My full designation is Elian Thorne, though few in the Collegium dare use anything but my surname. ‘Thorne’ carries the weight of a minor House, a whisper of prestige, far more than the simple cadence of ‘Elian’. Lysander Valerius was the first to formalize this, a casual decree during our inaugural year at the Lumina Arcane. He possessed an innate understanding of such subtle shifts in nomenclature. After that, I became ‘Thorne’ to all, save for a scant few whose stories remain for another telling. Lysander Valerius, my counterpart in that first cohort, stood in stark contrast to my own measured existence. His frame radiated an almost predatory grace, his aura vibrant where mine was meticulously contained. Academically, his interest in formal theory was a fleeting whim; he mastered complex spellcraft through sheer, raw instinct, an effortless aptitude that defied every laborious hour I poured into scrolls and matrices. Did I instinctively dismiss him? My intellect often categorizes individuals into their appropriate societal strata. Yes, under normal circumstances, such an unbridled force would be filed away as a charming but ultimately unsophisticated brute. Yet, Lysander was different. His gaze, a startling cerulean, held a magnetic pull that bypassed my carefully constructed defenses, demanding a recognition I was unaccustomed to offering. Lysander carried a peculiar scent. It was not a common perfume, but a faint, almost crystalline resonance, like crushed moonpetal against a storm-kissed cliff — an aroma I later learned was unique to his ancestral lands and the potent arcane energies that permeated them. Drawn by this subtle, captivating trace, I found myself initiating a conversation, a deviation from my usual reserved demeanor. I often sought parallels between Lysander and myself, desperate to justify the inexplicable draw. Both of us hailed from old, if differing, noble Houses. Both navigated the intricate social currents of the Collegium with an undeniable presence. Such superficial commonalities became the foundation upon which I dared to build. The Lumina Arcane Collegium itself was a microcosm of the Ascendancy, drawing students from the hallowed halls of the Arch-Ducal houses to the lesser, but still ancient, noble lineages. Our sectors were divided not by wealth, but by the generational accumulation of arcane power and political influence. My House, Thorne, belonged to the more established, if not paramount, sectors. An only heir, reared amidst minor privileges and carefully cultivated expectations, I grasped early the subtle cunning required to navigate our world. This intellectual dexterity, a gift passed down through generations of scholarly mages, felt like a meager coin against Lysander’s ducal coffers of inherent power. Once I confirmed Lysander belonged to the most potent faction of the Collegium, a scion of the Arch-Ducal Valerius line, my internal justifications solidified. That assurance allowed me to approach him without hesitation. We became, in the peculiar lexicon of our world, allies. Just as my mind excelled in arcane architecture, devising intricate spell constructs, Lysander’s strength lay in raw, unbridled application. He swiftly gathered around him the most ambitious and formidable young scions, and within the span of a single Lumina cycle, he sat atop the hierarchy of our entire cohort. That was how Lysander Valerius became the undisputed power in the Lyra Sector. *** The polished obsidian door of Lysander’s private chambers remained sealed, mocking the ache in my gut, until my fingers unconsciously pressed against the phantom hunger. Then, a soft click. The door slid open just enough for a sliver of Lysander’s flushed skin to appear. His crimson-stained hand released the panel, which began to glide shut once more. Desperate, I slipped through the narrow gap before it could fully seal. Inside, Lysander was already lounging on a cushioned divan. His silken robes lay discarded on the floor, leaving him bare-chested, a small, intricate arcane focus clutched in one hand, which he absently turned over and over. “Damn. My Sire’s hounds are snapping again. If he attempts an aether-link, just tell him we were poring over transfiguration matrices.” He flicked the crystalline focus, its light glinting on his bare chest. He didn’t activate the spell it contained, but his languid posture spoke of recent, exhilarating exertions. My stomach felt a raw, unpleasant twist. I pressed a hand to it, moving closer. Plucking the focus from his grasp, I spoke, my voice sharper than intended. “Why should I?” “Because we are… confidantes.” Right. Confidantes. The way he drew out the word, imbueing it with a casual intimacy that felt utterly false, always tore at something deep within me. My chest tightened, a familiar pressure. Yet, my expression remained meticulously serene. “Understand that such favors incur a debt, Valerius. I shall collect it.” “Appreciated, Thorne.” Air in the chamber hung heavy with the cloying sweetness of an exotic moonbloom elixir and the clean, subtle scent of