A week unfolded, each passing day stretching like a fine, taut cord. Elian Thorne moved through the Grand Collegium’s polished halls with his customary grace, a mask of serene detachment fixed firmly upon his features. Lysander Valerius, in turn, gravitated toward his own retinue, a constellation of minor nobles and ambitious acolytes who orbited his formidable presence. Elian’s calculated indifference was a shield, a performance he perfected, convincing himself that Lysander held no consequence for him.
He spent his leisure hours amidst Kaelen Varr and a scattering of academic acquaintances. These were superficial bonds, nurtured for the precise purpose of maintaining an illusion. The true frustration was the chasm that had opened between Elian and Lysander’s inner circle. No direct currents of information flowed to him anymore. He found himself starved for intelligence, reduced to gleaning stray whispers from Kaelen’s casual observations.
Whenever the need to know became a gnawing ache, Elian sought out Kaelen. His pride, an unyielding monolith, forbade a direct inquiry. Yet, a consuming curiosity burned beneath his composed facade, an ember he stubbornly refused to smother. It was a ridiculous dance.
When Elian steered the conversation toward Lysander, Kaelen would typically be engrossed in his enchanted slate, fingers tracing complex runic patterns for a simulation. He would offer a nonchalant, almost bored reply. “Valerius? Oh, he ventured out again.”
Such an answer left Elian breathless, a silent expletive forming on his tongue. He would clench his jaw, a muscle twitching near his temple. Lysander’s passions were raw, unrestrained—a tempestuous force. He was an archetype of untamed power, a feral prince.
“Presumably another visit to the Arcane Salons,” Elian ventured, his voice smooth, betraying nothing.
Kaelen shifted, twisting his body as if wrestling with a particularly stubborn algorithm on his slate. “No, not this cycle. It was an arranged viewing.”
Kaelen continued, “Lady Seraphina arranged it. You know, the one who persistently petitioned for an introduction to Lysander. Apparently, they found immediate accord. Simply departed together, the instant their gazes met. No hesitation. But the lady herself was no shrinking violet. She acquiesced without a moment’s thought. ‘Certainly, why not!’”
Elian’s hand, resting on the smooth, cool stone of Kaelen’s desk, tightened into a fist. A tremor ran through him. A beat.
“How utterly... unbothered,” Kaelen remarked, a dry curl to his lip. His tone held no admiration, only a subtle, cutting derision. For the first time in days, a sliver of tension eased from Elian’s chest. He perched on the edge of the desk, a light, almost imperceptible squeeze of Kaelen’s shoulder. Kaelen glanced up, then leaned back slightly, granting Elian more room. A small, unspoken acknowledgment of gratitude.
Kaelen was the sole individual among their peers who dared to openly critique Lysander’s often scandalous romantic entanglements. For that, Elian found him tolerable, even valuable.
“They are disgustingly… fluid in their affections,” Elian observed, a faint, brittle smile gracing his lips.
“Quite. I, however, am rather inflexible.” Kaelen’s boastful inflection was so unexpected, Elian found a genuine, if fleeting, laugh escaping him.
“Is one not meant to be ‘inflexible’? Especially as a scholar within the Collegium?”
“There is no ‘meant to be.’ One learns as one navigates the world. Human rationality, after all, is a curious, evolving construct,” Kaelen rejoined, his smirk unwavering as his eyes remained fixed on his arcane display.
“Is that the reason for your enduring celibacy?” Elian teased, leaning closer.
Kaelen finally powered down his slate. His gaze, incredulous but laced with amusement, met Elian’s. He tapped Elian’s hand, still resting on his shoulder.
“I shall report this as intellectual harassment.”
“How is this harassment, Kaelen?”
“If the recipient experiences discomfort, it constitutes harassment.”
“Kaelen, you are a marvel of illogic.”
“Pervert.”
