Two days after that suffocating declaration, a small, folded vellum note materialised amidst the scrolls and satchels of my private cubby in the Scholarium’s scriptorium. It bore no crest, no official seal, only my name penned in a delicate, almost hesitant script.
“Could you convene in the Arcanum Archives Annex before Arcane Praxis this afternoon?”
A fleeting thought, a wisp of absurdity, suggested it might be a confession. Yet, the notion evaporated as swiftly as it arose. This was the Scholarium Arcanae, an institution of profound learning and rigorous discipline, not a place for such frivolous sentiment, least of all between male scholars. The idea was preposterous, swiftly dismissed.
Truly, I forgot the missive entirely until just before the fourth period, the dreaded Arcane Praxis. My mind, usually a fortress of meticulous recall, had been unusually fragmented, still reeling from the indelible press of Lysander’s lips against my foot.
Donning the simpler, more resilient robes for practical spellcasting, I made my way towards the Archives Annex. A vague curiosity stirred, a subtle tremor of anticipation, though I reasoned it held no significant import. However, the sender of the note, when he revealed himself in the dust-moted gloom, was precisely the individual I had unconsciously dreaded: Lysander Vayne, his dark hair precisely combed, his gaze timidly averted.
“Lysander?”
Voice laced with an unbidden weariness, I spoke his name. His small head, previously bowed in contemplation of his manicured nails, snapped up. A faint, hopeful smile touched his lips, mirroring the unsettling brightness he'd worn upon his initial transfer. An immediate, visceral annoyance tightened my jaw.
“What is it, Lysander? Why this sudden summons?”
My question hung in the air, sharp and demanding. Lysander’s plump fingers twisted together, a nervous habit I found profoundly irritating.
“Elian… I… there is something I must convey…”
“Well? Speak it then.”
I yearned to depart, to dissolve into the anonymity of the Scholarium’s crowded halls. The thought of being seen alone with him, entangled in the whispers of peculiar connections, was unbearable. My interactions with Lysander had always been carefully calibrated—just enough mentorship to appear morally upright, never enough to invite true intimacy, or suspicion.
Oblivious to my internal turmoil, Lysander gnawed at his thumb, his eyes darting around the vaulted space of the Annex. His face was a shifting canvas of indecision and resolve. Each time he seemed on the precipice of speech, his mouth clamped shut.
Silence stretched, taut and suffocating. My irritation, a slow burn beneath my composed exterior, began to flare. Lysander, from our first encounter, had always been an irritant, a minor discord in the careful harmony of my existence. Every gesture, every nervous twitch, only exacerbated my dislike. His small mouth worked hesitantly—an action others might find endearing, but to me, it was an unbearable delay. Perhaps my own sensitivities were heightened.
“Look, I regret to rush you, but Arcane Praxis awaits. Could you simply articulate your message?”
To exacerbate matters, my composure felt particularly fragile today. My thoughts were a tangled skein of frustration and an indefinable unease.
Perhaps my anger wasn’t truly directed at Lysander. Perhaps I merely sought an outlet, a target for the burgeoning storm within. My stomach, a tempestuous oracle of my anxieties, had been in constant turmoil of late, each new ache a fresh knot of stress.
Lost in these spiraling thoughts, I watched as Lysander finally seemed to gather his resolve. His voice, when it emerged, was a whisper of stammered syllables.
“Uh, Elian… I… you see, I…”
“Yes?”
My response was perfunctory, a dismissive scratch at my neck. The bell for Praxis would sound any moment; I wished he would simply unburden himself. A perverse urge flickered, to pry open his hesitant lips and extract the words myself.
Then, with a jarring abruptness, the heavy oak door of the Annex was wrenched open. Both Lysander and I flinched, turning as one. We met the furious, breathless gaze of Kaelen. No, Kaelen’s eyes were not on me; they were fixed solely on Lysander.
“Hmph, hmph…”
His ragged breathing gave him away. Kaelen had been running, undoubtedly searching. A suffocating pressure tightened my chest as I pictured him scouring the Scholarium for Lysander.
Kaelen exhaled a long, sibilant breath, then strode purposefully into the Annex. Unconsciously, my hand dropped from my neck. His gaze flickered between Lysander and me, his expression hardening into a fierce scowl.
“Why are you here with him?”
The question, raw and accusatory, hung in the air. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
Beneath my outward calm, my insides churned, a frantic, sickening pounding. After a prolonged, agonizing silence, Kaelen’s eyes finally landed on me. I couldn’t bear the way he looked at me—it was a gaze of searing accusation.
“What in the Lumina’s name, Kaelen.”
Please, I begged silently. Do not look at me like that. Blame Lysander; he summoned me. Why this searing resentment for me, your former confidant? I was merely an unwitting participant in this wretched charade.
