A slight puffiness still clung to Lord Valerius Thorne’s face, a lingering ghost of his nocturnal excursions. A cold obsidian vial, its surface beaded with frost, clinked against the polished darkwood of his lectern. I had tossed it there, feigning a familiar irritation. It was a ritual now, this chilled offering, provided on mornings when Valerius had indulged his baser whims. His face always betrayed him, swelling as if struck by some minor curse.
“Enough with that ludicrous puffery, Thorne. Rid yourself of that unseemly bloating.”
“A genuine kindness, Lysander.” Valerius’s voice was a low purr, edged with indifference.
“Did your father not rage this morn?” I inquired, my own tone carefully neutral.
“Thanks to you, Lysander, the storm passed.” He shrugged, a casual gesture that spoke of unearned ease. A faint, bitter taste formed on my tongue. He found pride in this. I merely pressed my lips, a silent acknowledgment of the lie I had spun.
As I turned toward my own appointed place, my gaze snagged on a tattered compendium spread across the adjacent lectern. It was a dense volume, its parchment pages filled with arcane diagrams and dense runic symbols. Valerius's immediate neighbor was not I, but Caius Vesper. Caius, whose stature surpassed Valerius’s by a handspan, often found himself seated closer to the front. I often cursed my own more modest height, finding meager comfort in my station behind Valerius.
Burying the familiar prickle of resentment, I gestured towards Caius.
“When did Vesper arrive?”
“No idea. He was slumped there when I entered.”
“He departed early last eve. Why does he appear thus?”
A rustling sound broke the quiet. The compendium slid, revealing Caius Vesper’s half-lidded eyes. His narrow gaze swept over Valerius and me, a flicker of something unreadable there, before he opened his mouth in a wide, unhurried yawn.
“...Told myself, just a few more glyphs before sleep. And, well.”
Such a sight proved contagious. Valerius, to my disquiet, echoed the yawn, stretching his jaw before contorting his features into a smug grin.
“This wretch. Seems a wastrel, yet more devoted than most.”
“My compliments upon your discernment, Thorne.” Caius’s reply was dry, devoid of heat.
“Consider it returned, Vesper.”
Caius, whether he understood Valerius’s veiled mockery, merely leaned back, a low chuckle escaping him. I watched him for a breath too long. Our gazes met. His eyes drifted to a high, arched window, then back to mine. A strange tremor resonated deep in my awareness, an unbidden nervousness. I scratched at my arm, turning my focus to Valerius.
The early morning in the Lyceum’s central study chamber held a deceptive pleasantness. Low murmurs, punctuated by the soft scrape of quills, established a routine. Soon, lesser acolytes—scholars from more humble houses, perhaps—would gravitate towards Valerius, their gazes deferential, eager to absorb his latest, often scandalous, pronouncements. The usual cycle would unfold: the superficial chatter, the hollow laughter, then the inevitable arrival of a Prefect, signaling the day’s arduous lessons.
For students considered among the Lyceum’s most influential, it was a surprisingly benign beginning to the day. Yet, we were all still just novices, barely past our eighteenth nameday. Valerius’s tales of debauched revels and illicit enchantments from the previous night left a sour residue in my mind. Still, I played my part, feigning amusement, an echo among the sycophants.
Despite it all, these mornings had possessed a familiar, almost tolerable, cadence. But that had shifted, irrevocably, six weeks past. And the cause, the wretched catalyst, was Kaelen Varr.
“Varr approaches.”
“Gods, a blight upon the sight.”
“Does that witless cur not possess the sense to absent himself, after his public humiliation?”
A student from House Aethelred openly mocked Kaelen, pointing a disdainful finger. At the end of that gesture, Kaelen Varr shuffled into the chamber, his slight frame hunched, his face obscured by a curtain of lank, dark hair. He moved towards a solitary lectern in the front row, deposited his worn satchel, and immediately slumped over it. Watching his diminished figure, a sigh, laden with an unfamiliar frustration, escaped my lips.
Kaelen Varr was, in every observable aspect, pathetic. His voice was reedy, his frame small – a pitiful excuse for a scholar. As the murmurs in the chamber swelled, Valerius fixed a cold glare upon Kaelen’s bowed back, muttering a string of low curses. I hated it. That peculiar sensitivity of Valerius’s, his intense disdain for weakness – it grated upon my nerves, a discordant hum in the ambient magic.