refined enchantress’s essence. Such distinguishing perfumes, I only learned to identify through Lysander. Rumors among the Collegium’s lesser scions whispered of his early dalliances. He’d reportedly engaged in his first forbidden union within the hallowed training grounds, an impulsive act with a minor enchantress from the Shadowed House of Nocturne. The scandal was legendary, whispered behind cupped hands. His appearance, even in his youth, defied his years. Lysander’s bold, refined features, inherited from generations of Valerius Arch-Dukes, gave him an air of seasoned command. Most who encountered him mistook him for a fully initiated Arch-Magus, not a mere student. Upon entering the Lumina Arcane, he openly frequented restricted arcane dens and high-society pleasure domes, using forged House seals acquired through his vast network. He confidently presented them as his own, captivating powerful enchantresses and making clandestine liaisons a regular diversion. His striking allure, a potent natural charisma, served as the perfect veil for his hedonistic tendencies. Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth were not flawless, yet coalesced, they formed an inexplicably captivating visage. His aura was so potent, so inherently sophisticated, no one believed him to be merely a student; most assumed he was at least twenty-five cycles old. My gaze drifted, feigning interest in the intricate spell-runes etched into the chamber walls. The lingering atmosphere of his escapade curdled my gut with faint nausea. “Where is Kaelen Varr?” “He departed.” “...” “That scoundrel, Varr. He’s utterly mad, however you appraise him. A ridiculous creature.” Lysander rested his chin upon his hand, a soft laugh rumbling in his chest. I merely frowned. Kaelen Varr was the second individual whose presence grated on my very soul. He allied with Lysander only in our second year. As much as I loathed to admit it, their constant proximity, their shared triumphs, made their bond undeniable. While Lysander was the paramount power in Lyra Sector, Kaelen Varr held an equally fearsome reputation in the Serpent’s Reach, his own House faction. Still, our paths rarely crossed. The only times I observed him were in the Grand Refectory, a shared dining hall for all Collegium sectors. Once, a junior scion nudged my arm, whispering, “That’s Kaelen Varr.” Intrigued, I rose onto the balls of my feet. Amidst the sea of dark-robed students, a tall, sharply defined figure stood out. His very presence seemed to consume the ambient light. I knew it was him immediately. “He possesses a singularly unpleasant disposition,” I murmured. One of Lysander’s close associates, standing nearby, replied, “Indeed, a rather acerbic temperament. They say he’s utterly self-centered.” A tight smirk touched my lips, though I offered only a dismissive nod. As much as I wished to deny it, I understood the strange rivalry, the inherent pull, that bound him and Lysander. It fueled my dislike for Varr, yet I found myself unable to look away. A dazzling gloom—that was my first, visceral impression of Kaelen Varr. By chance, our gazes collided. It was uncanny that he noticed my scrutiny amidst the throng of the refectory. His long, dark eyes and thin, piercing pupils left an indelible mark. Reflexively, I flinched, as if struck by a tangible force. ‘What are you staring at?’ He must have read my lips, for he narrowed one eye, a silent challenge. Honestly, I felt a flicker of intimidation, so I feigned indifference, turning away. Then, loud enough for my companion to hear, I stated, “He carries the essence of a viper.” Thereafter, Kaelen Varr and I frequently met each other’s eyes, only to pointedly ignore one another. Whenever our gazes locked, he would lower his head, then look up again, catching my eye once more. More often than not, he was the first to disengage, though I found myself following suit on occasion. I lost count after the eighteenth such exchange. *** As if by some orchestrated turn of fate, Lysander and I were assigned to the same advanced arcane theory cohort in our second year. While a secret thrill stirred beneath my carefully composed exterior, a familiar, unwelcome face materialized. It was truly astonishing—and utterly infuriating. For the first time, I gained an unhindered view of the face behind the infamous reputation: Kaelen Varr. It was Kaelen Varr who addressed me first. “Thorne. Care to share a research table?” Confound it all. As everyone within the Collegium had anticipated, Lysander and Kaelen quickly forged an alliance. Lysander, ever one to revel in the presence of formidable power, found in Kaelen Varr a suitable counterpart. Varr was undeniably potent, highly regarded within his own House faction, and possessed a cunning that rivaled even Lysander’s. Their reluctant friendship, their uneasy truce, was an inevitable development. Whispers often circulated through the lecture halls: if Lysander Valerius and Kaelen Varr ever truly clashed, who would emerge victorious? From my perspective, a direct confrontation would never