my excitement was a tremor beneath my skin. With that hollow justification, I approached him, and a precarious alliance formed, blossoming into this… this affliction.
Where I excelled in deciphering forgotten runes, Lysander commanded an effortless mastery of the institute’s intricate social machinations. He attracted the most influential scions, and within weeks, his name was whispered with a blend of awe and fear throughout the old campus. Lysander Thorne became Eldoria’s undisputed, darkly charismatic centerpiece.
---
The heavy oaken door, thick with age and silence, had remained shut for an agonizing stretch. My knuckles throbbed from my furious pounding, a dull ache that resonated with the gnawing emptiness in my gut. Then, with a slow, deliberate groan, it swung inward.
Lysander stood in the shadowed threshold of his suite in Thornwood Pavilion. His black silken dressing gown hung open, revealing a glimpse of pale, sculpted chest. One hand, adorned with an antique signet ring, rested on the jamb. He looked languid, almost drugged, his features softened by a lingering haze that suggested a night of profound, perhaps forbidden, indulgence. Before the door could fully close, I slipped past him, the rich scent of night-blooming jasmine and something sharper, like burnt sugar, cloying in the air.
Inside, he moved to his chaise lounge, sinking into the velvet with a sigh. He held a slender, silver-chased volume of forgotten poetry, its pages dog-eared. His eyes, heavy-lidded, flickered to me.
“My father, the Arch-Magister, is quite vexed,” Lysander murmured, his voice a low rasp. “Should he send a messenger, you will corroborate our… nocturnal studies.” He closed the book, setting it aside, a half-empty glass of dark, syrupy wine beside it.
My stomach tightened, a coil of resentment and something else I refused to name. I strode closer, my voice clipped, sharper than I intended. “And why should I sully my reputation with your theatrical deceptions?”
Lysander’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Because we are… friends.”
“Friends.” The word, stretched and weighted with his usual condescension, felt like a barb twisted in my chest. I fought to keep my face impassive. “Know this, Thorne. Every debt will be repaid.”
He simply laughed, a soft, dry sound. “Indeed, Blackwood. Indeed.”
The suite reeked of the heady jasmine and the subtle, clean aroma unique to women – or perhaps to the institute’s more ‘liberal’ students. Honestly, Lysander had been the sole reason I’d learned to identify such scents, to parse the intricate perfumes of clandestine encounters.
Rumors from his preparatory school whispered of midnight assignations in the abandoned library wings, of forbidden knowledge sought and perhaps shared with those who should have remained untouched. Even then, Lysander’s presence had been mature, a sophisticated shadow beyond his years. Most who encountered him mistook him for an older scholar, his bold, defined features lending him an air of brooding sagacity.
Since arriving at Eldoria, he frequented the hushed, exclusive salons of the city’s underbelly, those secret enclaves where the elite indulged their baser appetites. Lysander possessed more than enough coin, and somehow, he obtained the necessary seals of passage. He presented them with an easy confidence, lured the most striking and dangerous individuals, and made these clandestine meetings his regular amusement. His captivating allure played a significant part in obscuring his hedonistic pursuits.
Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth held no singular flaw. Yet, woven together, they formed an inexplicably striking countenance. His aura was so refined that no one believed him a mere student; most assumed him a Master of Arcane Arts, or perhaps a minor noble in his late twenties.
My gaze swept the room, though I searched for nothing in particular. The oppressive atmosphere, thick with the aftermath of his escapade, made my gorge rise.
“Where is Alaric Vane?” I asked, the name a bitter taste on my tongue.
“Oh, he departed hours ago,” Lysander said, waving a dismissive hand. “That bastard is truly insufferable, no matter how one views him. A sheer spectacle.” He rested his chin on his hand, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
I frowned. Alaric Vane. The second individual whose very existence chafed at my soul.
Alaric had only become close with Lysander in our second term. As much as I loathed to admit it, they spent so much time together, it was natural to call them… confidants. When Lysander was Eldoria’s most notorious scholar, Alaric had carved out his own reputation within the shadowy corridors of the Crypticum, the institute’s forbidden lore division.
Still, our paths rarely crossed. The only times I saw him were in the Grand Refectory, a hall shared by all students.
Once, as I navigated the crowded Refectory, a fellow scholar nudged my elbow, whispering, “That’s Alaric Vane.”
Curious, I rose onto my tiptoes, peering over the sea of dark-robed forms. Among them, a tall, sharp-featured youth stood out, his silhouette cutting a severe line. I knew immediately it was him.
“He looks to possess a rather unpleasant disposition,” I remarked, more to myself than to my companion.
Lysander’s acolyte, ever eager to please, replied, “Indeed, Blackwood. They say he’s remarkably self-serving.”
I offered a thin, cynical smile, a noncommittal nod. As much as I despised the thought, I could understand why Alaric found himself in such proximity to Lysander. This only intensified my dislike, yet for some reason, I could not tear my gaze away.
A dazzling gloom—that was my first, unsettling impression of Alaric Vane.
By chance, his eyes found mine. It was peculiar that he noticed my scrutiny amidst the throng of students. His long, narrowed eyes, the pupils like slivers of ice, made a striking impression. Reflexively, I flinched, as if struck by a sudden, cold gust.
*‘What are you staring at?’*
He must have read my lips, for he narrowed one eye further. Honestly, a prickle of intimidation ran through me. I pretended disinterest and turned away, then, loud enough for the scholar next to me to hear, I hissed, “He possesses the mien of a serpent.”
