A slight puffiness marred Lord Lysander Vance’s aristocratic features. He had, no doubt, spent another night embroiled in illicit card games or whispered assignations. Feigning mild annoyance, I slid a chilled silver decanter, filled with spiced morning wine, onto his polished oak desk. Habit dictated this small gesture on days his dissolute hobbies claimed his sleep. His countenance was simply too prone to swelling. “Cease looking like a disgruntled owlbear and reduce that puffiness.” Lysander grunted, fingers already reaching for the cool metal. “My thanks, Kaelen.” “Did your father, Duke Vance, not berate you this morn?” “Thanks to your timely delivery, no.” Lysander shrugged, a smug glint in his eyes. I merely offered a slight smirk, a twist of my lips. Turning to my own assigned carrel, my gaze snagged on a large, unfurled scroll-map draped across the desk beside Lysander. Lord Aldric Beaumont, not I, occupied that station. A handspan taller than Lysander, Aldric naturally commanded the space at his side. My own stature, ever a quiet source of vexation, relegated me to the second row. A small, self-serving comfort, knowing Lysander remained just behind me. It was a meagre solace. Burying the familiar prickle of jealousy, I gestured subtly toward Aldric. “When did he arrive?” “No notion. He was sprawled thus when I entered.” Lysander took a measured sip from his decanter. “How does one who departed early last eve still appear so utterly undone?” My words hung in the air, followed by a soft rustle. The scroll-map slid to the floor, revealing Aldric Beaumont’s half-lidded eyes. His gaze, narrowed and heavy-lidded, swept over Lysander and me before he released a wide, groaning yawn. “…I merely intended to indulge a little longer before slumber. Alas.” Yawns, like scandal, were undeniably contagious. Lysander echoed Aldric’s cavernous stretch, then scrunched his face into a mocking grin. “This scoundrel. Presents as a ruffian, yet behaves with more propriety than Ser Gareth.” “Oh, confound you.” Aldric mumbled, waving a dismissive hand. “Got it, dolt.” Aldric, whether realizing Lysander’s mockery or simply too weary to care, merely leaned back and chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. My eyes met his for a fleeting instant. He glanced toward a tall arched window, then back at me. A strange, almost irritating tickle beneath my skin made me rub a shoulder, turning my attention back to Lysander. Morning in the Royal Academy’s Scriptorium held a peculiar, fragile calm. Such casual exchanges often set its tone. Soon, other noble scions—Ser Eamon, Ser Gareth—would saunter over, offering Lysander their admiring attention, eager for tales of his nocturnal exploits. The familiar cadence would unfold: chatter, laughter, until finally, the Master of Lore would arrive, commencing the day’s lessons. For young lords considered the most influential in their cohort, it was, at face value, a surprisingly wholesome start to the day. Yet, beneath the polished veneer, we remained but youths of eighteen summers. Whispers of dissolute liaisons, particularly those involving Lysander, often left a faint, bitter taste. Still, I played my part, feigning amusement. Despite it all, these mornings had not seemed entirely disagreeable. But that had shifted, subtly but irrevocably, a moon and a half ago. And the reason, I knew with a chilling certainty, lay solely with Master Elian Roth. “Look, Elian Roth is here.” Ser Eamon’s low murmur rippled through the carrels. “Damnation. Vile sight.” “Does that craven wretch even consider absenting himself after such a public humiliation?” Ser Gareth openly scoffed, pointing with exaggerated disdain. At the tip of his finger, Master Elian Roth hesitantly entered the Scriptorium. His slight frame seemed to shrink, his face hidden behind a curtain of dark hair. He shuffled toward a desk in the front row, placing a worn satchel upon it, then immediately hunched over. Watching his cowering posture, I released a sigh heavy with a strange, unpleasant irritation. Elian Roth was a pathetic figure. His voice, when heard, was thin. His frame, slight. He was a pitiful excuse for a noble scion. As the murmurs swelled, Lysander glared daggers at Elian’s bowed back, muttering curses under his breath. I despised this about him. That raw, unbridled sensitivity to Elian’s presence—it grated on my nerves. Snatching the scroll-map that had briefly covered Aldric’s face, Lysander balled it in one hand. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he hurled it. A soft thud echoed. Elian’s head, already low, slumped further onto his desk. “By the gods. Do not parade that repulsive visage first thing in the morning.” Elian placed his arms over his head, burying his face, obeying Lysander’s implicit command. Yet, Lysander watched him with an expression of pure contempt, then kicked his own desk with a loud crack. “Hey! Will you not answer me?” When Lysander abruptly stood and yelled, Elian, still hunched, stammered a trembling reply. “Y-yes, Lord Lysander.” “Lift your head, look at me, and speak properly.” Did Lysander even comprehend the nonsensical cruelty of his demands? The sheer absurdity of it all drew a bitter, silent laugh from me. Whether he noticed my subtle reaction or not, Lysander rose and approached Elian Roth’s carrel. With each deliberate step, the unpleasant sensation within me grew sharper, more visceral. Lysander closed the distance. Just that movement alone made me feel as though I was losing my grasp on emotions I had painstakingly forced into suppression. This was not the same, familiar jealousy that pricked me when Lysander drew close to Aldric. Instinctively, I knew. Deep within, I harbored something as dark and insidious as Lysander’s own impulses. That was why observing Lysander and Aldric eventually became bearable, a manageable ache. But his interactions with Elian unsettled me more and more. My hands began to tremble. I clenched them tightly, burying them under my loose sleeve. Lysander kicked Elian’s desk hard. The oak groaned, rattling precariously, and Elian jolted upright in alarm, his voice still unsteady. “F-forgive me.” Lysander stood, silently looking down at Elian’s tear-glistening face. Elian’s eyes were on the verge of spilling over. Yet, in that moment, I felt as though I was the one about to burst into tears. Lysander never forced Elian to run pointless errands, but his gaze never left him. If Elian left for the latrines during a break, Lysander would still watch his retreating figure, even