A sudden, inexplicable curiosity took root in Lysander’s mind, like an invasive vine strangling a meticulously manicured trellis. He found himself wondering about Lord Caspian Vance and the young scholar, Elara Veridian, as they departed the Imperial Academy each evening. How did they walk? Was it side-by-side, or did the unspoken chasm between them manifest in their physical distance? From his vantage in the Scholars’ Wing, Lysander had often observed Elara fall into step behind Caspian, a quiet shadow trailing in the wake of the older noble. There was no casual companionship in it, no easy camaraderie. Just Elara, a fully-grown young woman, following Caspian as if tethered by an invisible, unbreakable thread. Even as the thought bloomed, a chill settled in Lysander’s gut. It felt akin to prying open a forbidden reliquary, a delicate box rumored to hold not merely despair, but a cruel, intoxicating hope that surpassed it. A treasure box, small and unassuming, that should never be opened. Yet, knowing all of this, the compulsion to peer within was undeniable. “...This is madness,” Lysander whispered, the sound swallowed by the cavernous silence of the corridor. He was not thinking clearly. He knew it. Still, the next afternoon, he found himself following Elara after the day’s final lecture. He did not journey far. Lysander moved with the practiced stealth of a scrivener transcribing forbidden decrees, careful not to draw Caspian’s attention. He saw Elara, her gaze fixed on Caspian’s retreating back. They moved through the less frequented parts of the Academy grounds: worn stone paths, ivy-choked walls, the peeling paint of service annexes. Mundane details, yet they framed a scene of stark, almost pathetic intimacy. Caspian, striding ahead. Elara, a silent sentinel behind him. And Lysander, watching them from a distance, a self-appointed witness to a quiet, consuming drama. Everything about it felt raw, exposed, and utterly foolish. A wave of self-disgust washed over him. He turned back, retreating into the cool, scholarly embrace of his own solitude. --- Later, confined within the shadowed sanctuary of his chambers, Lysander sat at his desk, quill uninked. He reflected on his decision, a faint satisfaction stirring within him. His curiosity had been piqued, certainly, but to what depths might he have plunged had he continued? Better, far better, not to know. He was no fool to unseal Pandora’s reliquary for the sake of petty longing. Caspian’s obsession with Elara, he had observed, only intensified with each passing day. Elara, in turn, seemed to recoil from him, her composure fraying at his very presence. Fear, perhaps, or outright disdain. Yes, surely disdain. How could she feel anything less for a man who seemed to take such cruel joy in her discomfort? A bitter taste bloomed in Lysander’s mouth. He could not help but feel a sliver of dark satisfaction. At least *he* had not interfered when Caspian had first begun his subtle torment of Elara. Perhaps, in some perverse way, it was for the best. Lysander laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back against his carved chair. His gaze drifted upward, settling on the elaborate gilt candelabrum suspended from the ceiling. Its intricate artistry was a silent testament to the gilded fortune of his birth, the unburdened ease of his life as an only child of the Thorne House. Never had he been denied a whim, a desire, a scholarly pursuit. “...Confound it all,” he murmured, the words barely audible. He had once believed himself invincible, immune to the petty cruelties of fate. Until he had fallen into the chasm of longing for Lord Caspian Vance. That wretched man, so utterly oblivious, had revealed the bitter truth: life does not always bend to one’s will. Lysander was certain Caspian, too, was learning that same ruthless lesson. The world, he mused, was a mercilessly cruel stage. At least Lysander had mastered the art of concealment, of cloaking his affections beneath layers of careful propriety. Caspian, on the other hand, was consumed by his own emotions, his longing for Elara so glaring it painted his very countenance. That raw, abnormal fervor must surely be a torment to him. Lysander knew that torment intimately. He had endured it. Caspian, however, could not. Instead of cultivating Elara’s regard, he pursued her with an intensity that only bred resentment. And for Lysander, hidden in the shadows, that suited him perfectly. “Please, remain blissfully ignorant,” Lysander whispered to the empty air. Or better yet, let Elara grow weary of this relentless pursuit and depart the Academy. Lysander harbored no illusions of Caspian turning his gaze upon him. If anything, this kind of possessive love, this relentless, consuming fire, terrified him. He desired but one thing: for the day to come when his heart no longer ached for Caspian Vance, and for Caspian to find solace, however fleeting, in another’s affection. That was all. But the machinations of the heart, Lysander knew, rarely yielded to such rational desires. --- Another unsettling shift permeated the Academy’s routines. Caspian Vance, who had previously occupied a seat further down the lecture hall, abruptly relocated. He chose the desk directly before Elara Veridian’s, a deliberate act that caused