The lecture hall, a sprawling expanse of polished stone and dark wood, pulsed with a quiet, predatory energy. Perhaps thirty souls, heirs to ancient lineages and nascent arcane talents, occupied its tiered benches. Each, in their own way, a beast in a gilded cage. Every aspirant at the Academy, like the creatures in the wilds of Eldoria, formed hierarchies, coalesced into fleeting groups. Days here tightened like a drawn bowstring. Survival, Callum knew, was an intricate, brutal dance. This relentless tension had become his companion since arriving at the Academy, a constant balancing act. Every scholar, he suspected, lived under its shadow. This polished cube of learning, then, was nothing less than a pyramid. Its apex reserved for the cruelest, the most indifferent. “Ah.” His left arm, still stiff from its recent, violent encounter, throbbed faintly. He flexed his fingers, shaking out the dull ache. A phantom pain lingered in his ribs. Callum’s stomach clenched. A thin breath escaped him. He surveyed the bowed heads of his peers. Verdant blackboards stretched across the front. Peach-colored napes. At the professor’s dais, Professor Elms, a man whose tenure seemed older than the Academy itself, sat hunched over a crumpled parchment, ostensibly reviewing it but clearly more engrossed in its ancient script. “Wake yourselves, those of you who court slumber,” Professor Elms droned, turning a page. His voice, dry as parchment, barely cut through the students’ collective murmur. Fifth period already. Callum had been dissecting the fifteenth problem on Aetheric Transference, a deceptively simple yet intricate inscription challenge. He paused, raking a finger through his hair, then set his stylus down. His eyes drifted to the empty seats. Two, in particular, caught his attention. Unsurprising. Lord Valerius was absent. So was Elara. They likely wouldn’t grace the halls tomorrow, unless Valerius found a new whim or some fresh cruelty to inflict. His gaze returned to the complex runic sequence before him. Intricate strokes of Eldorian glyphs blurred momentarily. There had been a time, not so long ago, when Callum had believed he understood Valerius completely. He had nursed the delusion that he knew Valerius better than anyone in this entire Academy. A foolish pride had settled in his chest, a secret solace even when Valerius had favored others with his attention. That pride, a fragile shield, had allowed him to endure the sight of Valerius’s easy camaraderie with the scions of other noble houses. Deep down, Callum had savored the quiet, corrosive conviction that he possessed a superior insight into the young lord’s convoluted mind. He propped his chin on his hand. The sheer depravity of such thoughts disgusted him. What would these scholars, these esteemed scions, think if they glimpsed the calculations swirling in his mind? The answer was chillingly obvious. He would be cast down, propelled to the lowest strata of this cruel pyramid, its widest, most trampled base. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. Such insidious desires, born of a desperate need to rise, had to remain buried. Deep. So deep that not even Valerius, the object of his fixation, would sense it. He needed to hide it so thoroughly, he’d forget it existed himself. Valerius, however, bore his desires for all to see. Everyone knew of his appetites, his casual cruelty. Callum glanced around, a subtle movement of his head. All were hunched, engrossed or feigning it. He pressed his lips together, focusing on the front of the hall. Lying forlornly between the benches, a discarded tome, its leather binding scuffed, pages dog-eared. Footprints marred its cover. Suddenly, a paranoid tremor. Had someone seen him staring? He buried his head, a posture of feigned absorption, like the others. Then he turned his neck, subtly. His gaze settled on a figure in the back row. Kael. Partially hidden by an arm, as if slumber had claimed him mid-collapse. Kael’s face appeared delicate in repose, yet sorrowful, almost drawn like a funerary mask. He found himself studying Kael’s face, then his arm. Had the already tall Kael grown even more? The Academy uniform, tailored to perfection at the term’s start, now left his wrists entirely exposed. Around one of those wrists, a band of dark, polished amber beads—a traditional Eldorian prayer rosary—stood out vividly. A weighty, unmistakable symbol, intrinsic to Kael’s identity. Callum recalled rumors, whispers about Kael’s origins from the outer districts, a region distant from the opulence of the central spires, a place of lesser houses. Despite his imposing presence, Kael didn’t exude wealth. His eyes, sunken, were always shadowed by his lids, and his pale irises gave him a perpetually haunted look. A thin sclera showed beneath his pupils, contributing to his sharp, gaunt appearance. Kael’s aura was one of grim intimidation, though it lacked the refined sheen of true aristocracy. Instead, his face seemed etched by a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a melancholic heaviness. Combined with his formidable build—he was easily the tallest scholar—it made him doubly imposing. Yet Kael’s temperament, from what Callum had observed, was unexpectedly complex. He wasn’t simply indifferent to everything; it was as if he deliberately expunged events from his memory, whether by will or by some strange internal process. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that paradoxically added to his mystique. Most notably, Kael cared little for coin or status. He never scrutinized others’ expenditures or the price of their favors. If the inclination struck him, he’d casually toss a purse of aurum to a nearby student without a second thought, as if the concept of currency held no meaning. He sometimes lent funds and simply forgot the transaction entirely. Stories circulated of students attempting to repay him, only for Kael to stare blankly, wondering why they offered him gold. Still, he did not offer his largesse to just anyone. He indulged random requests when a mood suited him but delivered cold refusals to those genuinely desperate. Even with his chosen companions, Kael could be harsh. Callum had once witnessed Kael’s rare, prized mount, a swift, dark-furred gryphon he seldom displayed, being approached by a fellow scholar, Lord Minho. Minho, brimming with excitement, attempted to clamber onto its back without permission. Kael had summarily kicked him away, sending the noble sprawling like a startled frog in the dust of the training grounds. At the peak of this social hierarchy, figures like Kael and Valerius shared one thing: a complete disregard for others’ opinions. This chilling indifference, in its own way, was the very mechanism that allowed them to occupy the pyramid’s summit. Why did they, the many, with their own hands, yield the reins of their world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how Callum parsed it, the irrationality baffled him. And yet, Kael pronounced himself a devout follower of the Ancient Rites, a venerable Eldorian faith. He was the type of defiant scion who slept with a holy scripture tucked beneath his head, yet claimed adherence to the very doctrines he openly flouted. He did not imbibe potent draughts, did not partake in the forbidden leaf, abstained from illicit trysts, and never extorted coin from lesser students. Yet the doctrine he followed, Callum knew, was often twisted. Most ancient texts, when truly studied, permitted some worldly pleasures. They said the Ancient Rites condemned unnatural affections. Was that why Valerius’s alleged actions, the rumors now swirling about his ‘unbecoming fixation’ on Callum, might genuinely disgust Kael? Callum licked his dry lips. A strange sense of relief washed over him that he hadn’t been caught, truly caught. Had he been, he would have ended up like that discarded tome, lying trampled on the stone floor. And yet, even in that moment, a flicker of a thought: if Valerius and he had remained close, as they were just months ago, would Valerius have shielded him? The thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories he desperately wanted to bury. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the thin gruel he’d eaten earlier threatened to return. No, of course not. How ludicrous, that he had once been so arrogant as to believe such a thing. To Valerius, Callum was nothing. A mere convenience, a temporary diversion. He knew this now because of the way Valerius had looked at him when he struck him down. Those eyes had conveyed everything. Callum had not wanted to know the truth, but it had been undeniable, staring him in the face. Valerius sinned openly. Callum, too, was a sinner—but he hid it. And so, Valerius was punished by the consequences of his own arrogance, while Callum, for now, was spared. A faint, bitter laugh escaped his lips, a sound audible only to himself. “...So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.” Perhaps the divine entities of Eldoria held a personality akin to Kael’s detached ruthlessness. His gaze shifted to the desk near the professor’s podium. An unusual emotion stirred within him. A pang of pity, startling in its intensity, for Elara. Poor soul, caught in the clutches of that particular devil. She lacked the inner strength to resist Valerius’s monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Elara, despite her family’s formidable magical legacy. She should have run the moment Callum had subtly warned her, fool that she was. He knew he wasn’t a good person. He was selfish and self-serving, and perhaps that was his true punishment. Sometimes, a darker thought intruded: If one must favor certain affections, why not pick someone sly and deceitful like him? At least then life would be simpler. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering for it? These days, his perspective had shifted, grown colder. Yes. Of course no one could ever truly love someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise. There had been a time when he thought he could have it all. Arrogant, conceited Callum Thorne. Callum, who believed he understood the world at eighteen. Wicked, vile Callum. Pitiful Callum, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone. That day, he couldn’t conquer the fifteenth question. He used his supposed lingering illness as an excuse to lie slumped over his desk, thinking to himself: Well, at least I’m not as utterly ruined as Valerius or Elara. Rumors about Valerius and Elara spread like wildfire. Whether they were exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to discover the facts either. Valerius’s immediate circle had seemingly vanished from the Academy, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances to worry about anything else, inadvertently fueling the whispers even further. “Master Thorne, forgive my intrusion, but who might be closest to Lord Valerius these days?” “Lord Kael. No, wait, just Kael.” Callum overheard this exchange as he passed by on his way back to the classroom before dismissal. Professor Elms had asked, and a nervous junior scholar had answered. Pretending he hadn’t heard, Callum walked into the room. Professor Elms glanced nervously between Callum and the empty seats, drumming his fingers against the podium. Then, as if abandoning some unspoken inquiry, he announced: “Let us conclude.” The moment dismissal was official, Callum gathered his satchel. As he slung it over his shoulder, Kael tapped him lightly on the back. “Thorne. Accompany me after lessons.” Callum looked at Kael’s inscrutable face. He knew. Callum had always observed Valerius and Kael’s every interaction, so he knew that the person Kael most frequently invited to join him was invariably Valerius. After a brief hesitation, Callum waved a dismissive hand. “I cannot. I have supplemental inscription studies.” “And following that?” “Further studies. Seek the company of your usual associates.” “Unnecessary.” “Why not?” “Drawing too close to lesser individuals only impedes one’s own ascent.” “Ha.” A short, dry laugh escaped Callum at the sheer audacity of it. Right. This was precisely why he had always found a strange resonance with Kael. Their twisted calculations, their shared contempt for sentiment, seemed to align in unsettling ways. “So, Lord Minho, young Seokhyun—they are ‘lesser’? Even Master Seokmin?” “If one frames it thus, then yes, largely. You, however, are different.” The backhanded compliment left Callum feeling colder, not warmer. “What is that supposed to signify? You are deplorable.” “I am not.” “You are utterly deplorable.” “Hmm. It is in the Ancient Edicts. ‘Thou shalt not utter falsehoods.’ I merely state an honest assessment, Thorne.” Honestly, Kael was worse than Callum. At least Callum didn’t openly treat his peers like expendable refuse. “That is why I am a virtuous individual.” “...Indeed.” “Since I am such a virtuous individual, may I visit your chambers?” Kael blinked slowly. Callum met his gaze for a moment, then gave a curt nod. “Very well, why not.” As long as Kael did not interfere with Callum’s solitary pursuits, there was no logical reason to refuse. To secure one’s precarious place in this chilling hierarchy, one occasionally had to align with the more potent predators. Even if that predator was Kael.

A Calculus of Contempt