Elias clenched a fist, a phantom threat hanging in the air. Before the gesture could truly solidify, Valerius’s palm descended with a sharp smack against Elias’s thigh, abruptly extinguishing the spark of confrontation. Elias’s display of bluster withered, a meager flame starved of air. A peculiar, strangled squawk escaped him, like a fledgling wyvern caught in a snare. Torvin and Jorah erupted in boisterous laughter. Elias spun on them, eyes narrowed. “You find this amusing? Truly?” He delivered a playful, albeit firm, jab to Jorah’s arm. With that minor tempest dispersed, the three lumbered out of the study hall. Jorah, lingering at the threshold, offered a casual wave. I returned it, a mere reflex, then settled deeper into my seat. My fingers found the cool, polished obsidian of my rune-scribe. Before I could etch the first glyph of the daily exercise, my gaze drifted upward, sweeping over the stark, unadorned stone walls of the Arcane Ward. Austere, cubic, echoing the rigid hierarchy they enforced. I lowered my head, the weight of the tome a familiar comfort against the polished durasteel desk. I was deep into the third complex equation, tapping the rune-scribe against the parchment, when my head lifted again. Beyond the arched window, the ancient Ironbark trees of the Ward were shedding their leaves, their metallic scent mingling with the damp earth. The sky, by contrast, was a startling, vibrant azure. “A House of maidens would be far less… volatile than this,” Elder Lorekeeper Thorne used to lament, his voice raspy from countless recitations of forgotten histories. “It’s a veritable labyrinth of ambition. A maze. Young mages immediately seek to establish their place, their power. By the Fifth Moon, things settle, a semblance of order takes hold. But until then? It’s a constant churn of petty skirmishes, minor spell-duels, testing the Masters, vying for a higher station. By the Arcane Light, my head aches. And I must endure this cycle anew when the next cohort arrives. Let me see… under which Sign were they born, again?” He would fan his hand, counting the segments of his fingers, muttering ancient celestial signs. ‘Aries, Taurus, Gemini…’ I replicated the gesture, extending my own hand, tracing the invisible lines of a mnemonic ritual. But the pattern remained elusive, the celestial rhythm just beyond my grasp. I flipped my hand over, counting the raised knuckles instead, a more terrestrial method. One, thirty-one, two, twenty-eight, three, thirty-one, four, thirty, five, thirty-one, six, thirty, seven, thirty-one, eight, thirty-one… nine. Early summer’s calm seemed a distant memory. The close of the Ninth Moon felt like the turbulent third all over again. “Young mages are nothing but untamed currents. Irrational, emotional, impulsive fools,” Thorne’s voice echoed in my memory. I observed a small, jagged scar near the knuckle of my middle finger, a remnant of a minor ritual miscalculation. Absentmindedly, I tapped the durasteel desk, a rhythm like a hesitant drum. The Lorekeeper’s hoarse drone, likely from a touch of Frost-Flux, continued, punctuated by the rhythmic scrape of a quill across parchment, amplified by the hall’s acoustics. My gaze drifted to the empty seat near the front. For a fleeting instant, I imagined the impression of a head on the desk—one side worn smooth by leaning, the other untouched. My tapping stilled. I turned my head. Valerius occupied a seat further back, hunched over his runic workbook, his face partially obscured by the pages. His eyes were half-lidded, heavy. He would fix his gaze on a complex sigil as if to absorb its very essence, only to slump forward, pressing his forehead against the glyphs. I watched his nose deform slightly between the pages and his brow. Then, I averted my eyes. Did I drift for a moment? My mind felt disconnected, a shard of crystal untethered. I marked problem three with a tiny, precise star, then moved to the fourth. --- Lunch was spiced root stew and a fermented fruit curd, served in polished ceramite bowls. Valerius finished his curd first, then abruptly turned to me. “Lysander, you’re second in our cohort, yes?” “Indeed,” I confirmed, a flicker of my usual reserve in my voice. “Second.” “And school-wide?” he pressed, eyes alight with an unexpected curiosity. “Also second.” “By the Twin Veins,” he breathed, a genuine surprise in his tone. “What troubles you?” “So, the top student in our cohort is the same as the top in the entire Arcane Ward?” “Did you not know? I have never claimed the first position, due to Seraphina of House Veridian.” My voice held a subtle, unacknowledged admiration for her unyielding brilliance. “She’s even more relentlessly dedicated than you, isn’t she?” “She attends advanced pact-weaving academies until the first hour past midnight,” I stated, a truth that both impressed and subtly shamed me. My own pursuits, while rigorous, seldom extended so far into the night. “That’s… formidable,” Valerius conceded, a grimace on his face. “Truly hardcore.” “She is assiduous in her studies.” My intention was to close the conversation, so I scooped a generous portion of stew onto my spoon, lifting it to my mouth. Fortunately, Valerius did not press. He merely nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Ahhh—” The sudden silence felt… off. The conversational thread had frayed too