Julian Valerius. My name felt a whispered secret, too delicate for the roar of the city. Yet, among the gilded halls of the Obsidian Grand Academy, they called me Valerius. It held a certain weight, a formal gravity that Julian lacked. Lord Alaric Thorne first suggested it, during our inaugural year in the Advanced Cartography Seminar. Ever since, "Valerius" it became. A few still used Julian, but that story belonged to another parchment.
Lord Alaric Thorne, in that initial seminar, was everything I was not. His stature commanded attention, a broad-shouldered presence against my own leaner frame. A ruddy complexion, tanned from exposure to the open sky, contrasted sharply with my own pale skin, perpetually shaded by library lamplight. Academically, he occupied the lower echelons, while my meticulous scrolls routinely earned the Chancellor’s commendation.
Did I dismiss him, then? My upbringing, steeped in the rigid hierarchies of the First Spire, dictated a certain disdain for those beneath my intellectual station. Yes, normally, I would have. Yet, I found myself unable to. Alaric’s eyes, the color of storm-swept fjords, held a raw intensity. They fixed upon me with a force that defied dismissal.
Faint, earthy aroma clung to Alaric, a scent I struggled to name. It wasn't the cloying perfume of the noble ladies, nor the sharp tang of ink and aged vellum I knew so well. It was something wilder, like damp earth after a summer rain, or the distant smoke from a woodsman’s fire. I was captivated. Unconsciously, I found my voice offering an observation on a poorly drafted celestial chart. It was bait, and I had bitten.
Often, I searched for common ground between us. Our shared status as scions of the First Spire, perhaps, or our families’ long-standing names etched into the Duchy’s history. These were superficial threads, easily frayed.
Consider the Academy itself. It stood perched between the lofty First Spire Residences, where ancient noble houses resided, and the sprawling, shadowed Outer Quarter, home to commoners and burgeoning merchant guilds.
I resided firmly within the First Spire. Not merely within it, but in one of its oldest, most esteemed manors. An only child, doted upon by parents whose Valerius lineage stretched back to the Duchy’s founding. Their significant political sway was a silver spoon, polished bright in my infant hands. It was no marvel I grew adept at navigating subtle currents.
Therefore, the Academy drew students from both extremes. First Spire and Outer Quarter, sharing the same lecture halls, though rarely truly mingling. Alaric, like myself, hailed from the First Spire. That knowledge, once confirmed, sparked an inexplicable surge of excitement. With that justification firmly in mind, I approached him, a carefully constructed reason for my fascination. Our friendship, if one could call it that, solidified.
My prowess lay in scholarly pursuits. Alaric, however, excelled in other arenas. He drew the roughest, most influential young lords and their retainers to his orbit with ease. Before a lunar cycle had passed, he commanded the Eastern Precinct’s social hierarchy. Thus, Alaric Thorne became the most formidable name in the Academy’s Eastern Wing.
---
Heavy oak door, intricately carved with the Duchy’s crest, remained sealed. My stomach clenched, a hollow ache from hours spent hunched over precise meridians. Just as I reached to rub the growing knot, it swung inward. Through the narrow gap, I glimpsed Alaric’s flushed cheek, his hand, stark against the dark wood, releasing the latch. It began to close again. Desperate, I slipped inside.
Alaric already sat upon his bed, a sprawling four-poster draped in dark velvets. He wore only a silk dressing gown, carelessly cinched. Between his teeth, a thin, silver-tipped pipe, unlit, was gnawed with absentminded focus.
"Damn it all. My father's hounds are at my heels again. If my comm-sphere rings, answer it. Say we're poring over ancient celestial charts."
He flicked a small, ornate tinderbox open and shut, its flint sparking briefly. Pipe remained unlit, but his languid posture, the faint sheen on his skin, spoke of clandestine pleasures. My stomach tightened further, a raw, bitter coil. Approaching, I snatched the pipe from his mouth. My voice, sharper than intended, cut through the perfumed air.
"Why should I intercede on your behalf?"
"Because we are companions."
Companions. The way he drew out the word, a low murmur, always struck a discordant, mournful note within me. My chest felt suddenly hollow, as if a vital organ had been plucked. Yet, my expression remained shamelessly composed, a mask I had perfected.
"Consider it a debt, then. I shall call upon it."
"My thanks, Valerius."
Chamber was thick with the heavy, sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine, overlaid with a subtle, clean perfume – distinctly feminine. Frankly, I had learned to discern such nuances only through Alaric’s various conquests.
