A chill settled in Elias Thorne’s bones, mirroring the frost that clung to the towering peaks outside the Grand Athenaeum. Septimus Varkos had openly declared his animosity. Not with a shout, but with a gaze sharp as a freshly honed stylus, since the incident in the archive annex. Kaelen, meek and pale, now occupied the study carrel beside Septimus, a silent sentinel in the noble scion’s shadow. It was a space Elias once considered his own, a quiet claim he hadn't realized he’d made until it was lost. A strange, academic ennui had taken root in Elias’s heart. He moved through the labyrinthine halls, a phantom in his own life. Sometimes, a flicker of cold, intellectual disdain for Septimus would ignite within him, a desire for the other’s downfall. But mostly, he endured. He would not be a pathetic weakling. He refused to slink, head bowed. Yet, the thought of speaking to Septimus, of pretending the rupture hadn’t occurred, was an unbearable weight. His tongue felt thick with unspoken grievances. That arrogant Varkos, ever a storm of untamed ambition, now regarded Elias with an almost childish resentment. The reason was clear, a stark, painful clarity: Kaelen. Elias despised Kaelen with a fervent, illogical intensity. The young acolyte was never Elias’s, not truly. Yet, Kaelen had not only drawn Septimus’s attention but had somehow twisted that attention into a weapon against Elias. He couldn’t shake the thought that Kaelen, however unwittingly, was a viper in the Athenaeum’s bosom. Intentions mattered little to a wounded heart. Blaming Kaelen offered a perverse solace, a scapegoat in this miserable chapter of his life. A rationale to endure. Still, Elias was a scholar of logic. He understood Kaelen was merely a leaf caught in Septimus’s tempestuous current. So, no open hostility escaped him. He kept his features carefully neutral. Part of it was shame. To reveal such base jealousy would be to expose a raw, vulnerable nerve. Another part was pragmatism. Losing his temper with Kaelen would only confirm Septimus’s low opinion and invite whispered accusations of unbecoming conduct, perhaps even the damning label of an unnatural attachment. “This… this is the nadir.” The words were a rasp in his throat. He hated it. Hated it more than Septimus’s open scorn. A deep, sick dread settled in his chest. Theron, the brash, high-born scholar he’d found himself increasingly saddled with, came to mind. Theron, with his sharp eyes and even sharper tongue. What would Theron say, if he knew the depths of Elias’s secret thoughts? ‘Ah, so Thorne harbors such base affections, does he? A tainted heart beneath that dusty scholar’s robe.’ The image of Theron’s disdainful smirk made Elias’s hands clench. A horrifying vision, making bile rise. No one, absolutely no one, must ever know. Loyalties within the Athenaeum were often brittle, shaped by the currents of power. When Septimus and Elias’s rapport visibly fractured, Elias found himself subtly ostracized by Septimus’s retinue. Amusingly, Lyra, a fellow junior scribe and always an outsider in Septimus’s orbit, began to seek him out, her chatter a nervous, meandering stream. “Elias, Theron was asking after you yesterday.” “Indeed? For what purpose?” “He did not say. Merely… asked.” Her words were always like this—trivial, lacking substance. It was clear. Others now perceived Elias as more aligned with Theron’s boisterous circle than Septimus’s aristocratic coterie. Not that all ties were severed. Occasionally, in the scriptorium or passing in the morning, polite, stiff greetings were exchanged. Mostly with Lyra. “Morning, Elias.” “Morning, Lyra.” Elias recalled one such awkward exchange when Lyra had lowered her voice, a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Varkos has been… peculiar, lately. The way he watches Kaelen… is it not unsettling?’ Elias must have worn a grimace, for Lyra seemed to interpret it as agreement. She continued, recounting how Septimus had coerced Kaelen to his side, gripping his arm with an unnatural possessiveness. His jaw tightened. He fought the urge to flinch. ‘That, Lyra, is of no concern to me.’ His voice, though quiet, was sharp enough to cut her off. Lyra had recently begun to court Theron’s favor, seeking a quiet escape from Septimus’s shadow. Perhaps her confidences to Elias were merely a clumsy attempt at forging an alliance. Today, as was becoming customary, only Theron and Elias remained in a quiet alcove of the main scriptorium, the last light fading from the high arched windows. Theron leaned against a carved stone pillar, his eyes sweeping over Elias. Was he ignoring him, or merely assessing? Elias, bristling, averted his gaze, choosing to ignore Theron in turn. “Thorne.” “What now, Theron?” “A spiced confection after our duties. The one with the saffron. It was quite palatable last cycle.” Theron’s voice cut through Elias’s attempted indifference. As he spoke, he idly tossed a smooth, polished stone. It arced wildly, threatening the rows of ancient scrolls, but no one dared reprimand him. He cared not for decorum, utterly indifferent, selfish even. Elias watched the stone’s erratic flight, a frown etched on his face. His irritation over Theron’s shamelessness sharpened his tone. “The one you consumed entirely yourself? You acquired it for your own pleasure, did you not?” “Not entirely. I merely favored its hue.” “So, my preference was of no consequence?” “How was I to discern your desires? You offered no counsel.” The stone had rolled to rest near a junior novitiate. Theron extended a hand, a silent command. The novitiate hesitated, then nervously retrieved the stone, placing it in Theron’s palm. Theron idly rotated it. “My thanks, lesser scribe.” He dismissed the boy with a flick of his wrist. What an insufferable character. ‘Lesser scribe, dusty scholar.’ Every pronouncement from Theron’s lips grated on Elias’s nerves. It made no sense that Theron, so obnoxious, frequented Elias’s company rather than Septimus’s. Theron ate beside him, studied beside him, attended lectures with him. Septimus was not unreachable; a quick summons would bring him forth. The thought, sudden and unbidden, slipped out. “Why do you not seek Septimus Varkos these days?” Theron, mid-toss, froze. He turned, a puzzled expression on his face. “You quarreled with him,” he stated. “I?” “Indeed. You and Varkos.” “I am aware. I am the one who incurred his displeasure. Why does this concern you?” “You utter the strangest pronouncements. It concerns me because you are my companion.” Theron’s gaze, oddly blatant, swept over Elias. Unease prickled Elias’s skin. He looked away. “Yet, you were also Varkos’s companion.” “Remarkable. Are you suggesting you are not my companion?” Theron’s tone was incredulous, his finger pointing at Elias. “No, I am your companion. But you were also Varkos’s. Why then, do you align yourself with me?” “Because I have known you for a longer span.” “What nonsense do you speak? Our acquaintance began through Varkos, did it not?” “Hold, Thorne. What are you insinuating? We were quite close in our first year!” “When was this?” “Truly, you are an impossible man. In the Grand Refectory, we would exchange glances constantly!” “Ah… then.” “So, I alone perceived our bond? You, a deceiver. That is why, upon finding ourselves in the same scholastic tier, I approached you first! And you do not acknowledge this? Unacceptable. I am disappointed.” “Oh.” “Truly, Thorne. Unacceptable. How could you inflict such a slight upon me?” “Forgive me, Theron. I am sorry.” Elias mumbled the apology, a sudden, discomfiting recollection of those awkward, yet frequent, encounters in their first year. He had interpreted them as veiled hostility, a challenge of wits. Theron had seen camaraderie. So that, then, was Theron’s definition of ‘companionship’. Elias felt vaguely swindled. How could anyone mistake those glares for anything but enmity? Or… was it not Septimus, but Theron, who had first suggested they share their repasts? The realization struck him with the force of a dropped tome. It was unsettling, even shocking. Yet, unwilling to delve deeper into the tangled past, Elias merely nodded. “Indeed. I understand. My apologies.” “I was profoundly vexed, moments ago.” Theron glared briefly. Elias often found Theron’s mental pathways utterly inscrutable. “And furthermore, Septimus Varkos’s conduct is truly unhinged.” Elias remained silent. “That man is entirely lost to reason. He has always possessed a peculiar temperament, but this… this is beyond the pale.” Theron caught the polished stone with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with his index. The sight brought to mind Lyra and the other junior scribes who had, with varying degrees of discomfort, attempted to broach the topic of Septimus. From their fragmented pronouncements, one truth emerged: Septimus Varkos’s standing was