The Lumina Reliquary Excursion had concluded, leaving behind a chilling residue of what was, and what was not. After the stark rejection in the carriage, after Kaelen Volkov’s glacial pronouncement that Rhys Aerthos now claimed the coveted seat, Elian Thorne found himself adrift in a familiar, yet increasingly bitter, isolation. Kaelen’s disdain, once a subtle poison, now flowered openly, a venomous bloom for all the Ascendancy to witness.
Rhys, fragile and bruised, occupied the space Elian once held, not just physically but within Kaelen’s orbit. Elian understood, with a scholar’s cold logic, why Kaelen despised him. Rhys, a symbol of Elian’s carelessness, a wound Elian had inadvertently inflicted, became the perfect weapon. A chilling irony, that the one he felt such guilt for, now served as the architect of his public undoing.
No longer did Elian cling to the vestiges of Kaelen’s attention. His days dissolved into a melancholic rhythm, punctuated by the dull ache of inadequacy. Sometimes, a spark of petty vengeance would flicker – a quiet design flaw he might introduce into Kaelen’s next arcane project, a subtle miscalculation that would only be apparent months later – but the impulse always withered. He was not a weakling, he insisted to himself, yet the courage to confront Kaelen, to demand an explanation, remained elusive.
Kaelen, that volatile scion, had begun to unravel. A childish resentment, an almost feral envy, now twisted his features. The reason was painfully clear: Rhys Aerthos. Elian couldn’t help but despise Rhys more each day, even as he knew the feeling was irrational. Rhys had not been Elian’s to begin with, yet his presence had somehow stolen Kaelen, and in doing so, had made Kaelen a weapon against Elian. He cursed Rhys in the quiet corners of his mind, painting him as a vicious architect of his misfortune, regardless of intent. Logic dictated Rhys was merely a pawn, swept into Kaelen’s increasingly erratic tides. But feelings, Elian knew, seldom bowed to reason. Blaming Rhys was a convenient, if dishonest, way to endure this miserable situation.
Still, Elian held himself with the rigid composure expected of a Thorne. He would not betray himself, would not reveal the festering jealousy beneath his serene mask. To show hostility to Rhys would be to confess his own vulnerability, to look like a desperate child clinging to a discarded toy. It would only deepen Kaelen’s contempt, and worse, brand him in the eyes of his peers as “unstable,” an “aberrant”—a damning label in the Lumina Ascendancy, where control and decorum were paramount.
“This is… exquisite torment,” Elian murmured to the empty air of his private study. He hated it. Hated it more than Kaelen’s open hatred. He hated this gnawing sense of being undone, of his carefully constructed world crumbling around him. In that moment of profound self-loathing, the image of Joric Veil surfaced. Joric, with his unvarnished bluntness, his disconcerting ability to cut through pretense. What would Joric say? Probably something like: ‘Turns out Thorne’s just an empty vessel, shattered by a slight.’ The thought sent a tremor through Elian, his fingers clenching the parchment he held. He could almost hear Joric’s dismissive snort, see the detached, almost pitying gaze. No. He would rather perish than let anyone, especially Joric, witness such naked inadequacy.
Friendships, Elian discovered, were often shallow constructs. Once it became glaringly obvious that his bond with Kaelen had fractured, the acolytes in Kaelen’s former circle subtly distanced themselves. Amusingly, Lyra, a quiet acolyte often found on the periphery of Joric’s informal gatherings, struck up a rather pointless conversation yesterday.
“Elian, Joric was seeking you earlier.”
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“Uncertain. He merely mentioned your name.”
The exchanges were always like this—trivial, devoid of substance. The implicit message, however, was clear: Elian’s social realignment was complete. He was now, by association, perceived as being aligned with Joric’s less prestigious, but certainly less volatile, group. Not that ties with Kaelen’s circle were entirely severed. Occasionally, during a practical lesson or a chance encounter in the Grand Refectory, polite greetings were exchanged. This mostly came from Lysander, a burly acolyte with an earnest demeanor.
“Greetings, Elian. A good morning to you.”
“...And to you, Lysander.”
Elian recalled one such awkward exchange, Lysander’s voice dropping to a low murmur. ‘Kaelen has been acting… strangely of late. His fixation on Aerthos… it feels… unsettling.’ Elian must have displayed some grimace, for Lysander seemed to take it as agreement. He continued, describing how Kaelen would compel Rhys to sit beside him, seize his arm, and refuse to release him. Elian gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening.
