A faint, silvery film coated Elian’s cheek, the residue of the alchemical unguent. Divine grace, perhaps, or merely the meticulous work of a master healer. The profound swelling had receded, leaving only a subtle discoloration, a bruise like twilight’s last breath. An injury easily dismissed, a minor mishap in the boisterous halls of the Scholarium Lumina. It was manageable. His heart, for the first time in days, felt lighter. Yet, as he stepped into the main chamber of his study group, the air grew thick, oppressive. The reason was clear: Lord Kaelen Volkov, a presence as imposing as a storm-wrought fortress. Elian’s gaze swept the room, seeking Rhys Aerthos. He arrived just as the first bell chimed, narrowly escaping a demerit. Rhys, usually vibrant despite his subservient status, moved with a haunting reluctance. Elian froze, his breath catching. He’d half-wished, with a fleeting, bitter thought, that Kaelen’s ire might have touched Rhys too. But seeing him now, an acid tide of guilt surged. Rhys’s face was a ruin. Lips split, one eye swollen to a grotesque violet orb, worse even than Elian’s own injury had been. A suffocating shame constricted Elian’s throat. He loathed himself for such a base, childish sentiment. “By the Lumina…” Elian whispered, the words catching on a breath. Rhys entered the chamber hesitantly, his eyes darting like trapped sparrows. Then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, his gaze locked with Elian’s. He stared, frozen, a startled grimace twisting his features. He averted his eyes sharply, shuffling to his allocated bench, avoiding Elian entirely. “What in the Void…” That peculiar avoidance left Elian cold. Instinctively, he glanced around. The reason solidified into a palpable wave of malice. Kaelen Volkov watched him, his glare sharper than any arcane blade, promising retribution. “Ah, damnation.” He should have remained sequestered in his archives. Regret, a heavy cloak, draped over him. --- After that grim morning, Rhys, who had once sought Elian’s mentorship with an almost desperate eagerness, now avoided even eye contact during the brief respite between lessons. During the midday meal, he vanished with Kaelen, their destination unknown. Isolated, Elian found himself at a solitary repast, eventually joined by Joric Veil. A frantic energy urged him to seek them out, to understand. But a deeper, colder fear held him captive. He hated to admit it, but he dreaded what horrors he might uncover. Surely, Kaelen wouldn’t inflict further harm. Not after Rhys’s already shattered visage. Yet, the memory of those injuries made the possibility impossible to dismiss. Joric, ever the jester, prattled on, oblivious to the tempest brewing within Elian’s meticulously ordered mind. “Still feeling that arcane static? It was thick enough to choke on in there.” “You seemed quite content devouring crystallized mana-fruit yesterday.” “Give me some credit, Elian. I am a master of serene composure, even amidst the most unsettling political currents.” Joric winked, a disarming smile on his lips. “One must maintain one’s sugar levels, after all.” Annoyed, Elian nudged Joric’s calf with his foot as the other laughed at his own jest. Joric rubbed his chin, a flicker of something resembling sheepishness in his eyes—or so Elian imagined. That couldn’t be right, not for Joric. --- Life possessed an unpredictable, chaotic elegance. From their first reluctant introduction, Elian had held no desire to foster intimacy with Joric Veil. Indeed, his initial impression of the man had been one of mild disdain. Yet, here they were, an unexpected alliance, a fragile anchor in Elian’s tumultuous world. Joric’s effortless levity, his flippant remarks, possessed a peculiar ability to prevent Elian from sinking too deeply into the crushing weight of his own thoughts. In the past, Elian had dismissed these qualities as superficial, trivial. Now, he found himself relying on that very lightness, a buoyant counterpoint to his own crushing intensity. Had Kaelen and he remained bound by their old companionship, Elian might never have recognized this nascent need for Joric’s grounding presence. Following that day, Kaelen Volkov began to isolate himself from their established circle. Sometimes, he’d disappear with Rhys. Other times, a few, carefully chosen others would follow. There were instances, too, when even these select few would refuse, their expressions shadowed with unease. Elian stumbled upon one such refusal near the lesser archives. Kellan, a peer of middling standing, was