Two days after whispers began circulating about Roric Varis’s public disgrace, his preparatory scrolls and half-finished runic schematics lay scattered near the Arcane Repository’s refuse bins, scorched along their edges. Not truly burned, but bearing the marks of a potent, destructive spell, hastily quenched, leaving behind a brittle, sooty residue. No one needed to name the perpetrator. Later, in the refectory, Cassian Thorne, a distant cousin of Kaelen’s, but one who reveled in his own minor noble connections, grinned openly at Lord Valerius’s retinue. The younger acolytes, eager to ingratiate themselves, recounted Cassian’s boasts from the washrooms, detailing how Roric’s latest, ill-fated design for a self-sustaining lumina globe had met a fiery end. “How exceedingly brave,” Kaelen muttered, a faint twist to his lips. He observed a splintered wooden crate, overflowing with the ruined parchments, placed with deliberate care beside the dark, iron-banded waste cylinder. It held the silent testament to the bitter rivalry between Roric Varis and Valerius; a struggle Roric had lost, spectacularly, without truly understanding the depths of his folly. The motive was transparent. At first, Kaelen had dismissed it as mere academy squabbling, but an unidentifiable tremor in the social current suggested deeper currents. Even Roric’s once-loyal coterie began to distance themselves, murmuring about his erratic outbursts and volatile temper. His animosity towards Valerius, once a mere undercurrent, had become a torrent, consuming his judgment. When Roric had openly challenged Valerius in the Grand Atrium, his raw, unrefined spell-casting causing a minor structural fissure, Kaelen had known then, with grim certainty, that Roric’s collapse was imminent. Yet, as the tide of opinion turned, Kaelen felt no urge to intervene, no prick of remorse. He harbored no foolish illusions about self-sacrifice. Defending Roric, a low-born’s clumsy attempt to uphold a fallen noble, would only invite scrutiny. It might paint him as charitable, perhaps even loyal. But in the intricate web of Lumina Arcanum, where thirty different versions of one’s ambition flickered, even one would begin to question: “Why?” That chilling query, like a shard of ice, pierced his carefully constructed façade. It was a question he dared not have directed at himself. He rested his head upon the cool, polished oak of his study table, closing his eyes. A brief reprieve, a stolen moment of unconsciousness. If left undisturbed, he might have drifted into the quiet oblivion of sleep. Then, a sharp, light tap jolted him awake. His fingers instinctively rose to his scalp, rubbing the spot. Aric Vex, standing beside his table, also touched his forehead, a faint frown creasing his brow. “By the Void, that stung.” “Why do you slumber amidst the early light?” Aric’s voice, a low rumble, held a note of dry amusement. “My affairs are my own. What is that?” Kaelen gestured at the object in Aric’s hand. “Ah, this?” Aric’s grin, disarmingly brazen, spread across his face. He lifted a gnarled, darkwood staff, intricately carved with forgotten symbols. “Discovered it in the academy’s arcane reclamation vault. Seemed a waste to leave such potency unclaimed.” Kaelen’s face tightened with irritation. Aric Vex was perpetually entangled in some esoteric peculiarity. The tap had not truly hurt, yet Kaelen smoothed his hair, concerned it might have been disheveled. Aric, meanwhile, nudged a vacant chair with his foot, then settled into it with fluid grace, before it could even sway. He deposited his satchel onto the table, then slumped forward, using it as a makeshift pillow. “You rouse me from rest, only to court sleep yourself?” “I merely ensure your scholarly vigilance, lest you miss the pronouncements of the magisters. My own grades, such as they are, need no guarding.” “A false pretense.” Kaelen twisted in his seat, his retort a low growl. Aric’s every utterance seemed to invite contention. Kaelen nudged Aric’s foot in exasperation, earning a subtle smirk. “Tell me, is it permissible to afflict the recently mended? You, a mere artificer.” The playful baritone, laden with subtle provocation, made Kaelen scoff. This time, he nudged Aric’s staff. It swayed towards him, but Aric, without lifting his head, raised a hand and caught it with effortless precision. Unperturbed by Kaelen’s interference, he chuckled softly, then spoke, his voice muffled. “I’ve harbored a query.” “And it is?” “Your recent… incident. It was not merely a stumble, was it?” Damn. Was it that obvious? The bruise on his jaw, barely visible beneath his collar, had seemed so minor. He paused for a heartbeat, then casually ran a hand over his face. “A mere misstep. An accident of