Two days later, a small, folded message, secured with a smear of dried wax, lay tucked within my personal cubby. Its presence was a stark anomaly amidst the regimented order of my daily routine, a jarring interruption to the meticulous calm I strove to maintain.
"Attend the Supplies Annex before physical conditioning today." The script was delicate, hesitant, almost apologetic. My mind, ever-eager to dissect and categorize, first fluttered with an improbable thought: a secret admirer, perhaps? But the notion was instantly, ruthlessly dismissed. Eldoria Institute was an austere bastion, its venerable stone walls harboring only the sons of the ancient houses. Such frivolity, such romantic overtures, were unheard of. Illusions, readily shed.
I forgot the summons until the chime sounded, signaling the shift to the fourth period, the dreaded physical conditioning drills.
My mind still reeled from a particularly vexing passage in the Sylvanic Canticles, a text riddled with archaic syntax. Changing into my stark uniform, my thoughts remained tethered to the complexities of forgotten dialects. Yet, a faint, almost imperceptible thread of curiosity tugged at me, prompting me towards the Supplies Annex. I envisioned some trivial matter, a misplaced parchment or a forgotten quill. Nothing significant, certainly.
Inside the cavernous space, stacked high with dusty crates and forgotten relics, a small figure stood silhouetted against a grimy window. Dark hair, meticulously flattened, framed a timid face. Elara Thorne. My breath hitched, a faint tremor of annoyance rippling through me. Elara, perpetually nervous, perpetually present where least desired.
“Elara Thorne?” I spoke her name, a puzzled inflection I couldn’t quite suppress. Her small head, hitherto bowed over nervously gnawing fingers, snapped up. A hesitant, almost too-bright smile touched her lips – a fragile echo of the day she first entered Eldoria's hallowed halls, clutching a worn satchel as if it were her only anchor.
The sight grated. My brow furrowed, a familiar tightness seizing my chest.
“What is it? Why here, now?”
Elara’s plump fingers twisted in a nervous knot. Her gaze darted around the annex, as though the very shadows might judge her. “I… I have something to tell you…”
“Spit it out.” I longed to be elsewhere, to escape the suffocating closeness of the annex, the potential for whispers, for baseless rumors. I always offered Elara precisely enough civility, just enough assistance, to uphold my own image, never more. No entanglements. No vulnerabilities.
Oblivious to my simmering impatience, Elara continued her nervous survey of the room, her thumb finding its way back to her teeth. A peculiar mix of indecision and fleeting resolve played across her features. Each time she seemed poised to speak, her mouth would clamp shut, a silent battle waged within her.
My irritation deepened. Elara Thorne had always been a thorn in my side, her hesitant mannerisms rubbing raw against my tightly wound composure. Her small mouth twitched, a motion some might deem endearing, but to me, it was maddeningly protracted. I recognized the disproportionate intensity of my reaction, the edge of an underlying fatigue.
“Look, I must depart for drills. Please, speak your piece.” My head throbbed, a tangled knot of frustration and a strange, unidentifiable unease. Perhaps my anger wasn’t truly directed at Elara. Perhaps it was a reservoir of unnamed disquiet, seeking any outlet. My stomach, a constant source of discomfort of late, churned with a dull ache.
Just as Elara seemed to gather herself, a decision hardening in her eyes, a whisper of a sound escaped her lips. “Julian… I… you see, I…”
“Yes?” I replied, a half-hearted gesture of impatience, scratching at the back of my neck. The bell for drills would sound soon. I fantasized, briefly, of prying the words from her, forcing them into the stale air.
Then, the heavy timber door of the Supplies Annex groaned open. Both Elara and I spun, our gazes snaring the figure now framed in the doorway. Lord Alaric Thorne, his chest heaving, his face a mask of furious desperation. His eyes, however, bypassed me entirely, fixing instead on his sister.
He gasped, a ragged, echoing sound. He had been running. A suffocating pressure seized my chest as I pictured him scouring the labyrinthine corridors of Eldoria, searching for Elara. Alaric let out a long, shuddering exhale, then strode into the room, his movements deliberate, predatory. My hand, still poised at my neck, dropped. His gaze flickered between Elara and me, then settled, with searing intensity, on me. His expression was a storm cloud given human form.
