Alaric’s disdain hung heavy in the air, a rancid perfume that followed Lysander through the arched hallways of the Grand Atelier. After the incident in the sculpting studio – the fractured marble, the scattered chisels, a public humiliation – Alaric had ceased his pretense of civility. Now, his enmity was a bludgeon, openly wielded.
Kaelen, slender and pale, occupied the seat beside Alaric in every lecture, every communal meal. He was a pale echo of Lysander’s past closeness, a constant, painful reminder.
Lysander might be a coward in hiding his true heart, but he refused to be a spectacle of self-pity. He couldn’t pretend unaffectedness, couldn’t hold his head high beneath the crushing weight of his shame. To speak casually to Alaric, as if the chasm between them never opened, felt impossible.
A malaise settled over him. Days blurred into a dull ache, punctuated by flashes of petty vindictive fantasy. Always, he endured.
Alaric, that petulant lordling, bristled with envy and resentment. The reason was clear, a stark fresco painted across the atelier’s walls: Kaelen.
Lysander hated Kaelen with an illogical fervor. Kaelen was never Lysander’s to claim, yet he had not only usurped Alaric’s attention but somehow poisoned Alaric’s regard for Lysander. A viper, Kaelen seemed, coiled and subtle.
Intent mattered little. Logic dissolved beneath the tide of feeling. Blaming Kaelen offered a convenient scapegoat, a small shield against the wretchedness of his situation.
Lysander, however, prided himself on rational choices. He knew Kaelen was a pawn, swept along by Alaric’s possessive whims. He never betrayed his inner hostility, never let it touch Kaelen.
His embarrassment played a part, certainly. Revealing such raw jealousy would be a mortifying performance. Losing his temper with Kaelen would only make Lysander appear a fool, a desperate, pining aberration. Alaric would despise him further, and the other apprentices would whisper, branding him with the most damning of labels: *unnatural*.
“This… this is a grotesque farce.” Lysander muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. He despised it. More than Alaric’s hatred, he hated the sordid entanglement. He wanted to shed his skin.
Cassian’s sardonic face flickered in his mind. The man was an irritant, a perpetual shadow lately. What cutting remark would Cassian offer if he knew Lysander’s true thoughts? *“So, Lysander prefers the company of… fragile boys, does he?”* The thought twisted Lysander’s gut. He clenched his fists, a horrifying image of Cassian’s disdain, eyes narrowed, lips curled. No one, absolutely no one, could ever know.
Patronage, like friendship, proved a fickle beast. With Lysander’s ostracization from Alaric’s inner circle, his ties to that powerful orbit frayed. Amusingly, Seraphin, a solitary figure often found at the fringes of Cassian’s group, sought Lysander’s company yesterday.
“Lysander, Cassian was seeking you earlier.” Seraphin’s voice was hushed, almost conspiratorial.
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“He did not say. Only that he wished to speak.”
Seraphin offered little else of substance. Lysander now found himself tacitly aligned with Cassian’s irreverent cadre, a strange twist of fate. It was a clear shift in the court’s subtle power dynamics.
Not all bridges to Alaric’s former circle were utterly burned, however. Occasionally, in the fencing yard or during morning ablutions, polite nods were exchanged. Seraphin, more than anyone else, maintained a fragile thread.
“Alaric has been… peculiar lately. The way he clings to Kaelen, it’s… unsettling, wouldn’t you agree?” Seraphin had murmured, after a particularly awkward encounter.
Lysander’s face must have hardened. Seraphin seemed to interpret it as agreement, leaning closer. He spoke of Alaric’s hand gripping Kaelen’s arm, of whispered demands, of Kaelen’s strained expressions.
Lysander’s hands clenched at his sides. He gritted his teeth. “Such grotesque displays hold no interest for me.”
Seraphin fell silent, retreating into himself. Lately, Seraphin had been cultivating connections within Cassian’s looser affiliation, perhaps seeking an exit from Alaric’s looming shadow. His revelations about Alaric might have been a subtle overture of alliance.
Today, as usual, only Cassian and Lysander remained in the emptying studio, amidst the scent of turpentine and drying oils.
Cassian leaned against a wall, a chipped palette knife glinting in his hand. His gaze, sharp and unreadable, bore down on Lysander. Whether indifference or assessment, Lysander couldn’t tell. Annoyed, Lysander averted his gaze, electing to ignore the other man.
“Lysander.”
“What now?”
“Let us procure some candied fruits after our studies. The sweetened marzipan from the Piazzetta was quite agreeable.” Cassian ignored Lysander’s rebuff, lazily flipping the knife in his hand. Its glint caught the low afternoon light. No one dared question Cassian’s casual disregard for their quiet concentration.
He seemed utterly indifferent to the atmosphere, selfish in his whims. Lysander’s frown deepened as he watched the knife spin. His irritation over Cassian’s brazenness sharpened his tone.
“Agreeable? You consumed the entire box yourself. You purchased it for your own palate.”
“Well, I favour pistachios.” Cassian shrugged.
“So my preferences were not considered?”
“How was I to know your fancy? You utter no complaints.” Cassian held out a hand, gesturing for a small, polished stone that had rolled beneath a bench. A junior apprentice, near the stone, hesitated, then stooped awkwardly, retrieving it and placing it in Cassian’s open palm. Cassian gave the departing youth a dismissive nod. “My thanks, dullard.”
An insufferable personality. “Dullard this, half-wit that.” Every word from his mouth a barb.
It defied logic that someone as obnoxious as Cassian frequented Lysander’s company, not Alaric’s. He ate with Lysander, studied with Lysander, attended lectures with Lysander. Alaric was often absent, yet Cassian could easily send a messenger or seek him out.
