Two days after Elara Thorne's research station had been overturned, her meticulously bound lore-scrolls were consigned to the Arcanum’s waste incinerator. The pale smoke, reeking of burned vellum and forgotten inks, drifted across the Grand Plaza, a subtle testament to a reputation undone.
It required little arcane insight to discern the architect of her downfall. After a few periods of instruction, a sneering scion of House Velar—one of Kaelen Varr’s peripheral associates—wore a triumphant smirk directed at his ally. Whispers had already circulated through the student dormitories, recounting how the same individual had boasted in the ablution chambers of tossing Thorne’s entire collection.
*How brave.* Lysander Vance observed from the shadows of an ancient archway. He noted the charred edges of a half-burnt treatise on forgotten sigil-script, resting precariously near the incinerator's maw. This small, sad box of remnants encapsulated the silent struggle between House Thorne’s diminishing influence and the burgeoning arrogance of its rivals.
Days prior, Elara Thorne had lost her standing without truly comprehending the forces arrayed against her. The motive now lay starkly clear. What initially seemed a mere act of academic rivalry had, under closer scrutiny, revealed a deeper rot. Even Thorne’s closest circle had begun to perceive her erratic behavior, her increasingly virulent pronouncements against the scion of House Draken, Lord Cassian. Her escalating outbursts weren't mere temper. The moment Lysander witnessed Thorne openly challenging Cassian during a public disputation, he knew her fate was sealed. Yet, as the tide of opinion turned, cresting into a wave of scorn, Lysander felt no compulsion to intercede, no gnawing pang of guilt.
He was not so foolish as to unravel his own carefully woven existence. He understood the perception such an act would engender. It might portray him as principled, even loyal. But within the suffocating, jewel-toned walls of the Arcanum, where thirty-odd versions of the truth coexisted, even one observer would begin to question.
*Why?*
That chilling thought alone was enough to quell any nascent impulse toward chivalry. Lysander rested his head against the cold, carved stone of the archway, closing his eyes. He wished, with a silent, desperate plea, that upon opening them again, the labyrinthine intrigues of the Spire would simply align to his desires. He drifted, the hum of distant incantations a soporific lullaby.
Then, something sharp rapped against the crown of his head, jolting him awake. He sat upright, rubbing the spot, and saw Kaelen Varr also touching his forehead, a faint frown creasing his brow.
“What in the Abyss, that stung.”
“Why are you slumbering at such an early hour, Vance?” Kaelen’s voice was a low murmur, tinged with amusement.
“Mind your own affairs. And what is that… *thing*?”
“This?” Kaelen grinned, utterly devoid of shame, and lifted a gnarled walking stick he had tucked beneath his arm. Its surface shimmered with faint, unstable glyphs. “Found it. A discarded focusing staff from the lower wards’ refuse piles.”
Lysander’s face tightened with irritation. Kaelen Varr was perpetually unearthing strange, often unstable, arcane objects.
The blow hadn’t been severe, yet Lysander’s fingers instinctively traced the strands near his temple, checking for disarray. Kaelen, meanwhile, spun on his heel, nudging a student’s bench aside with a casual flick of his boot. He settled onto it with fluid grace, his long limbs folding into an almost languid pose. He tossed his satchel onto the polished surface, then slumped forward, using it as a makeshift pillow.
“You awaken me only to succumb to sleep yourself?” Lysander grumbled, twisting his body to face him. Kaelen Varr’s pronouncements often spurred a contrary impulse within him. Lysander nudged Kaelen’s foot with his own, a flicker of annoyance in his gaze. Kaelen smirked.
“Is it permissible to assault an injured fellow, Vance? You craven wretch.” The playful sarcasm, the underlying current of genuine observation, made Lysander scoff. This time, he deliberately kicked Kaelen’s enchanted stick. It toppled towards the other student, but without even lifting his head, Kaelen snaked out a hand, catching it mid-fall with effortless precision. He remained hunched over his satchel, a silent chuckle rumbling in his chest. Then, his voice, muffled, broke the quiet.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Vance.”
“What now?”
“That… *incident*… it wasn’t merely a stumble, was it?”
*Abyss take it.* Was it so apparent? Lysander’s cheekbone hadn’t suffered significant bruising, he thought. He hesitated only a fraction of a breath, then swept a hand over his face, feigning nonchalance. “It was an unfortunate accident.”
“Hah.” Still resting his chin on his satchel, Kaelen let out a soft, knowing chuckle. “Truly?” His eyes, unnervingly bright even in the dim light of the ancient hall, flicked to Lysander. He pointed a finger, a subtle gesture of accusation. Lysander’s brow furrowed. “What are you implying?”
“You are shameless.” The moment Kaelen smiled, the ancient stick resting against his shoulder, Lysander felt a peculiar chill. His thoughts scattered like startled ravens. *What precisely is he insinuating?*
“…What do you find shameless, Varr?”
