A peculiar disquiet settled within Julian, a tendril of morbid curiosity uncurling from the shadowy corners of his mind. He found himself drawn to the unspoken theatre of Lysander and Silas, a silent play he observed from a distance, yet whose nuances he coveted with a fierce, almost shameful, intensity. It was the simple, base curiosity of a man consumed by an envious ache.
From the hushed whispers Alaric relayed, and the furtive glances Julian himself cast, it seemed Silas Thorne often lingered in Lysander’s wake, a shadow clinging to the more luminous form. Silas did not walk beside Lysander, not truly; he trailed, a step or two behind, a devoted acolyte. Yet, the image persisted, a phantom pain – Silas, a student of such quiet dignity, following Lysander like a starved creature drawn to a flickering flame. Even as he indulged this potent curiosity, a chill seeped into Julian’s bones, the cold dread of an ancient fable. He was toying with a forbidden casket, a vessel of cruel hope and despair. He knew its dangers, the bitter recompense for such forbidden knowledge, and yet, the urge to peer within was an unbearable weight.
“This… this is madness,” he muttered, the words dissolving into the cool air of the Institute’s aged stone corridors. His mind, usually a fortress of order and reason, felt undone. The impulse was irrational, a betrayal of his carefully constructed indifference. Yet, even armed with this chilling self-awareness, he found his feet carrying him, like a somnambulist, in Silas’s direction after their last lecture.
He did not follow far.
Moving with a hunter’s cautious tread, keeping to the periphery of the Institute’s sprawling grounds, Julian watched Silas pause. His gaze was fixed on Lysander, already striding away, his figure framed by the skeletal branches of ancient oaks and the perpetually weeping mists that clung to the valley. The scene was painted in muted tones: the moss-stained walls of forgotten ancillary buildings, the flaking paint on a utility shed, the rusting gate to the neglected orchard, and the worn flagstones leading to the distant student dormitories. All around them, the humble, forgotten vestiges of Eldoria’s practicalities. Lysander walked ahead, a silhouette of purpose, and Silas, a silent echo, followed. Julian, a silent, unseen specter, watched them both from the oppressive grey distance.
Everything about it felt raw, pathetic, an exquisite agony. The vision seared itself into his memory, a permanent scar. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, a phantom pain of humiliation that was not his own, yet felt intimately so. He clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking, and turned back.
Later, in the cloistered darkness of his own chambers, the faint scent of old parchment and beeswax his only companions, a strange satisfaction settled over him. He had retreated. He had chosen not to know. Curiosity, a venomous serpent, had tempted him, but he had resisted its deadliest bite. To have pressed onward, to have seen whatever further intimacies might have unfolded, would have been a descent into a deeper, more dangerous madness. This was better. Better not to fully comprehend the terrifying depth of Silas’s devotion, nor the subtle pull Lysander exerted. He was not so foolish as to pry open that cursed casket, not for a mere flicker of envy.
Yet, the currents of Eldoria were shifting, undeniable even in his willful ignorance. Lysander’s fixation on Silas, once a faint tremor, now vibrated with a palpable intensity. And Silas, though outwardly composed, moved with a quiet deference that spoke volumes. Julian allowed himself a sliver of dark satisfaction. He had not intervened when Lysander, in those fraught first weeks, had made Silas’s integration into the Institute a particular hell—a subtle campaign of dismissive words, cutting slights, and the cold shoulder that could freeze a lesser man. Perhaps, in hindsight, that inaction had been for the best. A festering wound, left untouched, could sometimes yield unexpected dividends.
Julian leaned back in his ornate desk chair, the polished wood cool against his neck, and gazed at the intricately carved ceiling. The grand chandelier, a suspended cage of darkened crystal, reminded him of the gilded cage his own life had been. Born into a lineage of modest wealth, an only child cherished beyond measure, he had wanted for nothing material. Every whim, every aspiration, had been met with swift indulgence. A prodigious mind, a facile grasp of ancient languages, a fervent desire for knowledge – these were the weapons he forged to secure his place among Eldoria’s elite, to overcome the subtle, ever-present stain of his less illustrious origins.
“Damn it all,” he breathed, the words a raw whisper in the silent room. He had believed himself invincible, capable of conquering any obstacle, any desire. Until Lysander. Lysander, with his careless charm and devastating indifference, had been the brutal instructor, shattering Julian’s illusions of control. Lysander had taught him the harsh, unyielding truth: life did not always bend to one’s will. And now, Lysander himself seemed poised to learn that same bitter lesson, caught in the tangled web of his own desires for Silas.
