Septimus Vane was no longer. Not in the corporeal sense, for reports confirmed his frame still drew breath within the Athenaeum's infirmary, albeit under heavy sedation. No, the entity known as Septimus Vane, the gilded scion, the favored junior scholar, had perished within these very labyrinthine halls.
Athenaeum order fractured. Though now scoured clean by hundreds of shuffling sandaled feet and the ever-present dust motes dancing in the shafts of light, hours prior, there had been a desolate disarray in the Central Courtyard. Overturned lecterns lay like broken insects, scattered parchment fluttered, inkwells spilt their ebony tears.
When the arcane ward-bells shrieked, a sound like glass shattering against the very fabric of silence, every acolyte, every master, every cloistered scribe rushed to the nearest aperture. From scriptorium balconies, from arched doorways leading to the Archives, from the narrow slits overlooking the Courtyard, their dull, parchment-weary eyes crowded the openings. A cacophony of hushed whispers, sharp intakes of breath, and the rustle of robes replaced the usual meditative hum.
“What transpired?”
“You haven’t heard? Fool. A confrontation in the Grand Refectory.”
“A confrontation? Who?”
“Septimus Vane. And Kaelen Varr.”
“By the Mother’s Light… Unbelievable. How did I miss this?”
We were acolytes, junior scholars, perched precariously between the sheltered tutelage of youth and the grasping ambitions of adulthood. We shed the fragile idealism of our earliest studies, instead embracing the raw, potent thrill of sudden upheaval. Such reactions were merely the natural outflow of a long-suppressed fervor.
“Did anyone witness it directly? Weren’t Vane and Varr… associates? How did it come to blows?”
“You haven’t heard the whispers about Vane?”
Our section of the Scriptoria buzzed. Some thrilled at the center of the unfolding scandal. Others quietly accepted the downfall of a once-unassailable figure. A few, like hungry predators, savored the imminent power vacuum. Below, in the courtyard, a ceremonial litter of the Order of Healers, shimmering with protective wards, departed through the great gates. For the next two cycles of the moon, the most tantalizing enigma was the true cause of that litter’s summoning.
In our closed, five-tiered Athenaeum, rumors spread faster than ink on dry parchment.
Who truly emerged victorious?
Those who gleaned the deeper truth cared little for the bruised flesh and mending bones of the two acolytes spirited away. Instead, a quiet, almost primal satisfaction settled upon them, fulfilling a strange, unspoken longing from the term’s outset.
Kaelen Varr.
Such contests often yielded ambiguous victors. One-on-one skirmishes especially. Yet, the currents of this particular incident flowed entirely in Kaelen Varr’s favor. The insidious rumors preceding the conflict had sealed Septimus Vane’s ruin before a single blow was struck.
Through the dusty, hallowed halls of the Athenaeum, the whispers echoed:
“It’s said Septimus Vane was found to be a falsifier.”
“What? He was lauded for his ancestral knowledge, his impeccable lineage!”
“A lie! A fabrication! They say he manipulated ancestral scrolls, claimed texts he never authored. That his very bloodline is… compromised. Terrifying. Such a venerable House, brought low. If you have gold, it seems you can forge any truth, any ancestry.”
“By the Void. I never saw Vane that way; a complete charlatan, then.”
“Heh-heh. Ah, to be born with a silvered stylus. Even a fraud can reach such heights. But is it not cheaper to buy authentic relics from the Ashfall Districts? We journey there for the Winter Solstice rites, no? Think we could slip away? See what true ‘antiquities’ they peddle?”
The conversation drifted, leaving Septimus Vane’s name to rot in the stale air. His honor, in that brief exchange, had been flayed a dozen times, then finally murdered. This act of intellectual assassination multiplied with every acolyte in the Athenaeum.
After falling to Kaelen Varr, Septimus Vane became nothing more than a discarded, ink-stained rag. It was as if everyone had silently anticipated his unraveling.
Our study chamber, usually a sanctuary of quiet focus, now held a tense equilibrium between morbid fascination and forced placidity. Acolytes’ eyes flickered, like restless scriptorium lamps, between the vacant space Vane once occupied and the agitated, muted movements of their peers. A dark stain, once a splash of potent ink, still marred the flagstones where the scuffle had begun in the Grand Refectory. It must have dried, but the mind’s eye saw fresh blood seeping through.
Unexpectedly, Proctor Elara, our usual timid overseer, reacted with an eruption of raw despair. The next period was designated for independent study. The chamber, earlier buzzing with the fight’s fallout, fell silent the instant she entered. She hurled a sheaf of precious, annotated scrolls onto a nearby table. They scattered, parchment tearing. A high-pitched shriek, sharp enough to pierce the very air, tore from her throat.