“Why are you with him?” The question hung, a venomous dart, its target unclear. His fists clenched, then slowly relaxed, a warning.
Beneath my carefully constructed calm, a cold dread began to gnaw. After a strained silence, Alaric’s gaze locked onto mine. The way he looked at me… it was unbearable. My voice emerged, strangely steady. “What in the Hells, Alaric.”
*Please, don’t look at me like that.* Blame Elara. She called me. Why fix those eyes, those eyes of resentment, upon me, your… acquaintance? I was merely a pawn in this sordid little drama. Even as the thought solidified, Alaric’s burning gaze remained. Not passion, not fervor, but rage. Jealousy, raw and unbridled. Madness. The face of a man consumed by a dangerous, possessive affection. Pitiful. Despicable.
“Why are you here with him!”
*You are pathetic, Alaric.* So utterly pathetic. I met his glare, unblinking. Yet, a cold shard of self-loathing pierced me. Perhaps the truly pathetic one was not him, but I.
Before I could react, Alaric’s long strides closed the distance between us. The world tilted. A blinding flash. The raw, guttural gasp of displaced air.
I could not process it. My body crumpled, striking the stone floor with a jarring impact. Only then did my mind, delayed, replay the impossible event.
“No… impossible…” He struck me. Alaric Thorne struck me.
On the cold floor, my fingers trembled as they grazed my cheek. Unbelief choked me. *How could you? How could you do this to me?*
“J-Julian!”
“Wretch! I told you, *brother*! Not him! Never him!” Alaric roared, a wild, guttural sound. Elara, her face bleached of color, scrambled towards me, but Alaric rounded on her, his fury a living thing. She recoiled, a gasp escaping her lips.
“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Elara stammered, tears glistening.
“You vowed! You bloody vowed!” Alaric’s voice cracked with a terrible rage. He seized Elara’s arm, his grip bruising. She was on the verge of tears, but no, *I* was the one who should weep. A burning sensation welled behind my eyes, threatening to spill over. Thankfully, before the dam could break, Alaric cursed, a violent, guttural sound, and dragged Elara from the annex. The door slammed shut, leaving me in the sudden, echoing silence.
Alone on the cold stone, I stared at the closed door. A sliver of weak sunlight streamed through a high window, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. Something inside me fractured. The carefully constructed wall, the dam holding back a torrent of emotion, burst. Tears flowed, hot and bitter.
I hated everything. Elara, who had lured me into this snare. Alaric, who had shamed me, who had struck me. I wished them both to vanish, to cease to exist. I felt nothing but a profound, humiliating misery, a mere footnote in their twisted saga.
I pushed myself up, my cheek throbbing, and bypassed physical conditioning. Instead, I sought the Headmaster’s office, requesting an early dismissal. My face, blotchy and swelling, offered a believable excuse, and the Headmaster, ever perceptive, seemed to understand without probing.
---
At home, I collapsed onto my bed, seeking the oblivion of sleep. When I awoke, my face felt puffy, a dull ache throbbing near my cheekbone. By habit, I reached for my communique device. A message from Seraphin Vance awaited. We rarely exchanged messages, our interactions typically orchestrated by Alaric. *Alaric. Damn him.* If it were anyone else, I would have ignored it, but Seraphin was not ‘anyone.’ He was Alaric’s shadow, his lieutenant amongst the cliques, a figure of subtle, unsettling power. I could not afford to dismiss him.
"Where did you vanish to?" the message read, three hours old.
I winced. "Haha, feeling rather under the weather." My reply was deliberately light, carefully curated. No one, absolutely no one, could know of this humiliation. The thought of whispers circulating, of Alaric Thorne striking *me*, was unbearable. All because of Elara Thorne.
"Are you well?" Seraphin’s follow-up was unnervingly brief, devoid of his usual wry humor. Concern from Seraphin? The anomaly made me shut off the device, the glowing screen suddenly too bright.
Hours later, a wave of profound melancholy washed over me. Even Seraphin’s message felt heavy, suffocating. Other peers, those I studied with, had also reached out, their words polite, distant. None of it was what I craved.
