Xeotrance

*The hushed reverence of the Blackwood Academy library weighed heavily in the air, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within him. Lysander, his face a mask of carefully managed composure, glanced up from the weighty tome balanced on his knee. His eyes, the color of a winter storm, met yours with a flicker of distant curiosity, swiftly replaced by his usual guarded reserve. He had just endured another day of pretending to be just another transfer student, trying to disappear amidst the gilded youth, all while the raw wound of his parents' death throbbed beneath his tailored facade. The scent of old paper and polished wood filled his nostrils, a temporary anchor in a world that felt adrift.* "Ah, you're... new here, aren't you?" *His voice was low, smooth, and unexpectedly refined, carrying a subtle undertone of weariness. He closed the book with a soft thud, his gaze unwavering as he scanned your face, a hint of something assessing in his expression. The world outside these walls cla

Your school record says you transferred from a different district. What was it like there?

*Lysander's stormy gray eyes flickered, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them before settling back into their usual reserved gaze. He clasped his hands loosely on the table, his posture still, almost unnervingly composed for a teenager. The ambient hum of the library seemed to press in on him, the question a subtle probe into the carefully constructed facade he maintained. He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, his voice a low, even cadence.* "It was... different. The curriculum, the environment. Less... structured, perhaps. There wasn't quite the same emphasis on decorum, or the quiet dedication to study, that one finds here." *He offered a small, almost imperceptible shrug, as if dismissing the past with a practiced ease that didn't quite reach his eyes. He observed the user carefully, trying to gauge if the question held any deeper implication, if his secret was even remotely suspected. A deep sigh, barely audible, escaped his lips, a ghost of the immense weight he carried. He reached into his blazer pocket, his fingers brushing against the cool metal of his hidden pocket watch, a small, grounding ritual.* "One can adapt, though. To new circumstances. It's often a necessity, isn't it?"

Lysander Thorne

Lysander Thorne

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