plummeting. “Unnatural inclinations.” The phrase, the most damning of stigmas in the rigidly structured world of Eldorian scholarship, sent a tremor through Elias. His body stiffened. At the same instant, a profound relief washed over him that no one knew of his own… peculiarities. Did that relief signify he valued his own preservation above Septimus’s ruin? Uneasy, he met Theron’s gaze, feeling like a blasphemous acolyte guarding a forbidden scroll before the Grand Hierophant. “Indeed,” he murmured, then permitted a strange, shaky laugh, a blend of fear and derision. It was almost farcical that, to others, he was Theron’s closest companion. In truth, Elias was no different – a scholar marked by a hidden, unholy stigma. Only months ago, he was Septimus Varkos’s closest confidante. And yet, here he was, hiding in a precarious refuge he had barely secured. He had only avoided exposure. That was all. --- Dawn broke, a sliver of grey light piercing the perpetual twilight of the Athenaeum’s lower levels. A discreet chime, barely audible, sounded outside Elias’s chamber. A moment later, a scroll, tightly rolled and secured with an unadorned wax seal, slid beneath his door. A call at four past the morning bell. Half-asleep, Elias wondered if this entire, miserable situation was merely a waking dream. He had consciously avoided Septimus to shield himself from further pain, yet his heart still leaped with the absurd hope that the summons might, impossibly, be from him. He rubbed his eyes, the parchment’s faint glow illuminating the elegant script. His feelings were a conflicted knot. A part of him wished for it to be a mundane missive, perhaps a summons for an unexpected transcription duty. But the content shattered that illusion. It was not from Septimus. “Elias-ah, I crave your forgiveness for this untimely intrusion. Could you grace the courtyard outside your chambers for but a moment? I am truly sorry. I am deeply sorry.” “Just this once. I implore you, just this once.” Septimus Varkos would never stoop to such abject apologies. Among his peers, only two ever dared address him with that informal diminutive, ‘Elias-ah’. And of those two, only one bore such desperate, pathetic urgency. How had Kaelen even discovered his precise chambers? The scroll crumpled in Elias’s fist, his face twisting into a scowl. He did not wish to see him—never wished to see him. Kaelen was always a source of profound discomfort. Yet, despite the rebellion in his mind, Elias found himself rising from his cot. He smoothed his simple scholar’s robe, adjusting the fastenings, and stood. He walked to his chamber door, but paused before opening it, pressing his forehead against the cool, ancient wood with a deep, shuddering sigh. “…Damnation.” The emotions were overwhelming, a suffocating knot in his gut. That was the only descriptor. He clutched his chest, the fabric of his robe rasping beneath his fingers. He had always prided himself on his extensive vocabulary, drawn from countless dusty tomes. But not a single word could encompass this intricate, tangled mess of feeling. It was simply… complicated. The sharp, bitter hatred he harbored for Kaelen, the lingering memory of Kaelen’s bruised, terrified face from that day in the archive, the desperate weeks Elias had spent trying to sever their connection—all swirled within him. He bit his lip, his fingers tracing the cold metal of the doorknob. Then, with a decisive twist, he closed his eyes and turned it. In the small, ascetic courtyard, the frigid pre-dawn air clung like grave-damp, a harbinger of the approaching frigid season. To avoid the dew-laden flagstones, Elias stepped carefully onto the cool, moss-covered marble path. The biting chill made him draw his robe tighter. His bare feet, accustomed to the Athenaeum’s cold floors, carried him towards the heavy outer gate of his residential wing. He paused, a small, disgusted sound escaping his lips, then gripped the iron handle. The hinge groaned, a sound that made him flinch. He opened the gate slowly, reluctantly. Beyond, illuminated by the wan glow of a distant lumen-lamp on the cobbled thoroughfare, stood Kaelen in his simple acolyte’s robe. His head was bowed, and he idly scuffed the toe of his boot against the uneven stones, tracing invisible patterns. “…Kaelen.” At Elias’s voice, Kaelen’s head snapped up, his eyes wide, startled like a trapped bird. “Elias! Elias-ah!” “What is it you require?”

The Serpent's Coil