a ripple of whispers among the junior scholars. His imposing height, Lysander noted, now perfectly obscured Elara’s view of the instructor’s chalkboard. Elara’s previous desk-mate, a junior nobleman, exchanged an awkward, embarrassed glance with Lysander and Sir Kaelen across the room. “Greetings, Lysander, Kaelen.” Lysander and Kaelen exchanged a fleeting glance, offering curt nods in return. “Haha…” The junior nobleman’s laugh was a nervous, lingering thing. Neither Lysander nor Kaelen responded, their faces carefully neutral. They were not interested in this small courtly drama, or at least, Lysander feigned disinterest with practiced ease. Caspian settled beside Elara without a word, a silent, imposing presence. Lysander found himself clinging to a desperate wish: that this delicate, fraught tension might persist, unchanged, for the remainder of their studies. That someday, this moment would dissolve into nothing more than a faint, forgotten dream. --- Yet another change followed. Caspian, whose weekends were once rumored to be a succession of dissolute revelries, seemed to curtail his scandalous liaisons. Or so it appeared. From the hushed whispers Kaelen’s coterie exchanged, he hadn’t ceased entirely. But at least the boastful accounts of his conquests no longer echoed through the Academy halls, nor did the faint, cloying scent of impropriety cling to his velvets and silks. For Lysander, that was a small mercy. He no longer had to endure the pervasive stench of Caspian’s escapades at such close quarters. “Vance, no more chasing fleeting pleasures? Has austerity claimed you?” Lord Torvin, a man known for his bawdy jests, leaned suggestively towards Caspian, mimicking a crude gesture. Caspian’s face twisted into a snarl at the vulgar display. He flicked a quick, almost imperceptible glance towards Elara, then lashed out, his voice a low growl. “Torvin, you imbecile! I told you to cease that vulgarity in public!” “Why the sudden prudishness, my lord?” “If you breathe another word of it, Torvin, you will regret it.” “Vance, I only meant—” “I said, silence!” “...As you wish.” The others in their small circle seemed visibly disappointed. Caspian, with his towering frame and worldly aura, had once been the very embodiment of the rebellious nobleman, a fascinating outlet for the burgeoning curiosities of young men chafing under courtly constraints. These were no novices in Caspian’s group; they had all stumbled through their own clumsy dalliances. Compared to the truly innocent, they were more easily swayed by tales of illicit pleasure. With Caspian no longer regaling them with his exploits, their attention shifted to Sir Kaelen. But Kaelen only bared his teeth in a grimace of pure disgust. “You incorrigible perverts.” “Ah, there he goes again! Kaelen, with his righteous indignation!” “He’s merely a fanatic. A waste, truly.” A ripple of laughter, loud and fleeting, passed through the group. Most of the young men in their circle had, at least once, ventured into forbidden territories. For some inexplicable reason, Sir Kaelen had not. While they teased him good-naturedly, calling him the ‘Austere Scholar,’ no one truly disrespected him. He was Kaelen, after all. He possessed a lighthearted, almost careless charm that made his actions seem effortless and his words easy to accept. People often found this engaging, remarking that it belied his rather intimidating countenance. “Torvin, cease that leering. You’ll make me lose my composure.” “Indeed, Kaelen’s face is rather fearsome.” “Do you imbeciles harbor a death wish?” Kaelen scowled, and the group burst into fresh laughter, though there was little true humor in it. A few young men at the back of the chamber, mere acquaintances perhaps, contributed their forced chuckles and chatter, adding to the general din. Lysander sat amidst them, his gaze fixed blankly on his lap, lost in thought. His memory served him well: he had never felt a stirring of desire for a woman. By default, then, he supposed he was born to this particular inclination. He had experienced arousal witnessing intimate acts between men and women, yes, but never once had his fantasies, in the privacy of his mind, centered on a woman’s form. The former felt more about the raw intensity of the moment, the latter a stark absence of personal inclination. He had once, long ago, been dragged to a forbidden pleasure house by Caspian. Lysander hadn’t even crossed the threshold, lacking the necessary forged credentials. Instead, he had waited outside, cloaked in shadow, until Caspian re-emerged. Courtesan chambers? The very thought curdled his stomach. He could not fathom why anyone would seek such mercenary solace. Because of this, the others in the group playfully referred to him as ‘Lysander the Chaste,’ but in truth, his abstinence was less a choice, more an inherent disposition. He exhaled a quiet sigh. The others, still absorbed in Kaelen’s exchanges, did not notice. Seizing the moment, Lysander’s gaze drifted to Caspian, who sat in silent intensity. Caspian was, as always, staring at the back of Elara Veridian’s head as she attempted to concentrate on her studies across the room. And, as always, Lysander instantly regretted it. Why did he look? Why did the curiosity persist? To distract himself, he posed a