A guttural cry escaped Cassian Vance, his fist halting inches from Elias Carrow’s jaw. Lysander Valerius, draped over a nearby desk, simply extended a foot, catching Cassian’s thigh with a casual, almost lazy, tap. The would-be brawl dissolved before it truly sparked.
Cassian’s bravado, a flimsy pretense, deflated. He squawked, a sound like a startled raven, as Orion Blackwood and Elias Carrow erupted in mocking laughter. Cassian rounded on them, eyes narrowed.
“Funny, is it? You find this amusing?” He shoved Elias’s shoulder, a playful but firm blow.
The minor fracas concluded. Three figures ambled towards the lecture hall’s grand oak doors. Elias paused, turning back, offering Kaelen a half-hearted wave. Kaelen, having no reason to ignore him, returned the gesture with a faint lift of his hand.
Then, sinking deeper into his seat, Kaelen pulled his inscription slate closer. His fingers traced the cold, smooth stylus. Before he could begin the first problem, his gaze drifted upwards, sweeping across the pale, crystalline walls of the Runic Lecture Hall. They shimmered with residual arcane energy.
He lowered his head to the desk.
Kaelen was deep into the third runic sequence, tapping his stylus against the polished basalt, when he suddenly lifted his eyes. Beyond the arched, leaded windows, the Lumina Weeping Willows in the Grand Courtyard were beginning to bleed gold, their spectral leaves whispering secrets to the cool autumn air. A subtle, earthy scent, like damp moss and forgotten parchment, permeated the academy grounds. Above, the sky stretched, a canvas of crisp, ethereal blue.
“This place is a breeding ground for base instincts.”
Master Eldrin, the old Arcane Traditions tutor, would often lament this. His voice, raspy from years of lecturing, echoed in Kaelen’s memory.
“A damned crucible. Students, especially those of… means, they vie for dominance from the moment they step through the gates. By the Midwinter Solstice, things settle, a semblance of order. But until then? It’s a constant struggle. Fights, posturing, testing the boundaries, clawing for position. My head aches from it. And I’ll endure it all again when the next wave of fresh-faced nobles arrives. Let me see… what astrological sign were they born under again?”
Master Eldrin would then spread his gnarled hand, counting the joints one by one, muttering ancient celestial cycles.
“The Ram, the Bull, the Twins, the Crab… Yes, that means…”
Kaelen unconsciously mimicked the motion, stretching out his own hand, counting the subtle bumps along his fingers. He lacked Master Eldrin’s intuitive grasp of celestial patterns, a common failing for those without innate magical sensitivity. He gave up, flipping his hand over, counting the raised veins and knuckles on the back instead. One for ambition, three for perseverance, two for cunning…
He never would have imagined, back in the languid days of high summer, that late Autumn would feel so much like the turbulent early term.
“They are nothing but untamed beasts. Irrational, driven by impulse, slaves to their desires.”
Kaelen stared at a prominent vein on his index finger, absently tapping the desk with his stylus as if playing a silent arpeggio.
Master Eldrin’s voice, now a distant memory, was replaced by the low hum of distant arcane currents, and the faint scratch of quill against parchment from the next room.
Kaelen glanced at the empty seat near the front. For a fleeting instant, he imagined the impression of a head on one side of the desk – one side pressed deep, the other hovering, weightless.
His stylus stilled.
He turned his head.
Lysander Valerius sat there, hunched over an intricate runic diagram, his face half-buried in the scrolls. His eyes were half-closed. He would fix his gaze on a problem, like a hawk about to strike, only to slump forward again, forehead pressed against the ancient vellum.
Kaelen watched as Lysander’s nose distorted slightly between the pages and his brow. Then, he looked away.
“Did I… drift for a moment?”
A peculiar lightness settled over Kaelen. He felt detached, distant. He marked the third sequence with a small etched star and moved onto the fourth.
---
Midday found Kaelen in the grand Refectory, the air thick with the scent of spiced stew and baked roots. He was methodically spooning stew into his mouth when Lysander, finishing his plum tart, suddenly spoke.
“You’re second in our cohort, aren’t you?”
Kaelen swallowed. “Yes.”
“And across the entire academy?”
“Also second.”
“Gods.” Lysander leaned back.
