The lingering haze of arcane research etched lines of exhaustion on Kaelen Thorne’s face, a dull puffiness around his eyes. With a soft click, I set a chilled phial of awakening draught on his study table. Never failed; on mornings he’d spent pushing the limits of his arcane pursuits, he received this small, cold offering.
“Enough with the pretense of exhaustion. This will clear the fog.”
Kaelen grunted, fingers closing around the cool glass. “My thanks, Vance.”
“Did your Archon father not chastise you for your nocturnal endeavors?”
“Not today. Thanks to you.” Kaelen’s shoulders shifted in a dismissive shrug, a flicker of pride in his voice. I merely offered a tight-lipped smirk, turning to my own work station.
That’s when my gaze snagged on the expansive, antique grimoire spread open on the adjacent desk. It belonged to Torvin Stonehark, not me. Kaelen, with his imposing build, naturally claimed the space next to Torvin. I, shorter, found myself perpetually a seat removed, a small vexation I buried beneath layers of careful indifference. Being positioned directly behind Kaelen was my only solace, a strange comfort in proximity.
Suppressing a familiar twitch of envy, I gestured subtly toward Torvin.
“When did he arrive?”
“No idea. He was like that when I entered.”
“Why does one who departed early yesterday appear so utterly spent?”
A rustle answered my query. The grimoire shifted, revealing Torvin’s half-lidded eyes. A languid sweep of his narrow gaze passed over Kaelen and me before he stretched, a cavernous yawn escaping his lips.
“…I merely intended to decipher one more inscription, then rest. It seems the glyphs held me captive longer.”
Truth be told, yawns were contagious, even within the hallowed halls of the Crimson Spire. Kaelen mimicked the action, then scrunched his face into a smug grin.
“This fool. Appears a slacker, yet applies himself more earnestly than Lysander Vance.”
“Silence, Thorne.”
“As you command, Stonehark.”
Whether Torvin caught the mockery, he leaned back, a hearty, unburdened laugh echoing softly. My eyes met his for a fleeting second. He glanced towards the leaded-glass window, then back. A strange tickle on my skin prompted a brief scratch at my shoulder before I redirected my attention to Kaelen.
Early mornings within the Arcanum’s lower study halls held a peculiar charm. Such exchanges often set the day’s rhythm. Soon, acolytes like Thane and Brevin would gravitate to Kaelen, seeking his stories, listening with admiration. The predictable flow of chatter, laughter, and eventually, the Magister’s arrival, would commence.
For those regarded as the most formidable students, it began with an almost wholesome calm.
But we were still fledgling mages, barely on the cusp of mastery. Tales of late-night ward-breaking, illicit rituals, or contests of raw arcane power, especially from Kaelen, often left a bitter taste. Still, I played my part, feigning amusement.
Despite it all, these mornings weren't entirely disagreeable. Yet, everything shifted six weeks past. And the catalyst for that change was entirely Elaraen Vane.
“Look, Elaraen Vane is here.”
“By the Void. Disgusting.”
“Does that witless acolyte lack the sense to remain in her chambers after her recent humiliation?”
Thane openly sneered, gesturing with exaggerated disdain. At the tip of his finger, Elaraen Vane shuffled into the study hall, shielding her face behind a curtain of mousy brown hair. She drifted towards a desk in the front row, placed a worn satchel upon it, and immediately slumped over. Observing her hunched figure, I exhaled a sigh heavy with irritation.
Elaraen Vane was truly pathetic. Her voice, thin and reedy. Her frame, slight. A pitiable excuse for an acolyte. As the murmurs swelled through the hall, Kaelen fixed a dagger-like glare on Elaraen’s back, muttering a low curse. I loathed it. That raw, unsettling sensitivity of his – it grated against my nerves.
Grabbing an ancient scroll that had previously obscured Torvin’s face, Kaelen balled it in one hand. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he hurled it. *Thud*. A soft impact, and Elaraen’s head slumped further onto her desk.
“By the Spire. Do not parade that pathetic visage first thing in the morning.”
Elaraen pressed her forearms to the desk, burying her face precisely as Kaelen commanded. Yet, Kaelen watched with contempt, then kicked his own study table. The solid oak shuddered.
“Speak! Are you truly so devoid of voice?”
When Kaelen abruptly rose and bellowed, Elaraen, still hunched, stammered in a trembling whisper.
“Y-yes.”
“Raise your head. Look at me. Speak clearly.”
Did Kaelen even register the absurdity of his demands? The sheer senselessness of his cruelty drew a bitter laugh from my throat, though it remained unheard.
Whether or not he perceived it, Kaelen began to stalk toward Elaraen. With each measured step, the unpleasant sensations within me intensified, raw and vivid.
Kaelen closed the distance. That alone caused a terrifying loss of control over the emotions I had meticulously suppressed. This wasn’t the familiar sting of jealousy I felt when Kaelen’s easy camaraderie with Torvin blossomed. Instinctively, I knew. Deep within me, something as sinister as Kaelen’s malice pulsed. That was why observing Kaelen with Torvin had become bearable, but his interactions with Elaraen unsettled me profoundly. My hands began to tremble. I clenched them tightly, burying them under the table’s edge.
Kaelen kicked Elaraen’s desk, a jarring impact. The heavy oak screeched, teetering precariously. Elaraen jolted upright, her voice still a fragile tremor.
“F-forgive me.”
Kaelen stood, silently looking down at Elaraen’s face. Her eyes glistened, unshed tears on the verge of breaking. Yet, in that precise moment, I felt as though I might be the one to shatter.