Ah, the world could be a mercilessly cruel master. And yet, Julian had learned. He had learned to shackle his feelings, to present a facade of composed detachment, a polished surface that betrayed nothing of the roiling depths beneath. Lysander, however, lacked such an art. He was a creature of raw, exposed emotion, his fascination with Silas almost indecently transparent. That sudden, violent upheaval of feeling must have been a terrifying burden for him. Julian understood; he had felt its insidious tendrils himself. But where Julian had endured, had built higher walls around his aching heart, Lysander, it seemed, crumbled. Instead of subtly cultivating Silas’s affection, Lysander’s clumsy, desperate overtures only seemed to push Silas further away, breeding a subtle, almost imperceptible resentment. For Julian, this suited his purposes just fine.
“Please, just remain so exquisitely blind,” Julian murmured, a dark prayer exhaled into the cool air. Or better yet, let Silas grow weary of the game, let him depart from Eldoria, vanish into the mists. Julian harbored no illusions, no desperate hope that Lysander, once disillusioned, would turn to him. This kind of consuming, desperate love, he found, was a terrifying thing. All he truly desired was a day when the agonizing ache of his love for Lysander would finally wither and die, and for Lysander to find solace elsewhere, far, far away. But of course, the world rarely granted such simple mercies.
Another subtle shift occurred, a further tightening of the invisible bonds. Lysander, with a sudden, audacious disregard for the Institute’s unspoken etiquette, switched his preferred seating. He chose the carved oak bench directly in front of the lecture master’s podium, precisely beside Silas. A curious choice, considering Lysander’s formidable height; he almost completely obscured the ancient blackboard for those behind him. Silas’s previous seatmate, a quiet scholar named Elara, exchanged an awkward glance with Julian and Alaric, her expression a strained mix of embarrassment and discomfort. “Good day,” she managed, her voice barely a breath.
Alaric and Julian exchanged a single, dismissive glance, a silent pact of disinterest, and offered a curt nod. Elara’s awkward, self-conscious laugh hung in the air, a fragile, quickly forgotten sound. Neither Julian nor Alaric offered a further response. They simply did not care.
Lysander settled himself beside Silas without a single word, a silent, potent presence. And Julian, against his better judgment, desperately wished for time to freeze, for this charged, awkward tension to stretch into an indefinite future, for this moment to eventually fade into nothing more than a vague, half-forgotten dream.
---
Another ripple disturbed the placid surface of their days. Lysander, who had once been known for his extravagant nocturnal wanderings – rumored escapades into the forbidden taverns of the valley, clandestine meetings with questionable figures, or simply wild, boisterous gatherings in the forgotten ruins beyond Eldoria’s walls – seemed to have abandoned his reckless habits. Or so it appeared. From the tendrils of gossip Alaric’s more boisterous acquaintances cultivated, it wasn't a complete cessation, merely a strategic retreat. But at the very least, Lysander no longer reeked of cheap spirits and forbidden indulgences, nor did he boast of his conquests (be they academic or otherwise) in the hallowed halls of the Institute. For Julian, this was a small, quiet victory. He no longer had to endure the cloying stench of Lysander’s decadent escapades up close.
“Lysander, old chap, no more forays into the mists? No more… this?” Barnaby Finch, a boorish, corpulent student who often orbited Alaric’s social sphere, swayed his hips suggestively in front of Lysander, making a crude gesture with his hands near his crotch. Lysander’s face, usually a mask of detached amusement, twisted into a furious scowl at the vulgar display. He shot a swift, almost imperceptible glance towards Silas, who was meticulously sharpening his quill nearby, before snarling angrily. “Finley, you imbecile! I told you to cease that vulgar display in public!”
“Why the sudden prudishness, then? A new leaf, perhaps?” Barnaby chortled, undeterred.
“If you utter another word of it, Barnaby, I swear by the Founders, you’ll regret it,” Lysander hissed, his voice low and dangerous.
“Now, Lysander, no need for—”
“I said, silence!”
“...Fine. As you wish.” Barnaby shrugged, his face a picture of feigned nonchalance, though a flicker of disappointment crossed his features. The others in their loose collective, mostly minor scions of noble houses who dabbled in academic pursuits and idle mischief, seemed equally deflated. Lysander, with his striking presence and air of dangerous allure, had once been the tantalizing conduit for their youthful, hormone-fueled curiosities, a window into forbidden pleasures. With Lysander’s exploits now off the table, their attention, predictably, drifted towards Alaric. But Alaric merely bared his teeth in an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust.
“You philistine cretins,” Alaric drawled, his voice a silken whip.
“Ah, there he goes again! Alaric and his peculiar sensibilities.”
“He’s merely a puritanical oddity. Honestly, such a waste.”