“What in the Mother’s name is wrong with you! You… you insolent whelps! Do you believe my authority is a jest? Why do you live your lives with such wanton disregard? Cease this! Cease this, I command! Why do you make such clamor during independent study? Is this the time for gossip? You shall be full Masters soon! Full Masters! Please, for the sake of the Athenaeum, listen to me and cease this discord! Do you know I bear responsibility for all your egregious transgressions! I never should have accepted a posting in the junior wards. I felt myself losing my mind. If you continue thus, your lives will be but wasted parchment, can you not comprehend? Are you not ashamed before your ancestral spirits? And how many times must I instruct you to maintain silence during self-study!”
Most sentient beings, witnessing such a timid figure suddenly explode, would have clamped their mouths shut. Yet, this was the junior wards, a space teeming with myriad forms of unrefined intellect. Some defied common sense, their minds still trapped in the puerile dramas of youth. Others, despite their diligent studies, remained so dense they committed acts of staggering idiocy. Our study chamber was precisely such a crucible.
“Ha, ha—Proctor’s vexed. Vexed! Don’t be vexed!”
“It’s rather amusing when the Proctor loses her composure.”
A snigger from the back, near the lesser-used exit. A hushed whisper, two seats ahead of me.
“You impertinent wretch! What? Do you deem me a jester?! You, step forth. Approach the dais!”
“But—. Why such a fuss?”
“I said, step forth, acolyte!”
Proctor Elara flung her heavy attendance ledger. It spun between the desks, struck the corner of a reading stand in the third row, then clattered to the floor. The thick leather-bound volume, losing its momentum, made a disproportionately loud sound in the sudden quiet.
“My apologies. It shall not recur. Forgive me, Proctor. Yes?”
Joric, the acolyte, continued to smirk, a faint challenge in his eyes, showing not an ounce of genuine remorse. It was always some middling talent, neither truly exceptional nor entirely dismissed, who pulled such stunts. The sloppy, ambitious ones. They postured, feigning defiance. Only they failed to perceive the pathetic transparency of their own charade.
“Step forth. Or must I come to you?”
“Ah, Proctor! Is this not excessive! Truly!”
“Silence!”
“Hold your tongue, acolyte. The Proctor commanded your presence.”
I could endure it no longer. My voice, usually soft, cut through the tension with an unexpected edge. Every eye in the chamber pivoted to me, but I cared little. I merely observed Joric’s pathetic scene, a flicker of cold amusement in my own expression. It was, honestly, so utterly ridiculous that I nearly scoffed. I, Elias Thorne, found a perverse satisfaction in such situations.
I was no brute, nor did I project the false strength of a braggart. Yet, the reason I occupied a position of subtle influence in this intellectual jungle was precisely because I understood how to dismantle those who acted like Joric.
“Elias? Why so grave, suddenly?”
“You are the one who misreads the scrolls, Joric.”
This ascendancy had not manifested overnight. During the initial formation of hierarchies in the first year, there had been minor resistance. Now, it was as predictable as the quiet hum of a well-oiled archival mechanism.
“Indeed. Cease your bluster and obey. Ah, truly, can you not discern the atmosphere? Do you not grasp the gravity of this moment?”
“If you are truly apologetic, then comply. Because of your antics, we all suffer. You witless acolyte.”
“Ah, what is his concern? Truly. What is his particular grievance?”
I heard Joric mutter under his breath, even as he rose. The confident smirk he had worn when baiting Proctor Elara gradually faded, like a dying ember. Under the collective pressure of the entire chamber, he finally stood and shuffled to the dais. Look at him now, a sniveling worm.
I allowed a twisted smile to play upon my lips, a hidden thing. Septimus Vane had fallen. And nothing could have brought me greater, deeper satisfaction. Perhaps it stemmed from the memory of Vane’s dismissive sneer, his casual insults that had once pierced me.
No, I was certain of it. I felt a profound sense of vindication. Honestly, I was surprised by the intensity of my own feeling. And I felt that electrifying thrill as a sliver of power, long denied, returned to me.
“Out into the antechamber, now!”
“…”
After banishing the noisy acolyte, Proctor Elara placed a trembling hand on the lectern, silently battling her own fury. Perhaps she gathered her scattered thoughts, for it was a fortunate turn that her tone, when she next spoke, had calmed considerably. Then, she announced she would summon each acolyte individually, to ascertain the true sequence of events.
