A jungle of parchment, this hushed expanse was home to thirty junior scribes. Within these walls, ambition, like a parasitic vine, coiled around every pillar and archway. Each acolyte, no matter how meek, had lived for precisely eighteen cycles within the Athenaeum’s rigid strata, their nascent careers teetering on a precipice. Daily, the tension hummed, a low vibration beneath the ancient stones, making survival a delicate, precarious dance. For Elias Thorne, this constant vigilance had begun at twelve, when he first grasped the brutal mechanics of patronage and influence. This daily balancing act had been his routine ever since—and, he suspected, everyone else’s too. A cubic jungle, yet within it, a chilling pyramid. That was the Scriptorium Beta-7. “Ah…” His arm, numb from hours hunched over a folio, tingled as he shook it out. Elias tapped his tightly wound stomach, a dull ache gnawing at him since the previous eve, lightly with the side of his fist. A weak breath escaped his lips as he looked at the slumped backs before him. Green-tinged vellum, peach-colored napes. At the elder scribe’s lectern, Theron sat, not supervising, but absorbed in a crumpled newsletter he’d folded in half. Junior scribes, meanwhile, either meticulously transcribed arcane texts or, having surrendered to the oppressive quiet, were slumped and dozing. “Awaken, those whose minds wander,” Theron called out, his voice raspy, as he turned another page of newsprint. Fifth bell already. Elias had been painstakingly deciphering the fifteenth glyph in a fragmented text on forgotten geomancy. He stopped, scratching his scalp with an index finger, before setting his quill on the polished oak. His eyes, involuntarily, drifted to the empty seats. Two in particular gaped like open wounds. As expected, neither Septimus Varkos nor Cassian had appeared. They likely wouldn’t return, not unless the currents of scandal shifted dramatically, or some unforeseen twist entangled their fates further. Whatever that might be, Elias could not fathom it. He lowered his gaze to the intricate problems of translation, the labyrinthine strokes of forgotten Eldorian scripts blurring before his eyes. There had been a time, not so long ago, when Elias believed he understood everything about Septimus. He had convinced himself that he, of all the supplicants and hangers-on, knew the noble scion best. A secret pride had swelled within him, even when compared to Kael, who moved with Septimus in circles far grander. Deep down, Elias had relished the quiet, illicit knowledge that he held a singular understanding of Septimus’s mercurial mind. He propped his chin on his hand. The very capacity for such thoughts filled Elias with a cold self-loathing. What would these diligent, unseeing scribes think if they knew the venomous tendrils of ambition and resentment that coiled within his mind? The answer was stark: he would be cast down, not merely to the bottom, but beneath the lowest rung of the Athenaeum’s pyramid, his name etched in dust. That prospect was chilling. A terrifying, silent dread. This insidious desire, unique to a scholar ensnared by the Athenaeum’s subtle corruptions, had to remain hidden. Buried so deep that not even the object of his obsession—the memory of Septimus—could sense it. Ultimately, he needed to bury it so completely that even Elias himself could feign ignorance of its existence. But Septimus Varkos had never hidden his desires. Everyone within the Athenaeum, from the lowliest page to the most revered Arch-Librarian, knew the extent of his ambition, and now, his depravity. Elias glanced around, lifting his head fractionally. Everyone remained hunched over their desks, their minds lost in the endless scrolls. Pressing his lips tightly together, he looked forward. Lying forlornly between the rows of oak desks was a discarded codex, its vellum cover smudged with the marks of many hurried footsteps. Its binding was broken, pages scattered, a grim testament to its abrupt abandonment. Suddenly, as if some unseen gaze might have noticed his scrutiny, Elias buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep like the others. Then he turned his neck, subtly, in a different direction. His gaze fell upon the back row, to a figure slumped against a towering shelf of prohibitory texts. A face, partially obscured by a forearm, as if the man had collapsed in exhaustion. The face looked delicate and sorrowful, almost cadaverous in the dim light. “...” Elias found himself staring at Kael’s pallid profile before his gaze drifted to the acolyte’s arm. Had the already imposing Kael grown even taller? The dark robe that had fit him perfectly at the start of the cycle now left his wrists starkly exposed. Around one of those wrists was a heavy, tarnished silver signet