Cool air, thick with the scent of aged parchment and ozone, filled the Grand Lecture Hall. It was a vast expanse, carved deep into Aerthos’s mountain heart, echoing with the hushed rustle of robes and the scratching of stylus on slate. Here, knowledge was currency, and power a birthright. Every acolyte, every scholar, understood the unspoken language of the tiers, a brittle, taut string stretched to its breaking point. Survival in this academic jungle was a delicate, constant dance. Lysander knew this rhythm intimately. It had been his routine since first stepping through the Citadel’s formidable gates, a silent struggle he shared with everyone else, a pyramid of aspiration concealed beneath layers of quiet decorum. “Ah…” His arm, still stiff from the previous night’s indignities, throbbed. He flexed his fingers, shaking out the dull ache. A gnawing emptiness tightened his stomach, a physical manifestation of the unease coiling within him. He released a shallow breath, his gaze sweeping over the hunched backs of those seated before him. Runes flickered across the polished obsidian tablets at the front, projected by silent magics. At the Arch-Scholar Lumina’s podium, the venerable figure sat, eyes distant, seemingly absorbed in a shimmering orb of divination. Lumina’s voice, a low murmur of ancient lore, drifted through the hall. Some students diligently transcribed intricate runic sequences; others, having surrendered to fatigue, slumped, lost to the current’s pull. “Awaken, those whose minds wander,” Lumina’s voice resonated, crisp despite its low volume, a subtle ripple through the focused air. “The mysteries of the Elder Tongue demand your vigilance.” It was the fifth cycle since dawn. Lysander had been grappling with the fifteenth glyph sequence, his stylus paused mid-stroke. He scratched his temple, a mechanical pencil resting on his desk. His eyes drifted to the empty seats, two in particular. As expected, Kaelen’s seat remained vacant. Next to it, Seraphin’s too. They would likely not return today, nor tomorrow. Not unless Kaelen’s unpredictable humors shifted, or some new, unsettling drama unfolded between them. Lysander lowered his gaze, focusing on the tangled script of the arcane problems. Ancient symbols blurred before his eyes. He had once believed he understood Kaelen, truly. He had nurtured a secret pride, convinced he saw deeper into the aspiring magus than anyone else in this hall. Even more so than… Lumina’s star acolyte. His chin propped on his hand, the thought curdled. The sheer audacity of his own self-deception disgusted him. What scorn would be heaped upon him if these venomous thoughts escaped the confines of his mind? He knew the answer: demotion, expulsion, a swift, brutal plummet to the lowest stratum of Aerthos society. The thought was a cold, terrifying claw in his gut. This insidious hunger, unique to a desperate, overlooked apprentice, had to remain buried. So deep, not even the object of his fixation would sense its presence. So deep, he sometimes wished he could forget it himself. But Kaelen had no such inhibitions. Kaelen’s desires, his erratic temper, his cruel caprices—they were known to all. Lysander subtly lifted his head. Most acolytes remained hunched, lost in their own struggles. He pressed his lips into a tight line, his gaze straying forward. Between the polished rows, near the Arch-Scholar’s dais, lay a discarded scroll, its edges frayed, its parchment stained with a curious, dark sheen. It seemed less forgotten than actively rejected, a grim reminder of fallen prestige. Suddenly, a tremor of paranoia. Had someone noticed his lingering gaze? Lysander quickly buried his head, feigning engrossment in his own work, like the others. He then angled his neck, his eyes settling on the back row. There, partially obscured by a raised arm, a figure rested, seemingly asleep. A face that, even in repose, held a delicate, almost sorrowful cast. It was Lord Valerius Thorne. Lysander studied Valerius’s profile. The scion of a formidable line, Valerius possessed a lean, almost ascetic grace. His uniform, impeccably tailored, still revealed the powerful sinews of his wrists, around one of which coiled a band of polished obsidian beads – a symbol of his family’s ancient, austere creed. It was an unmistakable mark, intrinsic to Valerius’s very being. Whispers placed Valerius’s family in the highest echelons of the Citadel, far from Lysander’s humble district. Yet, despite his lineage, Valerius rarely exuded overt opulence. His eyes, often shadowed beneath heavy lids, held a perpetually haunted quality, his faded irises adding to his sharp, almost gaunt appearance. His presence was one of grim intimidation, lacking the flamboyant refinement Lysander often associated with high-tier mages. Instead, Valerius’s face seemed etched with a profound sense of ancient deprivation, exuding a melancholic gravity. Lysander knew Valerius’s personality was as sharp-edged as his features. He wasn’t merely indifferent to the common ambitions; he seemed to actively erase minor events from his memory, whether by design or an innate processing. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a quality that paradoxically added to his formidable mystique. Valerius cared little for material gain. He never seemed to notice the sums others spent or requested. If the whim struck him, he’d casually dismiss a substantial debt or offer invaluable components to an unknown apprentice without a second thought, as if the concept of tangible worth held no meaning for him. Yet, he was particular in his benevolence. He’d indulge random requests when his mood was peculiar but would cold-shoulder those in genuine, desperate need. Even with his own retinue, Valerius could be chillingly harsh. Lysander had once heard of an aspiring acolyte, presuming familiarity, who had attempted to casually pick up a rarely displayed, ancient artifact of Valerius’s. Valerius had, without a word, delivered a precise, disarming jolt of aetheric force, sending the acolyte sprawling. Such was his disregard for perceived social niceties. At the peak of the Citadel’s hierarchies, those like Valerius and Kaelen shared a singular trait: a complete disregard for others’ opinions. This very indifference, in its twisted way, was what secured their place at the pyramid’s apex. Why