seemingly aimless question to Kaelen. “Kaelen, do you genuinely intend to remain untouched until a formal betrothal?” Kaelen, sprawling in his chair with a lordly nonchalance, suddenly fixed his gaze on Lysander’s lap. The intensity of his stare was so direct Lysander instinctively crossed his legs, a shield against the unexpected scrutiny. What in the Empress’s name? “Lysander, you are not my intended. Why the concern? Are you offering to remedy the situation?” “...” Of course. Kaelen always had a malicious jibe ready. The others laughed. Lysander delivered a swift, discreet kick to Kaelen’s shin. Such were Lysander’s days, a repeating tableau, day after weary day. --- When alone in his chambers, Lysander often found his thoughts wandering, contemplating myriad scenarios. Inevitably, these ruminations sometimes veered into forbidden fantasies. Today, he wondered what it might have been like had he fallen for Sir Kaelen instead of Lord Caspian Vance. It seemed, in his quiet assessment, a far more palatable fate. If his heart had yearned for Kaelen, he would have been spared the lacerating pain of Caspian’s messy, public entanglements with women of the court. Even so, his heart would still ache. Neither Caspian Vance nor Sir Kaelen would ever truly love him, after all. But at least his pain would not be compounded by the constant, agonizing presence of Elara Veridian. That train of thought invariably led to a familiar swell of inferiority and frustration. In the end, he simply yearned for swift graduation, for the day when Lord Caspian Vance would become a stranger, a mere forgotten face in the annals of his youth. --- At some indeterminate point, Lysander developed an unconscious habit of placing his hands beneath his desk whenever he sat down. This began in his second year at the Academy, and the impetus was always the same: thoughts of men. As he idly fiddled with the ornate buckle of his breeches, his mind drifted. Should he? Or should he not? The faint, metallic click of the buckle against his nail filled the otherwise silent chamber. Just as his thumb pressed against the mechanism to undo it, a soft knock sounded at his door. “Lysander? Are you immersed in your studies?” “...Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!” Lysander’s heart leaped into his throat. Clearly, this was not the appointed day. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms, a wave of heat creeping up his neck. Confound it all. --- Lately, Lord Caspian Vance had become a persistent irritant, a sliver under Lysander’s skin. Sometimes, when Elara glanced briefly in Lysander’s direction, Caspian would deliberately engage her in conversation. Elara, caught in the middle, would flick her eyes towards Lysander, her lips parting as if to speak, only to press them closed again. Then, as if wary of Caspian’s formidable presence, she would lower her head and answer him in the faintest of voices. “Y-yes, my lord…” Just like that. Elara, subtle as she was, began seeking Lysander out more frequently. She even started addressing him as ‘Lys.’ Aside from his immediate family, almost no one called him by that informal diminutive, so the change was remarkably conspicuous. She seemed to believe her caution sufficient, but it was not. The worst part was Caspian’s utter inability to conceal his discomfort, his thinly veiled ire, whenever Elara dared to be so familiar. “Elara Veridian, cease disturbing Lysander Thorne during his studies.” “My lord?” “Cease disturbing him. Do you not comprehend my instruction?” “Oh... uh, y-yes, my lord…” When Elara stammered and averted her gaze, Caspian, with a juvenile display of frustration, slammed his fist against the leg of the desk beside him. Lysander, with practiced detachment, pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, the utterly oblivious Elara seemed to interpret this as a sign that no one truly cared about her using his nickname anymore. She grew bolder, employing ‘Lys’ with casual ease, as if it were perfectly normal. “Uh, Lys… my apologies for disturbing your concentration.” Lysander stiffened, staring at her in disbelief. Was she utterly mad? Caspian was sitting right there. Sure enough, Caspian’s fist connected with the desk leg once more, a dull thud echoing in the quiet hall. Confound it. “Elara Veridian!” “...My lord?” The atmosphere in the immediate vicinity curdled instantly. “I instructed you.” Caspian’s anger was blatant, a dark storm gathering behind his eyes. “I told you not to address him as ‘Lys,’ did I not?” “...W-well…” “Address him as Lysander Thorne. That is his name—Lysander Thorne.” Caspian’s gaze turned sharp, almost predatory, as he looked at Lysander. Lysander detested that look and instinctively lowered his head, his fingers tightening around the quill in his hand. At that moment, Sir Kaelen, seated beside Lysander, casually draped an arm over his shoulder. Kaelen’s low, distinctive voice murmured near Lysander’s ear, a conspiratorial rumble. “Caspian Vance, persist in this manner, and you will assuredly compromise yourself.” “What in the blazes are you implying?” “I am implying you will regret it.” Kaelen smirked, and Lysander felt a faint flicker of irritation. For one reason only. “Caspian Vance, you will regret this.”

A Gilded Cage, A Lingering Gaze