balance.” “Hmph.” Aric’s chin still rested on his satchel, but a low, knowing sound escaped him. “Truly?” His eyes flicked open, a piercing, unnerving gaze. He pointed a finger at Kaelen, as if singling him out. Kaelen, uncomprehending, merely repeated, “What?” “You lack shame.” The moment Aric smiled, resting the staff against his shoulder, Kaelen’s thoughts scattered. What arcane nonsense was this? “…What lacks shame?” “I suspect you did not simply lose your footing.” …Silence. Aric’s pronouncements were always cryptic, but this time, they carried a quiet, unsettling menace. His gaze remained unnervingly still, bright irises encompassing dark pupils that held Kaelen captive. It was like watching an arrow poised, trying to discern its trajectory. And this time, it was aimed directly at Kaelen. His mind emptied. Two words echoed, ceaselessly: *Impossible. He couldn’t know. Impossible. He couldn’t know.* Then, Aric’s eyes narrowed further. “It appeared more as though you were… struck.” His long, serpent-like eyes curved upward. Kaelen’s throat tightened, a sudden dryness. His breath hitched in his chest. A silent gulp. As Aric parted his lips, Kaelen couldn’t even blink. “Should others discover the truth, it would prove… inconvenient, would it not?” …Silence. “I shall guard this secret.” Raising the hand clutching the staff to his lips, Aric mouthed the words, then delivered a slow, deliberate wink. The breath Kaelen had been holding slammed against his ribs like a caged beast. He offered no opportunity for Kaelen to react. Instead, he casually raked a hand through his dark hair, then pointed again at Kaelen. “But have you sought to emulate my style? That would be… uninspired.” Kaelen was speechless. Aric Vex crinkled his nose in mock disapproval. “Regardless, I shall now embrace slumber.” He yawned, burying his face into his satchel. Staring at the back of Aric’s head, Kaelen finally managed, “I do not emulate you, nor have I altered my appearance.” “Is that so?” Aric’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his satchel. --- “Oh, Arcane Nexus, who absorbs the failings of the un-attuned.” Aric Vex murmured, clutching his Arcane Aptitude Report in one hand. During the fourth period, as the Advanced Runic Inscription class concluded, the magisters distributed their midterm assessments. Aric buried his face in his opened report, scanned the scores, and then uttered that strange prayer. He then threw his head back dramatically, releasing a deep, theatrical sigh. “Ah, I am truly undone.” Kaelen glanced at his own report, noted the flawless scores, then folded it precisely in half and slipped it into the inner pocket of his finely tailored robes. When he looked back, Aric was still sighing, his head thrown back so far that only the prominent curve of his Adam’s apple was visible. It bobbed heavily, almost in accusation, as Kaelen gazed at his throat. He spoke, “That is not the purpose of that particular invocation.” “What matter? An invocation serves its purpose.” He then abruptly asked, “Tell me, is it ‘Nexus’ or ‘Overlord’?” It was then Kaelen registered a peculiar facet of Aric Vex – his understanding of arcane doctrine was uniquely unconventional. “Why address me? It is your reverence.” “Kaelen, do not be so severe. You possess such vast knowledge, I presumed you would know everything.” “I do not. I have no such formal reverence.” Aric, who had been leaning back with exaggerated lassitude, suddenly snapped forward. Their eyes met, and Kaelen, without conscious thought, averted his gaze towards the stained-glass window, feigning disinterest. Yet, an unsettling prickle spread across his chest, as though caught in a transgression. He stared absently at the shifting light beyond the pane, then refocused on the impeccably stiff collar of Aric’s robes. The crisp, dark fabric rested against his neck, but with every animated gesture, a sliver of his collarbone briefly surfaced. “So? Will you accompany me to the Grand Conflux of Obscure Lore?” “What? No.” “Ah, why not? Come along. They distribute rare reagents, ancient schematics, even freshly brewed elixirs, if you attend the monthly gatherings.” “Wait, do not tell me you go solely for such… provisions?” “Naturally, I do.” Kaelen finally met his gaze, his eyes drawn to the delicate, silver runic pen Aric balanced on his upper lip. At first, pride had prevented the admission, but in that moment, Kaelen acknowledged it: Aric Vex possessed an undeniable handsomeness. What an insufferably smug individual. The pen, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted his voice into a slurred, disgruntled mumble. “But your tone implies theft. If they are freely offered, what offense in partaking?” “Can one truly claim ‘reverence’ if driven by such selfish motivations?” “All begin thus. Belief does not spring forth fully formed. One thinks, ‘Ah, they offer potent artifacts. That sect must be benevolent.’ And then, by degrees, that initial appreciation for the ‘benevolent purveyors of power’ transforms into absolute conviction. The genesis and the progression matter not. What truly matters is the present, unyielding belief.” Aric Vex spouted such philosophical paradoxes sometimes. Even Roric had occasionally found himself ensnared in them. Sometimes, it was pure sophistry. But sometimes, it was the kind of persuasive illogic that even Kaelen found himself contemplating. This instance fell into the latter category. He ran a hand through his dark, slightly overgrown fringe, attempting to sweep it from his forehead. But it persistently fell back into his eyes. He shook his head from side to side. His fine strands of hair swayed before him. Gathering them near his temples, the irritating tickle finally receded. Such was his preoccupation lately that he had neglected his usual meticulous grooming. With Roric Varis and Valerius now rarely gracing the main lecture halls together, the front rows felt eerily vacant. There was no longer a focal point for Kaelen’s observations in that particular direction. Six days prior, Dean Atherton summoned him to the faculty office, inquiring if he had received word from Roric. Kaelen answered truthfully, without hesitation. “No, Magister. I have not.” “You have yet to reconcile with Roric, I presume?” Kaelen offered a small, bitter smile. A perfectly calibrated expression. In truth, he felt no inclination to smile at all. “No. Roric… he grew quite vexed with me.” “Roric grew vexed with *you*?” The Dean’s surprise was palpable. “Indeed.” Rumors already circulated, so the Dean was not entirely oblivious to the implications of Kaelen’s carefully chosen words. “Very well, I understand,” he conceded, dismissing Kaelen. Then, as he settled back into his chair, Kaelen caught snippets of a low, frustrated monologue – complaints about Roric’s erratic behavior, and veiled allusions to the displeasure of Roric’s father, Lord Varis. Kaelen feigned ignorance of the Dean’s pathetic soliloquy, but he listened nonetheless. It was how he gauged the shifting currents within the faculty. Later, after school, while preparing for his private runic lessons, a scrying orb shimmered, revealing the familiar, anxious face of Lord Varis. He posed the same question as Dean Atherton – if Kaelen knew of Roric’s whereabouts. Kaelen offered the same, carefully constructed reply. “No, my Lord. Roric has ceased all communication with me.” — *I see…* “I regret deeply my inability to assist further.” — *No, there is nothing for you to apologize for. It is quite alright.* Lord Varis’s voice was strained, heavy with an almost desperate courtesy. Lately, Roric’s father had called more frequently than usual. And each time, the exchange followed an identical, unnerving pattern. There was something oddly deliberate about his attempts to bind Kaelen and Roric together, even in absence. Kaelen always hurried to conclude the calls. Honestly, there was nothing for him to apologize for. Yet, he spoke the words of contrition anyway – to cultivate affection. It was the same ingrained social instinct that compelled one to praise an ugly newborn. A social convention. A form of etiquette, functioning flawlessly in their supposedly civilized society. He felt no adult truly perceived him as manipulated. If anything, his politeness resembled a crude pantomime performed by a court jester. He always knew his place. And because he invested effort in being liked, he was destined to become a favored jester. Even if, one day, he committed an error so blatant it drew a frown from the audience, they would forgive him. Such was the foundation he meticulously laid. Unlike some witless fool, he navigated his life with careful acumen. Perhaps, from an adult’s perspective, his strategies were merely narrow-minded, petty contrivances to evade responsibility. But among his peers, his wisdom was undeniable – he knew precisely how to navigate unpredictable currents. For proof, one needed only observe Gareth. --- Gareth, once Roric’s most ardent companion, now displayed an almost desperate eagerness to curry favor with Aric Vex. Because of this, he also directed an unexpected friendliness towards Kaelen, understanding that in the eyes of their peers, Kaelen had, by some subtle alchemy, aligned himself with the enigmatic Aric early on. Though Gareth had once been one of Roric Varis’s closest confidantes, he now made it abundantly clear that he had shifted his allegiances, seeking the warming glow of a new, rising power.

The Weight of Discarded Ambition