Lord Valerius squared his shoulders, a slight tremor in his fist as he half-raised it, a gesture more accustomed to challenging a stablehand than a fellow scholar. Before his bluster could truly take root, Kaelen’s open palm landed with a soft thud on Valerius’s thigh, a casual, almost paternal reprimand that deflated the confrontation before it could ignite.
Just like that, Valerius’s weak attempt at dominance dissolved into a whine, a reedy sound like a plucked lute string. Master Thorne and Adept Rhys, his customary shadows, chuckled, their mirth turning Valerius’s ire upon them.
“Oh, you find this amusing, do you? Hah?” he sneered, jabbing an elbow into Rhys’s arm.
A moment later, the three strode from the Scriptorium, their retreating steps echoing softly on the polished obsidian floor. Before vanishing through the archway, Adept Rhys turned, offering a quick, almost imperceptible wave. No reason to refuse such a paltry gesture, Elaraeth thought, raising a hand in return. He settled back onto his stool, pulling his aged Lumina Codex closer.
His fingers had just closed around the cool, smooth bone of his scribe’s stylus when, before deciphering the first glyph, he lifted his head. His gaze swept across the runic-etched walls, their ancient script promising knowledge but offering only quiet, sterile comfort.
Again, his head bowed to the vellum. He tapped his stylus against the parchment, a rhythm without intent, lost in the third problem of textual reconstruction. Then, something made him look up.
Beyond the arched window, the enchanted gardens shimmered with the shifting hues of late autumn, the air carrying the sweet, pungent scent of the Lumina berries, a stark contrast to the crisp, azure sky.
“A cloister of silent scholars would be far preferable to this,” the old Arch-Librarian, Master Vellum, had often lamented, his voice a raspy sigh.
“It is naught but a feral den. A den. These young scions, they must always establish their pecking order first. By the mid-year conclave, things may settle, and the pursuits of lore might finally thrive. But until then? Endless jousting, tests of will, challenges to their Masters, all in a desperate scramble for higher standing. By the Arch-Librarian’s beard, my head aches. And I must endure this spectacle anew with each influx of initiates. Let me see… what celestial alignment do they bear this cycle?”
He would then spread his gnarled palm, counting the knuckles one by one, muttering the names of the constellations under his breath.
“Auror, Caelum, Ignis, Lapis, Aquos, Terra…”
Elaraeth tried mimicking the motion, stretching out his own slender hand, counting the joints on his fingers. He couldn’t discern the precise pattern. He gave up, flipping his hand over, counting the raised bones on the back instead.
One, two, three… nine.
Never, in the early balm of summer, would he have guessed that the chill of late-Harvest would feel like the frantic chaos of first-Cycle again.
“Young acolytes are nothing but savages. Irrational, driven by emotion, impulsive idiots.”
He stared at the prominent knuckle of his middle finger, tapping the desk absently, like playing a forgotten melody on a harpsichord.
Master Vellum’s raspy voice, likely hoarse from a persistent chill, droned on, accompanied by the faint scratch of quill on parchment from the deeper recesses of the Scriptorium.
Elaraeth glanced at the empty plinth near the front, usually occupied by the Arch-Librarian’s junior aide. For a fleeting instant, he imagined the faint impression of a head on the polished stone—one side pressed deep, the other hovering, dream-light.
His fingers stilled.
He turned his head slowly.
Kaelen sat at a nearby scroll-desk, hunched over a tome, his face half-buried in the pages. His eyes were half-closed, fixed on a complex diagram as if about to devour it whole, only to suddenly sag forward, pressing his forehead against the ancient vellum. Elaraeth watched as Kaelen’s nose squished gently between the pages and his brow. Then, he turned away.
“Had I… dozed for a moment?” A strange disorientation clung to him.
He marked the third problem with a small glyph and moved to the fourth.
---
The midday meal in the Refectory consisted of spiced stew and sweetened elixirs. Kaelen finished his elixir first, then, quite suddenly, asked, “Right, you’re second in our Cohort, yes?”
“Oh? Yes.” Elaraeth’s voice was almost a whisper.
“Then how about the entire Scholarium?”
“Still second.”
“By the Mother-Lode.” Kaelen’s eyes widened slightly.
“What is it?”
“So that means the top scholar in our Cohort is the top in the *entire* Scholarium?”
“You weren’t aware? I’ve never surpassed Lady Seraphina for the first position.”
