A cool ceramic mug, still beaded with condensation, clinked softly against the polished surface of Lord Kaelin’s desk. His face, usually a mask of effortless charm, was puffy, a subtle tell of another night spent indulging in the Academy’s illicit undercurrents. For a fleeting moment, the image reminded Elian of a bloated river fish. He felt the familiar, weary knot tighten in his gut. “Wipe that look from your face,” Elian murmured, his voice low enough not to carry beyond their immediate vicinity. “You look like you wrestled a griffin and lost.” Kaelin grunted, a hand instinctively rising to knead his temples. “A griffin with seven heads and a taste for vintage brandy.” He took a slow, grateful sip of the herbal infusion. “My father would have flayed me alive this morning, had it not been for your silver tongue.” Elian merely nodded, a slight curl of his lip, an unreadable expression. Kaelin, ever oblivious, shrugged. His gratitude, Elian knew, was as fleeting as the morning mist. He was indispensable, a well-oiled cog in Kaelin’s carefully constructed chaos. Turning towards his own seat, Elian’s gaze snagged on a discarded treatise lying open on the adjacent desk. Not his desk. Lord Theron’s. Theron, scion of the formidable House Aurelia, sat with an unnerving stillness. His dark head was bowed over a thick tome, a stark contrast to Kaelin’s dissolute slumber. Elian often found himself tracing the rigid lines of Theron’s posture, the effortless grace with which he carried the weight of his lineage. Theron possessed an aura that Elian, despite his intellect, could only observe from a distance, a potent blend of privilege and innate power that made Elian’s own impoverished bloodline feel like a dull whisper. Theron’s neighbor wasn’t Elian. It was Kaelin. Theron, taller, broader, always seemed to occupy more space, more light, than anyone else. Elian, a head shorter than Kaelin, occupied a space just behind him, a small consolation in the vast hall of the Imperial Academy of Aethelgard. He often cursed his stature, a physical manifestation of his diminished standing. He swallowed the bitterness, a familiar taste. “When did he arrive?” Elian asked, nodding subtly toward Theron. Kaelin stretched, a theatrical yawn. “No idea. He was there when I stumbled in, looking like he’d slept a full eight hours in a field of lilies.” “Yet he left before us last night,” Elian observed, a subtle edge to his voice. “One might wonder what truly keeps him occupied.” At the sound of Elian’s words, a soft rustle. Theron’s treatise closed. His eyes, the color of twilight, lifted. A narrow glance swept over Elian and Kaelin before he opened his mouth wide, a languid yawn stretching his features. “A bit of late-night strategizing, you understand,” Theron drawled, his voice a low rumble. “Thought I’d just map out a few more campaigns before retiring. One thing led to another.” Kaelin snorted, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Mapping campaigns? You’re such a pious fraud. You make even the Arch-Librarian seem like a libertine.” “Oh, do I?” Theron’s lips quirked, a hint of genuine amusement. He leaned back, settling into his seat with an almost feline grace. Their eyes met for a fleeting second. Elian felt a strange prickle, an unfamiliar unease that had him rubbing his forearm before he turned his attention back to Kaelin. The academy hall, usually a hive of hushed activity, still held a pre-class lull. Soon, acolytes like Lord Joric and Lady Lyra would drift over, drawn by Kaelin’s magnetic presence, eager to hang on his every word. The usual routine: gossip, laughter, then the stern arrival of a Master to begin the day’s lessons. For boys hailed as the most promising scions of their houses, mornings began with a surprising lack of gravitas. The whispered tales of Kaelin’s exploits, his illicit card games, his whispered dalliances in the lower city – they always left a sour taste in Elian’s mouth. Yet, he played his part, feigning amusement, an attentive confidant. These mornings, despite the underlying rot, had a certain rhythm. A fragile peace. But everything shifted a moon and a half ago. And the catalyst, Elian knew, was Seraphim. “Look, Seraphim’s here.” Lord Joric’s voice, a theatrical whisper, cut through the quiet. “Gods, does that wretch ever consider not showing his face?” Joric openly scoffed, pointing a dismissive finger. Seraphim, a junior scholar on a merit scholarship, shuffled awkwardly into the hall, his face obscured by a curtain of pale hair. He moved to the front-row desk, deposited a worn satchel, and immediately slumped over. Watching his hunched figure, Elian felt a sigh escape, laden with a fresh, sharp irritation. Seraphim was, to Elian, painfully unremarkable. His frame was slight, his voice thin, his family name unheard of in the hallowed halls of Aethelgard. As the murmurs swelled, Kaelin glared daggers at Seraphim’s back, a low curse rumbling in his chest. Elian hated it. That raw, visceral anger of Kaelin’s – it grated on him. Kaelin snatched a discarded lesson scroll from a nearby desk, balling it tightly in one hand. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it. *Thud*. The papyrus struck Seraphim’s head, and the boy’s shoulders jolted, his head slumping further onto the desk. “Don’t parade that wretched face around first thing,” Kaelin spat, his voice carrying just enough to make a ripple through the hall. Seraphim remained still, his arms now completely burying his face. Kaelin watched him, a sneer twisting his lips, then kicked his own desk, the wood groaning in protest. “Hey! Are you deaf?” When Kaelin abruptly stood, his voice rising, Seraphim flinched, a faint, trembling sound escaping his lips. “Y-yes, Lord Kaelin.” “Look at me when you answer. And speak properly.” Did Kaelin even hear the ridiculousness of his own demands? Elian felt a bitter laugh catch in his throat. Whether Kaelin noticed his silence or not, he began to stride towards Seraphim’s desk. With every step, the unpleasantness in Elian’s gut sharpened, tightening into a cold fist. Kaelin closed the distance. Just that movement alone made Elian feel a loss of control over emotions he usually kept suppressed with ruthless discipline. This wasn’t the familiar sting of jealousy he felt when Kaelin turned his attention to Theron. Instinctively, Elian knew this was different. Something deeper, perhaps just as sinister as Kaelin’s own malice, stirred within him. That’s why his interactions with Theron were bearable, predictable, but Kaelin’s targeting of Seraphim felt like a trespass onto dangerous ground. His hands began to tremble. He clenched them, digging his nails into his palms, to hide it. Kaelin kicked Seraphim’s desk. The heavy oak shuddered, nearly toppling, and Seraphim jolted upright, his eyes wide with alarm. His voice, when it came, was a barely audible squeak. “F-forgive me.” Kaelin stood there, silently looking down at Seraphim’s face. Seraphim’s eyes glistened, tears on the verge of spilling. Yet, in that moment, Elian felt a strange kinship with the boy, as if he, too, might burst into tears. Kaelin didn’t demand petty errands from Seraphim. Instead, he watched. Always watched. If Seraphim left for the latrines during a break, Kaelin’s gaze would track his retreating figure, even as he spoke to Elian or his acolytes. Elian knew because he never stopped watching Kaelin. To be honest, Elian’s first impression of Seraphim had been one of utter indifference. Seraphim’s skin was a bit sallow, but his youthful features held a quiet pleasantness. When he smiled, it seemed genuine, untainted by the Academy’s cynicism. Before Kaelin started tormenting him, Seraphim had no detractors. He seemed a product of a gentle, shielded life. While not overly sociable, often found alone with his books, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor. Most considered Seraphim harmless, if forgettable. He rarely flaunted his gentle upbringing, earning him quiet approval. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably agreeable – that was Seraphim. But Elian had not particularly liked him from the start. Nor had he hated him. He simply hadn’t cared. To say Seraphim wasn’t even a shadow on Elian’s perception would be more accurate. Yet, whenever his name arose in Kaelin’s circle, Elian would find himself casually offering, “Oh, him? Perfectly inoffensive. A decent sort.” A small, convenient lie. Kaelin, like Elian, hadn’t paid Seraphim much mind at first. Kaelin never cared for the academic quietude of the Academy. After Seraphim transferred in the early summer term, he and Kaelin hadn’t exchanged a single word until the last moon. That was the natural order of things. But one day, something shifted. A small, sharp deviation in the mundane flow of their lives. It happened just after the midday meal, and looking back, Elian didn’t think he’d ever regretted an action as much as he regretted what transpired that day. Seraphim, as was his habit, had taken a corner seat during the break, immersed in a book. He was the kind of person who found solace within pages. Elian, on the other hand, had a habit of being overly congenial towards those with an untarnished reputation. Perhaps it was a calculated maneuver, a way to dilute his own connection to Kaelin’s notoriety. That’s why, when he chanced upon Seraphim, he struck up a