scaling the low wall separating the student wing from a restricted arcane garden, a clear shortcut to avoid a patrolling Overseer. Kellan explained, with a nervous laugh and a tremor of genuine unease, that Kaelen had been ordering the others to strike Rhys, a ritual of singular blows. Elian’s face tightened in disbelief. Kellan, sensing Elian’s unspoken judgment, quickly added he’d been avoiding Kaelen’s group for days. He then mumbled something about meeting Lysander at a scribal lounge and fled, leaving Elian to his unsettling thoughts. Lysander, once a close confidante of Kaelen during their first year, had since drifted, assigned to a different arcane focus group. During the midday meal, Joric and Elian sought solace in the Grand Quadrangle, purchasing chilled mana-fruit confections from a vendor. The cold sweetness spread across Elian’s tongue, a fleeting balm to his frayed nerves. Yet, beneath that transient relief, a bitter knot of unease tightened, refusing to yield. He held his composure, a meticulously constructed facade. “Is that satisfactory?” Joric, munching on his own brightly colored confection, eyed Elian’s with undisguised hunger. Half-teasing, Elian brought his confection, sticky with the remnants of his saliva, close to Joric’s mouth. Without a flicker of hesitation, Joric smirked, lifted one corner of his lip, and took a substantial bite. “By the Void! You truly consumed that?” Elian exclaimed, genuinely shocked. “You offered.” “Disgusting… and why such a prodigious bite?” “It was merely a morsel.” Joric grinned, shrugging a single shoulder. It was a moment of unexpected, fragile peace. In stark contrast to Elian’s internal turmoil, the crisp autumn air of the Ascendancy was clear and still. Where were Kaelen Volkov and Rhys Aerthos now? A few desolate corners of the Scholarium sprang to mind, yet Elian made no move to search. Perhaps he feared what he might discover. He forced himself not to dwell on Kaelen. Yet, the harder he resisted, the more profoundly he realized the vast dominion Kaelen occupied within his mind. How long would it require to excise such a profound attachment? How much painstaking effort? He had no answer. It felt like an architect lost in a desolate ruin, the sadness and suffocation eclipsed only by a terrifying, unbearable sense of futility. Sometimes, he retreated, much like an observer struggling to discern faint sigils etched on a weathered stone. He stepped back, striving to comprehend the incomprehensible. When the weight became too great, he spoke with Joric. And, well, that was that. “Joric Veil,” Elian suddenly ventured, his voice a low hum. “Hmm?” “Do you believe a forgotten construct, long abandoned to the withering sands of neglect, can ever truly hum with arcane life again?” The question felt so vulnerable, so raw, that a flush of embarrassment warmed Elian’s face. He scratched his head awkwardly. Joric, however, offered no mockery. “It will.” Elian waited. “They must. The Ascendancy is harsh enough as it is.” Hearing such a stark, simple truth from Joric—a person Elian had never imagined capable of such profound sentiment—only underscored the futility of his desperate hope. How much time must pass before he could relinquish these meaningless affections? “Yes. The Ascendancy is harsh.” Kaelen Volkov. That brutish noble. Why did he seem so intent on dismantling the precise, unwavering devotion Elian held for him? Kaelen, who now flouted every minor decree of the Scholarium, came and went as he pleased. And always, by his side, was Rhys Aerthos. As Kaelen’s conduct grew increasingly erratic, the student chambers buzzed with a tense mix of unease and hushed intrigue. Kaelen’s casual cruelty was escalating. A fog of resentment toward him, slow and insidious, began to permeate the entire class. None of it felt right. Then, he saw Kaelen dragging Rhys by the wrist down a polished arcane hallway. Elian halted, his gaze flicking between their faces. Then he spoke. “Lord Volkov is… concerned about your recent conduct, Kaelen.” It was neither apology nor flattery, but a calculated fabrication. That was the extent of Elian’s pride, his carefully maintained facade. Kaelen, notoriously distant from his austere father, would likely not discern the lie. And even if he did, Elian could argue that, at this rate, Lord Volkov would soon have ample reason for concern. He always ensured an escape route. “If an arcane lesson must be learned, let it be only by you. What has Rhys done to warrant this?” At the mere mention of Rhys’s name, Kaelen’s