A sickly pallor clung to Lord Alaric Thorne’s sharp features, the faint purpling beneath his eyes a testament to nights spent in pursuits forbidden by Conclave decree. He slumped against the polished oak of his carrel, a hand shielding his face from the morning light that filtered through the leaded panes of the lecture chamber. I watched, a knot tightening in my chest, and pressed a chilled silver flask into his grasp. The absinthe-laced cordial, a discreet transgression we shared, promised a brief respite from the dawn’s unforgiving glare.
“A palliative, my lord,” I murmured, my voice low, laced with an artificial deference I had perfected over years. “Lest the Rector find you quite so… inspired.”
Alaric’s lips curved into a faint, weary smile. He took a slow, measured draught. “Always the dutiful steward, Vane.” His words, a familiar balm and a stinging reminder, settled like dust. He often treated my careful attentions with such casual appropriation.
My gaze drifted. It snagged on the study carrel adjacent to Alaric’s. Kael Blackwood lay sprawled across its surface, a rough woolen cloak half-covering his uncouth form, a faint snore disturbing the chamber’s somber quiet. Even in repose, Kael possessed a peculiar, almost vulgar energy. His presence, a constant burr beneath my skin, was a testament to Alaric’s capricious affections.
Blackwood always claimed the seat nearest Alaric, an effortless proximity that grated. I, ever relegated to a carrel a handspan away, observed from a slight remove. A familiar, bitter twist tightened in my gut. My hands clenched, knuckles white beneath my cuffs, a silent protest against the hierarchy of desire.
“When did he arrive?” I asked, indicating Kael with a subtle tilt of my head. The question was a challenge, not a query.
Alaric merely shrugged. “He was already… draped… when I sought my own repose.”
“Why does one who departed early last night look like a man risen from the crypts?” The words slipped out, sharp-edged, before I could recall them.
Kael shifted, a rustle of coarse fabric. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes the color of storm-swept fjords. They swept over Alaric, then me, before he released a cavernous yawn. “…Thought I’d just test my luck at the gaming tables a little longer, then, well.”
Alaric mirrored the yawn, a languid stretch of his jaw. He then turned to Kael, a glint in his eye. “This brute. Looks like he wrestled a griffin but has the academic discipline of an arch-scholar, for all his sloth.”
“Aye, confound you, Thorne.” Kael’s response was a low rumble, devoid of true malice.
“Agreed, oaf.”
Kael merely chuckled, a rough sound, and settled deeper into his sleep. I watched his broad shoulders, a strange prickle beneath my skin. Then our eyes met. He glanced towards the arched window, then back at me, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. I scratched my shoulder, turning sharply back to Alaric.
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The chamber filled slowly. The low murmur of privileged conversation, the rustle of expensive robes, the clatter of quills on parchment. Such mornings usually held a certain pleasant, albeit superficial, charm. Soon, young nobles like Lord Cassian and Master Gareth would gather around Alaric, eager to absorb his latest pronouncements, his tales of clandestine duels or daring scholarly transgressions. The ritual unfolded, a delicate dance of prestige and performance. Laughter, chatter, then the slow, deliberate entrance of the Rector to commence the day’s lessons.
For boys hailed as the most charismatic and influential, the mornings possessed a strangely unmarred facade. But the wild, unseemly escapades that truly occupied their nights, especially those whispered about Alaric, always left a sour taste in my mouth. Still, I played my part, feigning amusement, a well-practiced smile affixed to my lips. These mornings, despite the ache of my longing for Alaric’s true regard, were not entirely unendurable. Yet, everything had begun to shift, subtly, irrevocably, a few months prior. The catalyst was a junior scholar named Valerius.
“See, Valerius has arrived.” A hushed whisper drifted from Lord Cassian’s group. “Abominable.”
“Does that witless wretch even consider sparing us his presence after his latest humiliation?” Master Gareth’s sneer was palpable. He pointed a disdainful finger.
At the tip of Gareth’s finger, Valerius slipped into the chamber. His simple, worn Conclave robes seemed to hang loosely on his slender frame. He kept his face shrouded by a curtain of lank, brown hair, shuffling towards a lone carrel in the front row. He placed a threadbare satchel onto the desk, then slumped over, burying his face in his arms. I watched his hunched form, a sigh escaping my lips, weighted with a complex irritation.