quickly. I found myself weighing whether to offer another observation. I disliked these abrupt voids, the space they left for unspoken thoughts to gather. Without conscious thought, the words surfaced. “And what of you, Valerius? What is your standing?” His polished steel eating utensil stilled mid-air, a morsel of root stew hovering precariously. My gaze fixed on his hand. He wielded it with a surprising grace, a precise control I hadn't expected from his usual boisterous manner. If there was one thing Valerius did with meticulous care, it was his table manners. “In our cohort…” he began, his voice lowered. “Yes?” “Ninth.” “...Ninth?” My brow furrowed, a moment of genuine astonishment slipping past my guard. “Why do you look at me so?” he challenged, his voice sharp. I quickly averted my gaze from his hands, forcing my expression neutral. Was he serious? No deception in his tone? The revelation caught me so off-guard, I nearly voiced the incredulous question aloud. By the Whispering Spells, that was a near misstep. Offending him would invite an unpleasant confrontation, a disruption I preferred to avoid. I hesitated. Would he appreciate praise, a show of impressed surprise? Or would he prefer indifference, as if his ranking was precisely as I’d anticipated? My mind, ever the calculating engine, quickly assessed the most pragmatic social response. He seemed to hold his inner circle with a degree of casual disdain. Therefore, the latter path offered greater safety. “Huh. You perform better than I might have expected,” I mused, keeping my tone carefully calibrated. “Expected? What? How dull did you truly believe me to be, Lysander?” he retorted, a flash of genuine pique in his eyes. “Not dull, Valerius, merely… I had thought you struggled with the Old Tongue.” My own strength lay in the ancient linguistic constructs, a path few others found compelling. “The Old Tongue is my only weakness. Only that. I do not even attend a specialized Academy for its mastery.” “Absence from an Academy does not preclude study. By the Arcanum, did you honestly believe I was some witless simpleton?” His voice carried an edge of genuine annoyance. “No, no, not at all.” I waved my hands in a swift, pacifying gesture. “It is impressive, however, to achieve such a standing without the concentrated focus of an Academy.” “...Truly?” A different note entered his voice, softer, less aggressive. “Truly. It is commendable.” For some reason, Valerius suddenly began to mash his spoon into the remaining stew. And—was that a faint flush rising on his cheeks? I caught a glimpse of the tips of his ears, a subtle crimson blooming there. Now that I considered it, Theron of House Cygnus had ranked thirty-second. And that was only because a few others performed even worse, clinging to the bottom of the cohort’s roster. Thirty-second out of thirty-six. Recalling this, I realized I had rarely paid attention to Theron beyond the immediate anxieties and irritations he provoked. The stark truth settled within me: I had been adrift in precisely the kind of pathetic, obsessive infatuation I once disdained. Meanwhile, Valerius, completely oblivious to my inner turmoil, had evidently received a gratifying surge of confidence. His tone shifted, brimming with newfound self-satisfaction. “Oh, right! You probably wouldn’t know—I am quite proficient in Celestial Script.” “Indeed? How proficient?” “Flawless score. I have never erred a single stroke in Celestial Script.” “Khhkk!” A sudden, convulsive cough seized me. The words caught in my throat, and I spat out a mouthful of water onto the table. Valerius scowled, jerking his tray away from the splashing indignity. “What in the Outer Spheres? What kind of reaction is that?” “I merely… was not expecting such a declaration,” I managed, still catching my breath. “Is it truly so astonishing?” He frowned, a slight pout on his lips. “My Old Tongue score is lamentable, but that matters little.” There was an odd, almost self-deprecating hint in his voice. I seized the opportunity for a jest. “Perhaps consult a tome on grammar once in a while.” “What are you speaking of? I am absolutely a lore seeker, Lysander.” “A lore seeker? I have never observed you consulting a single scroll.” “That is because I delve into forgotten scrolls in secret, at my private study.” “Why, by the Arcane Light, would you need to conceal such pursuits?” Valerius’s eyes, which had curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped another spoonful of stew. Then, he casually pressed his lips to the edge of the spoon. Something about the gesture unsettled me, a ripple beneath the polished surface. I bit the inside of my cheek. Valerius met my gaze as he drew the spoon away, then lowered his eyes, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to its tip. “Ancient rites of fertility are still considered lore, Lysander.” That was undeniably a jest. A rogue spark, perhaps. My face burned, a sudden, inconvenient heat. To mask it, I snatched a crumpled parchment from beside my tray, tossing it towards his face. It struck just below his long, narrow eyes, fluttering harmlessly onto the table. One of his eyes twitched almost imperceptibly. Not that I cared for his displeasure, but on the off chance he was genuinely annoyed, I feigned a flicker of regret. “Cease such uncouth displays. Especially within