‘I hold no interest in such… base displays,’ he had replied, his voice a silken shield. Lysander immediately recoiled, his face flushing. Lysander, Elian mused, had been attempting to curry favor with Joric’s group recently. Perhaps his unsolicited observations were a clumsy attempt at forging new alliances, a quiet plea to escape Kaelen’s increasingly unstable shadow.
Today, as often happened, only Joric and Elian remained in the lecture hall, long after the others had departed. Joric, lounging against the intricately carved wall, regarded Elian with an unreadable gaze. Was it disregard? Or assessment? Annoyed, Elian averted his eyes, determined to ignore Joric in return.
“Thorne.”
“What is it, Veil?”
“After this, let’s acquire some infused nectar. That particular blend we sampled last time… it possessed a rather intriguing note.” Joric ignored Elian’s attempt at aloofness. He idly tossed a small, polished geomantic sphere, the sphere bouncing with unexpected agility across the hall. It threatened to strike an antique warding glyph, but no one dared chide him. He cared little for the atmosphere, indifferent, selfish even. Elian watched the sphere’s erratic path with a frown, finally breaking his silence. His irritation at Joric’s casual disregard for his thoughts sharpened his tone.
“You refer to the nectar you consumed entirely yourself? You purchased it for your own gratification, as I recall.”
“Not entirely. I merely appreciated the lumina-bloom infusion.”
“So my own preferences were of no consequence?”
“How was I to discern your desires? You vocalized nothing.” By then, the geomantic sphere had rolled beneath a heavy lectern. Joric extended a hand, a silent command. One of the lingering acolytes hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the sphere, placing it carefully in Joric’s palm. Joric idly spun the sphere between his fingers, then said to the retreating acolyte, “My thanks, baseborn.”
Such an infuriating personality. ‘Unworthy this, unrefined that.’ Every utterance from his lips grated. Honestly, it made no sense that someone as abrasive as Joric would gravitate towards Elian, rather than Kaelen. He consistently shared meals, occupied adjacent seats, attended lectures alongside him. Kaelen was absent, yes, but Joric could easily send a missive or arrange a clandestine meeting if he truly wished.
The thought presented itself, unbidden, and Elian voiced it without much reflection. “Why do you no longer seek Kaelen Volkov’s company these days?” Joric, mid-toss, froze. He turned to Elian, a puzzled expression on his face.
“You quarreled with him,” Joric stated.
“I?”
“Indeed. You and Kaelen Volkov.”
“I am aware. I was the one involved in the altercation. What bearing does that have on you?”
“You pose the most peculiar inquiries. It is because you are my companion.” Joric’s gaze swept over Elian, an oddly blatant appraisal. Feeling a ripple of unease, Elian averted his eyes.
“You were also Kaelen Volkov’s companion,” Elian countered.
“Remarkable. Are you suggesting you are not my companion?” Joric’s tone held incredulity as he pointed a finger at Elian.
“No, I am your companion. But you were also Kaelen Volkov’s. Why, then, do you align yourself with my position?”
“Because I have known you longer.”
“What discourse is this? We became companions through Kaelen Volkov, did we not?”
“Observe yourself. What are you uttering? We were proximate in our first year!”
“When, precisely?”
“Truly, you are an insolent wretch. Back in the refectory, we exchanged glances consistently!”
“Ah… that particular period.”
“So, was I alone in perceiving our camaraderie? You deceiver. That is why, upon finding ourselves in the same scholastic cohort, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge this? Unfathomable. I am profoundly disappointed in your conduct.”
“Oh.”
“Unbelievable. Merely… unbelievable. How could you inflict such an oversight upon me?”
“Very well, I apologize. I offer my apologies, is that sufficient?” Elian mumbled his contrition, a vague memory resurfacing of those awkward, yet surprisingly frequent, encounters from their first year. So *that* fell under Joric’s definition of “companionship.” Elian felt cheated. How could anyone interpret those hostile stares as anything but animosity? They had been filled with raw, naked resentment. Wait, did this mean the first one to suggest sharing a meal wasn’t Kaelen, but… Joric? The realization struck Elian with the force of a thunderclap, leaving him momentarily stunned. It was unsettling, even shocking. He simply nodded, pretending to comprehend, unwilling to delve deeper into Joric’s convoluted logic.
“Alright, alright. I grasp it. I am sorry.”
