A spark, barely contained, pulsed in Torvin’s palm, threatening to ignite the air between him and Gryphon. His jaw jutted, a defiance etched into his young features. But before the fledgling spell could coalesce, Kaelen Varr’s hand shot out, not to strike, but to press a single, almost imperceptible glyph onto Torvin’s forearm. The spark fizzled, leaving only a faint scent of ozone.
Torvin reeled, a guttural sound escaping his throat, like a grimoire page ripping. Seraph and Gryphon snickered, their mirth echoing off the obsidian walls. Torvin, his face a mask of frustration, rounded on them, shoving Gryphon with a force that sent him stumbling.
“Think that’s amusing, do you? You finding this so hilarious?” he snarled, a low, dangerous rumble.
After the brief, ignominious exchange, the three stalked from the Arcane Scriptorium, their steps heavy on the ancient flagstones. Before he vanished through the archway, Gryphon offered a dismissive, yet familiar, flick of his wrist in Lysander’s direction. Lysander, having no reason to refuse the unspoken acknowledgment, offered a slight tilt of his head in return.
Settling deeper into his carven seat, Lysander pulled his latest rune-codex closer. His fingers closed around the polished bone of his rune-stylus. But before he could etch the first problem onto the enchanted parchment, his gaze drifted upwards, sweeping over the chiseled obsidian walls, their surfaces humming with ancient wards.
His head lowered to the desk.
He was on the third complex rune-sequence, his stylus tapping an absent rhythm against the parchment, when his eyes suddenly lifted again. Outside the high, leaded window, spectral flora, usually a muted violet, shimmered with an unsettling, vibrant yellow. A sharp, metallic tang, like old blood and ozone, filled the academy grounds. Yet, through it all, the sky above remained a crisp, vivid cerulean.
“This Arcanum,” Lysander recalled a revered Arch-Lecturer's weary voice, “it’s a crucible, no less. A crucible where scions always seek to forge their dominance first. By the third month, the true pecking order settles. But until then? It’s ceaseless contests, displays of raw power, testing the Lecturers, clawing their way up the strata. By the Archon’s grace, my head aches. And I have to witness it all again when next year’s novices arrive. Let’s see... what celestial year are they born under again?”
The Arch-Lecturer would then spread his palm, counting the knuckles one by one, muttering a forgotten arcane mnemonic. Lysander tried to mimic the motion, stretching out his own hand, tracing the raised bones of his fingers.
He couldn’t recall the full pattern. He gave up, flipping his hand over, counting the visible veins on the back instead. One, eight, one, seven, one, six, one, five… Nine.
He would never have guessed, in the early weeks of the term, that the late quarter would feel like the very beginning again.
“Unrefined sorcerers are nothing but impulsive, emotional, irrational creatures.”
Lysander stared at a scar on his middle finger, a pale line against his skin, and absently tapped the desk like a ward-drum. The rasping voice of the Arch-Lecturer, likely hoarse from too many pronouncements, droned on, accompanied by the faint screech of a scribe’s quill against slate.
His glance fell on an empty seat near the front. For a moment, he thought he saw the faint imprint of a head on the scroll-desk—one side pressed deep, the other hovering, almost weightless. His fingers stilled.
He turned his head.
Kaelen Varr was there, hunched over an ancient script, his face half-buried in the brittle pages. His eyes, usually so sharp, were half-closed. He would fix his gaze on a complex sigil like he was about to devour its very essence, only to suddenly slump forward again, pressing his forehead against the parchment.
Lysander watched as Kaelen’s nose squashed between the pages and his brow. Then, he turned away, a subtle tremor in his hand.
“Did I… drift for a moment?”
He didn’t feel entirely anchored to the present. He inscribed a small glyph of attention next to rune-sequence three and moved to the fourth.
---
Refectory meal was saffron-infused stew and curd of Moonpetal.
Kaelen finished his Moonpetal curd first, then, without preamble, asked,
“Vance, you’re second in the cohort, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And across the Arcanum?”
“Also second.”
“By the Archons…” Kaelen murmured, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
“What is it?”
“So, the top scion in our cohort is the top scion of the entire Arcanum?”