Elian’s slipper, meticulously embroidered with a minor ward of warding, slipped from his foot, striking the polished floor with a soft click. He ignored it, nudging Kaelen’s leg with his stocking-clad foot. Kaelen feigned an exaggerated recoil, then casually raised a hand in a gesture of dismissal, his middle finger extended. His elevated hand revealed the woven talisman, a chain of intricately knotted arcane fibers, always encircling his left wrist. Elian nudged him again, a slight pressure.
“That talisman seems… incongruous on you.”
“Oh? And why is that?” Kaelen’s voice sharpened, a flicker of genuine seriousness in his eyes.
Elian blinked. “It simply does not align with your persona.”
“Does not align? Strange. Do I not project the image of a devout follower of the Arcane?”
“No. It appears merely a decorative affectation.”
“...It is not.”
Reflecting, Elian realized his oversight. Kaelen’s given name itself, a variant of the Saint-Arcanist Caelen, should have been a clue. But Elian had merely considered it an abbreviation for ‘Quiet, Kaelen.’ As it transpired, Kaelen’s lineage boasted generations of devout practitioners. Even more astonishing, Kaelen himself professed deep faith. Yet, Elian could never quite reconcile that claim; Kaelen struggled even to incant a simple blessing.
Throughout the week, Elian assiduously avoided Lysander. When their paths converged in the vast lecture halls, Elian permitted himself a fleeting glimpse before averting his gaze. The courage to initiate contact remained elusive. Perhaps he feared losing. The notion that affection rendered one vulnerable, a pathetic conceit, bothered him immensely. Still, even acknowledging its absurdity, he could not bring himself to speak.
Lysander’s cousin, Rhys Thorne—a distant branch of Elian’s own lineage—often sought Elian out. Elian, being the only one who offered a civil response, endured the interactions. But the fresh arcane burns and purpling bruises appearing daily on Rhys’s face were stark evidence. Lysander continued his covert assaults, a territorial beast marking its prey.
When Elian’s brow furrowed at the sight of new injuries, Rhys would instinctively turn his head, attempting to conceal the marks. His shame was palpable.
Four more days bled into the next. One hushed morning, alone in the classroom, Elian buried his face in his hands. He wanted no part of the grim spectacle unfolding around him.
The distance separating him from Lysander grew starker. What had begun as a mere rift now felt like an unbridgeable chasm of despair. To open his eyes, Elian felt, was to risk being swallowed whole. Rhys’s swollen eyes, the bruises like dark seals upon his skin, were a constant, glaring reminder. He recoiled from confronting either of them. He yearned to simply vanish.
Then, as if fate had momentarily granted him clemency, Rhys Thorne ceased attending the Collegium. Arcanist Mentor Solara termed it an ‘absence,’ but the hesitation in her voice, the faint tremor, betrayed the truth: truancy. Elian almost permitted himself a silent, triumphant cheer.
Lysander, by contrast, spent classes tapping impatiently at his whisper-shard, snapping irritable retorts, or even delivering a swift, crackling arcane shock to a lackey who dared to speak out of turn. A smirk touched Elian’s lips. Part of him felt a profound satisfaction. Another part savored a peculiar sense of intellectual superiority. He convinced himself that soon, once Rhys Thorne officially transferred or simply faded from memory, Lysander would relinquish his peculiar fixation and turn his attention back to Elian. Bolstered by this conviction, Elian waited, a patient predator.
Several more days drifted by in this fashion.
“Lysander Valerius seems quite diminished,” Kaelen remarked offhandedly one afternoon. A sudden, heavy thud echoed within Elian’s chest. His first instinct was to pivot, to seek out Lysander’s face, to observe. But he could not. When it came to matters of the heart, Elian was a profound coward. All he could do was absorb Kaelen’s words and construct an image of Lysander’s alleged despondency within his mind’s eye.
Yet, nothing outwardly changed. The day wore on, and all classes concluded. Elian reassured himself. There would be another opportunity tomorrow. Such complex dynamics rarely shifted in an instant. He continued to wait. As the final lesson ended and he was slinging his satchel over his shoulder, Kaelen’s voice broke the quiet with an unexpected query.