Kaelen never forced Elaraen to undertake menial tasks, but his gaze, sharp and unwavering, followed her relentlessly. If Elaraen left for the ablution chambers during a brief respite, Kaelen would watch her retreating figure, even mid-conversation. I knew because my eyes never left Kaelen.
To be honest, my first impression of Elaraen Vane had been unremarkable. Her complexion was not flawless, but her youthful features gave her a face that was easy to observe. When she smiled, it seemed genuinely warm, and even her neutral expression carried a certain gentle luminescence.
Before Kaelen began his torment, no one held particular disdain for Elaraen. She seemed a scholar who had known only quiet, studious environs. While not overly gregarious, preferring solitary contemplation, there was no trace of apprehension or discomfort in her demeanor.
Most acolytes considered Elaraen a decent sort. She never paraded any perceived advantages, which earned her even more subtle approval. Humble, quiet, possessed of a bright, inexplicably pleasant aura – that was Elaraen Vane.
But I didn’t particularly favor her from the start. Nor did I hate her. I simply didn’t care. To say she hadn’t even registered on my mental scrolls would be more accurate. Yet, whenever I spoke with Thane, Brevin, or even Kaelen and Torvin, and Elaraen’s name arose, I would find myself casually fabricating, saying, “Oh, her? She’s adequate. Gentle enough.”
Kaelen, much like myself, had initially paid scant attention to Elaraen. Kaelen was never one to concern himself with academic minutiae. After Elaraen transferred to our cohort six weeks ago, he and Kaelen didn’t exchange a single word for the first three. That was the original course of things.
Then, one day, something shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane flow of events. It happened immediately after the midday meal, and reflecting upon it now, I don’t believe I’ve ever regretted an action as profoundly as what transpired that afternoon.
Elaraen, true to form, had taken a corner seat during the break to immerse herself in a tome of ancient lore. She was the sort who found solace in forgotten texts. Conversely, I possessed a peculiar habit of feigning camaraderie with those of established scholarly reputation.
Thus, when I stumbled upon Elaraen by chance, I initiated a conversation regarding the very tome she was absorbed in. I was no true bibliophile – presenting an image of cultured erudition was more my style.
“You must possess a deep affinity for such ancient lore, yes?”
“Hm? Oh, yes, I suppose I do.”
At the time, Elaraen and I were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made the approach easier.
“Have you completed that volume?”
“I am nearing the final chapter, yes.”
“Then close it now. The conclusion will only disappoint you. It is one of those texts where the resolution taints the entire journey.”
“You have read it before?”
“Indeed, some time ago.”
To satisfy my intellectual vanity, I habitually sought out commentaries and critiques of the texts I occasionally perused, ensuring I possessed ready observations for future discussions. Drawing upon those recollections, I offered a critique – not a genuine one, merely sufficient to sound informed. Elaraen smiled brightly, a look of genuine pleasure illuminating her features. It caught me off guard.
“You are the first person I have encountered who has read this volume besides myself.”
“Oh… truly?”
“Yes. But I shall still finish it. Contemplating why the ending unfolded as it did is part of the enchantment.”
“Well, of course. All perspectives differ.”
“Hearing you say that only heightens my anticipation.”
That smile still lingers as an uncomfortable memory. Was it some instinctive disquiet I felt even then?
After that day, Elaraen Vane began to seek me out with increasing frequency. Though I found it mildly bothersome, often wondering, *Why me?*, I never outright rejected her. Elaraen, with her quiet, studious reputation, was not the worst person to keep within one’s peripheral circle.
After all, ancient lore scrolls – beyond the mandated curricula – were practically untouchable for acolytes our age. Even if one had the temporal allowance, such texts were little more than glorified doorstops. For Elaraen, I was likely the sole acolyte capable of engaging in such discussions.
That day was one of those routine encounters, but it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days among them.
Torvin Stonehark was, in part, to blame. 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 Torvin, of all things, had left his preliminary runic translation assignment lying open for all to see.
I, one who detested having my own academic scores revealed, naturally assumed Torvin would desire his concealed. So, I flipped the parchment over. That’s when I saw it: his score. Eighty-one percent.
I blinked in disbelief, checking again. It was undeniably eighty-one. Considering the stringent thresholds for this particular assessment, it would barely secure a position in the fourth tier. Still, it rested at the higher end of that tier.
It was the first instance one of my preconceptions shattered. A small shock to realize Torvin was not as utterly unconcerned as I had believed. Naturally, that thought led me to Kaelen’s grades. Now, he was the true intellectual ruin. An acolyte who would mark every question with the same glyph and then slumber through the remainder of an assessment, Kaelen had never once achieved a respectable score.
Perhaps that was why I felt such a strange mixture of emotions – as if I had discovered a salvageable relic amidst a pile of refuse. One I had once dismissed now revealed more potential than the one I admired. That peculiar realization must have disoriented me, for I did something I would typically never have done.
It was nothing grand. I merely grasped a nearby stylus and inscribed a brief note at the top of Torvin’s parchment.
“Focus on the interpretative runes. You will attain the third tier soon. Well done. —Vance.
P.S. Forgive me for observing your score without permission. I merely intended to cover it and chanced to see.”
The arrogance of evaluating another’s work and offering unsolicited counsel made me feel a prick of 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 inaugural mistake in what would become a complex entanglement. Every grand unraveling commences with a poorly fastened first knot.
If I hadn’t written that note, I wouldn’t have encountered Elaraen Vane carrying a book down the hall…