“She’s even more consumed by her studies than you, isn’t she?”
“Indeed. Her advanced arcane classes conclude at the first bell of morning.”
“Spirits. That’s relentless.” Kaelen whistled softly.
“She applies herself diligently.”
Elaraeth had no desire to prolong the conversation. He scooped a spoonful of hearty stew into his mouth, hoping the gesture would end it. Fortunately, Kaelen merely nodded, not pressing further.
“Hmph,” Kaelen muttered, a soft sound, yet the timing felt off. The conversational thread had snapped too abruptly. Elaraeth debated saying something else. He loathed these awkward pauses, the social void, so without thought, he blurted out, “And what of you? What is your standing?”
Kaelen’s spoon, laden with stew, froze mid-air. Elaraeth found his gaze drawn to Kaelen’s hand. Kaelen’s grip on his eating utensil was precise, almost elegant. If there was one thing Kaelen did with careful exactitude, it was this—holding his spoon properly.
“In the Cohort…”
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
“…Ninth?” Elaraeth’s voice rose, a thin thread of surprise.
“Why that look?”
Elaraeth quickly averted his eyes from Kaelen’s hands. Was Kaelen serious? Not exaggerating? He was so taken aback he almost asked aloud, but thankfully, he bit back the impulse. *Spirits.* That was close. If he slipped and offended Kaelen, he would face the brunt of his volatile temper. He hesitated. Would Kaelen prefer praise? Or would he rather Elaraeth feign indifference, as if such a rank were expected? His mind, ever wired for social survival, swiftly weighed the options. Kaelen rarely seemed to care for his usual cronies’ opinions. Thus, the latter, cloaked in casual observation, felt safer.
“Ah. You’re doing better than I might have expected.”
“What? Expected? How foolish did you presume me to be?” Kaelen’s brow furrowed.
“I presumed no foolishness, merely… I thought you found the study of Ancient Glyphs difficult?”
“Ancient Glyphs are my *only* weakness. Only that.”
“You do not even attend a specialized academy.”
“Refusing an academy does not preclude diligent study. By the Starlit Spires, did you truly imagine me an utter dolt?”
“No, no, not at all!” Elaraeth quickly waved his hands, a nervous flutter. “It is impressive, though, considering you achieve such without the benefit of a private Master.”
“…Truly?” Kaelen’s voice softened, almost hopeful.
“Indeed. It is quite impressive.”
For some reason, Kaelen suddenly began mashing his spoon into the stew in his bowl. And—was he blushing? Elaraeth caught a faint flush creeping up the tips of Kaelen’s ears. Now that he considered it, Joric had ranked thirty-second in their Cohort. And that was only because a few initiates had performed even worse. Thirty-second out of thirty-six. Thinking back, Elaraeth realized he never truly paid attention to anything about Joric outside of the things directly related to the man’s… *incidents*. And with that sudden realization, a cold clarity washed over him. He had been drowning in precisely the kind of pathetic, obsessive infatuation he once despised.
Meanwhile, Kaelen, utterly oblivious to Elaraeth’s internal crisis, had clearly received a potent confidence boost. His tone was entirely altered now—brimming with self-satisfaction. “Oh, right! You likely wouldn’t know—I am quite skilled in the Arcane Arts of Scrying.”
“Oh? How skilled?”
“Flawless divinations. I have never erred in a single scrying exercise.”
“Khhkk!” Elaraeth choked, the sudden declaration making him spray a fine mist of elixir. Kaelen scowled, yanking his tray further away.
“What in the blazes? What kind of reaction is that?”
“I just… was not expecting that.” Elaraeth dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
“Is it truly so shocking?” Kaelen frowned, a slight pout on his lips. “My Ancient Glyphs score is abysmal, but that is inconsequential.” There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice. So Elaraeth joked back, a rare occurrence for him.
“Perhaps try reading a *proper* tome once in a while.”
“What nonsense do you speak? I am entirely a devotee of literature.”
“A devotee? I have never witnessed you read a book.”
“That is because I read in utmost secrecy within my chambers.”
“Why in the void would you need to conceal such a thing?”
Kaelen’s eyes, which had curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of stew into his mouth. Then, he casually pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something about that image unsettled Elaraeth. He bit the inside of his cheek. Kaelen met his gaze as he pulled the spoon away, then lowered his eyes and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the tip of it.
“The scrolls of *sensual arcana* are still literature.”
