A week unfolded in a series of studied absences. Julian navigated Eldoria’s echoing stone corridors, his gaze meticulously fixed on anything but Lysander Thorne. He feigned an indifference so absolute it felt like a physical garment, heavy and suffocating. His days were a careful ballet of ancient texts and solitary walks along the mist-shrouded paths, occasionally graced by Alaric Croft’s quiet companionship, a shield against the pervasive chill.
Yet, the silence between Julian and Lysander, a chasm of unspoken words since the lunch incident, gnawed at him. His pride, a brittle fortress built against the slights of his humble birth, refused to crumble. But the relentless tide of curiosity was a subtle erosion.
He sought Alaric in the scriptorium, amidst the scent of aged vellum and beeswax. Alaric, engrossed in a coded treatise, barely glanced up as Julian perched on the edge of a heavy oak table, the polished surface cold beneath his palms.
“Lysander… he has been absent from the evening lectures,” Julian remarked, affecting a casual air, tracing a spiral in the dust on a nearby tome.
Alaric tapped a finger on the page, marking his place. “Aye. He frequented the Contessa’s salon, or so I heard. A new admirer, perhaps?”
Julian’s knuckles whitened, a flicker of something sharp and unwelcome sparking in his chest. “Hardly surprising. His inclinations are hardly for scholastic pursuits.”
“Indeed,” Alaric agreed, his voice a dry rustle of parchment. “Apparently, he found a suitable distraction. Some young woman from the Ardentine family. Met her at the Contessa’s last week. They departed quite swiftly, I’m told. Like moths to a shared flame.”
The image scalded Julian. He imagined Lysander, all predatory grace and languid charm, captivating another. His stomach twisted. He managed a sardonic laugh. “How remarkably… unburdened they must be.”
Alaric finally looked up, his eyes holding a cynical glint. “Unburdened by discernment, perhaps.” He shifted, allowing Julian more space on the desk. It was a small, unspoken gesture of camaraderie, and Julian felt a peculiar, fleeting warmth. Alaric, at least, saw the vulgarity beneath Lysander’s polished facade.
“Disgustingly untroubled by conscience, more like,” Julian murmured, leaning back.
“And you are quite troubled, I gather?” Alaric challenged, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
“One expects a modicum of decorum from those within the Institute’s walls,” Julian retorted, feeling exposed. “Not such… base displays.”
“Ah, so you believe in propriety, Julian?” Alaric teased, turning off his reading lamp. He looked at Julian, an incredulous smile spreading across his face. “Next you’ll be preaching sermons.”
“You exaggerate,” Julian snapped, though his face felt hot.
“Perhaps. But your indignation suggests a certain… investment.” Alaric’s hand reached out, tapping Julian’s clenched fist on the table. A worn silver sigil-chain, usually hidden beneath his sleeve, shifted on Alaric’s wrist.
Julian pulled his hand away, avoiding Alaric’s knowing gaze. “That chain… it scarcely suits your cynical temperament, Alaric.”
Alaric’s expression hardened, subtly. “Why not?” he asked, suddenly serious.
“It just… does not,” Julian insisted, unwilling to elaborate. He had always associated Alaric with a certain academic irreverence, not with any visible devotion.
“It’s a family heirloom,” Alaric stated, his voice flat. “Passed down through generations of scholars, each seeking a different kind of truth.” He paused, then softened. “It reminds me that even in Eldoria’s shadows, some ancient hopes persist.”
Julian merely grunted, the sudden sincerity disarming him. He had spent the week avoiding Lysander, a silent battle waged in the periphery of classrooms and dining halls. Whenever their paths converged, Julian would allow his eyes a brief, stolen moment before forcing them away. He lacked the courage to confront him directly. The absurd notion that the one who cared more, lost, clung to him like the persistent Eldorian mist.
Silas Thorne, however, still sought Julian out. His whispered questions, his timid glances, were a painful reminder of Lysander’s cruelty. Each day, a new faint bruise, a stiff shoulder, a subtle flinch, marked Silas like a beast’s territorial claim. Julian, seeing the fresh discoloration beneath Silas’s eye one morning, felt a familiar knot of guilt and impotent fury tighten in his gut.
Silas, sensing Julian’s gaze, quickly lowered his head, trying to conceal the mark.
---
Four more days crawled by. Then, a peculiar quiet descended. Silas Thorne ceased attending classes. Professor Armitage, an austere man whose usual pronouncements were delivered with crisp authority, announced Silas’s “temporary withdrawal from the curriculum.” The hesitant tremor in his voice, however, betrayed the unspoken truth: Silas had simply vanished.
A wave of profound, guilty relief washed over Julian. A secret, treacherous joy pulsed beneath his carefully composed exterior. He found himself imagining a future where Lysander, deprived of his victim, would inevitably turn his attention back to Julian, back to the intellectual sparring they once shared. Confident in this deluded hope, Julian waited.
Meanwhile, Lysander grew increasingly restless. During lectures, his long fingers drummed impatiently on his desk. He snapped at his usual companions for trivial infractions, his voice a low, dangerous growl. Julian observed these outbursts from a safe distance, a perverse sense of smug superiority blossoming in his chest.
“Lysander seems… unsettled,” Alaric commented idly one afternoon, as they walked through the arboretum. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and ancient pine. Julian’s heart gave a heavy thump against his ribs. He longed to turn his head, to catch a glimpse of Lysander’s tormented expression, but his cowardly pride held him captive.