“You had a disagreement with Lysander Valerius, didn’t you?”
Elian turned, a reflex born of surprise.
“I did.”
“Do not tell me you still haven’t resolved that… incident in the Refectory?”
Elian remained silent, his gaze dropping to the intricate patterns on the floor tiles.
“My word, this has persisted longer than I anticipated,” Kaelen said, shrugging, his hands tucked into his robe pockets. Elian avoided Kaelen’s direct stare, offering a carefully constructed excuse.
“To be entirely candid, Lysander exceeded a reasonable boundary. I find myself discomfited by such blatant coercion. It is simply… irregular, you understand?”
“What is?”
“...Well, Rhys Thorne is a male, is he not?”
“And?”
“The manner in which Lysander treats Rhys is… it is profoundly unsettling. Given they are both of the same gender, such fervent and protracted attention seems… distasteful. I merely wish he would cease.”
“Remarkable.” Kaelen’s voice was flat.
Elian felt a flush creep up his neck. He knew his true motivation was jealousy, not moral outrage.
“You are undoubtedly destined for the Arcane Pantheon,” Kaelen added, his response to Elian’s carefully phrased ‘kindness’ dripping with an acid sarcasm.
Annoyed by Kaelen’s malicious tone, Elian fixed him with a sharp, cold stare. Kaelen, however, remained unperturbed, merely offering a sardonic smirk. Witnessing that expression, Elian felt a sudden, mortifying sensation of exposure. His face burned. He spun on his heel, turning his back on Kaelen’s knowing grin, and strode from the classroom.
He hurried down the echoing hallway, intent on making his escape from the Collegium. Abruptly, a hand settled upon his shoulder. Assuming it was Kaelen, returning for a final, japing remark, Elian spun around, irritation simmering, and sharply dislodged the hand. But it was not Kaelen. It was Arcanist Mentor Solara. Startled, Elian swiftly recomposed his features.
“My apologies, Elian. Did I alarm you?” Mentor Solara’s voice was soft, laced with concern.
“Oh, no, Mentor. It is quite well. I was merely… startled.”
“I see. I am truly sorry, but… might I speak with you for a moment?” Her gaze was earnest.
“Mentor?”
“Only for a brief span. Please.”
The young Arcanist Mentor’s expression was uncharacteristically grave. Elian nodded, a ripple of unease stirring within him.
“Today, Elian, Lysander Valerius requested Rhys Thorne’s residence coordinates,” Mentor Solara began, her voice cautious, almost a murmur.
“Lysander Valerius?” Elian’s tone was carefully neutral.
As the Arcanist Mentor, Solara could not possibly be ignorant of the bullying that pervaded the class. Yet, she lacked the overt authority or perhaps the political will to directly challenge the toxic atmosphere Lysander cultivated. Still, she possessed enough conscience not to entirely disregard it. The very act of seeking Elian out to discuss Rhys underscored this.
“I am not accusing or blaming Valerius, but…”
“No, Mentor, I comprehend. I do not find his request unusual,” Elian interjected smoothly, cutting her off. A flicker of triumph ignited within him. He was the favored scholar, the one who navigated the subtle currents of the Collegium with discerning intellect.
“Well, given your past instances of concern for young Rhys, I wondered if you might… accompany Valerius to his residence. Do you discern my meaning?” Mentor Solara’s plea was almost palpable.
Elian could not respond immediately. His teeth clenched, an almost imperceptible tremor running through him. The potent, unsettling currents of Lysander’s fixation on Rhys seemed to swirl, reaching for Elian, threatening to ensnare his feet, to hold him captive. He balled his fists, the knuckles white. He could not, would not, allow himself to be a passive participant in this tableau.
“Might I… instead obtain Rhys Thorne’s communication shard coordinates?” Elian asked, his voice steady despite the tempest within.
“Ah, yes, of course. Here, allow me. Endeavor to contact him first.” Mentor Solara seemed relieved.