ring, its crest – a stylized serpent devouring its own tail – an unmistakable symbol of his minor guild’s ancient lineage. It was a subtle, yet heavy and integral part of Kael’s identity. Before hearing the whispers of his true origins, Elias had assumed Kael hailed from one of the opulent merchant guilds in the eastern districts, the same area as Cassian. Despite his formidable presence, Kael didn’t exude the typical aura of inherited wealth. His sunken eyes were always shadowed, his faded irises lending him a perpetually haunted look. The way his thin eyelids showed beneath his pupils added to his sharp, gaunt appearance. Kael’s overall atmosphere was one of grim intimidation, though it lacked the refined arrogance associated with the oldest noble houses. Instead, his face seemed etched by a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a kind of melancholic heaviness. Combined with his large, ascetic build—he was undoubtedly the tallest acolyte in the Scriptorium—it made him doubly imposing. Yet Kael’s personality, or what little was known of it, often belied his intimidating facade. It wasn’t just indifference; it was as if he actively expunged events from his memory, whether intentionally or not. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that ironically added to his enigmatic mystique. Most notably, Kael cared little for the material trappings of power. He never seemed to notice the sums others squandered or the lavish bribes they offered. If the mood struck him, he’d casually dismiss a substantial loan, as if the concept of coin held no meaning. There were even stories of acolytes attempting to return borrowed funds, only for Kael to stare blankly, wondering why they were presenting him with silver. Still, he didn’t aid just anyone. He’d indulge trivial requests when in a rare, good mood but coldly refuse those truly desperate. Even with his supposed associates, Kael could be harsh. Elias once overheard a story about how a junior scholar, Alaric, upon seeing Kael’s prized, antique magnifying glass—an object Kael rarely displayed—excitedly reached for it without permission. Kael had slapped Alaric’s hand away with a swift, brutal force, sending him stumbling back against a shelf of ancient tomes. At the apex of the Athenaeum’s intricate social hierarchy, individuals like Kael and Septimus Varkos shared one critical trait: a complete disregard for the opinions of those beneath them. This indifference, in its own corrosive way, was what allowed them to carve their places at the pyramid’s peak. Why did they, the diligent, the striving, hand over the keys to their intellectual world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how much Elias pondered it, he still could not truly comprehend. And yet, Kael was known to rigidly uphold the Athenaeum’s most ancient, unbending tenets. A scion of scholastic discipline, who would sleep with a scroll of the First Ordinances under his head, yet his adherence to doctrine was flawed. He eschewed alcohol, spurned the illicit stimulants many scribes used to endure long nights, and was never implicated in the petty thefts or extortion that plagued the lower guilds. Yet, it was said he harbored a profound disdain for certain ‘unnatural proclivities’—the very whispers now clinging to Septimus like grave-shrouds. Was this why Septimus’s actions seemed to disgust Kael so profoundly? Elias licked his dry lips. A strange sense of relief washed over Elias, a cold comfort that he hadn’t been caught in Septimus’s fall. Had he been, he would have ended up like that discarded codex, lying trampled on the floor. And yet, even in that moment, a desperate question surfaced: if Septimus and he had remained close, as they were just a few cycles ago, would Septimus have protected him? The thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories Elias desperately wanted to erase. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the thin gruel he’d eaten earlier were threatening to return. No. Of course not. How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to believe it. To Septimus, Elias had been nothing. Just a convenient, quietly useful junior scribe to amuse himself with. He knew this now because of the way Septimus had looked at him when his cruel words had struck Elias to the ground—not physically, but with the cold, precise blow of utter dismissal. His eyes had said everything. Elias hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had been staring him in the face. Septimus sinned openly. Elias, too, was a sinner—but he hid it. And so, Septimus was brought low by the Athenaeum’s judgment, while Elias, by sheer discretion, was spared. A faint, self-deprecating laugh escaped his lips, so soft it was only audible to