“I don’t believe you simply… *fell*.”
“……..” Kaelen’s words, often cryptic, now carried a quiet menace. His gaze was unnervingly still. The luminous irises held pupils that seemed to pierce Lysander’s very being, like watching the tip of an arrow held steady, its trajectory yet unknown. This time, it was aimed directly at him. Lysander’s mind went utterly blank. Two words echoed, insistent and cold: *No way. He couldn’t have.* *No way. He couldn’t have.*
Then, Kaelen’s eyes narrowed further, the smile fading to a thin line.
“It appeared more as if you *encountered* something… unexpectedly.”
His long, almost serpentine eyes curved upwards at the corners. Lysander’s throat constricted, parched. His breath caught in his chest, a desperate, trapped gasp. *Gulp.* While Kaelen parted his lips to speak again, Lysander couldn’t even blink.
“Should others learn of such an encounter, it would prove… mortifying, wouldn’t it, Vance?”
“……..”
“I shall endeavor to keep this a secret.” Kaelen raised the hand clasping the gnarled stick to his lips, a conspiratorial gesture, and winked. The breath Lysander had been holding slammed against his ribs like a caged beast. Kaelen didn’t wait for a reaction. He ran a casual hand through his dark, artfully disheveled hair, then pointed a finger at Lysander.
“But did you mimic my coiffure, Vance? That is rather… pedestrian.” Lysander was speechless. Kaelen crinkled his nose in exaggerated disapproval. “In any case, I shall now resume my slumber.” He yawned, then buried his face into his satchel once more. Staring at the back of Kaelen’s head, Lysander finally muttered, “I neither copied you, nor have I altered my hair.”
“Oh, truly?” His muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his satchel.
---
“Oh, Wrought Iron Golem, who smashes away the sorrows of the world.” Kaelen Varr intoned a peculiar prayer, clutching his Arcane Appraisal Scroll in one hand.
Fourth period. As the Lore of Forgotten Dynasties lecture concluded, the Magister of Scholastic Registry had distributed the midterm appraisals. Kaelen buried his head in his opened scroll, scanned his rankings in Elemental Conjuration and Transmutation, and then uttered that bizarre invocation. He then dramatically threw his head back, releasing a profound sigh.
“Ah, I am utterly bereft of hope.”
Lysander glanced at his own appraisal, noted his scores in Runic Theory and Obscure Linguistics—both commendable, as always—then folded it precisely in half and slipped it into a hidden pocket within his robes. When he looked back at Kaelen, the other student was still sighing, a theatrical performance of despair.
From his angle, Lysander could only see Kaelen’s prominent Adam’s apple. It bobbed heavily, almost chastising Lysander for his persistent gaze. Fixing his eyes on Kaelen’s throat, Lysander observed, “That particular invocation is not typically employed for such a sentiment, Varr.”
“Who cares? An invocation is an invocation.” Then, Kaelen unexpectedly asked, “Tell me, Vance, is it Golem or… *Golem-Lord*?” Lysander realized anew the peculiar nature of Kaelen Varr’s casual ‘faith’—if one could even call it that.
“Why solicit my opinion? It is, ostensibly, *your* belief.”
“Ah, Lysander, do not be so austere. You are so exceptionally learned; I presumed you possessed knowledge of all things arcane.”
“I do not. And I confess no particular spiritual allegiance.”
Kaelen, who had been leaning back precariously, suddenly shot forward. Their eyes met, and before Lysander knew it, he instinctively averted his gaze towards the stained-glass window depicting ancient ward-craft, feigning disinterest. Yet, an odd prickle bloomed in his chest, as if he had been caught in a petty transgression.
He stared absently at the vibrant shards of light, then shifted his focus to the stiff collar of Kaelen’s impeccably pressed tunic. The crisp, dark fabric rested against Kaelen’s neck, but with every exaggerated movement, his collarbone flashed into view, pale and defined.
“So? Care to join me at the Shrine of Whispers next full moon?”
“What? No.”
“Ah, why not? Let us go. If one attends the monthly observances and the biannual Solstice rites, they distribute sundry gifts. Blessed fruits, preserved snacks, perhaps even rare alchemical reagents…”
“Wait, do not tell me you frequent these shrines solely for such offerings?”
“Of course I do.” Lysander finally met Kaelen’s gaze fully. His eyes landed on a quill pen Kaelen had inexplicably balanced upon his upper lip. At first, out of sheer, stubborn pride, Lysander had refused to acknowledge it, but at this moment, he had to concede—Kaelen Varr was undeniably handsome. *What a smug bastard.*
The quill, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted Kaelen’s voice into a slurred, disgruntled mumble. “But the manner of your phrasing, Vance, it implies I am engaged in some illicit activity. If they are freely distributed, what transgression is there in accepting them?”
“Can such a pursuit truly be termed ‘faith’ if one believes for such venal reasons?”
