A chill permeated the Chamber of Adjudication, not from the high mountain winds outside, but from the palpable tension within. Scribe Elias Thorne stood before Arch-Scribe Melchior, parchment clutched tight in his hand, knuckles white. Today, Elias was not merely a junior scribe cataloging ancient woes; he was a reluctant witness to a fresh one, a brawl between Kaelen, a common-born, sharp-witted scholar, and Lord Lysander Valerius, scion of a formidable lineage.
His summons had arrived earlier, a crisp missive bearing Melchior’s wax seal. Why him? Elias, lost in dusty tomes, rarely drew such direct attention. Soon, understanding dawned. Arch-Scribe Melchior had, of late, shown a peculiar interest in Elias's meticulous work, his uncanny memory for obscure lore. Furthermore, Elias found himself, by circumstance more than choice, acquainted with both Kaelen’s irreverent candor and Lysander’s haughty disdain.
"Speak, Scribe Thorne," Melchior’s voice resonated, devoid of warmth. "Relate the events within the Chantry of Inscriptions, as your eyes perceived them."
Elias swallowed, a dry rasp against his throat. His testimony, though precise, leaned heavily on one side of the ledger.
"Lysander initiated the altercation," Elias stated, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "He was the first to strike Kaelen. Kaelen merely responded in kind."
Melchior’s heavy brow furrowed. "Indeed? You are certain your camaraderie with Kaelen does not color your recollection?"
Unease prickled Elias’s skin, a familiar sensation under scrutiny. His face, however, had already settled into a mask of weary solemnity long before he entered the chamber. Melchior, immersed in his own calculations, likely found it unremarkable.
"My perception remains unclouded, Arch-Scribe. Lysander grew agitated over a misplaced codex—a minor disruption, easily resolved. Then, without warning, his fist found Kaelen’s jaw. Kaelen’s subsequent actions were purely defensive."
"Hmm. Is that so?"
Melchior’s fingers, thick with rings of guild authority, raked through the thinning hair above his ear.
"You are aware Lysander’s injuries exceed mere bruises, are you not? Far graver than anticipated."
"Are they?"
"When the Collegium Healers arrived, Kaelen walked unaided, though his face bore the mark of the exchange. Lysander, however, was borne away, insensate. A shattered septum, torn facial tissues. The disparity in harm, Scribe Thorne, begs the question."
"Still, Lysander struck first, Arch-Scribe. Kaelen, too, suffered a loss. A tooth, dislodged by the initial blow."
Only later did Elias learn Lysander had lost two teeth. A chilling detail surfaced: in the ensuing chaos, Kaelen, with unnerving composure, had collected those teeth. One, salvageable, he allegedly secreted away, a perverse trophy. Perhaps Kaelen’s methods, Elias pondered, extended beyond mere self-defense, delving into a darker, more psychological theatre.
"Lysander’s initial aggression is noted," Melchior conceded. "Yet, does Kaelen’s retaliation not seem... disproportionate? To leave a scion’s face thus disfigured?"
"...That is true."
"There was no... collective involvement, Scribe Thorne? No other scholars joining the fray?"
Elias’s spine stiffened. "No, Arch-Scribe. It was a duel, unbidden. Others present attempted to intercede, to no avail."
Melchior hummed, his fingers scratching more vigorously near his ear. Fine hairs on his peach-hued skin rose and fell. His other hand incessantly clicked a stylus. He appeared deep in thought, then slowly moistened his lips with his tongue, and spoke Elias’s name.
"Elias."
"Arch-Scribe."
"Your conduct has always instilled trust. Your contributions to the Athenaeum are invaluable. I hold you in high regard, Elias. My confidence in you is absolute. I am on your side."
"Arch-Scribe."
He repeated his agreement, a silent shield.
"...That is what I witnessed."
It was a carefully constructed escape route, a flimsy justification. It was simply what he *thought* he saw. A facile defense, yet in the face of such calculated manipulation, no more elegant pretense existed. The Arch-Scribe, too, played his part, summoning a handful of scholars known to Kaelen, seeking corroboration. A subtle current ran beneath Melchior’s words, a quiet endorsement of Kaelen’s version of events.
The unvarnished truth, Elias knew, was rarely so simple. No magical scrying orb had recorded the incident. And, just as Elias anticipated, Kaelen faced no disciplinary censure. The outcome, though foreseen, still pricked with a faint surprise.
