A tiered cavern of polished obsidian and dark oak, the Lecture Hall of Primal Axioms was home to a silent congregation. Thirty young scions, their lives pulled taut like rare alchemical threads, navigated its subtle currents. Eighteen days marked their collective tenure within these hallowed, yet often predatory, walls. Every moment here was a precarious balance, a careful performance of dominance or deference.
Elias Thorne had known this particular strain since his induction at twelve, when the Collegium’s very breath taught him the delicate art of forging alliances. It was a daily calibration, a routine that bound them all in its precise, suffocating grip.
This cubic jungle, carved from ancient stone, concealed a stark pyramid.
A tremor ran through Elias’s left arm, numb from hours spent hunched over a heavy tome. He flexed his fingers, the faint tingling a familiar echo of his tightly wound stomach. A shallow breath escaped his lips as he surveyed the bent backs before him. Gleaming obsidian slates, the pale, vulnerable curve of noble napes. At the high podium, Professor Alaric, his spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, perused a dog-eared scroll, ancient runes curling like smoke from its brittle parchment. Students either grappled with assigned paradoxes of elemental theory or, having long surrendered, slumped in their seats, lost to restless slumber.
“A mind untethered by discipline will surely drift,” Alaric intoned, his voice raspy as he flipped another page of his historical text. The pronouncement was aimed at no one, yet at everyone.
Fifth period stretched. Elias paused at the fifteenth problem on his own slate, a complex transmutation sequence requiring precise arcane calculus. His index finger absently scratched at a stray strand of dark hair. His mechanical stylus, a simple, unadorned implement, rested on the polished oak. His eyes, ever drawn to voids, found two particular empty seats.
As anticipated, neither Lord Corvus Blackwood nor young Lysander Vance had graced the lecture. They likely wouldn't return tomorrow, not unless some sudden caprice seized Corvus, or a fresh, unknown discord had erupted between the two. The true nature of their entanglement remained, for Elias, an enigma he meticulously cataloged.
His gaze returned to the intricate problems, the web of arcane symbols swirling before him. He remembered a time, not so long ago, when he believed he understood Corvus Blackwood. He had nursed a quiet conviction, an insidious pride, that he, Elias, grasped the dark, mercurial depths of the noble scion better than anyone in this hall. Even Julian Kael, Corvus’s most frequent shadow, couldn’t compare to Elias’s analytical penetration.
That hidden certainty had been a bitter solace, a shield against the casual camaraderie Julian and Corvus displayed. Deep down, Elias savored the secret knowledge, believing it granted him an invisible advantage. He propped his chin on his hand, the cool metal of his signet ring pressing into his jaw. The very existence of such thoughts disgusted him.
What would his peers, these noble sons and daughters, think if they glimpsed the calculations that whirred behind his placid expression? The answer was a chilling certainty: he would be cast to the lowest stratum of their gilded hierarchy, occupying its widest, most contemptible plane.
Terror gnawed at him. This insidious hunger, unique to a lowly scholar adrift among the powerful, demanded absolute concealment. It had to be buried so deeply that not even its object, Corvus, would sense its presence. He had to bury it so well that he, Elias, could almost forget it existed.
But Corvus Blackwood had never buried his desires. Everyone in the Collegium knew of them, witnessed their brutal unfolding.
Elias shifted in his seat, a subtle movement, lifting his head barely an inch. Still, backs were bowed, heads were down. He pressed his lips together, his gaze drifting forward.
Between the rows of desks, forlorn and forgotten, lay a treatise on elemental summoning, its vellum cover smudged, a faint boot-print marring its arcane symbols.
Instantly, as if an unseen gaze had caught his, Elias buried his own head, feigning a sudden absorption in his slate.
Then, he angled his neck, his sight drifting to the back row. There lay a form, partially obscured by an outstretched arm, as if the scholar had collapsed mid-study. A delicate, almost sorrowful profile, reminiscent of a marble effigy.