After that, Alaric and I often caught each other’s gaze, a silent, hostile recognition. Whenever our eyes met, he would lower his head, only to look up again, locking eyes with me. Nine times out of ten, he broke the connection first, but I found myself following his lead once or twice. I stopped counting after the eighteenth such encounter.
---
As if by some cruel twist of fate, Lysander and I were once again assigned to the same Master’s seminar in our second term. While a secret thrill ran through me at this continued connection, I soon came across another familiar, maddening face. It was Alaric Vane.
It was Alaric who spoke to me first, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. “Blackwood. Might we share the morning’s lessons?”
Damn him.
And just as everyone within Eldoria had anticipated, the two of them became an inseparable, infuriating pair. Lysander, ever one to revel in his own brilliance, found in Alaric Vane a worthy companion, a subtle rival who met his exacting standards. Alaric was masculine, successful among his peers, and undeniably well-regarded. Their alliance, a dark star in Eldoria’s firmament, was inevitable.
In the lecture halls, a common speculation arose: if Lysander Thorne and Alaric Vane were to truly clash, who would prevail? From my perspective, such a confrontation would never fully erupt. While Lysander and I were superficially dissimilar, Lysander and Alaric were remarkably alike.
Yet, a stark distinction existed between them.
Alaric Vane possessed a peculiar, almost puritanical streak. Despite the multiple, ragged piercings in his earlobe, he sometimes adopted the airs of a rigid moralist. For instance, when Lysander was consumed by some desire, he would simply choose his quarry and spend the night within the institute’s more secluded annexes. When questioned about his nightly escapades, he would recount his early morning adventures with a scandalous, proud candor. In stark contrast, Alaric would merely scoff at lewd remarks, sometimes mocking them outright by seizing the arm of a particularly rotund scholar and squeezing hard enough to elicit a yelp.
“This corpulent lout possesses more fleshy adornments than most of your paramours. Perhaps you should pursue him instead. And truly, fellow, you appear a fright. Consider wearing a more concealing tunic, would you? Cease parading such… spectacles—it offends the aesthetic sensibilities.” Even his crude remarks were laced with an unnerving, cutting sarcasm.
Yet, when the opportunity arose, Alaric would utter something baffling, something utterly incongruous with his reputation: “My chastity is reserved for the Divine Architect of my future.” That was the difference. Lysander had once offered him an illicit document—a falsified scroll of passage to the city’s restricted districts, something he had never offered me—but Alaric had dismissed it as a useless trifle and refused.
Lysander’s acolytes found Alaric’s eccentricities amusing, but I did not. The reason was simple: he was close to Lysander. And they wandered the institute’s grounds like brothers. That alone was enough to fuel my simmering hatred, my burning jealousy.
Still, I managed to feign civility with Alaric Vane. One of my strengths, honed by years of navigating social strata, was my ability to mask my true feelings, no matter the circumstance. Besides, he was close to Lysander. Indeed, my entire social existence at Eldoria revolved around that dangerous, magnetic core.
To be honest, there were more days when I felt frustrated with myself for this desperate attachment than there were days I actually considered Lysander Thorne. I often felt like a pathetic fool. Yet, despite my self-loathing, I remained unchanged.
As Lysander tossed a few casual words in my direction before disappearing into his private bathing chamber to wash away the night’s indulgences, I remained rooted to the spot, lost in thought. A few minutes later, a chime echoed from his bedchamber. Lysander, fresh from his ablutions, retrieved a small, intricately carved messenger device from the rumpled sheets and tossed it to me. I caught it reflexively, and through the arcane device, I heard the Arch-Magister’s stern voice.
Clearing my throat, I answered, forcing my voice into a tone of learned composure. Why was I even trying to sound so utterly composed?
“Yes, Arch-Magister. Julian Blackwood here.”
“Blackwood? Are you currently with my son, Lysander?”
“Indeed, Arch-Magister. I am.”
“Ah, I see. I worried unnecessarily. I feared Lysander might be indulging in his usual… extracurricular distractions. You possess such a pleasant cadence, Blackwood.”
“Thank you, Arch-Magister.”
“No, truly. How fares your work?”
“My studies progress well, thank you. And yours, Arch-Magister?”
“As ever. You speak so… eloquently. If only Lysander displayed such deportment. The boy lacks all decorum. So, you two were engaged in joint research?”
“Yes. Lysander must have forgotten to inform you. He has been deeply engrossed in preparing for the Elder Council’s colloquium.”
“So, he has been with you this entire duration?”
“Yes, Arch-Magister. He has been at my side, devoted to his texts.”
“Well, that is a considerable relief. If he is with you, Blackwood, I can rest easy.”
“It is nothing, Arch-Magister. Merely a shared pursuit of knowledge.”
“No, Blackwood, it is something. With your influence, he cannot fall into mischief.”
“Truly, it is nothing. I will ensure he attends his morning lectures promptly and safely.”
“Good. Watch over him, Blackwood. Remain friends, and do not quarrel.”
“Yes, Arch-Magister. Of course. Farewell.”
Lies, crafted with meticulous academic precision, flowed effortlessly from my mouth.
After ending the connection, I tossed the messenger device back to Lysander. He caught it with an absent flick of his wrist, muttering a curt “My thanks” as he began to dress. Without another word, I turned to leave. Lysander made no move to stop me.
“Until later, Blackwood.” That was all he offered.
It was to be expected. This was the extent of our relationship, a carefully constructed illusion of companionship built on his whims and my desperate hopes. The vast, aching chasm between us was painfully clear. Perhaps that was why I quickened my pace, hurrying out of the suite, my throat inexplicably tight, aching with the weight of my elaborate deceit and a longing I could never articulate. The mist outside felt sharper, colder than before.