For all my intellectual faculties, a more profound discipline governed my days. My life, from the precise tilt of my quill to the cadence of my speech, had been meticulously regulated by my progenitors. This rigorous structuring had, over the years, molded my very nature, instilling within me an almost pathological aversion to the display of vulnerability. Consequently, even amidst the most tumultuous of emotional tempests, I found myself capable of enduring with a composure that often struck others as unnerving. Indeed, this placid demeanor frequently prompted remarks describing me as a rather dull individual, one seemingly untouched by the fires of anger. A misapprehension, to be sure. It was not that I lacked the capacity for ire; rather, every emotional disturbance I had ever endured had, without fail, hardened into another immutable layer of a protective shell. With the relentless accretion of these defenses, it grew increasingly improbable for any external force to truly provoke me. This held true for all dealings involving Valerius. His volatile nature, his capricious whims, rarely pierced the polished surface I presented. This very trait, this unyielding self-governance, was the linchpin that allowed me to maintain my precarious position within Valerius’s orbit. My conduct was sufficiently commendable that my family rarely found cause for concern, and I occupied a respectable, if subordinate, rung in the Scholarium’s intricate social hierarchy. Such a position, painstakingly constructed and fiercely guarded, was one I intended to preserve. “Elaraeth.” Valerius’s voice, sharp and dismissive, sliced through the low murmur of the common hall. “Yes, Valerius?” My reply was immediate, unhesitating. “What is that tone? It is… grating.” His lips curled into a familiar sneer. “Is it truly so? Perhaps it is merely a reflection, Valerius.” Seraphon’s voice, languid and laced with his usual dry amusement, drifted from the nearby table. He polished a polished stone between thumb and forefinger. Valerius barked a laugh, unoffended. An insult, after all, only truly wounds if it possesses a grain of truth. My observation, carefully veiled as it was, likely missed its mark completely. “A clever retort, Seraphon. But tell me, Elaraeth, do you not know any adepts? There are always so many around you.” “What manner of adepts do you refer to?” I asked, feigning ignorance. “Pleasant ones.” Valerius’s gaze was already drifting across the hall, seeking out fresh amusements. “What precisely defines ‘pleasant’ in your estimation?” I pressed, a subtle flicker of exasperation within me. “Cease this pretense, confound it.” Seraphon merely chuckled, bouncing his smooth, dark stone on the tabletop, offering no answer. Valerius, it seemed, was not particularly invested in receiving one. His attention had already settled, with an unsettling intensity, upon a figure hunched at the far end of the vast room: Hadrian, his usually pristine scholar’s robes appearing inexplicably rumpled. “Someone with a hint of innocence, perhaps. A malleable disposition might be agreeable.” Valerius mused, a predator’s glint in his eye. Valerius was, by nature, impulsive, crude, and prone to outbursts of temper. His proclivities for wanton cruelty had been evident since the advent of adolescence. No further proof was necessary. Valerius’s torments, lacking the subtlety of restraint, only grew more brazen with each passing day. Now, at the close of the summer recess, Hadrian found himself utterly isolated. Yet, even this complete ostracization failed to sate Valerius’s relentless appetite. Though Valerius’s cadre and similar groups operated on comparable social strata, their behaviors diverged. His immediate cronies — Kaelen, Rhydian, Gareth — would linger, often for several minutes after the bell’s chime, awaiting his command. Meanwhile, others from the outlying dormitories, such as Theron, Lysander, and Corvinus, would bolt from the common hall the instant the midday repast was announced. In my inaugural year at the Scholarium, I had been an undisputed part of Valerius’s inner circle. But the tides shifted in my second year. It began with a dismissive comment from Rhydian: “Elaraeth dines with Seraphon, does he not? You are truly so ponderous at your meals.” Without any direct input from me, I found myself quietly, yet decisively, excised. Most galling was Valerius’s utter indifference. My presence or absence, it seemed, made no