“That is how all belief begins. Mortals do not commence with grand, absolute conviction. They think, ‘Oh, they offer savory provisions. That particular spirit must be benevolent.’ And then, little by little, their belief in that ‘benevolent spirit with provisions’ transmutes into absolute devotion to the Golem-Lord or whatever entity is currently fashionable. The genesis and the process are immaterial. What truly matters is that now, *I believe*.”
Kaelen Varr often spouted a particular brand of arcane sophistry. Even the formidable scion of House Draken, Lord Cassian, sometimes found himself tangled in its threads. Sometimes, it was pure, unadulterated nonsense. But sometimes, it was the kind of compelling, cynical logic that even Lysander found himself dangerously tempted by.
This was the latter.
Lysander ran a hand through his bangs, brushing them back from his forehead. But they stubbornly fell back into his eyes, a constant, irritating distraction. This time, he shook his head from side to side. His thin strands of dark hair swayed, obscuring his vision. He gathered them near his temples, and finally, the persistent tickle lessened. He had been so utterly consumed by the academy’s escalating intrigues lately that he had neglected something as mundane as a visit to the arcane barber.
With Elara Thorne and Lord Cassian embroiled in their bitter dispute—and Thorne’s subsequent vanishing—the front of the lecture hall remained conspicuously empty. There was no longer a compelling reason for Lysander to direct his gaze toward that particular quadrant.
Six days past, the Arcanum Master himself had summoned Lysander to his private chambers, inquiring if he had received any communication from Elara Thorne.
Lysander had answered truthfully, without a flicker of hesitation. “No, Master. I have not.”
“You still have not reconciled with Thorne, then?” The Master’s eyes were shrewd, ancient.
Lysander offered a small, bitter smile—a perfectly calculated expression. In truth, he felt no inclination to smile at all. “No. Elara… she became quite incensed with me.”
“Thorne grew angry with *you*?” The Master’s brow furrowed.
“Indeed.” Rumors, of course, had already permeated the Arcanum’s upper echelons, so it wasn’t as if the Arcanum Master was wholly oblivious to the implications of Lysander’s carefully chosen words. “Very well, I comprehend,” he said, dismissing Lysander with a wave of his hand. Then, as he settled back into his plush chair, Lysander heard him muttering under his breath. By the snippets Lysander caught, it consisted mostly of complaints about Elara Thorne’s erratic temperament and frustration over a recent, scathing missive from her House Patriarch.
Lysander pretended not to hear the pathetic monologue, turning away, yet his ears remained acutely attuned. Thus, he grasped the true atmosphere within the Master’s office.
Later, after the evening’s final lecture, as Lysander prepared his runic translation exercises in his solitary study chamber, a Magister of House Thorne himself called upon him. He posed the same question as the Arcanum Master—if Lysander knew of Elara Thorne’s whereabouts.
Lysander delivered the same answer, cloaked in feigned sorrow. “No, Magister. Elara has ceased all communication with me.”
*—I see…*
“I am truly regretful that I cannot be of greater assistance.”
*—No, Lysander Vance, there is nothing for you to apologize for. It is quite alright.*
Lately, the Magister of House Thorne had been calling with increasing frequency. And each time, the conversation unfolded in precisely the same, predictable manner. There was something oddly deliberate about the way he continually attempted to tie Elara Thorne and Lysander together. Lysander hurried to conclude the comm-sphere’s call.
Honestly, there was nothing for him to apologize for. But he uttered the apology regardless—to cultivate favor. It was the same ingrained instinct that compelled courtiers to praise an ugly nascent lord as ‘charming.’ A subtle social convention. A form of exquisite etiquette that functioned flawlessly in a civilized, albeit cutthroat, society.
He doubted the adults perceived his manipulations. If anything, his politeness was more akin to a crude pantomime performed by a court jester, albeit one cloaked in academic robes. He always understood his place.
And since he applied such rigorous effort to be liked, he was destined to become a singularly well-loved jester. Even if, one day, he committed a blunder so egregious it wrinkled the brows of the most discerning Magisters, they would, he believed, forgive him. That was the intricate groundwork he meticulously laid.
Unlike some of the boorish, short-sighted students, Lysander was navigating his existence with astute wisdom. Perhaps, from the perspective of an ancient Arcanum Master, his methodology was nothing more than a narrow-minded, petty trick to wriggle free of entanglements. But among his peers, it was undeniable—Lysander Vance was someone who knew how to navigate unpredictable currents with chilling sagacity.
If one required proof, one needed only observe Torvin.
---
Torvin, a burly student from a minor noble house, was now the most desperate to curry favor with Kaelen Varr. Because of this, he also went to great lengths to appear friendly towards Lysander, since, in the eyes of the other students, Lysander had already secured a formidable, if unspoken, alliance with Kaelen early in the semester.
Though he had once been among Elara Thorne’s closest confidantes, Torvin now went to great lengths to publicly distance himself, subtly making it clear that Thorne’s fall was of no concern to him.