A thought, unbidden, surfaced. Lysander voiced it without reflection. “Why do you not frequent Alaric’s company these days?”
Cassian, mid-toss of the polished stone against the wall, froze. He turned a bewildered face to Lysander. “You fell out with him.”
“I did.” Lysander said, perplexed. “But what concern is that of yours?”
“You speak peculiar words, Lysander. You are my companion.”
Cassian’s oddly blatant gaze swept over Lysander. Unease prickled Lysander’s skin. He looked away, then turned back. “You were also Alaric’s companion.”
“How droll. Are you implying you are not my friend?” Cassian’s tone was incredulous, a finger pointing at Lysander’s chest.
“No, I am your friend. But you were also Alaric’s. Why do you choose my side?”
“Because I have known you longer.”
“What nonsense do you speak? We became acquainted through Alaric, did we not?”
“Lysander. What in the blazes are you saying? We were close in our first year!”
“When?”
“Truly, you are an insolent wretch. Unbelievable. In the refectory, our gazes met often enough!”
“Ah… those times.” Lysander mumbled, a vague memory stirring.
“So, I was the only one who considered us friends? You deceiver. That is why, upon finding ourselves in the same atelier, I sought your presence first! And you deny this? Unconscionable. I am disappointed.”
“Oh.”
“Unbelievable. Truly. How could you inflict such an insult upon me?”
“Forgive me, then. I am sorry, truly.” Lysander hastily offered, those awkward, frequent, yet always silent encounters from his first year now rushing into clarity. So *that* was Cassian’s interpretation of friendship. Lysander felt cheated, robbed of his own memory. He’d always felt a certain hostility in those stares, not camaraderie. And the one who first suggested they share a table was not Alaric, but… Cassian?
The realization struck him like a thrown anvil, leaving him breathless. It was unsettling, even shocking. He simply nodded, pretending to understand, hoping to end the conversation.
“Alright, alright. I comprehend. My apologies.”
“I was profoundly vexed just now.” Cassian glared, a fleeting flicker of genuine offense. Sometimes, Cassian’s mind was an utterly alien landscape.
“And anyway, Alaric is acting quite… peculiarly.” Cassian continued, his irritation momentarily forgotten.
“...”
“That lordling is quite unhinged, truly. Always had a peculiar bent, but this? This is… something else entirely.” Cassian gripped the polished stone with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The gesture reminded Lysander of Seraphin, and the other apprentices who had awkwardly tried to speak of Alaric’s changing demeanor.
From that alone, Lysander discerned a truth: Alaric’s reputation was in freefall.
“Unnatural.”
The word, a damning stigma in the cloistered world of the atelier and court, sent a chill through Lysander. His body trembled, almost imperceptibly. At the same time, a surge of relief washed over him that his own secret remained hidden. Did that relief mean he valued his own security above Alaric’s ruin?
Unease prickled, a blasphemous priest hiding his dark truths before the Divine. He looked at Cassian’s face. “Indeed,” he muttered, a strange, choked laugh escaping him—a sound laced with both fear and derision.
It was almost laughable that, to the observing court, he was now Cassian’s closest companion. In truth, he was no different from what they might suspect of Alaric—a criminal branded with an unholy stigma. Just a few moons past, he had been Alaric’s closest confidante. Now, he merely hid in a squalid trap he had narrowly escaped. He had only avoided being caught. That was all.
---
Dawn broke, a sliver of weak light bleeding through the high windows of his humble chambers. A message arrived, slipped beneath his door, an unfamiliar hand on parchment. A summons at such an ungodly hour. Half-asleep, Lysander wondered if the recent turmoil was merely a prolonged dream. Though he had carefully avoided Alaric, protecting himself from further pain, his heart still leapt at the thought that the message might be from him.
He rubbed his eyes, the parchment crinkling, and squinted at the script. Conflicted, part of him wished for a mundane notice from a guild clerk. But upon reading the content, he knew it wasn’t from Alaric.
*“Lysander, forgive this intrusion at such an hour. Could you step outside your abode for a moment? I am truly sorry. I am truly sorry.”*
*“Just this once. Just this one time.”*
Alaric would never apologize to him. Never.
Among his peers, only one used such a familiar, pleading address, and only one was so inherently pitiful. How did Kaelen even know his place of residence? Lysander’s face twisted into a scowl. He did not wish to see him—never wished to see him. Kaelen was always an unpleasant presence.
Yet, despite his thoughts, Lysander rose from his cot, buttoned his tunic, and stood. He walked to the door, paused, resting his forehead against the cool frame. He sighed deeply. “Curse it all.”
A knot of overwhelming sentiment twisted in his gut. That was the only way to describe it. He clutched his chest, breathing shallowly. He had always prided himself on his extensive vocabulary, gleaned from countless scrolls, but no words could capture this intricate, tangled mess of emotions.
It was simply… complicated.
The hatred he felt for Kaelen, the faint, persistent memory of Kaelen’s bruised face from that day, the desperate, calculated distance he’d striven to place between them all swirled together. He bit his lip, fiddled with the doorknob, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist.
In the small garden, cold morning dew clung to the fledgling autumnal air. To avoid the wet grass, Lysander carefully stepped onto the cool, moss-kissed marble paving stones. The chill of dawn made him pull his tunic tighter. His bare toes, peeking from the worn slippers, carried him to the outer gate.
He paused there, a soft click of his tongue, and gripped the handle. The creaking of the hinge made him flinch. He opened the gate even more slowly, drawing out the moment.
Beyond, illuminated by the distant city lamp, Kaelen stood in his simple apprentice’s tunic. His head hung low, tracing invisible patterns on the cobblestones with the tip of his worn boot.
“...Kaelen.”
At Lysander’s voice, Kaelen’s head snapped up like a startled bird. “Lysander, Lysander!”