discernible difference to him. Aether take it! I glanced at Valerius, my voice barely a whisper as I inquired, “Am I truly so slow in my eating?” “Without question. You perch there, chewing like a particularly placid cow, whilst the rest of us conclude our midday repast in five bells’ time.” Valerius did not even bother to look at me. “Aye, we are always late to the sparring grounds because of your deliberate pace,” Gareth affirmed, his tone echoing Valerius’s disinterest. “Oh.” The word emerged, an almost inaudible exhalation. “We have a challenge match against the scholars from the adjacent refectory today. Go and dine with Seraphon.” My pride, a fragile but fiercely defended thing, prevented me from articulating any plea to remain. Moreover, I considered the gnawing indigestion that had plagued me throughout my first year—likely a direct consequence of rushing my meals to keep pace with them. And honestly, the very thought of clinging to Valerius’s coattails, like some parasitic organism, struck me as utterly repugnant. Thus, I offered no supplication, no protest. Just like that, I was adrift from the group. My will, my desires, were utterly immaterial. Attempting to project an air of nonchalance, my gaze inadvertently met Seraphon’s. He was lounging upon his desk, still bouncing that smooth stone, and regarded me with an unreadable expression before posing his question, devoid of particular inflection. “When do you intend to dine?” My response caught in my throat. “My usual time is in approximately ten bells.” “Yes, that suits me as well.” A hollow affirmation. In truth, I had never once dined at that hour before. Yet, the raw instinct for survival surged within me. If I wished to secure a position within *any* group, even Seraphon’s, adaptation was not merely an option, but an imperative. The first time I shared the midday meal with Seraphon alone, I found myself leaving nearly half my fare untouched, feigning a sudden lack of appetite. Seraphon raised a single, skeptical brow. “Are you truly eighteen namedays old and still particular about your provender?” “What concern is it of yours?” I bristled. “Honestly, you are like a child.” “Even mature men do not consume roasted wyvern cutlets with saccharine fruit preserves,” I retorted petulantly, my gaze fixed on him. What did he truly care? His casual observation chafed. During our first year, Valerius and I were almost inseparable. By the second, those moments had dwindled to precious few, a change I attributed entirely to Seraphon’s burgeoning influence. Yet, I possessed no right to voice complaint. Seraphon, in the intricate calculus of the Scholarium, outranked me. Seraphon’s and Valerius’s circles overlapped considerably, comprising predominantly of those scholars whose academic standings languished at the nadir of our year. These were the sorts who would forge dismissal chits or slip from lectures, exploiting the lax oversight of tutors too disengaged to confirm their whereabouts. Valerius, ever mindful of his parents’ watchful scrutiny, typically remained within the lecture hall until the final bell. As for Seraphon, whose reputation was nearly as notorious, I had once inquired why he bothered to adhere to the rigid schedule. His response had become etched into my memory. “Do you truly deem me so pathetic?” His eyes, usually half-lidded, sharpened. “No, but all your associates are of that ilk.” “Associates? What in the Aether are you speaking of? They are not my associates. They are dross.” “What?” I stared, bewildered. “A scholar’s sworn duty is to attend lessons and acquire knowledge, is it not?” “That is true.” My voice was barely a whisper. “Do not lump me with that dross. It irks me.” “Yes, my apologies.” “I was not soliciting an apology.” Naturally, it was a perfectly reasonable assertion. Yet, hearing it from Seraphon, whose so-called associates absented themselves from the Scholarium at least once a seven-day, struck me as utterly absurd. Regardless, I found myself spending the majority of my second year in the company of Valerius and Seraphon. I had come to regard this arrangement as a sacred space, one that no one else could intrude upon. It would have been utterly perfect without Seraphon, yet, surprisingly, we coexisted better than anticipated. I held no particular fondness for him, but he was not so utterly intolerable that I would storm off. He was merely… vexing. But Hadrian, poor Hadrian, turned even those