He found himself staring at Julian Kael’s face, then his gaze moved to his arm. Had the already tall Julian grown further? The Collegium robe, tailored to perfection at the term’s start, now left his wrists exposed. Encircling one wrist was a simple band of polished black iron, ancient runes etched into its surface – an arcane focus, stark and heavy, an unmistakable symbol of Julian’s formidable lineage.
Before learning of him, Elias had assumed Julian lived in the outer districts, a man of lesser blood, like Lysander Vance. Yet Julian carried an air of grim intimidation, though it lacked the ostentatious refinement of the truly wealthy. His deep-set eyes, perpetually shadowed by his brow, and his faded irises, lent him a haunted, weary cast. The thin sclera beneath his pupils further sharpened his gaunt appearance.
Julian’s overall presence was one of quiet, predatory strength, marked by an almost ancient deprivation, a melancholic weight. Combined with his imposing physique – he was easily the tallest student in the Collegium – it made him doubly formidable.
Fortunately, unlike Corvus Blackwood, Julian’s sharp features possessed a classically handsome symmetry. Without that, he might have been actively shunned. Even so, Julian’s face was unsettling, intimidating, alive with a contained, nervous energy.
But Julian’s inner nature, his philosophy, proved even more alien.
It was not merely indifference to trivialities; it was as if he actively pruned events from his memory, whether by will or by some inherent design. He exuded an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that, ironically, amplified his mystique.
Julian, most notably, seemed immune to the lure of common coin or status. He paid no mind to the expenditures of others, nor to their requests for assistance. If the mood seized him, he might casually bestow a potent arcane charm or a rare reagent upon a nearby peer, as if the concept of material value simply didn’t register. Sometimes he would lend a precious scroll and simply forget the transaction entirely. There were even whispered tales of those who returned borrowed artifacts, only for Julian to ask, genuinely puzzled, why they were surrendering such things to him.
Still, he did not bestow favors indiscriminately. He indulged random requests when a fleeting thought pleased him, but coldly rebuffed those whose desperation reeked of need.
Even with his chosen associates, Julian could be merciless. Elias once overheard a story about how Orion, a junior scion, upon seeing Julian’s prized, specially bred Gryphon—a creature Julian rarely unveiled—had excitedly tried to mount its back without permission. Julian, without a word, delivered a swift, brutal kick that sent Orion sprawling onto the cobblestones, like a startled raven.
At the apex of the Collegium’s social hierarchy, individuals like Julian Kael and Corvus Blackwood shared a chilling commonality: a complete disdain for the opinions of others. This profound indifference, in its own way, was the very bedrock that allowed them to perch at the pyramid’s summit.
Why did they, the myriad lesser souls, so willingly surrender the keys to their world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how Elias dissected it, the answer remained elusive.
And yet, Julian Kael claimed adherence to the Ancient Codes, an arcane philosophy rooted in austere principles.
He was the type of formidable brute who might sleep with a tome of ancestral lore beneath his head, yet he still espoused the Codes. He avoided intoxicating elixirs, rarely indulged in elaborate banquets, abstained from crude revelry, and never extorted coin or favor from other students. Yet the interpretation of the Code he followed felt warped—anyone could discern that from the precepts regarding self-denial alone. Elias had heard that the true Codes permitted personal indulgence, so long as it did not compromise honor.
It was whispered the Codes viewed weakness as the greatest sin. Was that why Corvus Blackwood’s increasingly erratic actions repulsed Julian so deeply? Elias licked his dry lips.
He felt a strange, cold relief that he had not been utterly ruined by Corvus’s caprices. If he had been, he might have ended up like that discarded treatise, trampled on the floor. And yet, even in that fleeting moment, a question surfaced—if Corvus and Elias had remained close, as they were mere months ago, would Corvus have protected him?
The thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories Elias desperately wished to bury. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the midday ration of gruel threatened to reclaim its freedom.
No, of course not. What laughable arrogance, to have once believed such a thing. To Corvus, Elias was nothing. A convenient intellectual sparring partner, a diversion. He knew this now, because of the look in Corvus’s eyes when he had struck Elias to the ground. That gaze had spoken volumes. Elias hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had been staring him in the face.