“What?”
“So the top student in our cohort… is the top student in the entire academy?”
“You didn’t know? I’ve never surpassed Seraphina Lux. She holds the first position.”
“Seraphina. She’s even more diligent than you, I hear.”
“She is. Her private tutoring sessions often extend until the first bell of dawn.”
“That’s… intense.”
“She strives for perfection.” Kaelen’s tone was clipped. He had no desire to prolong this discussion. He scooped another spoonful of stew, deliberately filling his mouth. Lysander, thankfully, merely nodded.
“Ah…” A quiet sigh.
The conversation had died abruptly. Kaelen felt the uncomfortable silence begin to stretch. He detested awkward lulls. Without thinking, he blurted out, “And you? What is your standing?”
Lysander’s spoon, halfway to his lips, froze. Kaelen found himself staring at Lysander’s hand. He held his utensils with an almost aristocratic grace, a surprising finesse for someone so casually inclined. If Lysander Valerius excelled at anything, it was wielding a spoon properly.
“In the cohort…”
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
“…Ninth?”
“Why that expression?”
Kaelen quickly averted his gaze from Lysander’s hands. Ninth? Was he serious? No deception? He almost asked aloud, but bit back the words. A close call. To offend Lysander, even subtly, would invite an uncomfortable encounter later.
He hesitated. Should he offer false praise? Or feign indifference, as if such a rank was entirely expected? Kaelen’s mind, ever calculating, weighed the optimal social response. Lysander didn’t seem particularly fond of the more boisterous members of his circle. Indifference, then, was safer.
“Ah. Better than I would have estimated.”
“What? Estimated? Did you think me an utter dolt?”
“Not a dolt. But I presumed you struggled with Arcane Linguistics?”
“Only Arcane Linguistics. It’s my sole failing.”
“Yet you attend no extra-mural sessions.”
“One need not attend a private mage-school to apply oneself. Gods, Kaelen, did you truly imagine I was an imbecile?”
“No, no, not at all.” Kaelen waved his hand dismissively.
“It is commendable, achieving that without supplemental instruction.”
“…Truly?”
“Yes. Highly commendable.”
Lysander, for some inexplicable reason, began mashing his spoon into his stew. And… was he flushing? Kaelen caught a glimpse of the tips of his ears turning a faint rose. Now that Kaelen thought about it, Septimus Valerius often ranked among the lowest, typically thirtieth or so, only spared last place by those who simply abandoned their studies.
Reflecting, Kaelen realized how little attention he usually paid to anyone outside his immediate sphere of academic survival. And with that realization, a pang struck him. He had been drowning in the very sort of pathetic, obsessive infatuation he had once despised.
Lysander, oblivious to Kaelen’s internal crisis, had clearly received a potent confidence boost. His tone shifted, brimming with self-satisfaction.
“Oh, right! You probably don’t know this—I excel at Runic Inscription.”
“Do you? How proficient?”
“Perfect scores. I have never dropped a single point in Inscription.”
Kaelen choked. The moment Lysander uttered those words, Kaelen nearly spat out a mouthful of stew. Lysander scowled, yanking his tray further away.
“What in the Arcane? What kind of reaction is that?”
“I… was merely surprised.”
“That surprising?” He frowned, a slight pout to his lips. “My Linguistics scores are dismal, but that’s all.” An odd hint of self-deprecation laced his voice. Kaelen, in turn, offered a jest.
“Perhaps a few more hours with ancient texts would serve you.”
“Ancient texts? I am quite the literary scholar.”
“A scholar? I have never observed you with a tome.”
“That is because I indulge my studies in secret, at home.”
“Why would one need to conceal such pursuits?”
Lysander’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped another spoonful of stew. He pressed his lips casually over the spoon’s edge. Something about the image unsettled Kaelen. He bit the inside of his cheek. Lysander met Kaelen’s eyes as he withdrew the spoon, then lowered his gaze and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to its tip.
“Forbidden lore is still lore.”
That was definitely a joke. The bastard. Kaelen’s face burned. To hide his flush, he grabbed a crumpled napkin beside his tray and flicked it at Lysander. It landed harmlessly just beneath Lysander’s long, narrow eyes, then dropped to the table. One of Lysander’s eyes twitched slightly. Not that Kaelen truly cared, but in case Lysander was genuinely annoyed, Kaelen feigned regret.
