Two cycles after Kael’s scholar’s cell had been ransacked, his grimoires were found charred in the thermal disposal chute. The acrid scent of burnt vellum still clung to the Scriptorium’s lower levels, a faint, metallic tang. It wasn't difficult to discern the architect of this latest defilement. Moments after the bell for Arcane Theory, a junior initiate, known for trailing Roric like a shadow, sported a triumphant smirk. Whispers in the refraction chambers confirmed it: the initiate had been bragging about cleansing Kael’s workspace of all his 'unworthy tomes'. “How… bold.” Lysander’s gaze drifted to the dented reclamation crate beside the main waste grate. Its weathered surface, scarred by countless discarded treatises and failed foci, held more than just refuse. It housed the silent, escalating conflict between Roric and Kael. Only two cycles prior, Kael had been dethroned, not by a direct challenge, but by a subtle erosion of his standing. He hadn't even perceived the fall until it was complete. Lysander understood the impetus. Initially, it seemed like simple academic rivalry, but a deeper, unsettling current soon surfaced. Even Kael's inner circle had begun to comment on his erratic behavior, his volatile outbursts. His simmering resentment towards Lord Kael's father was not mere filial animosity, and his violent tendencies transcended typical bullying. Seeing Kael's desperate confrontation in the Grand Aetherium had sealed it. Still, as the tide of opinion turned, Lysander felt no urge to intervene, no prick of guilt to confess. Lysander was no fool, he wouldn't sabotage his own ascent. He knew precisely how defending Kael would be perceived. Perhaps empathetic, even loyal. Yet, within Aerthos’s labyrinthine hierarchy, where a myriad of perceptions could twist even the clearest intention, the question would inevitably arise. *Why?* That chilling thought froze his blood. Lysander rested his head upon his polished obsidian desk, closing his eyes. A brief reprieve. He yearned for the moment he reopened them, for everything to align precisely as he willed. Drowsiness began to claim him. Then, a sharp rap struck the crown of his head, jarring him awake. Lysander sat upright, rubbing the spot, only to see Roric, a casual grin stretching across his lips, patting his own forehead. “What in the Aether-stream, that stung.” “Why are you already courting dreams, Vance?” “My focus is my own. What is that?” “Oh, this?” Roric’s grin widened, shamelessly lifting the slender, uncharged conduit staff he’d tucked under his arm. “Found it. Laying near the reclamation grate, abandoned.” Lysander’s lips thinned. Roric always found the strangest things. The tap hadn't truly hurt, but Lysander ran his fingers through his dark hair, a flicker of worry about disarray. Meanwhile, Roric kicked a vacant stool aside, then, with fluid grace, settled into it before it could fully topple. Effortless. He tossed his grimoire onto the desk, then used it as a makeshift cushion, flopping forward. “You rouse me from slumber, only to embrace it yourself?” “Only concerned for your scholastic standing, ensuring you don’t drift during lectures. My own grades are beyond redemption.” “Hardly.” Lysander twisted in his seat, a low grumble in his throat. Roric’s words always seemed to spark an automatic retort. With a hint of irritation, Lysander nudged Roric’s boot. Roric merely smirked. “Vance, is it customary to strike a magus in convalescence? Uncouth creature.” The playful sarcasm, laced with genuine bite, made Lysander scoff. This time, he nudged the conduit staff. It clattered towards Roric, but without lifting his head, Roric raised a hand and caught it with casual ease. His face remained buried in his grimoire. He chuckled, a soft, soundless sound, then spoke abruptly. “Something I’ve been meaning to ask.” “What is it?” “That wasn’t an accident, was it?” Damn. Was it that conspicuous? Lysander thought his face had healed without much trace. He hesitated for a mere breath, then, brushing a hand over his cheek, replied with a practiced nonchalance. “A momentary lapse in observation.” “Hah.” Still resting his chin on his grimoire, Roric let out a soft, knowing chuckle. “Indeed?” His eyes flicked up, fixing Lysander with an unnerving intensity. He pointed a finger, a subtle accusation. Lysander didn’t comprehend, so he simply echoed. “What?” “You are brazen.” The moment Roric smiled, leaning the conduit staff against his shoulder, Lysander’s thoughts seized. What in the Abyss was he implying? “…Brazen in what manner?” “I suspect you did not merely stumble…” “…” Roric’s pronouncements were always veiled, but this time, a quiet menace pulsed beneath the surface. His gaze was unsettlingly still. Bright irises held dark, piercing pupils that locked onto Lysander. It was like watching the tip of an arrow, knowing it was aimed, but unsure of its precise trajectory. This time, it was aimed directly at him. His mind went utterly blank. Two words echoed, a frantic rhythm: *No way. Impossible. No way. Impossible.