the confines of an all-male Arcane Ward. It is… unseemly.” “Oh? You refer to this? To Theron’s little gestures?” “I care not whose gestures they are. Simply desist.” “Is this not, by the Stars, a trending affectation among us now?” Valerius’s voice held a genuine query, or a masterful imitation of one. I stared at him, my analytical mind struggling to discern sincerity from mockery. --- I found myself sleeping less, a peculiar barometer of my newfound comfort. Mornings, once dry and sluggish, now arrived with a strange, invigorating crispness. It was a welcome shift—for in my estimation, the gravest transgressions at my age were complacency and oversleeping. “Ah, by the Void—” My jaw clicked with a painful grating as I performed my morning cleansing ritual. Ever since Theron’s careless spell-blast had caught me weeks ago, a faint grinding accompanied any wide opening of my mouth. Other than that, the day promised a rare tranquility. Yet, even in this fragile peace, sudden eddies of irritation would surface. Theron was almost invariably their source. Or, more precisely, the minor incidents that emanated from him, most of which unfolded within the Arcane Ward. “Oh, right. I saw Theron last night,” Gareth of House Thorne remarked, biting into a dense, nutrient-paste biscuit, the kind rumored to be concocted from salvaged, lesser-quality reagents. Elias, who had been playfully jabbing at Gareth’s ankle with mock spell-strikes, instantly perked up. “By the Whispering Stars—that’s it! You’ve just ignited my memory! I was on the verge of sharing this. I overheard some whispers through the Aetherial currents—you know Kaelen, don’t you? Of House Silverwood? That… unmoored scryer? I heard Theron is sheltering at his dwelling.” “Kaelen? That foolish Loremaster, Kaelen?” Valerius questioned, his voice casual, as he rummaged through a small, woven pouch. When he withdrew his hand, he held two small, glistening essence drops. And, to my unexpected bewilderment, he offered one to me. “...?” My gaze flickered from the shimmering orb to his face, questioning. “...What is this?” I asked, a subtle arch in my brow. Valerius merely offered a slight nod, as if the gesture alone sufficed as explanation. The most pronounced reaction came from Elias, whose pouch of essence drops had been raided. “By the Abyss! Those are mine! Why in the Outer Reaches are you gluttons devouring all my provisions?” “Oh, as if you haven’t pilfered from mine, you bloated wyvern,” Gareth countered, making another mock spell-strike at Elias’s throat. Elias instantly spun, gripping Gareth’s tunic collar, and feigned a potent, focused blast at his face. He would, of course, never actually conjure a harmful spell. That was simply their ingrained pattern of interaction. I dismissed their predictable squabble and looked down at the essence drop in my palm. Its translucent surface shimmered with the faint imprint of a cleaved citrus fruit. I peeled back the delicate wrapper, the scent of sharp lime tickling my nostrils. I placed the smooth, cold sphere onto my tongue. “What do you think? The taste of first love?” Valerius grinned, a flash of white teeth. “I do not favor citrus,” I replied, my tone flat. My assessment wasn’t solely for the essence drop; it encompassed his jest as well. And more than anything, the notion of “first love” held no amusement for me. That cloying sweetness, a taste of things easily spoiled, clung to the back of my throat, an unwelcome residue that diminished my appetite. In the end, I could not even finish the essence drop. I discarded it into a nearby waste receptacle. “Oh, such a tragic waste,” Valerius mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands, feigning distress. Ignoring him, I reached into Elias’s pouch once more, seeking a different flavor. All were either lemon or lime. Lime was the lesser of the two evils. I unwrapped another and placed it in my mouth, the tang sharper, more tolerable. “Anyway, Kaelen, huh? Sounds entirely like Theron,” Valerius resumed, his earlier teasing forgotten. “What, because they are both feckless dilettantes?” Valerius’s words cut with an unexpected sharpness. Uncomfortable, I turned my head to observe him. He sucked on his essence drop, an expressionless mask on his face, idly twirling the white stick between his lips. I pulled my own from my mouth. Something about this felt wrong, a dissonant chord. Valerius seemed oblivious, or uncaring. He tilted his essence drop in the air like a miniature arcane blade, making small, random jabbing motions. “He bargains with ephemeral entities, Lysander—doesn’t matter if they’re spirits of the earth or shades of the aether. And when he finds an adept, or one easily swayed, he sends them directly to Theron for deeper pacts. It’s a cyclical exchange. Entangling each other, passing patrons around like trinkets.” “So Kaelen is… a seeker of unconventional unions too?” Elias interjected suddenly. Whether he had concluded his mock scuffle with Gareth or simply paused mid-feint to eavesdrop, I could not tell. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing the illicit information. Lysander, ever the observer, noted the casual disdain in Valerius's voice, a familiar undercurrent in Eldorian society when discussing those who veered from established paths.

Chapter 4.1: Arcane Equations and Unscripted Paths