Whispers from the lower collegiate houses, those who had known him from his pre-Academy days, painted vivid narratives of his escapades. They spoke of paramours since his early adolescence, of a lost virginity in the forgotten servant tunnels beneath his ancestral estate. The details were graphic.
Even then, he supposedly possessed the bearing of a man years his senior. Alaric's mature appearance was atypical for an academic. Most who met him mistook him for a journeyman scholar, at least. His bold, defined features, the shadowed planes of his face, lent him a brooding, sophisticated aura.
Upon entering the Academy, he openly frequented the illicit gambling dens and private salons of the Outer Quarter whenever boredom seized him. He never lacked coin. Somehow, he acquired false papers, bearing an adult birth-year. He flashed them with reckless confidence, securing fleeting affections with women of questionable repute, transforming one-night assignations into regular diversions. His striking good looks were a gilded cage for his hedonistic lifestyle.
Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth held no singular perfection. But combined, they formed an inexplicably captivating visage. His raw charisma was such that few dared question his age; most simply assumed him to be in his mid-twenties.
I surveyed the room, my gaze sweeping over the rumpled sheets, the discarded goblet on the bedside table, a half-eaten candied plum. It was a meaningless search, a feigned distraction. Lingering aftermath of his clandestine tryst made my gorge rise.
"Where is Lord Blackwood?"
"He took his leave."
"..."
"The man is utterly mad, Valerius. A complete jape."
Alaric rested his chin on his hand, a wry smile playing on his lips. I frowned.
Lord Cassian Blackwood. He was the second person whose presence I found most grating.
Cassian only became acquainted with Alaric during our second academic year. As much as I loathed to admit it, their constant proximity, their shared jests, justified the common perception of their camaraderie. When Alaric commanded the Eastern Precinct, Cassian held similar sway over the Western.
Still, our paths rarely intersected. Only in Grand Refectory, a sprawling hall shared by students from both precincts, did I glimpse him.
Once, while navigating the bustling midday meal, an elbow nudged my ribs. A low whisper followed. "That's Lord Blackwood."
Curiosity, a subtle itch, compelled me. I rose slightly onto the balls of my feet, craning my neck. Amidst the sea of dark-robed scholars, a tall, sharp-featured youth stood out. His sable hair, slicked back from a high forehead, caught the light. I knew him instantly.
"He projects a rather unpleasant disposition."
My observation earned a quiet reply from one of Alaric's hangers-on. "Indeed. Rumors say he’s excessively self-regarding."
I offered a half-hearted nod, a sardonic smirk touching my lips.
As much as I hated to concede it, I understood the rationale behind his supposed rivalry with Alaric. That understanding only sharpened my antipathy. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, I could not avert my gaze.
"Dazzling gloom"—that was my initial impression of Cassian Blackwood.
By chance, his eyes met mine. It felt uncanny, his noticing my gaze amidst the boisterous crowd. His eyes, long and narrow, with pupils like polished obsidian slivers, made a striking impression. Reflexively, I flinched, as if struck by an unseen force.
'What are you staring at?' Unspoken question hung in the air.
He must have read the inquiry on my lips. One brow, finely arched, lowered fractionally. Intimidated, despite myself, I feigned disinterest, turning my head. Then, loud enough for the acolyte beside me to hear, I murmured:
"He bears the countenance of a viper."
Thereafter, Cassian Blackwood and I often exchanged glances across the Refectory or the Academy gardens. Yet, we always maintained a practiced indifference. Whenever our gazes locked, he would be the first to lower his head, a subtle dismissal. Only to look up again moments later, seeking my eyes once more. Nine times out of ten, he broke the connection first, but occasionally, I found myself mimicking his evasion. I ceased counting after the eighteenth such encounter.
---
By some twist of fate, Alaric and I found ourselves assigned to the same Advanced Cartography Seminar once more for our second year. A secret thrill, a quiet elation, unfurled within me at this continued proximity. Then, a familiar shadow fell across the threshold. It was utterly surprising – and intensely infuriating. For the first time, I received a proper, close examination of the face behind the infamous reputation: Lord Cassian Blackwood.
It was Cassian who addressed me first.
"Valerius. Shall we share the morning repast?"
Confound it.
Just as the Academy gossips had predicted, Alaric and Cassian forged an easy, visible friendship. Alaric reveled in his own magnetic brilliance, and Cassian, subtly regarded as his equal in influence, met Alaric’s exacting standards. He was assertively masculine, widely respected among his peer group, and held an undeniable charm. Their alliance was, in retrospect, inevitable.