Corvus sinned openly, with flagrant disregard. Elias, too, harbored ambitions, desires—sins, in their own way—but he hid them. And so, Corvus might be punished by fate, while Elias remained, for now, untouched.
A faint, bitter laugh escaped his lips, a sound so soft it was audible only to himself.
“...So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.”
Perhaps the Collegium itself had a personality akin to Julian Kael’s.
His gaze shifted to the desk near the Professor’s podium. It was an unusual sentiment, but today, Elias felt a pang of cold pity for Lysander Vance. Poor, fragile soul, ensnared in Corvus’s dark orbit. Lysander had lacked the fortitude to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Helpless Lysander, so unlike the imposing figures of the true nobility. He should have fled the moment Elias had offered his quiet warning, the fool.
Elias knew he was not a good person. He was selfish, self-serving, and perhaps that was his own punishment. Sometimes, a darker thought surfaced: *If you must entangle yourself with a dangerous noble, why not choose someone cunning and deceitful like me? At least then the treacherous game might be simpler. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to be crushed for it?*
These days, his thoughts were different.
Yes. Of course no one could ever truly value someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise.
There was a time when he thought he could possess it all. Arrogant, conceited Elias Thorne, who believed he understood the world at eighteen. Wicked, vile Elias. Pitiful Elias, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone.
That day, he couldn't push past the fifteenth question. He used a fabricated ailment as an excuse, slumping over his desk, a quiet thought forming: *Well, at least I am not as irrevocably ruined as Corvus or Lysander.*
Rumors regarding Corvus and Lysander spread through the Collegium like a wildfire. Whether exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no clear way to discover the facts. Corvus’s immediate circle had vanished from the Collegium’s social landscape, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forging new allegiances to dwell on the old, inadvertently fueling the whispers even further.
“Thorne, forgive me, but who was most closely associated with Lord Blackwood?”
“Lord… No, Julian Kael.”
Elias overheard this exchange as he passed by the Professor’s office, returning to the lecture hall before dismissal. Professor Alaric had asked, and a junior lecturer had answered. Pretending he hadn't heard, Elias stepped into the room. The Professor glanced nervously between Elias and the empty seats, his fingers drumming a quiet rhythm against the podium. Then, as if abandoning some unspoken thought, he announced:
“Let us conclude.”
The moment dismissal was announced, Elias retrieved his worn satchel. As he slung it over his shoulder, a presence fell over him. Julian Kael tapped him lightly on the back.
“Elias. Let us discuss certain matters after your studies.”
Elias turned, meeting Julian’s shadowed gaze. He knew. He had always observed Corvus and Julian’s every interaction, so he knew that the person Julian most frequently sought out was always Corvus. After a brief hesitation, Elias offered a vague gesture of dismissal.
“Impossible. My research continues into the late hours.”
“And after that?”
“Further study. Seek out one of your typical companions, Julian.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Why not?”
“Proximity to a weak link only corrodes one’s own standing.”
“Ha.”
Elias let out a short, hollow laugh at the stark, brutal absurdity of it.
Right. This was why he had found himself, surprisingly, able to tolerate Julian Kael better than expected. Their twisted philosophies, though stemming from different origins, seemed to align in unsettling ways.
“So, Orion, Caelan—they are mere ‘weak links’? Even Gareth, who swore fealty?”
“If you insist on such terms, then yes, largely. But you are different, Thorne.”
The backhanded compliment left Elias feeling a faint unease, a prickle of suspicion.
“What precisely does that imply? Your words are often… crude.”
“No, they are not.”
“They are remarkably crude.”
“Hmm. The Ancient Codes speak of unvarnished truth. I merely adhere to clarity, Elias.”
Honestly, Julian was worse than Elias. At least Elias didn't blatantly dismiss his acquaintances as worthless refuse.
“That is why my path is clear.”
“...Naturally.”
“Since my path is so clear, may I accompany you to your chambers?”
Julian Kael blinked twice, a slow, deliberate movement. Elias regarded his face for a moment, weighing the unspoken implications, before offering a measured nod.
“Very well. As long as you do not impede my work, I see no reason to refuse.”