Lysander. A name that felt less like an identity and more like a hushed plea, especially within the hallowed halls of the Royal Academy. Others, the more boisterous among our peers, would often call me ‘Scholar Lysander,’ a moniker that felt too grand for my timid spirit. It was Aethelred, on the first day we shared a studio in the Grand Atelier, who had first shortened it to just ‘Ly,’ a casual intimacy that still pricked at my skin. Aethelred. He was a force of nature, an inverse reflection of myself. Where my fingers were stained with charcoal dust and pigment, his were often unblemished, save for the occasional faint bruise from some forgotten brawl. His height was imposing, a sculpted presence that seemed to absorb all light, while I tended to fade into the shadowed corners. I often wrestled with the ingrained dictates of Veritas's social strata. Every individual, so I believed, occupied their assigned tier, deserving only the regard that station warranted. Yet, Aethelred defied this rigid structure for me. His eyes, the color of storm-swept skies, held a certain raw, undeniable power that, from our first encounter, simply commanded attention. Aethelred carried a peculiar fragrance. Not the heavy musk of a patron, nor the sharp tang of turpentine that clung to us artists. It was a subtle, almost unidentifiable scent—a blend of polished leather, distant woodsmoke, and something wild, untamed. It drew me in, like a moth to a flickering, dangerous flame. I often sought superficial commonalities between us. We both hailed from Veritas’s affluent Patron’s Ward, not the bustling Guildsman’s Alley where the apprentices dreamt of scraps. Our families, both with significant standing, granted us a gilded entry into the Academy, a privilege I knew too well. While my canvas was intellect, meticulously rendering the unseen world with brushes and quills, Aethelred’s canvas was influence. He moved through the Academy’s complex social currents with an instinctive grace, gathering acolytes and wielding respect like a finely tempered blade. Within a lunar cycle, he had carved out his domain, becoming the undisputed patriarch of our cohort. --- Heavy oak door of Aethelred’s private chamber remained stubbornly shut. My stomach clenched, a hollow ache that gnawed at my resolve. Just as my hand instinctively went to rub the discomfort, a sliver of darkness appeared, widening just enough for me to glimpse Aethelred’s flushed skin, his hand still on the latch. He released it, and the door began to swing back into its oppressive silence. With a surge of desperation, I slipped inside. Within the room's hushed interior, Aethelred was already sprawled across his cot. He wore only a thin linen undergarment, a slender, polished obsidian pipe clutched between his teeth, though unlit. His jaw worked, grinding the pipe stem with an absent rhythm. “Damnation. My father's hounds are baying again. If a messenger comes, say we were immersed in anatomical studies.” He flicked open and shut a silver clasp on a small leather pouch as he spoke. Pipe remained cold, but his face held the languid weariness of spent passion. My own stomach twisted, a raw knot. I rubbed it, approaching him, then plucked the pipe from his lips, my voice sharper than intended. “Why should I?” “Because we are companions, Lysander.” Companions. That word, drawn out, always struck me with a peculiar, fragile sadness. It tore at something deep within my chest, yet my face remained a mask of placid indifference. “Consider it a debt, then. One I shall repay.” “Acknowledged.” Chamber was thick with the cloying scent of night-blooming jasmine and a faint, sweet essence I had only learned to identify through Aethelred's persistent presence. A woman's perfume, unmistakably. Whispers from the lower studios suggested Aethelred had courted trouble since his first year, tales of dalliances in forgotten corners of the Academy grounds. His appearance had always defied his tender years. Most mistook him for a seasoned journeyman, perhaps even a young master, his features boldly defined, shadowed with a sophisticated, almost dangerous allure. He frequented the city's less reputable inns and salons, effortlessly procuring fabricated identity seals that granted him passage to places forbidden to mere students. His charm and striking visage often concealed his nightly escapades. Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth were not extraordinary, yet combined, they formed a face of inexplicable, arresting power. His aura was that of a man far older, twenty-five at the very least, not a youth barely past his majority. My gaze drifted, feigning interest in the meticulously rendered anatomical charts tacked to the far wall. Air, heavy with the phantom weight of intimacy, churned my stomach. It was a meaningless gesture, this feigned interest, yet I felt a desperate need to anchor myself. “Where is Darian?” “He departed.” ... “That scoundrel is a veritable fool, no matter how one considers him. A jest.” Aethelred propped his chin on a fist, a short, dismissive laugh escaping him. My brow furrowed. Darian. Second person who occupied the deepest recesses of my disdain. Their camaraderie had blossomed only in our second year within the Academy. Against my own bitter judgment, their constant proximity warranted the title of companions. While Aethelred commanded the Patron's Ward, Darian held a similar, formidable sway over the Virtuoso Quarter. Our paths rarely intersected. Only in the Grand Refectory, a shared space for all Academy students, did I ever truly glimpse him. One afternoon, a sharp elbow nudged my ribs. A conspiratorial whisper reached my ear: “That’s Darian.” Curiosity, a dangerous impulse, spurred me. I stretched, craning my neck above the sea of scholars. Among the dark cloaks and the focused faces, a tall, angular figure stood out, his presence a stark, undeniable declaration. It was him. “He wears a sour disposition,” I murmured. A junior scholar, one of Aethelred’s more sycophantic followers, nodded eagerly. “Indeed. A self-serving viper, they say.” A thin smirk touched my lips, though I offered only a noncommittal nod. Despite my aversion, I understood the magnetism between him and Aethelred. It only fueled my dislike, yet I found myself unable to look away. A dazzling darkness—that was my first, unsettling impression of Darian. Then, our eyes met. An odd twist, that he noticed my scrutiny amidst the throng. His gaze, long and narrow, with pupils like slivers of obsidian, pierced me. My body recoiled, a visceral flinch, as if struck by an unseen stone. ‘What insolence do you behold?’ He must have read the unspoken question in my posture. One of his eyes narrowed, a challenge. Intimidated, I feigned disinterest, turning my head. Then, loud enough for my nearby companion to hear, I spoke. “He resembles a serpent.” After that day, Darian and I often exchanged glances across the Refectory, always ignoring the other. Each time, he would drop his gaze first, only to raise it moments later, seeking mine. It became a silent, weary game. I lost count after the eighteenth encounter. --- By some cruel twist of fate, Aethelred and I found ourselves assigned to the same advanced sculpting studio in our second year. A secret thrill, a forbidden warmth, fluttered in my chest at our continued proximity. Then, a familiar shadow fell across the studio threshold. It was utterly maddening. For the first time, I saw the face behind the infamous reputation with unforgiving clarity: Darian. It was Darian who first addressed me. “Scholar. Will you share our bench?” Damn him. As predicted by everyone who understood the intricate dance of power within the Academy, Aethelred and Darian became, by all appearances, inseparable. Aethelred, a man who relished his own resplendent aura, found Darian to be a worthy counterpoint. Masculine, commanding among his peers, and undeniably respected. Their bond was inevitable. Whispers often circulated through the studios: if Aethelred and Darian were to truly clash, who would emerge victorious? To my mind, idea was absurd. While Aethelred and I were disparate poles, Aethelred and Darian were unsettlingly alike. Yet, one stark divergence marked them. Darian possessed a strange, almost puritanical streak. Despite multiple, ragged piercings that adorned his earlobes, he sometimes adopted the air of a sanctimonious acolyte. For instance, when Aethelred felt the stirrings of desire, he simply chose a woman and spent the night in her company, later recounting his early morning exploits with a boastful grin. Darian, conversely, would scoff at the crude jests about wanting to 'appraise a chambermaid's bust.' Sometimes, he would mock the speaker outright, grabbing the chest of a portly junior scholar nearby, squeezing until the poor boy yelped. “This swine's proportions rival any maiden's. Appraise him instead. And truly, scholar, your attire offends. Perhaps a corset? Cease parading such unsightly bulges.” Even his crudest remarks dripped with a barbed sarcasm. Yet, when an opportune moment presented itself, Darian would utter baffling declarations, such as, “My virtue is reserved solely for the Master Sculptor of my destiny.” This was the chasm between them. Aethelred once offered him a forged guild pass—a privilege he had never extended to me—but Darian dismissed it as a frivolous diversion, refusing outright. Aethelred's circle found Darian's eccentricities amusing. I did not. Reason was painfully simple: Darian was close to Aethelred. And they wandered Veritas like blood brothers. That alone was sufficient cause for my simmering resentment. A corrosive jealousy. Still, I managed to maintain a civil façade with Darian. One of my few strengths was my ability to mask my true sentiments, regardless of the circumstance. Besides, his proximity to Aethelred was paramount. Indeed, every orbit of my social world revolved around Aethelred. Truthfully, days I felt utter contempt for my own complicity far outnumbered those I spent merely thinking of Aethelred. I often perceived myself as an utter imbecile. Yet, I remained bound, a moth to a dangerous flame. While Aethelred tossed a few casual words my way before retreating into his bathing alcove, I sat, lost in the labyrinth of my own thoughts. Moments later, a soft, resonant hum emanated from a carved wooden speaking tube beside his cot. Aethelred, freshly emerged from his ablutions, retrieved the tube and tossed it to me. I caught it, and through its polished mouth, I heard the crisp, authoritative voice of his father, Lord Regent Thorne. Clearing my throat, I answered. Why did I even bother with this charade of composure? “Yes, this is Lysander speaking.” “Lysander? Are you currently with Aethelred?” “Indeed, my Lord.” “Ah, I see. My worries were for naught. I feared Aethelred might be engaged in some fresh mischief. You possess such a pleasant timbre, Lysander.” “My thanks, my Lord.” “No, truly. How fares your own scholarship?” “I fare well, my Lord, my deepest gratitude. And your Lordship?” “Likewise. You speak with such refined eloquence. If only Aethelred possessed a fraction of your decorum. That boy lacks all grace. So, you were both engaged in studies?” “Yes. Aethelred, I believe, neglected to apprise your Lordship. He has been deeply engrossed in preparing for his next masterwork, as have I.” “Then you have been studying together this entire period?” “Yes, my Lord. He has been by my side without exception.” “Well, that is a profound relief. If he is with you, I can rest assured.” “It is nothing, truly, my Lord.” “No, it is indeed something. If he is with you, he cannot stray into folly.” “Truly, it is no burden. I shall ensure he arrives at the Academy safely for his morning studies.” “Excellent. Guard him well, Lysander. Remain friends, and do not let minor discord divide you.” “Of course, my Lord. Farewell.” Lies, spun from silver thread, poured effortlessly from my tongue. After replacing the speaking tube, I tossed it back to Aethelred. He caught it, muttering a curt “My thanks,” as he donned a fresh tunic. Without another word, I turned to depart. Aethelred made no move to stay me. “Until later,” he offered, his voice flat. It was only to be expected. This fragile arrangement, this superficial bond, was the entirety of our relationship. Vast, unbridgeable chasm between us yawned wide. Perhaps that was why I quickened my steps, the ache in my throat a sudden, sharp betrayal.

Gilded Lies, Aching Throat