In the seminar rooms, whispered debates often arose: if Alaric Thorne and Cassian Blackwood truly clashed, who would emerge victorious? From my own guarded perspective, a genuine confrontation was unlikely. While Alaric and I were superficially dissimilar, Alaric and Cassian shared a remarkable number of traits.
Yet, one striking difference set them apart.
Cassian Blackwood possessed an odd, almost austere streak. Despite the multiple, ragged piercings that adorned his earlobes, he sometimes behaved with a peculiar, almost puritanical rectitude.
For example, when Alaric felt a surge of passion, he would simply choose a desirable lady from his acquaintance and spend the night in her company. When pressed about his nightly escapades, he would recount his steamy early morning departures with a proud, rakish grin. In contrast, Cassian would simply scoff at crude jests about desiring to fondle a lady's décolletage. Sometimes, he would mock them outright, grabbing the fleshy bicep of a nearby, portly scholar, squeezing until the poor victim yelped.
"This man's arm has more substance than most women’s bosoms. Simply grope him instead, if you must. And truly, you appear unwell. Perhaps a binding garment, Lord? Cease parading such offensive bulges."
Even his coarse remarks were steeped in biting sarcasm.
Yet, when the occasion arose, Cassian would utter baffling pronouncements like, "My purity is consecrated solely for the Matron of my future lineage." That was the divergence.
Alaric once offered to procure him false papers for the Outer Quarter's dens of iniquity—an offer he had never extended to me—but Cassian dismissed it as a useless diversion, refusing outright.
Alaric's usual coterie found Cassian’s eccentricities endlessly amusing. I did not. The reason was painfully simple: Cassian was close to Alaric. And they moved through the Academy halls, shoulder to shoulder, like inseparable confidantes. That alone was sufficient cause for my hatred. It was a slow, consuming jealousy.
Still, I managed to feign civility with Cassian. My ability to mask my true sentiments, regardless of the circumstance, was one of my most honed skills. Besides, his proximity to Alaric demanded it. Yes, every orbit of my meager social cosmos revolved around Alaric Thorne.
To be utterly honest, more days were spent in frustrated self-reproach over my own pathetic devotion than in actual thought of Alaric. Often, I felt like an utter fool. Yet, even so, I remained precisely as I was.
Alaric tossed a few casual words in my direction before disappearing into his attached ablution chamber, presumably for a cleansing shower. I sat in quiet contemplation. A few minutes later, comm-sphere on his bedside table began its soft, insistent hum. Fresh from the steam-filled chamber, Alaric retrieved it from the bed and tossed it towards me. I caught the cool, polished orb. On the other end, I recognized his father's distinct voice.
Clearing my throat, I answered. Why did I always strive for such a composed facade?
"Valerius, here."
"Valerius? Are you with Alaric at present?"
"Indeed, my Lord. I am."
"Ah, I see. My worries were unfounded. I feared Alaric might be out in the Outer Quarter, engaging in his usual mischief. You possess such a pleasant voice, Valerius."
"Thank you, my Lord."
"No, truly. How fares your own well-being?"
"I fare well, my Lord, thank you. And yourself?"
"The same, Valerius. You speak with such refined elegance. If only Alaric possessed a fraction of your decorum. That boy lacks all proper manners. So, you two were engaged in study?"
"Yes, my Lord. Alaric must have simply forgotten to apprise you. He has been thoroughly engrossed in his preparations for the upcoming examinations."
"So, you have been studying together this entire duration?"
"Yes, my Lord. He has remained in my company the entire time."
"Well, that is a profound relief. If he is with you, Valerius, I can rest easy."
"It is nothing, my Lord. Merely a natural course of events."
"No, it is something. When he is with you, he cannot stray into trouble."
"Truly, my Lord, it is of no consequence. I shall ensure his safe return to the Academy by morning."
"Good. Watch over him, Valerius. Remain steadfast companions, and do not quarrel."
"Yes, my Lord, of course. Farewell."
Fabric of lies spun effortlessly from my tongue, each thread silken and convincing.
Ending the call, I tossed the comm-sphere back to Alaric, who muttered a brief, "My thanks," as he pulled on a fresh tunic. Without another word, I turned to leave. Alaric offered no protest, made no attempt to detain me.
"Until later, Valerius." That was all he offered.
It was to be expected. This was the precise measure of our relationship, no more, no less. Vast, unbridgeable chasm between us yawned painfully clear. Perhaps that gnawing awareness spurred my hastened departure.
On my hurried return, a strange ache bloomed in my throat. I fled the chambers, leaving heavy scent of jasmine and deceit behind.