Elias. My family name is Thorne, and my given name is Elias, but within the hallowed, dust-choked halls of the Grand Athenaeum, many simply address me as Scribe Thorne. The appellation adheres to the tongue more readily than my solitary given name, a consequence perhaps of the ingrained formalities of this institution. It was Kaelen Valerius, a scion of one of the Eldorian Empire’s most venerable Houses, who first suggested the usage. That was in our initial year of tutelage, when fate, or perhaps the cryptic whims of the Guild Masters, saw us assigned to the same scholastic cell. Ever since, I have been ‘Scribe Thorne.’ A select few, those who knew me before the Athenaeum cast its long shadow upon my life, still utter ‘Elias.’ Their stories, however, are for another time. Kaelen Valerius, assigned to my cell that inaugural year, was an antithesis to my own subdued existence. From the casual ease of his posture to the sun-kissed hue of his skin, his very presence radiated a vibrant opposition to my pale, perpetually hunched form. Even in our academic pursuits, we occupied distant poles; I meticulously dissected forgotten arcana, while he navigated the higher echelons of scholarly politics with an effortless grace that belied his true engagement. Did I harbor disdain for him upon our first encounter? My quiet despair often nurtured a cynical view of the world, acknowledging the immutable strata of societal worth. Yet, an inexplicable force restrained me from dismissing Kaelen Valerius. When first our gazes met, his eyes—the color of polished river stones—held a languid, undeniable authority that demanded attention. Kaelen carried an unusual scent. It was not the dry, ancient aroma of parchment or the faint tang of alchemical residue that permeated the Athenaeum. Instead, it was an elusive, almost metallic fragrance, hinting at expensive spiced wines and rare, exotic woods. Like a moth drawn to a guttering flame, I found myself, quite unconsciously, initiating conversation with him. I often sought trivial commonalities between Kaelen Valerius and myself. Perhaps the shared aspiration to master the Athenaeum’s labyrinthine archives, or the superficial understanding that we both dwelled within its privileged inner sanctums – superficial similarities, easily identified. Our institution, the Grand Athenaeum, was itself a dichotomy. Its outer rings, carved into the lower slopes of the craggy peaks, housed the ancillary scriptoriums and minor novitiates, often peopled by those of lesser means. The inner citadel, however, with its soaring spires and protected vaults, was the domain of the powerful Houses and the established Guild Masters. My lineage, though not impoverished, lacked the formidable influence of the noble scions. I was an only child, born to diligent, lesser scribes, my childhood shaped by the rigorous demands of early scholarship rather than the lavish privileges of the empire’s elite. My parents, though possessing a quiet competence, wielded no significant social power; it was a silver quill, not a golden scepter, placed in my infant hand. Perhaps this explains the subtle cunning I developed, a necessary tool for survival. Kaelen, thankfully, belonged to the most exalted tier. He was a Valerius, his family name a resonant echo through the empire’s history. Once this fact solidified, a flicker of calculating ambition ignited within me. With that justification firm in my mind, I approached him, and a fragile, unspoken alliance began to form. Just as I excelled in the precise recall of obscure lore and the intricate deciphering of forgotten runes, Kaelen excelled in the subtle machinations of court and guild politics. He quickly drew a coterie of ambitious apprentices to his orbit, and before the first quarter of the scholastic year had passed, he commanded a significant faction within the Eldorian Guild of Archivists. That was how Kaelen Valerius became the most prominent scion in the Eastern Scriptorium. --- The heavy cedar door before me remained stubbornly shut, a polished barrier to the hushed sounds within. I pressed a hand to my stomach, a familiar knot of nervous tension tightening there. At last, with a soft click, the door yielded. Through the narrow gap, I caught a glimpse of Kaelen’s loosened silken robes, the deep crimson fabric a stark contrast to his pale, aristocratic skin. His hand, adorned with a signet ring, released the door, and it swung closed again, briefly obscuring him. Before the latch could fully engage, I slipped inside. My desperation a cold tremor in my veins. Kaelen was already reclining on a plush divan, a scroll of potent, unlit Eldorian tobacco between his lips, gnawing on it with languid indifference. “Damn it all. My patron, old Lord Theobald, is on my neck again. Answer this comm-sphere if it flares, and tell him we’ve been poring over the Elder Runes.” He idly clicked a small, intricately carved flint striker open and closed. He made no move to light the tobacco, yet his face conveyed the weary satisfaction of someone who had just concluded a particularly draining, perhaps illicit, engagement. My stomach felt raw, an acid burn, and I rubbed it absently as I approached. Snatching the abused scroll from his mouth, I spoke, my voice sharper than I intended. “Why should I?” “Because we are... associates, Elias.” Associates. The word, drawn out with a sigh that bordered on theatrical, always struck a discordant note in my chest. It felt like a delicate vellum scroll being torn. Yet, my expression remained impassively calm, a mask I had painstakingly perfected. “Know that I will settle this debt, in