* Then, finally, Roric’s eyes narrowed. “It looked more like you ran *into* something.” His long, serpentine eyes curved upward. Lysander’s throat constricted. His breath hitched in his chest. A silent swallow. While Roric parted his lips again, Lysander couldn’t even blink. “Should the other initiates discover this, it would be… undignified, wouldn’t it?” “…” “I shall guard your secret.” Raising the hand holding the conduit staff to his lips, Roric whispered the words, then offered a swift, conspiratorial wink. The breath Lysander had been holding exploded from his lungs, a caged animal’s desperate lunge against ribs. Roric didn’t await a response. He casually ran a hand through his dark hair, then pointed again at Lysander. “But did you attempt to emulate my coiffure? That is rather uninspired.” Lysander was speechless. Roric crinkled his nose in exaggerated disapproval. “Regardless, I shall now resume my slumber.” He yawned, burying his face in his grimoire. Staring at the back of Roric’s head, Lysander finally managed to mutter, “I did not copy you, and my hair remains uncut.” “Oh, really?” His muffled voice rumbled from the depths of the grimoire. --- “Architects of Lore, who guide the striving hand.” Roric intoned, clutching his academic appraisal scroll. It was the fourth period. As soon as the Elder’s lecture on Aetheric Resonance concluded, the midterm appraisals were distributed. Roric buried his head in his unfolded scroll, scanned his rankings, and abruptly uttered that peculiar prayer. Then, dramatically, he threw his head back, exhaling a profound sigh. “Ah, I am utterly bereft.” Lysander glanced at his own appraisal, noted his consistently high marks, then folded the parchment precisely and tucked it into the inner pocket of his scholarly robes. When he looked back, Roric was still sighing. His head thrown back so far, only the prominent bob of his Adam’s apple was visible. It pulsed, almost chastising Lysander for staring. Fixing his gaze on Roric’s throat, Lysander commented, “That is not the conventional use for such an invocation.” “Who cares? An appeal is an appeal.” Then, Roric suddenly inquired, “Vance, is it ‘Architects’ or ‘Ancient Ones’?” It was then Lysander recognized the peculiar quirk of Roric’s ‘faith’—it was utterly unconventional. “Why do you ask me? It is *your* conviction.” “Lysander, do not be so obstinate. You are so astute, I assumed you’d know all things.” “I do not. I am unaligned.” Roric, who had been leaning back as far as he could, suddenly shot forward. Their eyes met, and before Lysander knew it, he instinctively averted his gaze towards the leaded-glass window, pretending not to have been caught. Yet, a sharp prickle, like a stolen secret, ran through his chest. He stared absently out the window, then shifted his focus to the stiff, perfectly pressed collar of Roric’s tunic. The crisp white fabric rested against his neck, but with every exaggerated movement, the sharp line of his collarbone briefly flashed into view. “So? Care to join me at the Sanctum of Whispers?” “What? No.” “Ah, why not? Let us go. Attend on the cycle’s zenith and the Lumina Solstice, and they dispense gifts. Crystallized honey wafers, aether-infused pastries, fire-roasted root vegetables…” “Hold, do not tell me you attend solely for such provisions?” “But of course.” Lysander finally allowed his gaze to meet Roric’s face, landing on the quill Roric had balanced on his upper lip. Initially, out of sheer pride, Lysander resisted admitting it, but at that moment, he had to acknowledge it—Roric possessed an infuriating handsomeness. A smug bastard. The quill, wedged between nose and lip, distorted Roric’s voice into a slurred, disgruntled mumble. “But the way you articulate it, it implies I am pilfering. If they are freely given, what fault is there in accepting them?” “Can one truly call it faith if believed for such self-serving motives?” “That is how all belief begins, Vance. Mortals do not commence with grand convictions. They think, ‘Oh, delicious provisions are offered. That purveyor must be benevolent.’ And then, by degrees, their belief in that ‘benevolent purveyor with sustenance’ transforms into absolute devotion to the Architects. The inception and the process are irrelevant. What matters is that *now*, I believe.” Roric spouted utter drivel sometimes. Even Kael had been drawn into his orbit occasionally. Sometimes, it was pure nonsense. But at other times, it was the kind of calculated drivel that even Lysander found himself dangerously tempted by. This was the latter. Lysander ran a hand through his own bangs, pushing them back from his forehead. They persistently fell into his eyes, so this time, he shook his head from side to side. His thin strands swayed. He gathered them near his temples, and finally, the irritating tickle subsided. He’d been so preoccupied lately he’d forgotten a barber’s visit. With Kael and Lord Kael’s father absent, the forefront of the Scriptorium felt perpetually empty. There was no longer any reason to direct his gaze there. Six cycles prior, Elder Thorne, the homeroom magus, had summoned Lysander to his private chamber, inquiring if he’d heard from Kael. Lysander responded with carefully modulated honesty. “No, Elder. I have not.” “You still have not reconciled with Kael, then?” Lysander offered a small, bitter smile. A perfectly calibrated expression. In truth, the notion of smiling felt like a violation. “No. Kael… became quite incensed with me.” “Kael became incensed with *you*?” “Indeed.” The rumors already circulated, so Elder Thorne was not entirely oblivious to the implications of Lysander’s words. “Very well, I comprehend,” the Elder said, dismissing him. Then, as he settled back into his plush chair, he muttered beneath his breath. From the snippets Lysander caught, it was primarily grievances about Kael’s insolence and frustration over the rebuke he’d received from Lord Kael’s father. Lysander feigned deafness to the pathetic monologue, turning away, yet his ears strained. That was how he grasped the full, suffocating atmosphere within the Elder’s chamber. Later, after the evening’s studies, while Lysander prepared for his private arcane tutelage, Lord Kael’s father contacted him as well. He posed the identical query as Elder Thorne—if Lysander knew of Kael’s whereabouts. Lysander gave the identical reply. “No, Lord. Kael has ceased all communication with me.” *—I see…* “I am truly regretful I cannot be of greater assistance.” *—No, there is nothing for you to apologize for, Vance. It is quite alright.* Lately, Lord Kael’s father had been calling with unsettling frequency. Each time, the conversation unfolded in the same, deliberate manner. There was something oddly insistent in his attempts to link Kael and Lysander. Lysander hurried to conclude the comm-link. Honestly, there was nothing to apologize for. Yet, he offered apologies regardless—to be favored. It was the same instinct that compelled initiates to praise a fledgling's clumsy first spell. A social convention. A form of decorum essential for a civilized society, especially one as stratified as Aerthos. So Lysander did not believe the powerful magi perceived him as a pawn. If anything, his politeness was more akin to a crude pantomime performed by a favored jester. Lysander always understood his place. And because he invested such meticulous effort into being favored, he was destined to become a truly beloved jester. Even if, one cycle, he committed an error so glaring it drew a furrow to the brow of the Arch-Magi, they would grant him absolution. That was the foundation he meticulously laid. Unlike some witless drone, he navigated his life with calculated acumen. Perhaps, from the perspective of an Elder Magus, his methodology was nothing more than a narrow-minded, petty artifice to evade accountability. But among his peers, it was undeniable—Lysander Vance was one who understood how to navigate volatile currents with unparalleled wisdom. Proof lay in the actions of Theron. --- Theron, once one of Kael’s most ardent companions, was now the most desperate to secure Roric’s favor. Due to this, he also displayed an overt friendliness towards Lysander, for in the perception of their peers, Lysander had aligned himself with Roric early and decisively. Theron now made it conspicuously clear that his allegiance had shifted.

A Jester's Calculated Bow