“You weren’t aware? I have never surpassed Aethel Thorne.”
“She’s even more relentless than you, isn’t she?”
“Her arcane tutelage often concludes at the first hour of morning.”
“By the Void. That’s formidable.”
“She dedicates herself.” Lysander had no intention of prolonging the exchange. He scooped a spoonful of stew, its saffron aroma thick, and brought it to his mouth.
Fortunately, Kaelen did not press. He merely nodded.
“Aah—!” The timing felt off. The conversation had ceased too abruptly. Lysander debated whether to offer another observation. He disliked lingering silences. Without thinking, he blurted,
“And you, Varr? What is your standing?”
His eating implement stilled midair. Lysander found himself staring at Kaelen’s hand. He held the silver spoon with a disciplined grip, a refined hand-posture that belied his usual affectation. If there was one thing Kaelen Varr performed with exacting precision, it was the holding of his dining utensils.
“Within the cohort…”
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
“...Ninth?” Lysander’s brow furrowed. Was he serious? No deception? He was so caught off guard that the question almost escaped him aloud. Thankfully, he bit it back. By the Abyss, that was close. If he slipped, offended Kaelen, he would face the brunt of Varr’s unpredictable temper.
He hesitated. Would Kaelen prefer praise? Or indifference, as if it were expected? His mind, wired for self-preservation, already weighed the optimal social response. Kaelen rarely displayed affection for his peers. The latter was safer.
“Hm. You perform better than I might have anticipated.”
“Anticipated? How dull did you deem me, Vance?”
“I did not deem you dull, Varr, merely… I recall you struggled with obscure lore-script.”
“Lore-script is my sole failing. Only lore-script.”
“You do not attend an arcane tutelage.”
“A lack of tutelage does not equate to a lack of study. By the Void, did you genuinely believe me an imbecile?”
“No, no, not at all.” Lysander waved his hand quickly. “It is impressive, though, considering your self-discipline.”
“...Truly?”
“Yes. It is impressive.” For some reason, Kaelen began mashing his spoon into his stew. And—was he blushing? Lysander caught a glimpse of the tips of his ears, a faint crimson spreading.
Now that he considered it, Torvin had ranked twenty-second. And that was only because there were others who performed even worse. Twenty-second out of twenty-six. Reflecting, Lysander realized he had rarely paid attention to anything about Rhys, beyond that which directly impacted him. And with that realization, it hit him. He had been drowning in the very kind of pathetic, obsessive infatuation he once despised.
Meanwhile, Kaelen Varr, completely oblivious to Lysander’s existential crisis, had clearly gained a measure of confidence. His tone was entirely altered now—brimming with self-satisfaction.
“Oh, yes! You likely were unaware—I possess a mastery of ancient runes.”
“Indeed? How extensive?”
“Flawless transcriptions. I have never lost a single point in rune-craft.”
“Khhkk!” Lysander choked. The instant Kaelen uttered the words, Lysander spat out a spray of Moonpetal curd. Kaelen scowled, yanking his tray away.
“What in the Abyss, Vance? What reaction is that?”
“I merely… was not anticipating that.”
“It is so shocking?” Kaelen frowned, a slight pout on his lips. “Yes. My lore-script score is abysmal, but that matters little.” There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice. So Lysander joked back.
“Perhaps you should delve into forgotten grimoires once in a while.”
“What nonsense are you uttering? I am entirely a disciple of forbidden texts.”
“A disciple? I have never observed you with such a volume.”
“That is because I immerse myself in secret, within my chambers.”
“Why in the Abyss would you need to conceal it?”
Kaelen Varr’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of stew. Then, he casually pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something about that image unsettled Lysander. He bit the inside of his cheek.
Kaelen met his eyes as he drew the spoon away, then lowered his gaze and pressed a slow, deliberate finger to the tip of it.
“Esoteric passages also hold truth, Vance.”
That was undeniably a jest. Son of a void-spawn. Lysander’s face burned. To hide it, he snatched a crumpled parchment scrap beside his tray and threw it at Kaelen’s face. It struck just below his long, narrow eyes and dropped harmlessly onto the table. One of Kaelen’s eyes twitched slightly. Not that Lysander cared, but just in case Kaelen was genuinely displeased, he feigned regret.