gaze snapped to Elian, piercing and lethal. Elian’s chest tightened, a vice grip of fear and indignation. He loathed him. Yet, pitiful, pathetic Rhys stood glued to Kaelen’s side, his eyes brimming with tears, poised to weep. “Unless you seek another… instruction, as before, step aside.” “K-Kaelen, please,” Rhys stammered, his voice trembling as he clutched Kaelen’s arm. Only then did Kaelen pause, his words arrested. His focus shifted, solely to Rhys, his back now turned to Elian. “L-like I said, Lord Volkov is concerned—” Rhys, on the precipice of tears, clung to Kaelen, trying to pull him back. Watching that pathetic tableau unfold was unbearable. The agony was so sharp Elian squeezed his eyes shut. After a prolonged moment, Kaelen looked at Rhys, then turned and walked back into the chamber. For the rest of the day, he remained there—a rare occurrence, reminiscent of weeks past. --- The long-anticipated Arcane Reliquary Excursion had arrived. A mana-drawn conveyance had been chartered to transport them to the ancient exhibition. While a few students grumbled about diverting high-ranking sophomores from their advanced studies, most reveled in the chance to escape the Scholarium, even for a single day. No need to pack provisions; they would return by evening. The Overseers offered only perfunctory warnings before releasing them into the morning air. They were no longer mere apprentices. The giddy anticipation of childhood was long past. Elian regarded it as just another rotation of the celestial spheres—depart without a satchel, return without a satchel. He held no premonition that this day would witness the explosive unraveling of his carefully bottled frustrations. He had always anticipated its arrival, but not with such abrupt, brutal finality. As was custom, Elian had always occupied the seat adjacent to Kaelen Volkov during any assembly outside the formal study halls. He had been Kaelen’s closest confidante. He hadn’t even considered where Joric Veil might sit, having never shared a conveyance with him before. Initially, Elian felt a flicker of apprehension, a childish fear that Joric might inadvertently claim the coveted place beside Kaelen. Looking back, the thought was pathetic. Neither Elian nor Joric would occupy that seat. Upon their arrival, Elian found their conveyance parked in the Grand Quadrangle. He climbed aboard, seeking their accustomed places. The rearmost five seats were already claimed by a boisterous group of classmates, including Kellan, who waved at Elian, then gestured uncertainly toward Kaelen’s seat. “Thorne! There’s a space here!” Kellan called. “Ah, yes.” Of course. It had always been his. But today, Elian hesitated as he approached Kaelen’s seat. He sighed in a fragile relief when he saw the space beside Kaelen was still empty. Swallowing hard, a flicker of stubborn resolve ignited within him. It was his place. His pride—the singular thing he clung to with an almost desperate tenacity—compelled him. He would sit there, even after enduring Kaelen’s ire for Rhys Aerthos. He nervously brushed the polished arcane armrest for a moment, his gaze sweeping the conveyance’s interior. Then, he spoke, his voice quiet. “Kaelen… this seat…” Before Elian could finish, Kaelen cut him off, his gaze fixed on the entrance. “It is not for you, Thorne. Seek another.” Following Kaelen’s line of sight, Elian saw Rhys Aerthos timidly making his way toward them. Elian clenched his fists, the words dying in his throat. “…Very well.” He strove for indifference, though his heart felt like it had been shredded to fine, agonizing dust. He retreated swiftly from the seat, scanning the conveyance. He spotted an unoccupied spot near Joric’s group, directly in front of where Joric sat. Relieved, he rushed over, dropped into the seat, and spoke without waiting for a response. “Joric Veil. Seat yourself beside me.” No reply. Looking closer, Elian realized Joric was already lost to slumber. He seemed to doze off easily in the mornings, and this day was no exception. His head rested against the conveyance’s viewport, bouncing gently with every subtle undulation of the arcane transport. Shaking his head at Joric’s ridiculously undignified posture, Elian slid his softened arcane scroll case between Joric’s head and the cold glass, then leaned back into the uncomfortable seat. Across the aisle, he caught a glimpse of dark, raven hair. Kaelen Volkov. Taller than most, he was easy to spot. Though Elian couldn’t discern clearly, he knew Rhys would be beside him.

A Scar's Shadow