occur. While Lysander and I were outwardly antithetical, Lysander and Kaelen were remarkably similar in their ambition and the raw force of their arcane abilities. Yet, a subtle, profound distinction existed between them. Kaelen Varr possessed an almost archaic adherence to arcane principles, a strange, rigid propriety. Despite the prominent, almost ragged, arcane sigils etched into his earlobes, he sometimes exhibited an unexpected fastidiousness. For instance, when Lysander was consumed by an ephemeral desire, he would simply choose an enchantress and secure her presence for the night. Later, when questioned about his nocturnal escapades, he would proudly recount his steamy, pre-dawn adventures. In contrast, Kaelen Varr would mock the typical lewd remarks about illicit embraces, sometimes with a cutting edge. He once conjured an illusory pig, grotesque and distended, pressing it against a particularly boorish scion’s chest, making the victim scream in disgust. “This phantom pig possesses more ample endowments than most courtesans. Perhaps you should direct your affections there instead. And truly, your disposition is dire. Cultivate some decorum, Valerius. Cease parading your base urges—it’s offensive to the very essence of arcane propriety.” Even his crude remarks were laced with an acerbic wit, a peculiar blend of disdain and ancient moralizing. Yet, given the opportunity, Kaelen Varr would utter something entirely baffling, such as, “My purity of focus is reserved for the Arch-Magus of my future, my chosen master.” That, precisely, was the difference. Lysander once casually offered to forge a decree for Kaelen, granting him access to a highly restricted arcane archive—an offer he had never extended to me. Kaelen Varr dismissed it, declaring it a “blatant disregard for ritualistic protocol” and refused. Lysander’s retinue found Kaelen Varr’s eccentricities entertaining. I, however, did not. The reason was simple: he was close to Lysander. And they moved through the Collegium like inseparable confidantes. That alone was sufficient cause for my seething animosity. It was a cold, quiet jealousy. Still, I maintained a facade of cordiality with Kaelen Varr. One of my greatest strengths lay in concealing my true sentiments, regardless of the circumstance. Besides, his proximity to Lysander was undeniable. Yes, every intricate facet of my social existence revolved around Lysander Valerius. To be candid, there were more days when self-loathing consumed me for this utter dependency than there were moments when I considered Lysander himself. I often felt like a hollow automaton. Yet, despite this internal torment, I remained unchanged. While Lysander tossed a few casual instructions my way before disappearing into a concealed bathing chamber, I sat, lost in thought. A few minutes later, the faint chime of an aether-link echoed through the room. Fresh from his ablutions, Lysander plucked his secure comm-sphere from the divan and tossed it to me. I caught it. From the other end, the resonant voice of his Sire, Duke Valerius, filled the air. Clearing my throat, I answered, my voice modulated to perfection. Why did I always strive for such impossible composure? “Yes, Thorne speaking.” “Thorne? Are you currently with Lysander?” “Indeed, I am.” “Ah, I see. My concern was unfounded. I feared Lysander might be indulging in another of his… diversions. You possess a most agreeable timbre, Thorne.” “My thanks, Arch-Duke.” “No, truly. How fares your own research?” “It progresses well, Arch-Duke. And your Grace?” “Likewise. Your elocution is exemplary. If only Lysander possessed a fraction of your decorum. That boy lacks all semblance of propriety. So, you were engaged in joint study?” “Yes. Lysander must have neglected to inform your Grace. He has been intensely occupied with preparing for the upcoming Arch-Magus Conclave.” “So, you have been engaged in this joint research the entire duration?” “Yes. He has remained within my presence this entire time.” “Well, that is a profound relief. If he is under your guidance, Thorne, I can rest assured.” “It is truly nothing of consequence, Arch-Duke.” “No, it is significant. With you, he is incapable of true mischief.” “Truly, it is no burden. I shall ensure his safe escort to the morrow’s lectures.” “Excellent. Watch over him, Thorne. Maintain your alliance; do not falter.” “Yes, of course. Farewell, Arch-Duke.” Lies, woven with elegant precision, flowed from my tongue without effort. Ending the link, I tossed the comm-sphere back to Lysander. He mumbled a perfunctory “Thanks,” as he donned fresh robes. Without another word, I turned to depart. Lysander made no move to detain me. “Until the next session,” he offered, his voice devoid of true connection. Such was the expected conclusion. This was the precise nature of our transactional bond, the sum of our strained relationship. The vast, unbridgeable chasm between us yawned painfully wide. Perhaps that was why I quickened my stride, a subtle tremor beginning in my throat as I exited the opulent chamber.

A Chasm of Glass and Thorns