Valerius was utterly unremarkable. His voice, when heard, was reedy. His frame, slight. A pitiful excuse for a scholar. As the murmurs swelled, Alaric’s eyes, previously languid, hardened. He fixed a dagger-like glare on Valerius’s back, muttering a low imprecation. I hated it. That sudden, razor-sharp focus of his – it unsettled me deeply.
Alaric’s hand reached for a discarded parchment, a hastily scrawled lesson plan. He crumpled it with a sudden, vicious squeeze. Then, with a casual flick, he hurled it. It struck Valerius’s head with a soft thud. Valerius jolted, his head slumping further onto the desk.
“Confound it. Do not subject us to that wretched countenance first thing, wretch.”
Valerius remained hunched, doing exactly as Alaric commanded. Yet, Alaric watched with palpable disdain. He kicked his own carrel, a sharp crack against the ancient wood.
“Answer me, cur! Do you hear?”
Alaric rose abruptly, his voice ringing with chilling clarity. Valerius, still hunched, stammered a trembling response. “Y-yes, my lord.”
“Lift your head. Look me in the eye. Speak with conviction.”
Did Alaric even hear the irrationality of his own demands? The sheer, brutal absurdity of it all drew a bitter, soundless laugh from me.
Whether he noticed my silent reaction, Alaric stalked towards Valerius. With every measured step, the unpleasant feelings inside me grew more vivid, more raw. Alaric closed the distance between them. That proximity alone made me feel as if I were losing all control over the tumultuous emotions I had worked so hard to suppress.
This was not the same twisted jealousy I felt when Alaric grew close to Kael Blackwood. Instinctively, I knew. Deep down, I harbored something just as malignant as Alaric did. That was why watching Alaric with Kael, though painful, eventually became bearable. But his interactions with Valerius unsettled me more and more. My hands began to tremble. I clasped them tightly behind my back, hiding their telltale tremor.
Alaric kicked Valerius’s carrel hard. The heavy desk shook violently, almost toppling, and Valerius jolted upright, his voice a barely coherent whisper. “F-forgive me, my lord.”
Alaric stood, silently looking down at Valerius’s face. Valerius’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, on the verge of breaking. Yet, in that precise moment, I felt as if I were the one about to burst into an unholy, wretched weeping.
Alaric never made Valerius run pointless errands, but his eyes never strayed far. If Valerius excused himself to the latrines during a recess, Alaric would still be watching his retreating figure, even whilst exchanging jests with us. I knew, because I never stopped watching Alaric.
Truth be told, my first impression of Valerius had been entirely unremarkable. His complexion was not the clearest, yet his youthful features lent him a face that was easy enough on the eye. When he smiled, it held a genuine, uncomplicated happiness. Even his neutral expression carried a certain quiet brightness.
Before Alaric began his torment, no one held any particular ill will towards Valerius. He seemed a scholar raised in a warm, sheltered environment. While he wasn’t overtly sociable, preferring to spend his time alone with dusty tomes, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor. Most considered Valerius a decent sort. Since he never flaunted the advantages of his upbringing, he garnered quiet praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be around – that was Valerius.
But I didn’t particularly care for him from the start. I didn’t harbor hatred either; I simply held no interest. To say he wasn’t even on my mental ledger would be more accurate. Yet, whenever I conversed with my associates, Alaric, or Kael’s contingent, and Valerius’s name arose, I would find myself casually fabricating, saying, “Oh, him? He’s quite adequate. Courteous enough.”
Alaric, much like myself, had paid Valerius little mind at first. Alaric was never one to concern himself with the lesser affairs of the Conclave’s junior scholars. After Valerius matriculated in the early summer, he and Alaric exchanged not a single word until the onset of autumn. That was the established order of things.
But one day, a subtle, sharp deviation formed in the mundane flow of events. It happened immediately after our midday repast. Looking back, I don’t believe I have ever regretted a single action as much as I regret what transpired that afternoon.
Valerius, as was his habit, had retreated to a secluded alcove in the Grand Archives during the recess, burying himself in a book. He was the type who genuinely loved the musty scent of ancient paper. I, on the other hand, cultivated a habit of feigning intellectual kinship with those of good repute.