A ripple of laughter, loud and fleeting, swept through the common room. Most of the younger men in their circle had, at some point, ventured into the forbidden territories of illicit pleasure. But Alaric, for reasons known only to himself, had not. While they sometimes teased him, calling him a “cloistered scholar” or a “celibate ascetic,” no one genuinely disrespected him. He was Alaric Thorne, after all, a scion of an ancient, powerful house, possessed of a sharp wit and a dangerous intellect. At the same time, Alaric possessed a carefree, almost insouciant attitude about most things, which made his actions seem casual and his cutting remarks easy to digest. People found that either charmingly eccentric or strangely approachable, often remarking that his lightheartedness belied his imposing, almost predatory, features.
“You oaf, stop your glaring. You’ll make me soil myself,” one of them jested, though his voice held a hint of genuine unease.
“Indeed, that fellow possesses a rather unsettling countenance.”
“Do you doltish wretches have a death wish?” Alaric scowled, his dark eyes narrowing. The group burst into renewed laughter, though the jest itself had been rather threadbare. Some of the hangers-on at the back of the room, who might have been considered Alaric’s friends—or perhaps something less substantial—joined in with their obsequious chuckles and hollow chatter, adding to the general din. As Julian sat amidst them, a book of archaic Sumerian grammar open and unread before him, he stared blankly at his lap, lost in a swirling maelstrom of thoughts.
If his memory served him faithfully, he had never felt a genuine stirring of desire for a woman. It seemed, then, that his predilections were cast from birth, fixed and unyielding. He had, on occasion, felt a fleeting arousal when witnessing certain clandestine sketches or whispered tales of shared intimacy between both sexes, but never had he once conjured the image of a woman’s form in his private fantasies. The former, he mused, seemed more a reaction to the intensity of the situation, while the latter felt like a profound absence of a fundamental yearning. He had, once, been cajoled by Lysander into venturing to a notorious gambling den on the outskirts of the valley, a den infamous for its veiled rooms and illicit pleasures. But Julian had not even made it past the threshold, having forgotten his false identification papers. He had waited outside in the damp, frigid air until Lysander emerged, his eyes bright with undisclosed secrets. The brothels of the lower city? The very thought curdled his stomach. He could not fathom why anyone would willingly subject themselves to such squalor. Because of all this, the more jocular members of their cohort sometimes, with a knowing wink, referred to him as “Abstinent Blackwood.” Yet, in truth, his abstinence was more or less an involuntary state.
He let out a small, almost inaudible sigh.
The others, still caught in the current of Alaric’s stories and their own boisterous laughter, failed to notice his momentary lapse. Taking advantage of the distraction, Julian’s eyes drifted to Lysander, who sat in almost unnerving stillness. Lysander’s gaze, unblinking, was fixed on the back of Silas’s head, where Silas was quietly poring over a faded atlas of forgotten empires. And, as always, a familiar regret twisted in Julian’s gut. Why had he looked? Why had the viper of curiosity always sunk its fangs into him? To distract himself, he posed a deliberately pointless question to Alaric.
“So, Alaric,” Julian began, his voice a low murmur, “do you genuinely intend to remain… unattached, until a suitable betrothal is arranged?”
Alaric, who was lounging in his chair with the indolent grace of a predator, suddenly shifted his gaze directly to Julian’s lap. His stare was so unnervingly persistent that Julian instinctively crossed his legs, a reflex born of ancient shyness. What in the blazes?
“You are not my intended, Julian, so why the sudden concern? What, are you offering yourself as a substitute?” Alaric’s low, throaty chuckle was a cruel melody. The others laughed, a chorus of knowing amusement, and Julian, his cheeks burning, delivered a swift, stinging kick to Alaric’s shin.
That was the rhythm of his days—a repetitive, agonizing dance, over and over again.
---
Alone in his chamber, where the tendrils of mist often seeped through the ancient windowpanes, Julian frequently found himself adrift in thought, contemplating myriad scenarios, some of them unsettling in their strangeness. Today, his mind had conjured a peculiar fantasy: what if his heart had been ensnared by Alaric Thorne instead of Lysander? It seemed, in the chilling logic of hindsight, that such a predicament would have been a lesser torment. If he had loved Alaric, he would not have had to endure the exquisite agony wrought by Lysander’s careless entanglements with others. Even so, the outcome would have been the same. A heart, broken all the same.
Neither Lysander nor Alaric would ever return his affections, after all. But at least, his heart would not ache with the venomous sting of envy, a pain born of Silas Thorne. This train of thought inevitably spiraled into familiar depths of inadequacy and festering resentment. In the end, he simply wished for the swift passage of time, for the day of his graduation to arrive, when he could finally become a stranger to Lysander Blackwood, a faded memory in the vast halls of Eldoria.