days into a recurring nightmare. Today, however, felt subtly different from the norm. “Aether blast it. Kaelen and Rhydian, those craven curs,” Valerius cursed, gripping his head as the fourth lecture period neared its conclusion. The scent of parchment and old ink filled the air. Hearing his voice, I spun around instantly, my tone tinged with a nascent, almost illicit, anticipation. “They absconded again?” “Utterly feckless idiots.” He slammed a palm onto his desk. “That is truly unfortunate. With whom will you partake of your midday repast, then?” My fingers trembled almost imperceptibly as I tightened my grip on the back of my chair, a secret hope blossoming within my chest. Valerius emitted a heavy sigh and cast a sidelong glance at Seraphon, who sat beside him, idly sketching arcane symbols on a scrap of vellum. “Seraphon, I shall be dining with you two today.” “Do not presume. No one extended an invitation,” Seraphon replied, his voice utterly devoid of warmth. “Continue to wag your tongue, and I shall see it silenced.” Valerius’s eyes narrowed. “By the Mother, today is truly testing my patience, Valerius. My fist yearns for your countenance.” “Go ahead and attempt it, imbecile.” “Bold words for one who would otherwise break bread alone.” I could no longer hold back. My voice, higher pitched than I intended, cut into their exchange. “Come, let us all dine together. We cannot simply abandon Valerius to eat in solitude.” My desperation must have been glaringly evident. Valerius smirked triumphantly, shooting a sly, knowing glance at Seraphon. “You see? I possess truly devoted companions.” Seraphon merely scowled, then, with a casual flick of his wrist, shoved Valerius’s elaborate pencil case off the desk, sending it clattering to the polished stone floor. Whether Seraphon held any affection for me was immaterial. What truly mattered was that Valerius had chosen to join us for the midday meal. It had been so long since we had shared a meal, such a vast span of time, and the thrill that coursed through me was so potent that I even forced myself to consume side dishes I usually disdained, their flavors cloying on my tongue. Valerius, however, paid scant attention to his food. His eyes, keen and predatory, scanned the expansive common hall, like a raptor searching for vulnerable prey. I, too consumed by his renewed presence, failed to notice Seraphon deftly pilfering choice morsels from my own tray. Then, without warning, Valerius’s chopsticks clattered onto his plate, and his free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing by, a grasp that was both casual and utterly inescapable. Looking up, my blood ran cold. It was Hadrian. His face, usually pale, blanched further. “Sit here,” Valerius commanded, inclining his head towards the empty seat beside him. The chair, ornate and carved, seemed to mock Hadrian’s meekness. “You possess no other companions with whom to dine, in any case.” Hadrian’s face flushed a deep crimson. His eyes darted wildly, landing briefly on me, a desperate plea hidden within their depths, before he bit his lip and slowly, reluctantly, settled into the seat Valerius had indicated. I was stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Valerius harbor any concern for Hadrian’s social standing? And the very reason Hadrian possessed no companions was entirely Valerius’s doing. Valerius detested it when anyone, myself included, evinced even the slightest warmth towards Hadrian. A bitter, metallic taste rose in my throat. Unconsciously, my spoon slammed onto my tray, the sharp, jarring sound echoing unnaturally in the relatively quiet space. But the only one who reacted to the sudden noise was Hadrian, who flinched violently, his shoulders hunching, and looked at me with an expression of profound nervousness. Valerius, conversely, remained fixated on Hadrian, his attention unwavering. Aether take it. In that precise moment, I felt the protective shell I had so meticulously constructed over the long years begin to crack. A fissure, deep and unsettling, spiderwebbed across its surface. I tried to staunch the breach, to hold it together, but the effort was futile. Perhaps I was nearing a breaking point, a precipice I had never even known existed within me. Desperately clinging to denial, my voice, sharper than I intended, snapped at Hadrian. “Hadrian. Simply depart.” “H-huh?” He blinked, confused. “Do not heed Valerius. Simply go. It is… permissible.” My