Nothing shifted. The days bled into one another. Julian clung to the belief that change would come slowly, that Lysander’s attention, once diverted, would eventually return. As the final bells tolled for the day and Julian gathered his satchel, Alaric’s voice cut through the clamor.
“You and Lysander… still at odds from the luncheon?”
Julian spun around, his hand tightening on his satchel strap. “Yes.”
“Remarkable. This lingering animosity is uncharacteristic.” Alaric shrugged, his hands tucked into his pockets. Julian avoided his gaze, searching for a suitable excuse.
“He went too far, Alaric. Such cruelties, directed at… Silas. It’s distasteful. Undignified.”
“Is it?” Alaric raised an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his eye. “Or is it merely inconvenient?”
Julian’s face burned. He felt stripped bare, his carefully constructed justifications crumbling under Alaric’s sharp assessment. He turned his back abruptly, hurrying out of the classroom, away from Alaric’s mocking gaze.
He strode down the shadowy hallway, intent on reaching the sanctuary of his own chambers. A hand suddenly clamped onto his shoulder. Assuming it was Alaric, Julian spun around, annoyance flaring, and tried to pull free. But it was Professor Armitage, his usually impassive face etched with concern.
Julian quickly composed himself. “My apologies, Professor. I was merely startled.”
“No, the fault is mine, Julian. But… might I impose upon you for a moment?”
“Of course, Professor.”
Professor Armitage’s brow was furrowed, his gaze unusually troubled. “Today, young Thorne… Lysander, inquired after Silas’s family residence.”
Julian’s breath hitched. “Lysander did?”
Professor Armitage, a man of profound intellect but little stomach for direct confrontation, was clearly perturbed by the escalating tensions. He could not ignore it, nor could he directly challenge Lysander. His appeal to Julian was a desperate measure.
“I am not suggesting ill intent, Julian, but…”
“I understand, Professor,” Julian interjected, his voice surprisingly steady. “It is… concerning.”
“Indeed. Given your… understanding with Silas, I wondered if you might… accompany Lysander, should he proceed to visit. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
Julian could not immediately respond. His jaw ached with the tightness of his clenched teeth. The unsettling force of Lysander’s obsession, previously directed at Silas, now seemed to creep towards Julian, threatening to engulf him. He balled his hands into fists.
“Might I… have Silas’s contact information, then, Professor?”
“Ah, yes, certainly. I shall retrieve it from the registry. Attempt to reach him first, Julian.”
“I shall speak with him. Do not fret unduly, Professor.”
“I am counting on you, Julian.”
“Yes, Professor.”
Outwardly, Julian maintained a calm demeanor, but a frantic panic seized him within. Professor Armitage, looking awkward, handed him a slip of parchment bearing Silas Thorne’s family’s number from the Institute’s records. As soon as the Professor departed, Julian’s nimble fingers retrieved his own calling device and quickly dialed. His leg jittered uncontrollably, and he clenched and unclenched his hand, waiting for a connection. Surprisingly, the line connected swiftly.
“Hello?” a small, reedy voice answered.
“Silas? This is Julian Blackwood.”
A sudden clatter echoed through the line, as if something had fallen, followed by a rustling sound. Then, Silas’s voice returned, strained. “J-Julian? Why… how… how did you acquire my number? Did you… have it already?”
“No. Professor Armitage informed me Lysander inquired after your family’s residence today. I asked for your contact.”
“Oh.”
“I merely wished to caution you.”
“W-what of you, Julian? Are you well? Even when you try to… intervene…”
“Do not concern yourself with me. Focus on your own well-being. Should you require more time away, contact me. I can make arrangements with the Professor; my word holds a measure of sway.”
“…Thank you.”
“If Lysander attempts to accost you, or strike you within the Institute, you must inform me immediately. If you cannot speak, leave a note on my lectern. It is far more difficult to mend what is already broken.”
“Understood.”
“Honestly, seeking transfer to another institution might be your wisest course,” Julian added, hoping the suggestion would take root.
“…”
“In any case, consider it. For now, either ensure you are not at home, or remove yourself to some distant refuge.”
“O-okay…”
“Very well. I must conclude this call.”
“W-wait.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you, Julian.” After a prolonged hesitation, Silas’s voice emerged, soft and trembling. A strange disquiet settled over Julian. “T-thank you for your continued… assistance.”
“It is nothing.”
“I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. S-see you soon.”
“Indeed.”
“…Farewell.”
Julian did not dignify the farewell with a response. He simply ended the call. The sound of Silas’s voice, even through the thin veil of the æther, had left an unsettling tremor in his soul.
What transpired with Silas Thorne that night remained a mystery to Julian. All he knew was that the following day, Silas returned to Eldoria. And within a week, the faint, purplish hues beneath his eyes began to fade, replaced by the natural flush of youth. Silas also ceased his habitual approaches towards Julian, his demeanor now markedly different. The abrupt shift in his behavior planted seeds of suspicion in Julian’s mind, then a fragile, insistent hope.
Then, two weeks later, Lysander Thorne approached Julian, unbidden.
“Julian.”
Julian kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, but his lips felt as if they might part with an involuntary gasp. Could it be? Was Lysander finally tired of Silas Thorne?