mid-conversation with us. I knew, because my own eyes never strayed from Lysander. To be truthful, my initial impression of Master Elian Roth had been unremarkable. His complexion was not perfectly clear, but his youthful features gave him a pleasing aspect. When he smiled, it seemed genuinely warm, and even his neutral expression carried a certain gentle brightness. Before Lysander’s torment began, no one truly disliked Elian. He seemed a scion raised in a sheltered, loving environment. While not overtly sociable, often preferring his own company, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor. Most considered Elian Roth a decent, unassuming young man. Since he never flaunted the affection he received, he garnered even more subtle praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be around—that was Master Elian Roth. But I, personally, had never particularly favored him. Nor did I despise him—I simply did not care. To say he existed entirely beyond my notice would be more accurate. Yet, whenever his name arose in conversations with Lysander, Aldric, or our wider circle, I would find myself offering casual falsehoods: “Oh, Elian? He’s quite agreeable. Pleasant enough.” Lysander, much like myself, had initially paid Elian scant attention. Lysander was never one to concern himself with the lesser affairs of the Academy. After Elian transferred from the southern marches in May, he and Lysander did not exchange a single word until June. That had been the established order. But then, one day, something shifted. A small, sharp deviation in the mundane current of events. It happened just after the midday meal, and looking back, I do not believe I have ever regretted an action as profoundly as what transpired that day. Elian, as was his custom, had settled into a quiet alcove during the break, engrossed in a tome. He was the sort who found profound solace burying himself in forgotten texts. I, on the other hand, possessed a subtle, calculated inclination toward those with good reputations. Thus, when I stumbled upon Elian by chance, I struck up a conversation about the ancient volume he held. I was no true scholar, merely proficient at feigning cultured interest. “You must possess a deep fondness for books, Master Elian?” “Oh? Ah, yes, I suppose so.” At that time, Elian and I were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made my approach easier. “Are you near the end of that particular volume?” “Indeed, almost finished.” “Then perhaps close it now. The denouement may disappoint you. It is one of those tomes where the final chapters often mar the entire narrative.” “You have read it before?” “Aye, some time ago.” To satisfy my intellectual vanity, I habitually sought out reviews and critiques of texts, ensuring I possessed a suitable opinion for future discourse. Drawing on those remembered snippets, I offered a critique—not a genuine one, merely enough to sound informed—and Elian smiled brightly, genuinely pleased. It surprised me. “You are the first soul I have met who has read this book besides myself.” “Oh… truly?” “Yes. Yet I still intend to finish it. Pondering why the ending was crafted thus is part of the enjoyment, is it not?” “Well, certainly. Every mind interprets differently.” “Hearing you say that makes me anticipate it even more.” That smile still lingers in my memory, a faint, unsettling echo. Was it some instinctive unease I felt even then? After that day, Master Elian Roth began to seek me out with increasing frequency. Though I found it mildly bothersome, often wondering, *Why me?*, I never outright rejected him. Elian, with his pristine reputation, was not the worst individual to keep within one’s orbit. After all, outside of instructional parchments and ledgers, weighty tomes were practically forbidden territory for noble youths our age. Even if one had the leisure, books were little more than elaborate pillows. For Elian, I was likely the sole person around who could discuss such arcane matters. That particular day was one of those routine encounters, yet it also proved to be among the most ill-fated of them all. Lord Aldric Beaumont was to blame, in a peculiar sense. To this very day, I cannot fathom why I acted as I did. Why I, a soul who never meddled in others’ affairs, chose to poke my nose where it did not belong. Why Aldric, of all things, had left his mock examination parchment for the Royal Writ wide open for any passing eye to discern. I, who detested the revelation of my own academic scores, naturally presumed Aldric would wish his concealed. So, I flipped the parchment over to hide it. That was when I saw it: his mark. Eighty-one points. My eyes blinked in disbelief. I checked again. It was undeniably eighty-one. Considering the exacting thresholds for this particular examination, it would barely scrape into the fourth tier. Still, it hovered at the higher end of that tier. It was the first time one of my preconceptions had been shattered so completely. A small shock, realizing Aldric was not quite the lost cause I had imagined. Naturally, that thought brought Lysander’s own abysmal scores to mind. Now, he truly was the academic waste. A scion who would mark every question with a ‘2’ and slumber through the remainder of the examination, Lysander had never once achieved a respectable score. Perhaps that was why I felt such a strange mixture of emotions—as though I had discovered a salvageable shard amidst a heap of refuse. A lord I had once dismissed turned out to be more capable than the one I held in quiet esteem. That unsettling realization must have thrown me off balance, for I did something I would normally never have contemplated. It was nothing grand. I simply grabbed a nearby quill and inscribed a short note at the top of Aldric’s parchment. *Focus on the esoteric questions. A tier three mark awaits. Commendable work. —Kaelen.* *P.S. My apologies for the intrusion; I merely sought to conceal your parchment and happened to glimpse your score.* The arrogance of evaluating another’s grade and offering unsolicited counsel made me flush with a fleeting embarrassment, so I rambled to justify myself. I cannot explain why I even wrote it. At that moment, I must have been entirely bereft of sense. Looking back, it was undeniably the first error in what would become a series of entanglements. Every mess, every unravelling, begins with a poorly fastened first button. Had I not inscribed that note, I would not have encountered Master Elian Roth, volume in hand, coming down the hall.

The First Unfastened Button