full.” “Indeed.” His eyes, half-lidded, flickered with amusement. The chamber hung heavy with the cloying scent of rare floral incense—an essence favored by the courtesans of the Valerius household—and the cleaner, more subtle fragrance of star-anise wine. I’d learned to identify such indulgent odors only through my unwilling proximity to Kaelen’s lifestyle. Whispers, like dry leaves skittering across the flagstones, hinted that Kaelen had been entangled with women since his earliest days as a novitiate. Rumors, undoubtedly exaggerated, claimed he’d lost his innocence amidst the forgotten alcoves of the Southern Archive. The gossip spoke volumes. Even then, he supposedly possessed the bearing of a man beyond his years. Kaelen’s mature countenance was not typical of a young initiate. Most who met him for the first time assumed him an elder scholar, perhaps even a minor Guild Master. His bold, aquiline features lent him a brooding, sophisticated aura. Once he entered his formal apprenticeship, he openly frequented the hushed, illicit salons beyond the Athenaeum’s walls whenever boredom gnawed at him. With ample funds at his disposal, he somehow procured forged credentials depicting an older birth-year. He flashed them with casual confidence, befriended alluring noblewomen, and cultivated one-night dalliances as a regular diversion. His striking looks played a significant role in cloaking his hedonistic pursuits. Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth possessed no singular, remarkable beauty. But in their singular arrangement, they formed an inexplicably captivating face. His aura was so refined that no one would believe him merely an apprentice; most assumed him to be at least five-and-twenty, if not more. My gaze drifted around the opulent chamber, as if searching for a forgotten quill or an errant text, though the act was largely meaningless. The oppressive atmosphere, thick with the aftermath of his nocturnal escapade, made my stomach churn. “Where is Lysander Rhyon?” I asked, my voice flat. “He departed before dawn.” Kaelen stifled a yawn. “...” “That serpent is utterly mad, no matter how I examine him. A ludicrous spectacle.” Kaelen rested his chin on a manicured hand and chuckled softly. A frown creased my brow. Lysander Rhyon was the second individual whose presence I most keenly resented. He had only become closely associated with Kaelen in our second year of tutelage. As much as it galled me to concede, they spent enough time together to warrant the term ‘associates.’ When Kaelen commanded the most prominent faction in the Eastern Scriptorium, Lysander possessed his own considerable influence within the Western Archives. Still, our paths rarely intersected. The only times I encountered him were in the Grand Refectory, a colossal hall shared by initiates from both the Eastern and Western wings. One day, while in the Refectory, a fellow apprentice nudged my shoulder with an elbow and whispered, “That’s Lysander Rhyon.” Curiosity, a dangerous thing, compelled me. I strained to see over the multitude of black-robed apprentices. Among the sea of scholarly figures, a tall, sharp-featured initiate stood out, his movements precise and unnervingly quiet. I knew instinctively it was him. “He appears to possess a venomous disposition,” I murmured. Kaelen’s closest confidant, a hulking scholar named Gareth, replied, “Indeed, somewhat. They say he’s remarkably self-absorbed, obsessed with obscure doctrines.” A small, humorless smirk touched my lips, but I offered only a half-hearted nod in response. As much as I detested the admission, I could comprehend why he emerged as a rival to Kaelen. This understanding only deepened my dislike, yet, for reasons I could not articulate, I found my gaze unwilling to stray. A chilling brilliance – that was my first impression of Lysander Rhyon. By chance, our eyes met across the crowded hall. It was peculiar that he noticed my scrutiny, considering the myriad gazes that must have been upon him. His long, narrow eyes and thin pupils left an indelible mark. Reflexively, I flinched, as though struck by a flung stone. ‘What are you observing?’ His lips did not move, but the unspoken question reverberated in my mind. He narrowed one eye at me. Frankly, I felt a prickle of intimidation, so I pretended the encounter was nothing and turned away. Then, loud enough for Gareth next to me to hear, I articulated: “He resembles a viper.” After that initial encounter, Lysander Rhyon and I often exchanged glances, though we always maintained our deliberate distance. Whenever our gazes locked, he would eventually lower his head to avoid my eyes, only to raise them again moments later, seeking mine once more. Nine times out of ten, he was the first to disengage, but on occasion, I found myself following his lead. I lost count of these silent skirmishes after the eighteenth. --- As if by some cruel twist of fate, Kaelen Valerius and I found ourselves assigned to the same scholastic cell once more in our second year. While a secret thrill stirred within me at this continued connection, my apprehension deepened when I encountered a familiar, unwelcome face. It was truly surprising—and utterly infuriating. For the first time, I received a proper, close-up view of the countenance behind the infamous reputation: Lysander Rhyon. It was Lysander who first addressed me, his voice a low, resonant murmur. “Thorne. Shall we share a study carrel?” Damn it all. And just as everyone within the Eastern Scriptorium had anticipated, the two scions formed an alliance. Kaelen Valerius, a man who reveled in his own calculated