conversation about the heavy, leather-bound volume in his hands. Elian wasn’t much of a reader of fiction himself; feigning literary depth was more his style, drawn from countless hours poring over academic critiques. “You must truly enjoy your tomes, then?” Elian asked, his voice carefully casual. Seraphim looked up, startled. “Oh. Yes, I suppose so.” At the time, they were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made the approach easier. “Almost finished with that one?” “Well, I’m near the climax.” “Then close it now,” Elian said, a hint of patronizing authority in his tone. “The resolution will disappoint you. It’s one of those narratives where the ending unravels the entire fabric.” “You’ve read it?” Seraphim’s eyes widened slightly. “Yes, some time ago.” To satisfy his intellectual vanity, Elian always sought out reviews and critiques of works, ensuring he had material for such conversational gambits. Drawing on fragmented memories, he offered a critique—not a genuine one, but enough to sound informed—and Seraphim smiled, a rare, bright flash of genuine pleasure. It caught Elian off guard. “You’re the first person I’ve met who’s read this book, besides myself.” “Oh… truly?” “Indeed. But I’ll still finish it. Understanding *why* the ending took such a turn is half the joy.” “Well, of course. Opinions are varied, after all.” “Hearing you say that actually makes me look forward to it even more.” That smile still lingered as an uncomfortable memory. Was it some instinctive unease he felt back then? After that day, Seraphim started seeking Elian out, a quiet shadow, eager for conversation. Though Elian found it a bit annoying, often wondering, *Why me?*, he didn’t outright reject him. Seraphim, with his good reputation, wasn’t the worst person to be seen with. After all, outside of required texts, serious reading was a rarity among their peer group. For Seraphim, Elian was likely the only one who would engage in such intellectual discussions. That day had been one of those routine encounters, but it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days among them. Lord Theron was to blame. To this day, Elian couldn’t fathom why he’d acted as he did. Why he, a man who never meddled in others’ affairs, chose to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. Why Theron, of all people, had left his advanced Arcane Theory examination paper lying wide open, exposed for any passerby to see. Elian, who fiercely guarded his own academic achievements, naturally assumed Theron would want his scores concealed. So, he flipped the parchment over to hide it. That’s when he saw it: a mark of ‘Exceptional Distinction’ and a near-perfect numerical score. He blinked, disbelief warring with his precise memory. It was undeniably real. Considering the brutal standards of the Masters for such theoretical work, it was an astonishing feat, far beyond the ‘Proficient’ that most nobles of Theron’s standing settled for. It was the first time one of Elian’s preconceptions about Theron had shattered. A small shock: Theron wasn’t just influential; he was genuinely brilliant. Naturally, that made Elian’s thoughts drift to Kaelin’s own dismal academic record. Now, *he* was the true blight. A boy who would sketch caricatures on his papers and feign illness to avoid the hardest questions, Kaelin had never once achieved anything beyond a barely passable grade. Perhaps that’s why Elian felt such a mix of emotions—like he’d found a gem amidst the dross. A rival he’d once simply envied now proved even more formidable than he’d imagined, yet paradoxically, it made Kaelin’s uselessness more glaring. That strange realization must have unsettled him, for he did something he normally never would have done. It wasn’t anything grand. He just grabbed a stray quill and inscribed a brief note at the top of Theron’s examination paper. *“Focus on the foundational principles; your application is stellar. You’ll ascend to the Grand Master’s cohort soon enough. Well done. —Vane.”* *“P.S. Forgive me for perusing your score without permission. I merely intended to cover it and chanced upon your remarkable achievement.”* His arrogance in evaluating someone’s work and offering unsolicited advice made Elian feel a prickle of shame, so he rambled, justifying his impertinence. He couldn’t explain why he’d written it at all. At the time, he must have been utterly mad. Looking back, it was clear this was the first mistake in what would become a series of entanglements, a poorly fastened first button unraveling the entire garment. If he hadn’t written that note, he wouldn’t have encountered Seraphim, carrying a book, just as he left the hall.

A Speck of Crimson