---
At some point, without conscious thought, Julian began to cup his hands under his desk whenever he sat down. This peculiar habit had rooted itself deep in his second year at the Institute, and the catalyst, always, was the same: the intoxicating presence of men. As he idly traced the cold metal buckle of his trousers, lost in the labyrinth of his own mind, a silent debate raged within him. Should he? Or should he not? The faint, rhythmic click of metal tapping against his fingernails filled the hushed chamber. Just as he applied a slight pressure with his thumb, poised to undo the buckle, a sudden, sharp rap echoed at his door.
“Julian! Are you studying diligently?” It was Professor Armitage’s precise, academic voice, cutting through the silence like a surgeon’s blade.
“...Ah, no! I mean, yes! Indeed, I am!” Julian nearly leaped from his skin. The Fates, it seemed, had conspired against him today. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms, the blush creeping even to the tips of his ears. Confound it.
---
Lately, Lysander had become a jagged shard in Julian’s side, an insistent, aggravating presence. Sometimes, when Silas would glance in Julian’s direction, a fleeting connection forged in shared academic struggles, Lysander would deliberately, almost provocatively, strike up a conversation with Silas. Silas, caught in the uncomfortable crossfire, would flick his eyes towards Julian, his lips parting as if to speak, only to press them together again, a silent retraction. Then, as if wary of Lysander’s brooding intensity, Silas would lower his head, his answers to Lysander’s questions barely audible, a faint murmur lost in the lecture hall’s quiet.
“Y-yes, Lysander…”
Just like that. Silas, bless his guileless nature, seemed to be subtly seeking Julian’s company more and more. He had even begun to call Julian “Jules,” a familiar endearment almost no one outside of his most intimate family dared use. Aside from Professor Armitage, who sometimes used it in a moment of paternal warmth, almost no one addressed him so informally. The change was noticeable, a small, yet potent, testament to Silas’s growing comfort. He seemed to think he was being discreet, careful in his newfound camaraderie, but he was not. The most infuriating part was Lysander’s inability to conceal his discomfort, a growing, venomous cloud whenever Silas dared any such intimacy.
“Silas Thorne, I must insist you cease distracting Julian from his studies.” Lysander’s voice was sharp, a whiplash across the quiet room.
“What?” Silas looked up, startled.
“I said, cease your distractions. Do you comprehend?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes, Lysander…” Silas stammered, his gaze darting away. Lysander, with an almost childish immaturity, slammed his fist against the leg of the heavy oak desk beside him. Julian, pretending to be utterly absorbed in his text, feigned blissful ignorance. Annoyingly, Silas, in his innocent naivety, seemed to believe that Lysander’s objection to the nickname had somehow faded. He grew bolder, casually using “Jules” as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Uh, Jules… I apologize for interrupting your concentration.”
Julian stiffened, his internal composure fracturing. He stared at Silas in disbelief. Was he utterly bereft of sense? Lysander was sitting scarcely a foot away, his jaw tight, his eyes burning.
Sure enough, Lysander’s fist pounded the desk again, the dull thud echoing with ill omen. Confound it, Silas.
“Hey! Silas Thorne!” Lysander’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and dangerous.
“...Huh?” Silas’s head snapped up, his eyes wide, the sudden shift in atmosphere palpable and grim.
“I spoke clearly, did I not?” Lysander’s anger was blatant, a raw, exposed nerve. “I told you. I told you specifically not to address him as ‘Jules,’ did I not?”
“...W-well…” Silas faltered, his eyes darting to Julian, then back to Lysander.
“His name is Julian Blackwood. Call him Julian. That is his name—Julian.” Lysander’s gaze, sharp and almost predatory, swung from Silas to Julian. Julian hated that look, a possessive, simmering intensity that made his skin crawl. He instinctively lowered his head, wishing the floor would simply swallow him whole. At that precise moment, Alaric Thorne, seated with nonchalant grace beside Julian, casually draped an arm over Julian’s shoulder, a gesture of unexpected warmth. His low, distinctive voice, a silken whisper edged with steel, murmured near Julian’s ear.
“Lysander Blackwood, if you persist with this foolishness, you will regret it most profoundly.”
“What in the blazes are you insinuating, Thorne?” Lysander snarled, his eyes now fixed on Alaric.
“I am merely suggesting, Lysander, that you are digging a rather deep grave for yourself.” Alaric smirked, his dark eyes glinting with a dangerous amusement. Julian felt a flicker of irritation, hot and sharp. For one reason, and one reason only.
“Lysander Blackwood, you absolute dolt, do you not grasp the sheer idiocy of your actions?” Alaric continued, his voice laced with mocking concern. “You are driving him straight into another’s waiting arms.”