gaze flickered to Valerius. “Elaraeth,” Valerius’s voice, dangerously low and laced with menace, cut through the tension. When I told Hadrian he could leave, Valerius, who had so pointedly ignored the clamor I had created earlier, finally ground his teeth, his gaze burning into me with undisguised fury. That very glare, rather than cowing me, only served to strengthen my resolve. I fixed my eyes stubbornly on Hadrian, refusing to back down. “I shall manage this. You are free to go.” “Uh, o-okay.” Hadrian’s voice was a mere whisper. “And Valerius, cease this already.” “Yes, I concur,” Seraphon chimed in, his words muffled by a mouthful of food, barely intelligible. His sudden interjection felt utterly misplaced, yet typical of him. He chewed and swallowed with deliberate, infuriating slowness before glancing between Valerius and me, a faint, irritating smirk playing on his lips. “What are you staring at? You are quite spoiling my appetite.” As always, Seraphon’s unnecessary provocations grated upon my already frayed nerves. That man was truly insufferable, no matter how I regarded him. Ignoring him, I turned my full attention back to Valerius. “Release Hadrian.” “Who in the Aether are you to issue me commands?” Valerius shot back, his voice rising, drawing curious glances from nearby tables. “It is… tiresome for the rest of us to observe.” I did not blink as I met his furious gaze, and Valerius, with a sudden, violent motion, slammed his fist onto the table. The sudden impact made Hadrian, who was still sitting awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Seraphon, on the other hand, merely chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender. “Exclude me from this farce.” He licked a few drops of water from his lips, his gaze still holding that maddening amusement. “Let us determine this by majority vote. I am neutral. Elaraeth desires his departure. Valerius insists he remains.” For the record, Seraphon was one of the very few who called me “Elaraeth,” and I found it irritating with every utterance. That irritation, as it often did, slipped into my tone now. “Cease your meddling. Your vote possesses no validity.” “Why ever not? There is another individual right there.” Seraphon, utterly unfazed, smirked and pointed a casual finger at Hadrian, motioning towards him with a languid flick of his hand. “What? Is Hadrian not a person?” “You are unhinged.” The words were a desperate gasp. “Why is he silent? Allow him to speak his own desires.” As if Hadrian could possibly articulate a single word in this suffocatingly tense atmosphere. I sighed at Seraphon’s thoughtless antics, picked up my spoon, and idly stirred my rice, the grains swirling in a meaningless vortex. That was when Valerius tapped his finger, a slow, deliberate rhythm, upon the table. “If you utter a single word about leaving, you shall be as good as dead starting this very day.” Tears began to well up in Hadrian’s large, luminous eyes, which glimmered as he looked at me, an unspoken plea for succor. Aether take it! I pressed my lips together, a line of grim determination. “It is fine. I shall deter him,” I said, attempting to offer Hadrian some modicum of reassurance, though my voice wavered. “Elaraeth,” Valerius growled, his voice tight with barely suppressed anger. I forced myself to meet his furious gaze, feigning a calmness that was miles from the utter chaos raging within me. I felt the overwhelming urge to shatter, to break down completely. To suppress it, I looked up at the vaulted ceiling of the common hall for a fleeting moment, its grandeur a stark contrast to the ugliness unfolding below, before lowering my head and replying nonchalantly. “What is it?” “You…” Valerius clenched his fist, glaring at me with an intensity that felt as though it could burn through my very being. Still, I had to endure. My instincts screamed, a primal warning that I could not, must not, leave Hadrian alone with Valerius. The thought was unbearable. But Valerius’s focus, for a moment, shifted back to Hadrian, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “I-I will depart,” Hadrian stammered, his voice trembling, barely audible. I could only watch, my heart a leaden weight. “Th-thank you, Elaraeth.” Hadrian hurriedly rose, his movements jerky and unsteady, his gaze fixed on the floor as he stumbled away. As soon as he was gone, Valerius turned abruptly, his grim expression settling on me like a pall.

A Gilded Cage