brilliance, found in Lysander Rhyon, his subtle rival, an equal. Lysander was shrewd, successful among his peers, and held in high regard by his own Guild. Their strategic partnership was inevitable. Within the scholastic cells, the query often arose: if Kaelen and Lysander truly clashed, who would emerge victorious? From my own guarded perspective, a direct confrontation between the two would never materialize. While Kaelen and I were superficially dissimilar, Kaelen and Lysander possessed a remarkable congruence of ambition. Yet, a singular, stark difference distinguished them. Lysander Rhyon harbored a peculiar, almost ascetic streak. Despite his gaunt features and the air of subtle menace that clung to him, he sometimes acted with an unnerving, almost puritanical rectitude. For example, when Kaelen’s appetites stirred, he would simply select a suitable companion and spend the night in clandestine revelry. When questioned about his nocturnal escapades, he would proudly recount his steamy, early morning adventures with a scandalous wink. In contrast, Lysander would scoff at crude remarks concerning carnal desires. Sometimes, he would even mock them outright by seizing the arm of a particularly lecherous apprentice next to him, squeezing hard enough to elicit a yelp. “This pig obsesses over base desires. Direct your energy to study, not carnal fantasy. And you, initiate, your mind is a filthy sewer. Purify your thoughts, lest they rot your intellect.” Even his cutting remarks were laced with a chilling, almost sanctimonious disdain. Yet, when the opportunity arose, Lysander would articulate something baffling like, “My intellectual purity is reserved for the Grand Schema, the ultimate truth of our existence.” That was the chasm between them. Kaelen once offered to procure him falsified research permits—a privilege he had never extended to me—but Lysander dismissed it as a useless diversion, an affront to true inquiry. Kaelen’s casual acquaintances found Lysander’s eccentricities amusing, a source of endless speculation. I, however, did not. The reason was painfully simple: he was close to Kaelen. And they moved through the Athenaeum’s halls like true confederates. That alone was sufficient cause for my quiet animosity. It was a simmering, acrid jealousy. Still, I managed to maintain a civil façade with Lysander Rhyon. One of my few strengths was the meticulous concealment of my true sentiments, regardless of the circumstance. Besides, he held Kaelen’s ear. Indeed, every fragile thread of my social existence within these walls revolved around Kaelen Valerius. To be utterly candid, there were more days when self-reproach gnawed at me for this very dependence than there were days I spent contemplating Kaelen himself. I often felt a complete, utter fool. But despite this corrosive self-awareness, I remained unchanged. While Kaelen tossed a few dismissive words my way before retreating into his private bathing chamber, I sat lost in thought. A few minutes later, the comm-sphere upon his side table began to pulse with a soft, urgent light. Fresh from his bath, Kaelen picked it up from the divan and tossed it to me. I caught it, and through the polished crystal, I heard the faint, imperious voice of Lord Theobald, Kaelen’s patron. Clearing my throat, I answered, my voice modulating into its most composed, scholarly cadence. Why did I even attempt such a performance? “Esteemed Lord, this is Scribe Thorne speaking.” “Scribe Thorne? Are you in Lord Kaelen’s company at present?” The voice was sharp, edged with suspicion. “Yes, my Lord. We are currently engaged in a deep analysis of the Eldorian Chronicon.” “Ah, I see. My worries, then, were unfounded. I feared Kaelen might be engaged in less… scholarly pursuits again. You possess a most commendable voice, Scribe Thorne.” “Thank you, my Lord.” “No, truly. How fares your own research?” “It progresses well, thank you. And your Lordship?” “The same. Your manner of speech is exemplary. If only Kaelen would adopt such decorum. That boy utterly lacks restraint. So, you were collaborating on research?” “Indeed. Lord Kaelen must have forgotten to inform you. He has been deeply engrossed in preparing for the forthcoming Guild examinations.” “So, you have been together this entire duration?” “Yes, my Lord. He has been under my direct observation the whole time.” “Well, that is a relief. If he is with you, I can rest assured he will not stray into impropriety.” “It is merely my duty, my Lord.” “No, Scribe Thorne, it is more than duty. With you, he remains within acceptable bounds. You are a steadying influence.” “Truly, it is nothing. I shall ensure he arrives at the morning convocations punctually and prepared.” “Good. Watch over him. Maintain your association, and do not fall into disagreement.” “Yes, my Lord, of course. Farewell.” Lies, elegantly structured and convincingly delivered, flowed effortlessly from my lips. After ending the delicate communication, I tossed the comm-sphere back to Kaelen. He murmured a brief “My thanks,” as he pulled on an outer robe of deep midnight blue. Without another word, I turned to depart. Kaelen made no move to detain me. “Until the morning’s lecture, Thorne.” That was the extent of his farewell. It was precisely as I had come to expect. This was the sum total of our intricate, unspoken arrangement. The vast chasm between us, defined by birthright and ambition, was starkly, painfully clear. Perhaps that is why I quickened my pace, the cold knot returning to my stomach, my throat aching with a strange, dry sorrow as I exited the gilded chamber.

Of Parchment and Privilege