Elias’s certainty stemmed not solely from the Athenaeum’s labyrinthine protocols, but from a year of observing Lord Lysander. He had discerned the scion’s intricate psychology, his suffocating pride. Lysander would never publicly admit to losing teeth, to being so thoroughly bested by a lesser-born scholar. He would never voice anything that fractured his arrogant self-image. Most likely, only his father, Lord Valerius, gnashed his teeth in private, perhaps exerting quiet pressure on the Athenaeum.
"...Yet, this is strange."
Here, Elias’s expectations diverged sharply from reality. Days passed. The Chantry of Inscriptions hummed with its usual drone. Kaelen moved through its halls as if nothing had transpired. No shadow of worry touched his features. He bounced a small, polished river stone, acquired from some unknown source, his laughter echoing louder than ever. His face, bruised and healing, bore the glorious marks of his triumph.
"How can he remain so unburdened?"
In Elias’s meticulously ordered mind, Kaelen should have, by now, made pilgrimage to Lord Valerius’s estate, bowing his head in apology, his own family trailing behind. The undeniable truth remained: Kaelen had struck Lysander. Such an outcome, displeasing to Valerius, necessitated some form of ritualistic contrition. Not necessarily a sincere apology to the victim, but the carefully orchestrated appeasement an enraged noble father demanded.
Elias had envisioned Kaelen returning from such an uncomfortable journey, grumbling, and Elias, ever the quiet confidante, would offer soothing words. That, he believed, was his role. But Kaelen had never visited Valerius, and Lord Valerius had not descended upon the Athenaeum. Elias’s curiosity, a scholar’s insatiable hunger for understanding, began to stir.
He possessed a particular inclination: when faced with a situation defying his predictions, an inexplicable anomaly, he felt compelled to excavate its hidden strata. Then, he would weigh the unearthed information, deciding its value. Thus, a simple plan formed, a childish, almost naive scheme.
"Kaelen—"
"Scribe Theron!"
Just as Elias began to speak, his trivial scheme poised on his tongue, Kaelen, having tossed the river stone, hailed another scholar, chewing loudly on some dried fruit from an unknown pouch. Elias frowned instinctively. Ill timing.
"Did someone just call my name?"
Kaelen, mid-conversation, turned his head. Could he have caught Elias’s quiet utterance amidst the din? Regardless, Elias quickly raised a hand.
"I did."
"...What in the name of the Elder Scribes? Why summon me?"
Before answering, Elias narrowed his eyes, a subtle expression of displeasure.
"When you address me, speak with clarity, Scribe Thorne."
With a slight flick of his tongue, a clear, crisp sound, Kaelen crooked a finger at Elias. The gesture, casual and dismissive, grated on Elias’s nerves. A faint frown creased his brow again. Of course, Elias’s displeasure was feigned, mostly. Kaelen, for all his roughness, could generally tolerate a jest.
"You mentioned a lack of engagement outside the Athenaeum, yesterday?"
"Aye. Profound boredom."
"Are you at liberty tomorrow? I will not be delving into the forbidden archives then."
Elias, forever calculating, seeking advantage, created an opening. A satisfied, albeit small, smile touched his lips. Kaelen, after hearing the proposal, pointed at Elias and uttered something utterly outlandish.
"You’re not suggesting we... share our scholarly pursuits?"
"Huh? Uh, yes."
"You and I? For what purpose?"
What was this reaction? The lukewarm response instantly stiffened Elias’s composure.
"Well... simply, you know, the usual scholarly discourse."
"The usual?"
"What do you mean, for what? As we typically do."
"As we typically do? Have we ever engaged in solitary scholarly communion outside the Athenaeum walls?"
Elias frowned, his irritation piqued by Kaelen’s mocking tone. Kaelen was correct; they had never truly spent time together one-on-one. His phrasing, "as we typically do," was an error. Was Kaelen now deriding him for it? Damnation. A flush of heat spread across Elias’s face.
"Very well. If you are disinclined, dismiss the notion."
"I did not state my disinclination."
He had not, explicitly. Yet the sarcasm was a palpable presence. Elias clamped his mouth shut, holding back a retort. What was Kaelen’s game? He was about to speak again, then a sudden realization silenced him.
Right. This was Kaelen’s nature. Elias had always known Kaelen could offer camaraderie one moment and withdraw it the next. Why had he assumed Kaelen would embrace his suggestion so readily? Was it a foolish sense of shared antipathy towards Lysander? Ashamed of such a simple, base thought, Elias adopted an air of indifference.