Snatching the tattered compendium that had obscured Caius Vesper’s face, Valerius balled it in one hand. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he hurled it. The heavy tome struck Kaelen Varr’s head with a soft *thud*. Kaelen’s head slumped further onto his lectern.
“Gods above, do not parade that pathetic countenance before me, not first thing in the morn.”
Kaelen placed his arms on the darkwood and buried his face deeper. He obeyed. Yet, Valerius watched this abject submission with an increasing, almost surgical, disdain. He kicked his own lectern, a sharp crack echoing in the quiet room.
“Hear me, Varr! Do you not possess a voice to answer?”
When Valerius abruptly rose and bellowed, Kaelen, still hunched, stammered a reply in a voice as fragile as spun glass.
“Y-yes, Lord Thorne.”
“Lift your head. Look at me. Speak with clarity, Varr.”
Did Valerius even comprehend the absurdity of his demands? The sheer, vicious irrationality of it all sent a bitter, voiceless laugh catching in my throat. I swallowed it back, a raw burning.
Whether he noticed my internal turmoil, Valerius advanced upon Kaelen Varr. With each deliberate step, the unpleasant sensations within me grew more vivid, more raw. Valerius narrowed the distance. Just that, the closing gap, made me feel as if I were losing control over emotions I had meticulously suppressed.
This was not the same, gnawing envy I felt when Valerius gravitated towards Caius Vesper. Instinctively, I knew. Deep within my own shadowed heart, I harbored a darkness as potent, as sinister, as Valerius’s. That was why watching Valerius with Caius had become, in time, bearable. But his interactions with Kaelen unsettled me profoundly. A subtle trembling began in my hands, and I clenched them, pressing my nails into my palms, to conceal it.
Valerius kicked Kaelen’s lectern with brutal force. The darkwood shuddered violently, almost toppling, and Kaelen jolted upright, his voice a desperate, trembling whisper.
“F-forgive me, Lord Thorne.”
Valerius stood over him, silently gazing down at Kaelen’s contorted face. Kaelen’s eyes glistened, unshed tears hovering on the brink. Yet, in that chilling moment, it was I who felt perilously close to weeping.
Valerius did not assign Kaelen pointless errands, nor did he demand tribute. But his eyes, always, were on Kaelen. If Kaelen sought the privy during a break, Valerius would track his retreating form, even as he conversed with us. I knew this because my own gaze, a phantom tether, never left Valerius.
To be honest, my first impression of Kaelen Varr had been unremarkable. His skin held a faint pallor, but his youthful features lent him a face not unpleasant to behold. When he offered a rare smile, it felt genuinely sincere, and even his neutral expression possessed a certain quiet luminosity. Before Valerius’s torment began, few genuinely disliked Kaelen. He seemed a scholar raised in a quiet, perhaps sheltered, household. While not gregarious, preferring solitude, there had been no trace of unease or discomfort in his demeanor.
Most considered Kaelen a decent, if unassuming, acolyte. He never flaunted any perceived affection he might have received, earning him quiet praise. Humble, reticent, possessed of a subtle, inexplicable pleasantness – that was Kaelen Varr.
But I had not particularly cared for him from the outset. Nor did I harbor hatred. He simply existed beyond the periphery of my consideration. To say he was not on my radar would be accurate. Yet, whenever his name arose in conversation among Valerius or Caius’s fleeting associates, I would offer a casual falsehood, a practiced disinterest masking a deeper apathy: “Ah, Varr? He is… adequate. Pleasing enough.”
Valerius, like me, had paid Kaelen little mind initially. Thorne was never one to concern himself with the lesser acolytes. After Kaelen transferred to our Lyceum chamber in May, he and Valerius did not exchange a single word until June. Such was the natural order of things.
But one day, everything shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane current of events. It happened after the midday repast. Looking back, I do not believe I have ever regretted a single action as profoundly as what transpired that afternoon.
Kaelen, as was his habit, had retreated to a quiet corner lectern during the break, engrossed in an ancient text. He was the sort of scholar who found solace only within the depths of forgotten lore. I, on the other hand, possessed a detrimental habit of cultivating superficial amiability towards those with estimable reputations.
