A sudden, boisterous declaration shattered the relative quiet of the Scriptorium’s common study. Kaelen, his face flushed with the spurious confidence of inherited station, gestured grandly at a freshly procured folio. He boasted of his family’s ancient claims, hinting at his patron’s imminent command over the highly restricted Archives of the Obsidian Scroll.
Valerius, perched on the edge of a timeworn desk, offered a quiet, cutting remark. “A rare acquisition, perhaps. Though certain scrolls possess a peculiar habit of gathering dust, regardless of who claims dominion.”
Lysander and Gareth, Kaelen’s usual satellites, offered weak, nervous titters. Their laughter was a hesitant echo, quickly stifled.
Kaelen’s bravado crumpled. A scowl twisted his features. “Is there something amiss, lackeys?” He nudged Lysander sharply with his elbow. “Find this amusing?”
Another strained chuckle. Elias watched from his alcove, a quiet observer. The spectacle was a wearying repetition of the Athenaeum’s subtle, ceaseless power struggles.
With a final, withering glance, Kaelen and his retinue departed. Gareth offered Elias a brief, dismissive nod as they passed. Elias returned it with a barely perceptible dip of his head, a gesture of politeness devoid of true engagement.
He returned to his own corner, a small, shielded alcove carved from ancient grey stone. A brittle, leather-bound folio lay open on his desk, its pages yellowed and fragile. Elias traced the intricate lines of Elder Script, a stubborn passage resisting translation. His fingers hovered, seeking a lost inflection, a hidden meaning.
His gaze drifted to the chiseled walls around him, cold and unyielding. Through the high, narrow window, the stark, craggy peaks of Eldoria jutted against a bruised sky. The Athenaeum was a fortress of intellect, yet its internal struggles felt as raw and elemental as the stone it was built from.
Elias recalled the laments of old Arch-Scribe Torvin, his voice hoarse from years of lecturing and the dry dust of forgotten lore. “This hallowed ground,” Torvin had often sighed, “is naught but a sanctified jungle. A crucible of ambition. They claw and scheme, these young scions, establishing their dominance, testing every boundary. It never ends. Each new intake, the same weary cycle.”
Elias stretched out his hand, tracing patterns in a faded astral chart etched into the margin of his text. He sought the forgotten sequence of constellations, a calming ritual of order amidst the perceived chaos. One, the Serpent’s Coil. Three, the Celestial Weaver. Five, the Shard of Twilight. He tried to mimic the rhythm, but his mind refused the pattern. It felt too simple, too linear for the labyrinthine currents of the Athenaeum.
He lifted his head. The droning voice of Arch-Librarian Valerios echoed from the main hall, a monotonous recitation of jurisdictional codes. The faint scratch of a dozen quills against parchment provided a sparse accompaniment.
An empty lectern stood near the front of the chamber. Elias imagined a phantom acolyte, a ghost of ambition. Its surface bore a faint indentation, as if a head had often rested there, pressed down by the weight of obligation.
His fingers stilled. He turned his head.
Valerius sat slumped over a heavy tome, his face half-buried in its vellum pages. His eyes, partially closed, seemed fixed on some elusive problem, yet he would slump forward again, pressing his brow against the ancient binding. Elias watched as the heavy pages bowed beneath Valerius’s weight, obscuring his face.
He turned away. A sudden weariness descended. Had he lost a moment? A fragment of time? He marked the intractable passage in his folio and moved to another, less daunting inscription.
---
The Refectory offered its usual fare: a thin, spiced broth and a portion of hardened oatcake. Elias ate slowly, savoring the meager warmth.
Valerius, seated opposite him, suddenly broke the silence. “Tell me, Thorne. Your standing in the Scriptorium. You maintain second place, do you not?”
Elias paused. “Yes.”
“And across the Junior Collegium, for that matter?”
“Also second.”
Valerius released a low whistle. “By the Elder Gods.”
“What of it?” Elias kept his voice level.
“The premier student of our Scriptorium is thus the premier student of the entire Collegium. A formidable achievement for any noble house.”
“You were unaware? Elara Vane has always held the first position.” Elias swallowed a mouthful of broth. “She is a constant, dedicated presence.” He thought of Elara, the prodigious daughter of a prominent house, her ceaseless grind, her private tutelage sessions extending late into the night. He saw her in the private arcane seminars, her quill a blur across fresh parchment.
“Her schedule must be more punishing than yours.” Valerius seemed to muse.
