Two days after Elias Croft’s drafting desk had been upended, his carefully etched schematics and delicate bronze gears were thrown into the blazing incinerator behind the Conclave’s workshops. Finding the perpetrator required no effort. Within moments of the plumes of acrid smoke, Octavian Blackwood, a loud, brutish youth known for his boisterous cruelty, flashed a triumphant, knowing grin at Cassian Thorne. Whispers among the junior apprentices confirmed it; Octavian had boasted in the latrines of consigning Croft’s laborious creations to ash. “Such valiant work.” Lucien Vane regarded the charred remains, a faint, metallic tang clinging to the air. Twisted fragments of spring-steel and blackened cog-wheels, once destined for a complex lunar phase automaton, spoke of Elias Croft’s desperate, losing battle against Cassian’s relentless taunts. Elias had stumbled blindly into Cassian Thorne’s orbit, lost before he even realized the contest had begun. His motive had once seemed simple spite, but Lucien, with his keen, unblinking observations, sensed a deeper, more volatile undercurrent. Elias’s own retinue had begun to notice his peculiar, increasingly erratic behavior. His animosity towards Lord Alaric wasn’t mere resentment; his outbursts were not simple bullying. The memory of Elias’s last public altercation, a wild, flailing defiance against Alaric, cemented Lucien’s conviction. Yet, as the tide of academy opinion turned decisively against Elias, Lucien felt no compulsion to speak, no flicker of guilt. Lucien wasn’t so witless as to sabotage his own careful existence. He knew precisely how his defense would appear. Perhaps kind. Loyal, even. But within the gilded cage of Aethelgard, where every gesture was dissected, every alliance scrutinized, even a single sympathetic word would invite question. *Why?* That chilling thought gripped his throat. Head resting on polished oak, Lucien closed his eyes. A brief reprieve. For a fleeting moment, he wished, profoundly, that when his eyelids parted, the world would have reshaped itself to his precise specifications. Sleep tugged at him. He might have drifted away, if left undisturbed. A sharp tap, like a raven’s beak, jolted his skull. Lucien sat bolt upright, fingers instinctively touching the tender spot. Across the aisle, Cassian Thorne rubbed his own forehead, a theatrical grimace on his face. “By the Void, that stung.” “Why are you slumbering so early?” Cassian’s voice, a low purr, cut through the quiet of the empty classroom. “Attend to your own studies.” Lucien’s irritation sharpened his words. “What is that implement?” “Oh, this?” Cassian’s smile was a brazen, disarming thing. He lifted a silver-capped crutch, polished and gleaming, from where it had rested against his arm. “A fortunate find. Discovered it abandoned in the recycling bins.” Lucien’s jaw tightened. Cassian Thorne consistently engaged in bewildering antics. The tap hadn’t truly hurt, but Lucien smoothed his hair, a nervous habit, concerned a strand might be out of place. Cassian, meanwhile, spun, hooking a foot around a chair, and with effortless grace, settled into it just before it could topple. He tossed his satchel onto the desk, then slumped forward, using it as a pillow. “You rouse me from rest, only to court it yourself?” “I merely wished to ensure your intellect remained sharp, not dulled by sloth. My own scores, alas, are beyond redemption.” “Empty rhetoric.” Lucien twisted in his seat, a low grumble escaping him. Cassian’s every utterance seemed to invite a challenge. He nudged Cassian’s foot, a flash of pure annoyance. Cassian’s lips curved upwards, a faint smirk. “Ah, little artisan, is it permissible to assault the injured? You uncivilized fiend.” That playful blend of mockery and insinuation made Lucien scoff. This time, he kicked the crutch. It slid towards Cassian, but without lifting his head, Cassian’s hand shot out, catching it with casual ease. His face remained buried in his satchel, unfazed. A soundless laugh escaped him, then his voice, sudden and clear. “I have been meaning to ask you something.” “What now?” “That was no mere stumble, was it?” Damnation. Was it truly so evident? His cheek, Lucien thought, hadn’t been bruised excessively. Lucien’s pause lasted a bare second. He brushed a hand across his face, feigning indifference. “An unfortunate misstep.” “Hah.” Still resting his chin upon his satchel, Cassian let out a soft, knowing chuckle. “Is that so?” Cassian’s eyes flickered open, meeting Lucien’s. A finger pointed, singling Lucien out. Lucien couldn’t decipher the intent behind the gesture. “What is it?” “You are quite brazen.” The moment Cassian smiled, the crutch leaning casually against his shoulder, Lucien’s thoughts fled. *What is he implying?