"Never mind. Consider it unsaid."
But the moment the words left his lips, regret flooded him. His tone, a childish bluff, ignited a fresh wave of embarrassment. Ugh. How pathetic. Pathetic, Elias Thorne. Biting his lip, he clenched his fist on his thigh repeatedly. His right eye twitched. Finally, Kaelen offered his response:
"Alright."
What an infuriating individual. Elias whipped around, turning his back. Annoying beyond measure.
---
There existed no true respite in a scholar’s day of 'leisure.' It was merely an extension of study, of archival research, of self-guided lore, of preparatory drafts. Yet, Elias’s parents, engrossed in their distant aristocratic duties, offered him the dubious boon of neglect. This afforded him a measure of liberty, a rare privilege for a junior scribe. He often spent his rare free days lost in forbidden texts or wandering the peaks outside the Athenaeum. But then, a sudden, jarring missive shattered his peace.
The culprit: Kaelen.
"By the Elder Gods, the world advances, does it not? Hospitals now boast refectories."
The abrupt message left Elias dumbfounded, especially after Kaelen’s earlier rebuff. Why this sudden summons? Then again, it was precisely the kind of self-serving caprice for which Kaelen was known. Elias’s emotions seesawed.
"Why did you call?"
"Your visage simply materialized in my mind’s eye... thought we might break fast."
This impertinent scholar. Elias gritted his teeth, biting his lip.
"We shall see."
He licked the inside of his cheek. He could not simply acquiesce, even if his position offered little ground for demands. He harbored no desire to annoy Kaelen, merely to offer a taste of his own medicine. He was about to craft a suitable concluding retort when Kaelen’s first line replayed in his mind.
"Wait, did you say you are at the Grand Infirmary?"
That was the true catalyst. That was why his so-called rest dissolved, leading him to Kaelen.
Had the infirmary Kaelen occupied been a remote healer’s cottage, Elias would have dismissed the invitation. But it was the Grand Infirmary, a sprawling annex of the Athenaeum itself, a mere stroll from Elias’s chambers. He accepted, albeit with lingering reluctance.
Upon arrival, Kaelen waited in the vast, echoing lobby, sprawled across a stone bench, legs spread wide. Seeing Elias, he merely flicked a hand in a dismissive gesture of greeting. Elias offered no return, standing instead, eyes narrowed, studying Kaelen’s face.
"Why do you still bear that linen dressing upon your nose?"
"Reasons, Scribe Thorne. Reasons."
"Does the wound still bleed? Is it not yet mended?"
"It is closed. Fret not."
As Elias spoke, Kaelen rose, approached, and flung an arm over Elias’s shoulders, a familiar, unwelcome weight.
"Let us eat. My treat."
"The refectory in the lower levels, I presume?"
"What, by the Void... Do you imagine the refectory offers sustenance without coin?"
"Boasting of a few coppers...?"
Elias glared. Kaelen merely sneered back, an arrogant tilt to his lips. Together, they descended to the Infirmary’s lower level, placing their orders for a mediocre midday meal. As they awaited their trays, Elias asked,
"So, why the sudden visit to the Infirmary?"
"Huh?"
"Here for your injuries? Your visage?"
"Ah."
Kaelen pointed a finger at his own face, tracing a gentle circle around his jaw, then waved his hand dismissively, his tone casual.
"Nay. Lysander Valerius is quartered here."
"...What?"
The air thickened, heavy as a shroud. Elias’s fingers, which had been tapping a light rhythm on the polished table, stilled. His body grew rigid. Why would Kaelen come here, of all places, if Lysander was admitted? Elias alone felt the burgeoning unease. Kaelen answered as if uttering the most mundane truth.
"I intend to display a diversion."
"What madness is this?"
"Lysander’s father, Lord Valerius, is within the healing chambers now. Astounding, no? I summoned him."
Elias’s mouth opened, then closed. The question, *How...?*, circled his mind, refusing egress. Kaelen, idly bouncing a fork in mid-air, continued, offering only the twisted rationale behind his actions.
"You are aware I observe the tenets of the Ancient Faith, yes? Forgiveness! A word of exquisite glory. My faith compels me to seek it, and to grant it. How then, can I refuse its call?"
"You expect me to believe your adherence to some religious tenet compels this? You genuinely intend to seek forgiveness?"
"Aye."
He wrinkled his nose slightly.