“Indeed. Her private tutors dismiss her only with the dawn.”
“A brutal dedication.”
“She strives.” Elias had no desire to pursue this vein of conversation. He chewed his oatcake, a tasteless act.
Valerius, to his credit, merely nodded. The silence stretched. Elias hated these uncomfortable gaps. Without thinking, he offered a question.
“And you, Valerius? Your own standing?”
Valerius’s spoon stilled mid-air. Elias found his gaze drawn to the hand clutching the utensil. A precise, elegant grip. Whatever else might be said of Valerius, his table etiquette was impeccable.
“Within the Scriptorium…”
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
“...Ninth?” Elias barely contained his surprise. He quickly averted his gaze from Valerius’s hand, though the number hung in the air like a poorly cast spell. Could he be serious? Not attempting some convoluted jest? The words almost slipped past his lips, but he managed to stop them. He wouldn’t risk offending Valerius, not for a moment of incredulity. His mind, wired for survival in the Athenaeum’s subtle currents, weighed the social consequences.
Valerius seldom seemed particularly fond of his companions. Perhaps indifference was the safer path. “That is... more than I would have anticipated, given certain... inclinations.”
“What? Anticipated? How dim-witted do you presume me to be, Thorne?” Valerius’s voice held a sharp edge.
“Not dim-witted at all. Merely, I had surmised you found the analysis of ancient Arcanum script less… engaging.”
“Arcanum is but a single discipline. My aptitude for other studies is far from deficient. It is only Arcanum I find… tedious.”
“You do not engage private tutors.”
“One’s lack of private tutors does not preclude diligent study, Thorne. Did you truly deem me an imbecile?”
“No, no, not in the slightest.” Elias quickly raised a placating hand. “It is impressive, however, to achieve such a standing without the benefit of formal, exclusive instruction.”
“...Truly?”
“Indeed. It is quite remarkable.”
For a curious moment, Valerius began to mash his spoon into his broth, stirring it with unnecessary vigor. Elias thought he detected a faint flush creeping up Valerius’s ears. A fleeting, almost imperceptible shift.
Now that he considered it, Darian Thorne, Elias’s own troublesome cousin, languished at thirty-second in their Scriptorium. And that was only because four others performed even worse. Thirty-second out of thirty-six. A sudden, chilling realization settled upon Elias. He had been so consumed by his own quiet desperation, his own fragile quest for recognition, that he had barely registered the depths of Darian’s mediocrity, or indeed, anything about Darian beyond his direct impact.
Meanwhile, Valerius, oblivious to Elias’s internal crisis, seemed to swell with a subtle, newfound confidence. His tone shifted, imbued with self-satisfaction.
“Ah, yes! There is a discipline you likely know nothing of—my mastery of Ancient Draconic Ciphers.”
“Oh? How proficient?”
“Perfect recitation. I have yet to falter in a single cipher.”
“Khhkk!” Elias choked. The unexpected assertion caused him to splutter, a mouthful of broth erupting onto the polished table.
Valerius scowled, yanking his tray away from the splashing liquid. “What in the name of the Elder Gods was that reaction?”
“I merely… did not anticipate such a claim.”
“Is it truly so shocking?” He frowned, a slight pout on his lips. “My command of Arcanum script may be lacking, but that matters little.” There was an odd, almost self-deprecating hint in his voice.
Elias managed a dry jest. “Perhaps a more frequent engagement with actual codices might prove beneficial.”
“What nonsense do you utter? I am entirely a devotee of lore.”
“A devotee of lore? I have yet to observe you consult anything beyond the most perfunctory texts.”
“That is because my pursuits are conducted in the strictest secrecy within my quarters.”
“Why, in the Void, would you need such secrecy?”
Valerius’s eyes, which had held a spark of amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of broth. He casually pressed his lips to the spoon’s edge. Something in that image unsettled Elias. He bit the inside of his cheek. Valerius met his eyes as he drew the spoon away, then lowered his gaze. With deliberate slowness, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the tip of it.
“For ‘less-sanctioned narratives’ are still, technically, lore.”
That was undeniably a crude jest. His face burned with an abrupt, unwelcome heat. Elias seized a crumpled parchment from his tray and flung it at Valerius. It struck just below his sharp, narrow eyes, fluttering harmlessly to the table. A muscle in Valerius’s jaw twitched.