That was undeniably a jest. Son of a Hallowed One. Elaraeth’s face burned. To hide it, he grabbed the crumpled parchment from beside his tray and threw it at Kaelen’s face. It struck just below Kaelen’s long, narrow eyes and dropped harmlessly onto the table. One of Kaelen’s eyes twitched slightly. Not that Elaraeth cared, but just in case Kaelen was actually angered, he feigned remorse.
“Cease that vulgar display. Especially within an all-male Scholarium. It is utterly repulsive.”
“Oh? You mean this? You mean Joric’s… predilection?”
“I care not whose predilection it is. Just desist.”
“Is this not, like, trending among our Cohort now?”
Elaraeth stared at him, trying to discern if Kaelen was joking or entirely serious.
---
He slept less now. That was a certain sign his body had found some measure of comfort. Mornings, which had once felt parched and sluggish, now held a strange, crisp refreshment. It was a welcome change, for in his mind, the gravest sins at eighteen cycles were complacency and oversleeping.
“Ah, damnation—” His jaw clicked painfully as he brushed his teeth. Ever since Joric had struck him, his jaw made an odd grinding noise whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Other than that, today had been a good day. Yet even in his newfound peace, sudden moments of irritation still flared. The cause was always Joric. Or rather, the incidents that stemmed from him. Most of those happened within the Scholarium walls.
“Oh, right. I saw Joric last night.” Initiate Wren spoke, biting into a spiced meat pastry, the kind rumoured to contain lesser, unsavory scraps.
Lord Valerius, who had been mock-sparring with Wren’s ankle, suddenly perked up. “By the Sacred Scroll! That’s right! You just reminded me! I was entirely about to bring this up. I heard something through the Whisper-web—you all know Lyra, yes? Yes? That wandering socialite dabbler? I heard Joric is crashing at her chambers.”
“Lyra? That flighty Lady Lyra?” Kaelen, rummaging through a small pouch, asked casually. When he pulled his hand out, he held two small, iridescent glow-gems, enchanted candies. For some reason, he handed one to Elaraeth.
“……?” Elaraeth stared at it, confused. “……What is this?”
He looked at Kaelen questioningly, but Kaelen merely gave a slight nod, as if that were explanation enough. The one who reacted most was Valerius, whose pouch of snacks had been raided. “Bloody hell! I purchased those! Why in the void are you all consuming my sustenance, you wretches?”
“Oh, as if you’ve never pilfered mine, glutton.” Wren made another fake knife-hand strike at Valerius’s throat. Valerius instantly spun around, grabbed Wren’s tunic collar, and swung a mock punch at his face. Of course, he wasn’t actually going to strike him. That was simply their manner.
Elaraeth ignored their idiotic squabbling, looking down at the glow-gem in his hand. The translucent candy pulsed with a faint, lemon-yellow light. He peeled the delicate wrapper, popped the gem into his mouth, and lifted his head. “What do you think? The essence of first affection?” Kaelen grinned.
“I find the taste of lemon… cloying,” Elaraeth replied. His answer wasn’t solely about the candy—it was his evaluation of Kaelen’s jest, too. And more than anything, he did not find ‘first affection’ amusing. That sticky, bitter feeling clung to the back of his throat. It killed his appetite. In the end, he couldn’t even finish the candy. He tossed it into a nearby refuse bin. “Oh no, such a waste,” Kaelen mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, Elaraeth reached into Valerius’s pouch to find a different glow-gem. All of them were lemon or lime. Lime was the lesser evil. He unwrapped one and placed it in his mouth.
“Anyway, Lyra’s chambers, huh? Sounds just like Joric.” Wren mused.
“What, because they’re both… idle pleasure-seekers?” Kaelen’s words were sharp. Uncomfortable, Elaraeth turned to look at him. Kaelen was sucking on his glow-gem expressionlessly, twirling the small, luminescent stick between his lips. Elaraeth pulled his own out of his mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong. Kaelen didn’t seem to care. He tilted his glow-gem in the air like a tiny, glowing sword and began making random jabbing motions.
“She trifles with supplicants—no matter if they are men or women. And when she finds someone suitably… *interesting*, she sends them directly to Joric. It’s a whole cycle. Despoiling one another, passing each other around.”
“So Lady Lyra is also… of that inclination?” Lord Valerius suddenly cut in. Whether he had finished his playful scuffle with Wren or had simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, Elaraeth wasn’t sure. Valerius rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if actually processing what he’d just heard.