* “...Brazen about what?” “I do not believe you simply fell…” “……….” Cassian’s words always held a cryptic edge, but this time, they carried a quiet, unsettling menace. His gaze held Lucien, unwavering. Bright irises, dark pupils, fixed intently. It felt like an arrow’s tip, searching for its mark. And this time, it was aimed squarely at Lucien. His mind went blank. Two words echoed, hammering against his skull. *No. Impossible. No. Impossible.* Then, Cassian’s eyes narrowed further. “It appeared more as if you ran *into* something.” Those long, serpentine eyes curved upward. Lucien’s mouth went dry. Air snagged in his lungs. He swallowed hard. Cassian’s lips parted, but Lucien found he couldn’t even blink. “If word of such a thing reached the ears of the others, it would be quite mortifying, wouldn’t it?” “……….” “I shall keep your secret.” Then, lifting the hand that held the crutch to his lips, Cassian mouthed the words, a slow, deliberate wink following. The breath Lucien had been holding slammed against his ribs like a trapped bird. Cassian didn’t wait for a response. He ran a hand through his dark, artfully disheveled hair, then pointed at Lucien again. “But did you truly attempt to emulate my coiffure? That is rather unbecoming.” Lucien stood speechless. Cassian wrinkled his nose, an exaggerated gesture of disapproval. “In any case, I shall now resume my rest.” He yawned, burying his face back into his satchel. Staring at the back of Cassian’s head, Lucien finally managed a muttered reply. “I did not copy you. Nor did I cut my hair.” “Oh, indeed?” Cassian’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his bag. --- “Lamb of the Mother, who cleanses the sins of the realm.” Cassian Thorne muttered the prayer, clutching his parchment report card in one hand. Fourth period. As the Master of Rhetoric dismissed the assembly, the midterm evaluations were distributed. Cassian buried his head in the unfurled scroll, scanned his abysmal marks, and delivered his dramatic plea to the heavens. Then, with a flourish, he threw his head back, releasing a profound sigh. “Ah, I am utterly damned.” Lucien glanced at his own report, noted the flawless script of his marks, then folded the parchment precisely in half, tucking it into the inner pocket of his coat. When he looked back, Cassian was still sighing. With his head tilted so far back, only the sharp angle of his Adam’s apple was visible. It bobbed, a heavy, rhythmic movement, almost as if chastising Lucien for his lingering gaze. Fixing his eyes on that prominent throat, Lucien said, “That particular supplication is not for academic lamentations.” “Who truly cares? A prayer is a prayer.” Then, abruptly, “Tell me, little artisan, is it the Mother or merely the Lord?” It was then Lucien recognized a peculiar truth about Cassian Thorne – his spiritual devotion was… singular. “Why direct such a query to me? It is your creed.” “Lucien, do not be so obtuse. Your intellect is renowned; I assumed you possessed all knowledge.” “I do not. I harbor no religious fervor.” Cassian, who had been leaning back to an improbable degree, suddenly shot forward. Their eyes met, and Lucien, startled, instinctively averted his gaze towards the leaded glass window, feigning disinterest. Yet, a sharp prickle of awareness ignited in his chest, as though he had been caught in a transgression. Lucien stared blankly at the autumnal scene beyond, then shifted his focus to the crisp, unblemished collar of Cassian Thorne’s pressed tunic. The pristine linen rested against his neck, but with every exaggerated motion, the sharp line of his collarbone flashed into view. “So? Will you accompany me to the Grand Cathedral?” “What? Certainly not.” “Ah, why the refusal? Come. On the holy days and at the Winter Solstice, they dispense gifts. Ripe fruit, spiced cakes, warm mead…” “Wait, do not tell me you attend solely for such trifles?” “Of course I do.” Lucien finally met Cassian’s eyes, noting the quill Cassian now held wedged between his upper lip and nose. At first, pride had prevented the admission, but in that moment, Lucien had to acknowledge it – Cassian Thorne possessed a striking handsomeness. A preening, arrogant beauty. The quill, distorting his features, muffled his voice into a slurred, disgruntled murmur. “But your tone implies theft. If they offer it freely, what transgression lies in accepting?” “Can such an impulse truly be called faith, when motivated by such crass desires?” “That is the genesis of all belief. None begin with grand convictions. They think, ‘Ah, delightful provisions are offered. That individual must be benevolent.’ And then, gradually, that initial trust in the ‘benevolent dispenser of treats’ blossoms into absolute devotion to the Divine. The origin and the journey are inconsequential. What truly matters is the belief, now forged.” Cassian Thorne sometimes spouted utter nonsense. Even Elias Croft had been ensnared in it, on occasion. Sometimes, it was pure gibberish. But sometimes, it was a peculiar brand of sophistry that even Lucien found himself tempted by. This, undeniably, was the latter. Lucien ran a hand through his dark hair, sweeping it back from his forehead. It stubbornly fell back, obscuring his vision, so he shook his head from side to side. The fine strands swayed. He gathered them, tucking them behind his ears, and the irritating tickle finally receded. A recent distraction had caused him to neglect his usual visit to the barber. With Elias Croft and Lord Alaric both absent, the front of the classroom felt eerily vacant. There was no longer any reason to glance in that direction. Six days prior, the Master of Ceremonies had summoned Lucien to his private study, inquiring if he had heard from Elias Croft. Lucien answered truthfully, without a moment’s hesitation. “No, Master. Elias has not contacted me.” “You have still not reconciled with young Croft, then?” Lucien offered a small, carefully modulated smile. A bitter curve of the lips, precisely calculated. In truth, he felt no inclination to smile at all. “No. Elias… he became quite enraged with me.” “Elias became enraged with you?” The Master’s brows furrowed. “Indeed, Master.” Rumors, of course, had already circulated through the Conclave. The Master of Ceremonies was not entirely ignorant of the implications of Lucien’s words. “Very well, I comprehend,” he said, dismissing Lucien. Then, as he settled back into his high-backed chair, he muttered to himself, the words barely audible. From the snippets Lucien caught, it was mostly complaints about Elias Croft’s insubordination, and the vexation of a stern reprimand from Lord Croft, Elias’s formidable father. Lucien pretended not to hear the pathetic monologue, turning away, yet listening intently. That was how he gauged the true atmosphere within the Master’s office. Later that day, after the academy lessons had concluded, as Lucien prepared for his private instruction in intricate automata at home, Lord Croft himself called. He posed the same question as the Master of Ceremonies – did Lucien know of Elias’s whereabouts? Lucien offered the same practiced response. “No, Lord Croft. Elias has ceased all communication with me.” *— I understand…* “I am truly sorry I cannot be of greater assistance.” *— No, there is nothing for you to apologize for, young Vane. It is quite alright.* Lord Croft’s inquiries had become unusually frequent. Each exchange unfolded in the precise, identical manner. There was something oddly deliberate in his repeated attempts to bind Elias and Lucien together. Lucien hurried to conclude the conversation. Honestly, there was nothing for him to apologize for. But he offered the apology nonetheless – to be favored. It was the same innate impulse that made courtiers praise an ugly newborn as charming. A social convention. A form of etiquette, vital in a civilized society. Thus, Lucien believed, adults did not perceive him as a pawn. If anything, his politeness was more akin to the crude pantomime performed by a shrewd court jester. He always knew his place. And because he invested such diligent effort to be liked, he was destined to become a well-loved jester. Even if, one day, he committed a mistake so blatant it caused the audience to frown, they would, ultimately, forgive him. That was the groundwork he meticulously laid. Unlike some witless fool, he navigated his life with astute foresight. Perhaps, from an adult’s exalted perspective, his intricate scheme was nothing more than a narrow, petty stratagem to escape culpability. But among his peers, it was undeniable – Lucien Vane was a master of navigating unpredictable currents, a craftsman of his own fate. To witness such proof, one needed only observe Septimus. --- Septimus, eldest son of a minor noble house, was the most desperate to ingratiate himself with Cassian Thorne. Because of this, he also now feigned camaraderie with Lucien, seeing how Lucien had, in the eyes of the academy, already secured a coveted position within Cassian’s inner circle. Though Septimus had once been one of Elias Croft’s closest confidantes, he now made it abundantly clear that his loyalties had shifted, a silent, pragmatic betrayal.

A Jester's Calculated Bow