did those below willingly surrender their autonomy to these unpredictable forces? It remained a mystery Lysander could not fathom. And yet, Valerius Thorne adhered to a severe, almost ascetic family creed. They spoke of the ‘Thorne Vow,’ an ancient pact of discipline and self-mastery. Lysander had heard it strictly forbade uncontrolled arcane manifestations, emotional outbursts, and the casual manipulation of lesser beings for personal amusement. This Vow was meant to guide, yet Valerius’s actions often skirted the line. Kaelen’s recent displays of raw, uncontrolled temper, his chaotic outbursts – Lysander wondered if such behavior deeply offended Valerius’s strictures. He licked his dry lips. A strange, unsettling relief washed over Lysander. He hadn’t been caught. If he had, he might have ended up like that discarded scroll, trampled underfoot. Yet, a part of him, a foolish, wounded part, still wondered. Had he and Kaelen remained as they were, just cycles ago, would Kaelen have shielded him? The thought surfaced, unwanted, dragging with it memories he desperately tried to bury. He took a deep breath, fighting a surge of nausea, as though the day’s meager meal threatened to rebel. No. Of course not. How laughable, that he had once believed such a thing. To Kaelen, Lysander had been nothing. A convenient distraction, a useful mind to bounce theories off, easily discarded. The truth had been stark in Kaelen’s eyes as he struck him down. Lysander hadn’t wanted to see it, but it had been undeniable. Kaelen transgressed openly. Lysander, too, harbored transgressions—but he hid them. And so, Kaelen faced the ire of the Arch-Scholars, while Lysander, for now, was spared. A faint, bitter laugh escaped his lips, audible only to himself. “...So, as long as I remain unseen, that’s all that matters.” Perhaps the Aether itself possessed a disposition akin to Valerius Thorne’s. Lysander’s gaze shifted to Seraphin’s empty seat near the Arch-Scholar’s podium. Today, a pang of something close to pity flickered through him for the younger acolyte. Poor soul, caught in the throes of Kaelen’s volatile affections. Seraphin lacked the inner fortitude to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Seraphin, despite his burgeoning talent. He should have listened when Lysander subtly warned him, foolish boy. Lysander knew he was not a good person. Selfish, self-serving, these were the flaws that had been laid bare by his recent humiliation. Sometimes, the cynical thought twisted through him: If one is to succumb to such controlling influences, why not choose someone calculating and cunning, like himself? At least then, the suffering might yield some tangible gain. Why fall for someone so innocent, so guileless, only to be crushed underfoot? These cycles, he thought differently. Indeed. No one could ever truly love someone like him. He knew his own depths too well to believe otherwise. There had been a time when he thought he could have it all. Arrogant, deluded Lysander Vance. Lysander, who thought he understood the subtle machinations of Aerthos at his tender age. Vile, selfish Lysander. Pitiful Lysander, who had no one to truly comfort him, who endured everything alone. That day, he could not surmount the fifteenth glyph. He used his lingering aches as an excuse to lie slumped over his desk, finding a cold comfort in the thought: At least I am not as irrevocably ruined as Kaelen or Seraphin. Whispers about Kaelen and Seraphin spread like wildfire through the Citadel. Whether exaggerated or rooted in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to ascertain the facts. Kaelen’s informal retinue, his usual hangers-on, had vanished from the hall, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances, inadvertently fueling the rumor mill even further. “Apprentice Vance, do you know who was Kaelen’s closest associate?” Lysander overheard the Arch-Scholar Lumina’s query as he passed by on his way back to the Lecture Hall before the final dismissal. A junior acolyte stammered in response, “Lord… no, Arch-Acolyte Valerius Thorne.” Pretending he hadn’t heard, Lysander walked into the room. Lumina glanced nervously between Lysander and the empty seats, fingers drumming against the obsidian podium. Then, as if giving up on some unspoken thought, Lumina announced: “The session concludes.” At the moment of dismissal, Lysander gathered his scrolls. As he slung his satchel over his shoulder, a hand tapped his back. He turned. Valerius Thorne stood there, impossibly close. “Vance. We should continue this discussion after the session.” Lysander looked into Valerius’s shadowed eyes. He knew. He had always observed Kaelen and Valerius, and knew Valerius’s infrequent invitations had almost always been extended to Kaelen. After a brief pause, Lysander shook his head. “I cannot. I have further runes to decipher, a complex fragment.” “After that, then?” “More study. You should seek out your own cadre.” “Unnecessary.” “Why so?” “Aligning with lesser minds only dilutes one’s focus. It is an impediment.” “Ha.” Lysander let out a short, incredulous laugh. This was why he could, despite everything, tolerate Valerius. Their twisted values, their ruthless pragmatism, aligned in strange, unsettling ways. “So, Elara, Kyra—they are impediments? Even Master Lorien?” “If you frame it thus, yes. Mostly. But you are different, Vance.” The backhanded compliment left a sour taste in Lysander’s mouth. “What is that supposed to mean? You are quite awful.” “No. I am not.” “You are truly awful.” “Hmm. The Thorne Vow espouses clarity. ‘Thou shalt not obscure truth.’ I merely speak it. Therefore, I am not awful.” Honestly, Valerius was worse than Lysander. At least Lysander didn’t openly dismiss his peers as 'impediments'. “That is why I am of sound mind.” “...Indeed.” “Since I am of such sound mind, may I accompany you to your quarters?” Valerius blinked twice. Lysander met his gaze for a moment, then nodded. “Very well.” As long as Valerius did not interfere with his own delicate machinations, there was no reason to refuse. To secure one’s precarious place in the Citadel’s hierarchy, there were alliances one simply could not afford to spurn. Even if they felt like walking a razor’s edge. Even if they tasted of obsidian and gilded, dangerous ambition.

The Weight of Gold and Obsidian