“Cease those unsavory displays, Varr. Especially within these Arcanum halls. It is… unseemly.”
“Oh? You refer to this? Are these the new rituals of Rhys?”
“I care not whose ritual it is. Simply cease it.”
“Is this not, perhaps, the latest affectation among us now?”
Lysander stared at him, trying to discern jest from earnestness. He had been sleeping less. That was a sure sign his body found comfort. Mornings, which had been dry and sluggish, now felt strangely crisp and refreshing. It was a welcome change—for in his mind, the gravest sins at his age were complacency and indolence.
---
“Ah, by the Void—!” His jaw clicked painfully as he cleansed his teeth. Ever since Rhys had struck him, his jaw made an odd grinding noise whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Other than that, today was a good day.
But even in his newfound peace, sudden moments of irritation still arose. The cause was always Rhys. Or rather, the incidents that stemmed from him. Most of those happened within the Arcanum.
“Oh, yes. I observed Rhys last night.” Corin spoke, biting into a convenience-shrine pastry, the kind rumored to contain ground gristle and forgotten offal. Torvin, who had been jabbing Corin’s ankle with mock arcane strikes, suddenly perked up.
“By the Archon—that’s it! You just reminded me! I was about to utter this myself. I heard something through the whispers—you know Master Valerius, yes? That wandering sorcerer? I heard Rhys is lodging at his dwelling.”
“Master Valerius? That witless Valerius?” Kaelen Varr, rummaging through a satchel of candied moon-fruit, asked casually. When he pulled his hand out, he held two small, crystallized morsels. For some reason, he handed one to Lysander.
Lysander stared at it, confused. “...What is this?”
He looked at Kaelen questioningly, but Varr only gave a slight nod, as if that was explanation enough. The one who reacted most was Torvin, whose satchel of candied moon-fruit had been raided.
“By the Abyss! I procured those! Why in the Void are you all consuming my provisions, you wretched gargoyles?”
“Oh, as if you’ve never pilfered mine, swine.” Corin made another mock arcane strike at Torvin’s throat. Torvin instantly spun around, grabbed Corin’s collar, and swung a feigned punch at his face. Of course, he was not actually going to strike him. That was merely their custom.
Lysander ignored their foolish bickering and looked down at the crystallized moon-fruit in his hand. The wrapper bore a little bitter-root split in half. He peeled the wrapper, popped the candy into his mouth, and lifted his head.
“What do you think? A sweetness of innocent discovery, perhaps?” Kaelen grinned, a predatory flash in his eyes.
“I do not favor bitter-root.” Lysander’s answer was not merely about the confection—it was his evaluation of Kaelen’s jest, too. And more than anything, he did not find innocent discovery amusing. That sticky, acrid sensation clung to the back of his throat. It killed his appetite. In the end, he could not even finish the candy. He tossed it into a refuse bin.
“Oh, such a waste,” Kaelen mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands.
Ignoring him, Lysander reached into Torvin’s satchel to find a different moon-fruit. It was all bitter-root or sour-leaf. Sour-leaf was the lesser evil. He unwrapped one and put it in his mouth.
“Anyway, Master Valerius, eh? Sounds precisely like Rhys.”
“What, because they are both wantonly dissolute?” Kaelen’s words were sharp, cutting through the air. Uncomfortable, Lysander turned to look at him. Kaelen was sucking on his crystallized moon-fruit expressionlessly, twirling the white stick between his lips. Lysander pulled his own from his mouth. Something about this felt wrong.
Kaelen didn’t seem to care. He tilted his moon-fruit in the air like a miniature arcane blade and began making random jabbing motions.
“He consorts with clients—irrespective of lineage or gender. And when he encounters someone of suitable caliber, he directs them straight to Rhys. It’s a perpetual rotation. Exchanging partners, a cycle of shared intimacy.”
“So Master Valerius is… affiliated thus?” Torvin suddenly cut in. Whether he had finished his playful scuffle with Corin, or had simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, Lysander was not sure. Torvin rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing what he had just heard.