That was why, when I chanced upon Kaelen, I initiated a conversation about the tome he held. I was no great reader myself, merely pretending to possess a cultured intellect. “You possess a significant affinity for the ancient texts, do you not, Varr?”
“Hm? Oh, yes, I suppose.” At the time, Kaelen and I were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that distant formality made the approach less daunting.
“Have you concluded that particular volume?”
“I approach the final chapters, yes.”
“Then, perhaps, close it now. The culmination will disappoint you. It is one of those tomes where the ending tarnishes the entire narrative.”
“You have read it before?” Kaelen’s eyes widened slightly.
“Indeed, some time past.” To satisfy my intellectual vanity, I diligently sought out reviews and critiques of obscure texts, ensuring I possessed relevant commentary for future conversations. Drawing upon those dim memories, I offered a critique – not a genuine one, merely sufficient to sound learned. Kaelen Varr offered a bright, genuine smile, looking profoundly pleased. It caught me unawares, a strange, uncomfortable prickle against my skin.
“You are the first scholar I have encountered who has read this text besides myself.”
“Oh… truly?”
“Yes, but I shall still conclude it. Pondering the reasons behind such a flawed ending is part of the allure.”
“Well, naturally. Perspectives differ.”
“Hearing you speak thus, I anticipate it even more.”
That smile, so open and guileless, still lingers as an uncomfortable memory. Was it some instinctive unease I felt then, a premonition of the slow poison to come?
After that day, Kaelen Varr began to seek me out, frequently. Though I found it a minor annoyance and often wondered, *Why me?*, I did not outright reject him. Kaelen, with his quiet, good reputation, was not the worst individual to cultivate. After all, ancient texts – beyond the mandated Lyceum curricula – were practically forbidden among our peers. Even if one found the leisure, such volumes were often regarded as little more than glorified doorstops. For Kaelen, I was likely the only one who could truly discuss such esoteric matters.
That particular day was one of those routine encounters, but it also proved to be one of the most ill-fated amongst them. Caius Vesper was to blame, though not by intent. To this day, I cannot fathom why I acted as I did. Why I, one who never meddled in the affairs of others, chose to insert myself where I did not belong. Why Caius, of all individuals, had left his draft of a complex ritual diagram, a transcription of ancient runes, exposed for all who passed to see.
I, one who detested having my own proficiency ratings revealed, naturally assumed Caius would wish his concealed. So, I flipped the vellum sheet over to hide it. That was when I saw it: his decipherment efficacy rating. Eighty-one percent. I blinked in disbelief, checking again. It was undeniably eighty-one. Considering the rigorous standards for such transcriptions, it would barely secure a Tier IV rating, yet it rested at the higher end of that tier.
It was the first time one of my preconceptions shattered. A small shock, realizing Caius was not as lost a cause as I had presumed. Naturally, my thoughts drifted to Valerius’s own abysmal scores. Now, *he* was truly incompetent. Valerius, who would scrawl a single glyph on every scrying tablet and sleep through the remainder of an examination, had never once achieved a respectable proficiency. Perhaps that was why I felt such a disquieting mix of emotions – as if I had found a recyclable shard of magic among the dross. A scholar I had dismissed as inconsequential proved more capable than the one I served. That strange realization must have unsettled my faculties, for I committed an act I would normally never have contemplated.
It was nothing grand. I merely seized a nearby quill and inscribed a brief missive at the top of Caius’s vellum.
“Focus on the lexical analysis of the Elder Script. Your comprehension of the foundational glyphs approaches Tier III. Well done. —L. Blackwood.
P.S. Forgive this intrusion. I merely sought to obscure your work and glimpsed the notations inadvertently.”
The arrogance of evaluating another’s proficiency and offering unsolicited counsel made me flush with a peculiar embarrassment, so I rambled, attempting to justify myself. I cannot articulate why I even wrote it in the first place. At the time, I must have been utterly unhinged. Looking back, it was clear this was the first crucial error in what would become a series of entanglements. Every collapse begins with a poorly fastened first stone.
Had I not etched those words, I would not have encountered Kaelen Varr, carrying a tome, descending the darkened Lyceum corridor that fateful day.