Elias, not caring if Valerius was genuinely annoyed, feigned a remorseful tone. “Desist from such foul posturing, Valerius. Especially within the Collegium. It is quite vulgar.”
“Oh? You mean this? This affectation of Darian Thorne’s?”
“I care not whose affectation it is. Simply cease.”
“But is this not the prevailing custom amongst us now?”
Elias merely stared, attempting to decipher jest from earnest provocation.
---
He had been sleeping less. A sure indicator of a fragile calm, a mind less burdened by immediate anxieties. Mornings, which had once felt leaden and dry, now possessed a strange, brittle clarity. It was a welcome shift, for Elias held the belief that complacency and oversleeping were among the gravest sins for an acolyte of his age.
“Ah, damnation.” His jaw clicked painfully as he cleansed his teeth. Ever since Darian Thorne’s unexpected shove in the Archives, a peculiar grinding sound accompanied any wide opening of his mouth. Otherwise, this day felt… tolerable.
But even in this nascent peace, sudden currents of irritation would surge through him. The catalyst was invariably Darian Thorne. Or, rather, the constant repercussions of Darian’s chaotic presence within the Athenaeum.
“Oh, yes. I chanced upon Darian Thorne just last eve.” Brother Cadmus spoke, biting into a stale bread roll from the general provisions, a tasteless thing rumored to contain discarded husks and forgotten crumbs.
Kaelen, who had been playfully jabbing Cadmus’s ankle, suddenly perked up. “By the Void—you speak truly! I had entirely forgotten. Word has reached me through the undercurrents – you know Arch-Curator Alden, yes? The one of… unorthodox temperament? Darian is said to be lodging at his residence.”
“Arch-Curator Alden? That imbecilic Arch-Curator Alden?” Valerius asked casually, rummaging through a small canvas satchel. He produced two small, hardened lozenges.
For some inexplicable reason, he offered one to Elias.
Elias stared at it, bewildered. “...What is this?” He looked at Valerius expectantly, but Valerius merely offered a slight nod, as if the gesture were entirely self-explanatory.
The most vocal reaction came from Kaelen, whose satchel had been violated. “By the Gods! Those were my rations! Why do you thieving brigands constantly consume my provisions?”
“Oh, as if you have never pilfered mine, glutton.” Cadmus made another mock thrust, aiming for Kaelen’s throat. Kaelen instantly spun, seized Cadmus’s collar, and swung a feigned blow at his face. It was a ritualized aggression, never meant to connect.
Elias ignored their trivial squabble. He looked down at the lozenge in his hand. Its wrapper depicted a solitary, fragmented star. He peeled the wrapper, placed the hard candy in his mouth, and lifted his head.
“What say you? The very taste of new beginnings?” Valerius grinned.
“I prefer clarity over sentiment.” Elias’s response encompassed more than the lozenge itself; it was his evaluation of Valerius’s jest. More than anything, he found the concept of ‘new beginnings’ unamusing. That cloying, bitter sensation clung to the back of his throat, diminishing his appetite.
In the end, he could not finish the lozenge. He tossed it into a refuse bin. “Oh, such waste,” Valerius mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands.
Ignoring him, Elias reached into Kaelen’s satchel, seeking a different confection. All were either the fragmented star or a pale crescent moon. The crescent moon, a plainer, unadorned variety, was the lesser ill. He unwrapped one and put it in his mouth.
“Regardless, Arch-Curator Alden, you say? It certainly aligns with Darian’s tendencies.”
“Tendencies? Or merely his lack of discretion?” Valerius’s words were sharp. Uncomfortable, Elias turned to look at him.
Valerius sucked on his lozenge expressionlessly, twirling the white stick between his lips. Elias pulled his own from his mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong. Valerius seemed oblivious. He tilted his lozenge in the air like a tiny sword, making random jabbing motions.
“Alden, it is said, maintains a rather… extensive patronage network. He cultivates certain talents, irrespective of their origin, male or female. And once sufficiently ‘refined,’ he ‘introduces’ them directly to Darian. It is a peculiar rotation of influence. A constant exchange of… reciprocal favors.”
“So Arch-Curator Alden is also… involved in such liaisons himself?” Kaelen suddenly interjected. Whether he had concluded his playful skirmish with Cadmus or merely paused mid-strike, Elias could not tell. Kaelen rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing Valerius’s veiled implications. Elias felt a familiar chill, the subtle grime of the Athenaeum’s hidden transactions clinging to the edges of his awareness.