“Keep such crude jests to yourself. Especially within these halls. It’s distasteful.”
“Oh? This? You mean Septimus’s little affectation?”
“I care not whose affectation it is. Just cease.”
“Is this not the new… vogue among our peers?”
Kaelen stared at him, trying to discern if Lysander was mocking or serious.
---
Kaelen found himself sleeping less. A clear sign, he mused, that his body was adjusting, finding a new, uncomfortable rhythm. Mornings, once a dull, sluggish descent into reality, now felt oddly crisp, invigorating. It was a welcome change—in his mind, the gravest sins for an aspiring artificer were complacency and slumber.
“Ah, damnation—!”
His jaw clicked painfully as he brushed his teeth. Ever since Septimus Valerius had struck him weeks ago, his jaw produced an odd grinding noise whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Beyond that, the day promised a rare tranquility.
But even in this newfound semblance of peace, sudden stabs of irritation surfaced. The source remained constant: Septimus Valerius. Or rather, the lingering echoes of his transgressions. Most of them still resonated within the academy walls.
“Oh, right. I saw Septimus last night.”
Hadrian Vance spoke, biting into a stale bread roll, the kind rumored to be made from discarded grains and leftover kitchen scraps. Cassian Vance, who had been playfully jabbing Hadrian’s ankle, suddenly perked up.
“By the Mother Crystal—you reminded me! I was meaning to share this. I heard whispers through the arcane currents—you know Renan Blackwood, yes? That wandering aesthete? I heard Septimus is staying at his estate.”
“Renan Blackwood? That dissolute Park Renan?”
Lysander Valerius, rummaging through a small cloth bag, asked casually. When he withdrew his hand, he held two small, candied fruit drops. For some reason, he offered one to Kaelen.
“…”
Kaelen stared at it, confused.
“…What is this?”
He looked at Lysander, questioning, but Lysander merely gave a slight nod, as if the gesture was self-explanatory. The most emphatic reaction came from Cassian, whose bag of fruit drops had been raided.
“By the First Rune! I purchased those! Why do you curs constantly pilfer my sustenance?”
“Oh, as if you’ve never stolen mine, you glutton.” Hadrian made another mock knife-hand strike at Cassian’s throat. Cassian instantly spun, grabbed Hadrian’s collar, and swung a playful punch at his face. Of course, he would not actually connect. This was merely their manner of interaction. Kaelen ignored their juvenile bickering. He looked down at the fruit drop in his hand. The wrapper depicted a small, halved citra fruit. He peeled the wrapper, popped the candy into his mouth, and lifted his head.
“What do you think? The taste of first love?” Lysander grinned.
“I find citra bitter.” Kaelen’s answer wasn’t merely about the candy; it was his evaluation of Lysander’s jibe, too. And more than anything, he did not find notions of first love amusing. That sticky, bitter feeling clung to the back of his throat. It stifled his appetite. He couldn’t even finish the candy. He tossed it into a nearby waste bin.
“Oh, what a travesty,” Lysander mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, Kaelen reached into Cassian’s bag for a different fruit drop. They were all either citra or lime. Lime was the lesser evil. He unwrapped one and put it in his mouth.
“Anyway, Renan Blackwood, eh? Sounds precisely like Septimus.”
“What, because they’re both debauched?” Lysander’s words were sharp. Uncomfortable, Kaelen turned to look at him. Lysander was sucking on his fruit drop expressionlessly, twirling the white stick between his lips. Kaelen pulled his own from his mouth. Something felt wrong about this. Lysander, however, seemed unconcerned. He tilted his fruit drop in the air like a tiny sword, making random jabbing motions.
“He entertains clients—regardless of their station or persuasion. And when he finds someone suitably pliable, he directs them straight to Septimus. It’s a whole circuit. Indulging in pleasure, passing them from one to another.”
“So Renan Blackwood is also… a connoisseur of all pleasures?” Cassian suddenly cut in. Whether he had finished his playful scuffle with Hadrian or had simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, Kaelen couldn’t tell. Cassian rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if actually processing the sordid implications.