“I vow to uphold secrecy. Therefore, I implore you, speak the unvarnished truth. Do not permit me to be disappointed. Please, I beg of you.”
She seemed determined to unearth an unbiased account, yet, as a female Proctor, she still failed to grasp the intricate, brutal pyramid-world of the junior wards. Once independent study concluded, and Proctor Elara—her face still flushed with residual anger—finished regaining her composure and departed, Cassian, a senior acolyte, closed the heavy chamber doors and drew the warded shutters, then issued a low warning to all.
“Listen closely. Discern wisely who among us now holds favor here—Kaelen Varr, or that disgraced fraud.”
“Vane cast the first incantation. You grasp this, yes?”
Joric, ever the sycophant, chimed in. Such admirable loyalty, was it not?
---
Less than a week later, Kaelen Varr returned to the Athenaeum.
Kaelen Varr strode back, his jaw still swollen, a bruise the color of ancient amethyst mottling his cheek. His nose, clearly fractured, was now carefully bound with layers of herbal poultice and protective wards. In stark contrast to his battered countenance, however, the aura radiating from him was more imposing, more arrogant, than ever before. He grinned wide, then tapped his now perfectly reattached canine with an index finger. I offered a barely perceptible nod in return.
Immediately after the confrontation, Kaelen Varr had casually risen, unaided, and walked directly into the awaiting Healers’ litter. It was a bizarre display, but so audacious, so dominating, that it captivated every conversation for days. I had hurried after him, maintaining a discreet distance. Just before he climbed into the litter, I extended a hand. In it, a small, unmarked vial, filled with a clear, potent restorative elixir.
“This is yours. Declare it a preventative against the lingering poisons of a corrupted mind. Say it fell on the ground, and you feared an unseen malady if not cleansed.”
At that moment, Kaelen Varr wiped at his face with his left hand, his gaze sweeping over me. But the dried ichor, already stiff, clung stubbornly to his skin. Honestly, seeing half his face caked in a dark, rusty hue, was not a pleasant sight. My focus was on his unusually small pupils, now locked onto my extended hand. In that grotesque state, he spoke, his voice hoarse, catching me by surprise.
“...I will remember.”
His hand, encrusted with dried ichor, brushed lightly against my cheek. It was an abrupt, almost possessive gesture.
“...What?”
I could only stand there, dumbfounded.
Soon after, a coded message reached me: most of the neural pathways remained intact, and the Healers had successfully reconnected the fractured bone. And as soon as he returned to the Athenaeum, Kaelen Varr took the study-seat directly adjacent to mine. When my original seatmate, the acolyte Lyra, appeared, Varr, without even glancing at her, simply gestured with a thumb towards another empty chair. Lyra, visibly unnerved, quietly settled elsewhere.
Before I fully registered it, that brutal acolyte sat beside me, tapping my shoulder twice with his index and middle fingers in quick succession. Then, without preamble, he declared,
“A token for you.”
“What? A token? From nowhere?”
“Silence and open your palm.”
I set down my mechanical stylus and opened my hand. Simultaneously, he carefully placed something within it. A jagged, unsettling sensation prickled the center of my palm. When his large hand lifted from mine, I saw two fragments. One, a broken piece of polished bone, jagged and without its root. The other, a smaller shard, yet unmistakably from the same material. It was a fragment of a scholar’s stylus, a prized, enchanted heirloom.
What in the Void was this? Confused by the bone’s strange yellowish tint and the faint, dark red stains still clinging to it, I glanced at Kaelen Varr. He leaned back against the high-backed chair, a dark smirk playing on his lips.
“Septimus Vane will write with a blunted quill for the rest of his days.”
A low, guttural chuckle rumbled from him, as if genuinely amused, like a brutal, untamed child.
“Did you witness?”
“…”
“I prevailed.”
This formidable acolyte.
The one displaying absolutely no remorse, only a chilling triumph, was Kaelen Varr. For a moment, I nearly flung those bone fragments against the ancient stone wall. A dark thrill, cold and sharp, coiled in my gut.
Kaelen Varr’s return ignited another flurry of whispers throughout the Athenaeum. After all, he was the first of the main figures to reappear. His face, though marked, was not as utterly battered as many had anticipated. And he showed none of the gloomy aura of a defeated man. His presence was a stark, brutal declaration.
Whispers about who had truly won spread swiftly among the junior and even senior acolytes. Most who truly understood the dynamics of the situation were within our own study cohort. For the very youngest novices, such drama was too far removed; merely an interesting, if disturbing, tale.