Even as I pleaded with myself, Kaelen’s burning gaze remained locked on my face. These were not the eyes of passion or fervent loyalty, no. These were the eyes of someone consumed by white-hot rage, by corrosive jealousy, by a nascent madness. This was the countenance of a man unhinged by a possessive fixation—a face I found both pitiable and utterly contemptible.
“Why are you here with him!”
You look pathetic, Kaelen. So utterly pathetic. My own glare, I knew, mirrored his intensity. Yet, in some insidious way, I felt that the truly pathetic one was not Kaelen, but me.
Before I could process the sudden shift, Kaelen’s long strides had brought him directly before me. The moment I met his enraged gaze, the world tilted, a violent, disorienting shock.
“...!”
I couldn’t even grasp what had occurred. My body toppled, striking the cold stone floor, and only then did my mind replay the impossible sequence of events.
“No… he wouldn’t…”
He struck me.
Kaelen struck me.
Lying prostrate, I brought trembling fingers to my stinging cheek. Disbelief curdled into a cold horror. How could he… how could he do this to me, Elian Thorne?
“E-Elian!”
“You craven fool! I told you to abandon his name! No, do not even speak—do not even breathe near him, you wretched sycophant!” Kaelen screamed, his voice raw with fury, like a man possessed. Lysander, horrified, had lurched towards me, but Kaelen’s furious outburst froze him. Lysander’s face, already pale, turned ashen.
“I-I’m deeply sorry, I’m truly sorry.”
“You vowed! You swore an oath, damn you!”
Lysander recoiled, tears gathering in his eyes. Yet, no. It was not Lysander who should weep. It was I.
A hot, stinging sensation gathered behind my own eyes, threatening to breach the fragile dam of my composure. Mercifully, before I could break, Kaelen cursed with a chilling ferocity and stormed out, dragging a bewildered Lysander by the arm. The entire devastating encounter unfolded in a blur of terrifying speed.
Left alone, a crumpled heap on the Archives floor, I stared at the half-open door. A thin shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom, illuminating dancing motes of dust. Something within me finally fractured. The carefully constructed facade, the dam holding back a torrent of raw emotion, burst. Tears flowed freely, hot and humiliating.
I despised everything. Lysander, who had drawn me into this sordid melodrama. Kaelen, who had dared to lay a hand upon me. I wished them both to simply vanish, to be erased from my meticulously ordered existence. A profound misery settled upon me, the crushing weight of being reduced to a mere pawn, a collateral casualty in their twisted, obsessive dance.
Rising shakily, I abandoned Arcane Praxis. I headed directly to the Magistrar’s office, requesting an early dismissal. My face, already swelling and reddening, lent credence to my fabricated excuse of sudden illness. The Magistrar, a portly man with tired eyes, seemed to understand, offering a sympathetic nod without prying.
---
Returning to the hushed sanctity of my family’s city residence, I collapsed onto my bed, seeking oblivion in sleep. When I awoke, hours later, my face felt puffy and tender, a throbbing testament to Kaelen’s rage. Out of ingrained habit, I checked my portable scry-slate. A message glowed, sent hours ago, from Theron. We rarely exchanged personal missives, but our connection through Kaelen had necessitated occasional communication. Damn it.
For anyone else, I would have ignored the communication entirely. But Theron was not just ‘anyone.’ He was Kaelen’s trusted associate, a man of considerable influence within the Scholarium’s intricate social hierarchy. I could not afford such a slight.
“Elian, when did you abscond?”
A click of my tongue, a sigh of exasperation. I responded belatedly to his three-hour-old query.
“Ha, a sudden indisposition befell me.”
I deliberately kept my tone light, my words vague. The thought of anyone discovering Kaelen had physically assaulted me, and worse, the reason for it—Lysander—was utterly, unbearably humiliating. It would shatter the carefully crafted image of composure and control I presented to the world.
“Are you quite well?” Theron’s reply came swiftly.
Theron, displaying concern? An unfamiliar disquiet settled within me. The strangeness of it prompted me to power down my scry-slate.
Hours later, a wave of profound sadness washed over me. Even Theron’s unexpected concern felt… suffocating. Other scholars, my study partners, had also sent perfunctory inquiries, but none of them offered the solace I craved. None of them, I realised with a pang, were Kaelen.
No one seeking me out included Kaelen. I must be losing my mind, to still yearn for his attention after such an egregious act. Yet, I consoled myself with a bitter resignation, believing this was merely the pathetic fate of one consumed by an unrequited, maddening longing. Even armed with this self-awareness, I lay there like an idiot, doing what I did best—closing my eyes, turning a blind eye to the stark, crushing reality.
“…I am not the sole one.”