“Indeed. I shall speak with him. Do not overly concern yourself.”
“Very well. I am relying on you, Elian.”
“Naturally.”
Outwardly, Elian maintained his serene composure. Internally, a frantic calculus of avoidance and intervention spun through his brilliant mind. Mentor Solara, looking somewhat awkward, extracted Rhys Thorne’s private coordinates from an attendance scroll, then retreated down the hallway.
Elian had to prevent Lysander Valerius from encountering Rhys Thorne. He absolutely had to derail Lysander’s strange, possessive obsession from escalating further. The instant Mentor Solara vanished, Elian drew his whisper-shard, its polished surface reflecting the faint light. He immediately initiated a connection to Rhys’s coordinates. His leg jiggled nervously, an unconscious habit. His hand clenched and unclenched as he waited. To his surprise, the connection materialized swiftly.
“...Hello?” A youthful voice, tentative and frail.
“It is I, Elian Thorne. This is Rhys Thorne, yes?” As Rhys’s voice registered, Elian spoke quickly, decisively. A sudden clang reverberated through the shard—something falling, striking another object, followed by a soft rustling. A pause. Then, Rhys’s voice returned, laced with astonishment.
“E-Elian? Elian! W-why… How… how did you acquire my coordinates? Did you… already possess them?”
“No. Mentor Solara informed me that Lysander Valerius requested your domicile coordinates today. So I asked for yours.”
A breathy silence stretched across the connection.
“I merely wished to issue a caution. Exercise prudence.”
“W-what of you? Are you unharmed? Even when you try to… intervene…” Rhys’s concern was faint, almost spectral.
“Do not fret over my person. Attend to your own welfare. Should you require further absence from the Collegium, contact this shard. I shall intercede with Mentor Solara. My word carries some weight, believe it or not.”
“...Thank you.” The gratitude in Rhys’s voice felt like an unwelcome burden.
“If Valerius attempts to harass you or employ arcane coercion at the Collegium, inform me immediately. If you cannot speak directly, a simple tap on my shoulder will suffice. It is more arduous to mend what has already been shattered.”
“Understood…”
“Honestly, a transfer to a lesser collegium would be the most judicious course.” Elian slipped that suggestion in, hoping it would resonate with gravity.
Another silence, prolonged.
“In any event, consider it. For now, either feign absence from your residence or seek refuge far afield.”
“O-okay…”
“Very well. I shall sever the connection.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Elian.” After a lengthy hesitation, Rhys’s voice drifted through the connection, soft and tremulous. A peculiar disquiet settled in Elian’s stomach. “T-thank you for always offering your aid…”
“It is nothing.” Elian’s reply was clipped.
“I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. Farewell.”
“Indeed.”
“...Goodbye.”
Goodbye? Elian did not bother with a response, cutting the connection. The mere timbre of Rhys’s voice, imbued with that unsettling gratitude, had been enough to send a shiver down Elian’s spine, leaving him thoroughly unsettled.
What transpired for Rhys Thorne that night, Elian could not say. All he knew was that from the very next cycle, Rhys returned to the Collegium. And within a week, the faint, unblemished glow characteristic of youthful skin began to reappear on his face. Rhys also ceased his sudden approaches to Elian, his demeanor shifting dramatically, becoming more circumspect.
The abrupt alteration in Rhys’s behavior planted potent seeds of suspicion within Elian’s mind. And when all traces of arcane bruising finally vanished from Rhys’s visage, Elian could not help but feel a faint, albeit illogical, sense of hope—however unlikely its fruition.
Then, two weeks later, Lysander Valerius approached Elian, his presence a sudden, weighty shadow.
“Thorne.”
Elian’s posture remained rigidly composed. His gaze fixed ahead.
“Elian Thorne.” Lysander’s voice was a low rumble.
Still, Elian did not turn. His lips, however, felt as if they might split open with a sharp, involuntary gasp at any moment. Could it be? Had Lysander Valerius finally exhausted his interest in Rhys Thorne?