“I was genuinely quite distressed just now.” Joric shot Elian a brief, piercing glare. Sometimes, Elian truly despaired of understanding Joric’s mind.
“And furthermore, Kaelen Volkov is behaving in a genuinely aberrant manner.”
“…”
“That individual is utterly unhinged at present. He has always possessed a certain eccentricity, but this? This is merely… well, it is beyond definition.” Joric grasped the geomantic sphere with four fingers, lazily spinning it about his temple with his index finger. The sight brought to mind Lysander and the other acolytes who had awkwardly attempted to confide in Elian about Kaelen. From their guarded whispers, one truth emerged: Kaelen Volkov’s reputation was in a precipitous freefall.
“Aberrant.” The word—the most feared and damning stigma in the world of nascent arcane scholars—sent a chill through Elian. His body trembled almost imperceptibly at the thought. Simultaneously, a wave of cold relief washed over him, a dark current that no one knew his own hidden inclinations. Did that relief signify he valued his own preservation above Kaelen’s downfall? Uneasy, Elian met Joric’s gaze, feeling like a blasphemous priest concealing a forbidden relic before the divine.
“Truly, myself,” he murmured, then let out a strange, choked laugh—a bitter mixture of fear and derision. It was almost comedic that, to others, he was now Joric Veil’s closest companion. In truth, Elian was no different—a criminal branded with an unholy stigma, merely unrevealed. Only months prior, he had been Kaelen Volkov’s intimate confidant. Yet, here he was, hiding in a filthy trap he had barely evaded. He had only managed to avoid being caught. That was all.
---
It was the pre-dawn hour. A missive from an unknown source materialized on his personal chronometer. A call at four in the morning. Half-asleep, Elian briefly wondered if his current predicament was merely a persistent nightmare. Even though he had assiduously avoided Kaelen to shield himself from further pain, his heart gave a traitorous leap at the thought that the message might be from him. He hastily rubbed sleep from his eyes, checking the sender once more. His feelings were a conflicted tangle. Part of him hoped it was merely a spam missive, an offer for illicit arcane financing. But as soon as he read the content, he knew it was not Kaelen.
“Elian, I apologize for contacting you at such an hour. Could you present yourself outside your estate for a moment? I am truly sorry. I am deeply sorry.”
“Just this once. Only this single occasion.”
There was no conceivable way Kaelen Volkov would ever humble himself to apologize to Elian. Among his peers, only two ever addressed him so informally, and of those two, only one could sound so utterly bereft. How did Rhys Aerthos even know the precise location of the Thorne ancestral estate? The moment Elian saw the message, his elegant features twisted into a scowl. He did not wish to see Rhys—never wished to see him. Rhys’s presence was invariably unsettling.
Yet, despite his internal protestations, Elian swung his legs from his bed, buttoned a dark velvet robe over his sleepwear, and stood. He walked to his chamber door, but paused before crossing the threshold, resting his forehead against the cool, polished wood with a profound sigh.
“...Damn it all.”
It was an overwhelming weight, a knot in his stomach, taut and unforgiving. That was the only apt description. He clutched at his chest, where the tension resided. He had always prided himself on his intellectual acuity, on the breadth of his vocabulary gleaned from countless arcane tomes, but none of the words he knew could adequately articulate this intricate, tangled mess of emotions. It was merely… complicated.
The resentment he felt for Rhys Aerthos, the vivid memory of Rhys’s face bruised purple on that day, and the desperate days Elian had spent attempting to insert distance between Kaelen and Rhys, all swirled within him. Biting his lip, Elian fiddled with the ornate door handle, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist.
In the formal garden, the biting cold of dawn clung to the air, heralding the arrival of a crisp autumn. To avoid the dew-soaked arcane grasses, Elian stepped carefully onto the cool, sculpted marble pavers that formed the path. The pre-dawn chill made him pull his robe tighter. His bare toes, peeking from the front of his velvet slippers, carried him all the way to the main gate.
He paused there for a long moment, clicked his tongue lightly, then grasped the heavy, wrought-iron handle. The mournful creaking of the hinges made him flinch, and he opened the gate even more slowly, with an almost theatrical reluctance.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the solitary street-light on the polished obsidian asphalt, stood Rhys Aerthos in his crumpled acolyte’s uniform. His head hung low, tracing invisible shapes on the ground with the scuffed toe of his boot.
“...Rhys Aerthos.”
At Elian’s voice, Rhys’s head snapped up with a desperate quickness.
“Elian, Elian!”