Perhaps Lysander and I shared a similar plight. That strange, twisted, grotesque thought lingered, taking root. A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with it. While staring blankly at the ornate ceiling of my chamber, another message vibrated through my scry-slate. It was from an unfamiliar number.
“Elian, do you feel greatly unwell?”
A frown creased my brow. Which of my peers would address me with such familiarity? Theron? But this was not his encrypted signature. Before I could ponder further, a follow-up message arrived, relentless and infuriating.
“I am truly sorry. Profoundly sorry. It is all due to my indiscretion.”
“I am sorry.”
“Please, forgive me.”
Whether it was three words or four, each syllable made a scream rise in my throat. I hurled my scry-slate onto the plush carpet in frustration. How had this wretched fool acquired my personal identification number? And how could one who supposedly possessed no personal communicator be sending me these persistent missives?
Then, the answer struck me with a sickening clarity. Oh. I had called him before, hadn’t I? When I first offered to guide his studies, when I foolishly believed I could control the narrative.
I cursed my own idiotic oversight, exhaling a ragged, angry sigh. To vent my frustration, I pounded my fists against the silken bedding for a while, until sheer exhaustion overtook me and I drifted into a fitful slumber. Just before my thoughts completely dissolved into darkness, one final message, unread, echoed in my mind.
“Please, do not despise me.”
How amusing. I had already despised him for months.
Next morning, upon waking, my face was swollen like a blighted moonfruit.
---
I skipped the Scholarium. No matter how diligently I pursued my studies, how meticulously I maintained my academic standing, I possessed insufficient passion to present such a disfigured countenance to my peers.
Stewardess Ilara, our household arcanist, prepared my midday meal. As I ate, she could not resist a gentle scolding, urging me to exercise greater caution. The meal itself was unexceptional—a simple, soothing broth with steamed greens. I swallowed it all quickly, with little appetite, scarcely bothering to chew.
Setting down my spoon, I reached for a glass of water just as Ilara returned to clear the dishes. With a plate held in one hand, she spoke.
“Elian, a friend has arrived.”
“What?”
“Shall I admit them?”
A friend. My heart gave a strange, unexpected flutter. Before I could even identify the emotion, my mind had already begun to conjure an image of who might be standing beyond our polished oak door.
Could it be… Kaelen?
It seemed a wild, improbable fantasy, yet it wasn’t entirely impossible. Few from the Scholarium had ever visited my private residence. Among my sparse circle of acquaintances, only a handful knew my address. If it were him, he must have come to offer an apology, finally consumed by guilt for his unprecedented act. Kaelen had never struck me before, not once in all our years. Yes, he must be wracked with worry, with regret.
“Yes, please, admit them.”
The fantasy solidified into a fragile certainty. Even as I chastised myself for such naiveté, I couldn’t help but feel a small, private satisfaction. Despite the violence, despite the betrayal, I was still important to him, in some undeniable way. That thought filled me with an inexplicable, fleeting warmth. My pace quickened with a surge of anxious excitement as I turned towards the front door.
But the person awaiting me was not who I had so desperately hoped.
“Yo, what’s amiss, Thorne?”
Theron’s sharp-featured face greeted me with a playful smirk, a small, intricate box of crystallised sugarplums held aloft. Yet, as his eyes met mine, the smirk vanished, replaced by an unusually serious expression.
“By the Lumina, what happened to your countenance?”
My knees nearly buckled from the sudden, crushing weight of disappointment. A bitter question rose in my throat: How did Theron, of all people, even know where I resided?
“A mishap. A stumble,” I replied, my voice flat, devoid of emotion.
Theron frowned, twisting his lips in that characteristic manner he adopted before delivering a sarcastic remark.
“Still as clumsy as ever, eh, Thorne?”
I offered no argument. I merely rubbed my swollen face, a dull ache throbbing near my cheekbone. A fresh wave of embarrassment washed over me, burning hot. I was such an idiot. Kaelen clearly did not consider me important, not truly. And here I had been, wagging my tail like a hopeful, pathetic hound—a complete, utter moron.
“Here, take this.”
Theron pressed the small, ornate box into my hand. I accepted it, immediately lifting the lid to inspect the contents.
“…They are citron-infused.”
“Are they? Scarcely noticed.”
“Predictable. Your attention is always elsewhere.”
“Sharp words, Thorne. For a man with a face like a bruised plum.”
“What, precisely, brings you to my threshold?”
“What do you surmise? A wellness check. May I enter?”
Without waiting for an answer, his long legs carried him directly into the house.
“Where is your sanctum, Thorne?”
“Hold, Theron!”
“Where else? Your residence holds but so many chambers.”
“….”
I had no retort, no clever dismissal. He was right; the architecture of aristocratic homes, for all their grandeur, followed predictable patterns. Feeling profoundly awkward, I trailed behind Theron, who seemed strangely intent on inspecting the interior of my family’s abode.