None of them were Alaric. I must be mad. Yet, I clung to a pathetic hope, a twisted comfort, that this was the inevitable fate of one consumed by such maddening, possessive devotion. Even knowing the truth, I lay there, an idiot, doing what I did best: closing my eyes to reality.
“...I am not the only one.” Perhaps Elara and I were bound in the same, grotesque fashion. A strange, twisted thought lingered, a selfish, wicked, childish hope entwined within it. As I stared at the ceiling, another message arrived. An unknown sender.
"Julian, are you very ill?"
My brow furrowed. Who among my peers would address me with such familiarity? Seraphin? Not his number. Before I could ponder further, another arrived, relentless, infuriating.
"My apologies. Truly. It is my fault."
"I am sorry."
"Please, forgive me."
Three words or four, each hammered at my composure. I hurled the device against the far wall. How had that wretched girl obtained my number? And how, without her own communique device, was she sending these incessant pleas? Then it dawned on me. *Oh*. I had called her, hadn’t I? When first she arrived, lost and bewildered. An idiocy I now regretted.
I cursed my own forgetfulness, letting out a frustrated sigh. To vent the swirling turmoil, I pounded my fists into the mattress until exhaustion claimed me, dragging me into a restless sleep. Just before my thoughts faded entirely, one last message echoed in my mind.
"Please, do not hate me."
Funny. I had hated her for months.
---
The next morning, I woke to a face swollen like a baked pastry, the bruise beneath my eye a faint, purpling smudge.
I skipped the Institute. Model student or not, my pride could not countenance presenting myself in such a state. The housewarden, a severe woman with a surprisingly gentle touch, prepared my midday meal. As I ate, she clucked softly, urging more caution in my endeavors. The food was simple: thin porridge, bland, softened vegetables. I swallowed it without much thought, the texture alien against my tongue.
As I set down my spoon, reaching for a glass of water, the housewarden returned to clear the dishes. Plate in hand, she announced, “Julian, a visitor.”
“A visitor?” My heart gave a curious, fragile leap. Before I could identify the emotion, my mind raced, conjuring images. Could it be… Alaric? It seemed an outrageous fantasy, yet not entirely impossible. Few from the Institute knew the location of my family home. If it were him, then surely, guilt had finally gnawed at him. Alaric had never struck me before. Never. Yes, he must be troubled, worried.
“Yes, admit them.” The fantasy solidified into a certainty, a comforting warmth spreading through me. I chided myself for such naive hope, yet the thought – that I still held some significance to him – was inexplicably potent. I rose, my pace quickening with a flicker of anticipation, towards the grand, oak door.
But the person awaiting was not who I expected.
“Yo, Blackwood. What’s the word?” Seraphin Vance. His sharp features were set in a playful smirk, a small sack clutched in one hand. But the smirk faltered, his eyes widening as they landed on my face. His tone, usually laced with sarcasm, grew unusually serious.
“What in the Hells happened to your face?”
My knees almost buckled, the sudden plunge from expectation to disappointment a physical blow. Seraphin. How did *he* know where I lived?
“I… fell,” I offered, the lie flat and unconvincing.
Seraphin’s brows drew together, his lips twisting in that characteristic way he had before delivering a barb. “You truly are an idiot, aren’t you?”
I offered no argument. I simply rubbed my swollen cheek, a dull ache throbbing under my touch. Shame flushed through me. What a fool I was. Alaric did not consider me important. And here I was, a pathetic dog, wagging its tail for a master who scorned it.
“Here, take this.” Seraphin held out a chilled confection. I accepted it, peeling back the wax paper lid to check the flavor.
“…Green tea.”
“Is it? Didn’t notice.”
“Figures. Why would you?”
“Damn, Blackwood. Harsh.”
“What brings you here?”
“To see you. May I come in?”
“Hey, wait!” But his long legs had already carried him past me, into the shadowed entry hall.
“Your rooms?”
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere else. There is little else of interest in this particular dwelling.”
No retort sprang to mind. He was correct. Houses, like people, were often more alike than different. A profound awkwardness settled over me as I followed Seraphin, who seemed intent on inspecting the interior of my private sanctuary.