Thus, when I stumbled upon Valerius by chance, I initiated a conversation about the esoteric treatise he was perusing. I was no avid reader myself – presenting an image of cultured erudition was more my style.
“You possess a singular devotion to such works, do you not?”
“Oh? Yes, I suppose so, Master Vane.”
At the time, Valerius and I were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made my approach easier, less fraught with the usual social calculations.
“Have you quite finished that volume?”
“Almost at the concluding chapter, in fact.”
“Then merely close it now. The denouement will disappoint you. It is one of those tomes where the final revelation diminishes the entire narrative.”
“You have read it before, then?” His eyes widened slightly, holding a fragile hope.
“Indeed, some time ago.”
To satisfy my intellectual vanity, I always sought out the critical assessments and philosophical debates surrounding the more obscure texts. Drawing on those remembered critiques, I offered a shallow assessment—not a true one, merely enough to sound informed. Valerius smiled brightly, a look of genuine pleasure illuminating his face. It caught me off guard.
“You are the first soul I’ve encountered who has delved into this particular treatise besides myself, Master Vane.”
“Oh… truly?” A strange unease stirred within me.
“Yes, but I shall still see it through. Considering why the ending unfolded as it did is half the intellectual pleasure, is it not?”
“Well, of course. All interpretations differ.”
“Hearing you say that makes me anticipate it all the more.”
That smile still lingers as an uncomfortable, almost guilt-inducing memory. Was it some instinctive dread I felt back then, a premonition of the ruin I would unwittingly sow?
After that day, Valerius began seeking me out with disconcerting frequency. Though I found it a minor annoyance, often wondering, *Why me?*, I never outright rejected him. Valerius, with his unblemished reputation, was not the worst person to keep within one’s orbit. After all, serious scholarly works – beyond the required Conclave texts – were practically verboten for students of our station, whose leisure was consumed by far less cerebral pursuits. For Valerius, I was likely the sole individual around who could engage in such discussions.
That day was one of those routine encounters, but it also proved to be one of the most ill-fated afternoons among them.
Kael Blackwood was to blame, though I cannot fathom why I acted as I did. Why I, one who rarely meddled in others’ affairs, chose to insert myself where I had no business. Why Kael, of all people, had left his unfinished draft of his Grand Thesis on Arcane Geometry splayed open for any passing student to observe.
I, one who abhorred having my own grades and analyses revealed, naturally assumed Kael would desire the same discretion. So, I reached out to flip the parchment over, intending to conceal its contents. That was when I saw it: his provisional assessment. A ‘commendable’ citation. I blinked, then checked again. It was undeniably a commendation. Considering the notoriously stringent grading thresholds for such complex theoretical work, it would barely scrape into the third tier of Distinction. But still, it was undeniably a respectable showing. Far from the slovenly incompetence I had ascribed to him.
It was the first time one of my preconceptions shattered. A minor shock to realize Kael wasn’t quite the lost cause I had so confidently presumed. Naturally, that led me to consider Alaric’s academic standing. Now, he was the true intellectual wastrel. A lord who would mark every answer with a frivolous flourish and sleep through the rest of an examination, Alaric had never once managed a respectable score.
Perhaps that was why I felt such a confusing swirl of emotions – like discovering an unexpectedly valuable artifact amidst discarded refuse. A scholar I’d once disdained turned out to be more salvageable than the lord I adored. That strange realization must have thrown me off balance, for I did something I normally would never have contemplated.
It was nothing grand. I merely plucked a nearby quill and inscribed a brief note at the top of Kael’s parchment.
*Master Blackwood, focus upon the practical theorems. You shall achieve a second-tier Distinction in short order. A creditable effort thus far. – Vane.*
*P.S. My apologies for observing your assessment without leave. I merely turned the parchment to obscure it and happened upon the notation.*
The arrogance of evaluating another’s work and offering unsolicited counsel made me feel a creeping embarrassment, so I rambled to justify myself. I cannot articulate why I penned it in the first place. At the time, I must have been utterly beyond reason. Looking back, it was clear this was the first ill-fastened button in what would become a complex, and ultimately destructive, series of entanglements.
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