himself. “…So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.” Perhaps the Athenaeum itself, in its inscrutable justice, had a personality like Kael’s. His gaze shifted to the desk near the elder scribe’s podium. An unusual thought, but today, Elias felt a pang of pity for Cassian. Poor soul, caught in the clutches of Septimus. You lacked the strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Cassian, despite the outward trappings of his minor noble house. You should have fled the moment Elias had, however subtly, warned you. Fool. Elias knew he was not a good person. He was selfish and self-serving, and perhaps that was his own quiet punishment. Sometimes, a darker thought surfaced: If you are to follow such inclinations, why not pick someone sly and deceitful like me? At least then, life might be simpler. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering for it? These cycles, Elias thought differently. Yes. Of course, no one could ever truly value someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise. There had been a time when he thought he could have it all. Arrogant, conceited Elias. Elias, who thought he understood the subtle currents of the Athenaeum at eighteen cycles. Wicked, vile Elias. Pitiful Elias, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone. That day, he couldn’t get past the fifteenth glyph. He used his lingering malaise as an excuse to lie slumped over his desk, thinking to himself: Well, at least I’m not as utterly ruined as Septimus or Cassian. Whispers about Septimus and Cassian spread like wildfire through the Athenaeum’s shadowed halls. Whether they were exaggerated by the eager tongues of rivals or grounded in absolute truth, no one could say for certain. There was no direct way to find out either. Septimus’s inner circle had vanished from the Athenaeum’s public view, as if ripped out by the roots. The few junior nobles who remained were too preoccupied with hastily forming new alliances to worry about anything else, inadvertently fueling the rumors even further. “Theron, pardon, but who was most frequently associated with Varkos?” “Septimus… No, Elder Kael.” Elias overheard this as he passed by on his way back to the Scriptorium before final dismissal. An Arch-Librarian had asked Theron, and a junior lecturer had answered. Pretending he hadn’t heard, Elias walked into the room. Theron glanced nervously between Elias and the empty desks of Septimus and Cassian, drumming his fingers against the lectern. Then, as if abandoning some unspoken thought, he announced: “Scribes, you may depart.” The moment dismissal was official, Elias grabbed his satchel. As he slung it over his shoulder, Kael, who had materialized beside him, tapped him lightly on the back. “Thorne. Walk with me after this.” Elias looked at Kael’s face. He knew. He had always watched Septimus and Kael’s every movement, so he knew that the acolyte Kael most frequently engaged with, however briefly, was always Septimus. After a brief pause, Elias waved him off. “Cannot. I have a transcript due.” “After that, then?” “Further study. Go engage with one of your usual associates.” “Unnecessary.” “Why not?” “To align too closely with one who has fallen only drags one’s own standing into the mire.” “Ha.” Elias let out a short, hollow laugh at the stark, brutal absurdity of it. Right. This was why Elias, despite his apprehension, had found a strange, twisted resonance with Kael. Their disparate, yet ultimately self-serving, values seemed to align in unsettling ways. “So, Alaric, Joren—they are ‘mire’? Even Elara’s apprentices?” “If you interpret it thus, then yes, largely. But you are… different.” The backhanded compliment left Elias feeling a chill rather than warmth. “What is that supposed to signify? You are… uncharitable.” “No, I am not.” “You are so uncharitable.” “Hmm. It is in the First Ordinances. ‘Thou shalt not mislead.’ I merely speak plain truth, Thorne.” Honestly, Kael’s worse than I am, Elias thought. At least I don’t blatantly treat my fleeting associations like refuse. “That is why I adhere to the strictures.” “…Indeed.” “Since I am so… adherent, may I visit your quarters?” Kael blinked twice, his pale eyes unreadable. Elias looked at his face for a moment, then, after a subtle calculation, nodded. “Yes, why not.” As long as Kael’s presence did not interfere with Elias’s own meticulously planned existence, there was no reason to refuse. To secure one’s precarious place in the Athenaeum’s hierarchy, there were compromises one had to make, even with the unpalatable. Perhaps, Kael saw something in Elias that could be molded, used. And Elias, in turn, could learn from Kael’s stark, ruthless pragmatism. It was a dangerous game, but Elias had always been a quiet student of such things. ---

The Weight of Unspoken Truths