A peculiar fixation gripped Elias, born of silent observation and a mind prone to meticulous cataloging. Lord Kaelan Vex, the young scion of House Vex, often sought the counsel of Acolyte Lyra. His visits to the lower archives, where Lyra dutifully filed ancient indices, had become a pattern. Elias, positioned near a cracked window in a lesser-used scriptorium, often witnessed Kaelan’s departure. He wondered how Lyra, with her perpetually downcast eyes and trembling hands, navigated the empty halls after the formidable noble had gone. Did she scurry, a mouse fleeing a hawk, or did she linger, haunted by the lingering presence?
It was the kind of disquieting curiosity that pricked at Elias, a sharp, unwelcome splinter in his carefully constructed decorum. He had seen Lyra trail Kaelan once, her small frame dwarfed by his lordly stride, her head bowed in meek submission. The image was etched into his memory: a fully-grown woman, a scholar in her own right, following a powerful man like a shadow, unable to pull free. A faint unease stirred in Elias’s gut, the sensation akin to brushing against a sealed and dangerous scroll. It whispered of secrets better left undisturbed.
He knew better. He always knew better. Such impulses were unbecoming of a Scribe, an indulgence of the lower faculties. But the image of Lyra, her slender shoulders hunched, Kaelan’s broad back a formidable wall before her – it clung to Elias like damp parchment. He found himself, one afternoon, trailing Lyra after Kaelan’s session.
Elias did not venture far.
He moved with a scholar’s practiced stealth, his worn boots silent on the flagstones. Kaelan had already disappeared into the higher tiers of the Athenaeum. Elias glimpsed Lyra standing at a crossroads in a seldom-used wing, her gaze fixed on the empty corridor where Kaelan had vanished. Flaking murals of forgotten heroes peered down from crumbling walls. Dust motes danced in the sparse light filtering through grimy clerestory windows. The air hung heavy with the scent of decaying vellum and forgotten ambition. Lyra stood small against this backdrop of faded grandeur, a solitary figure consumed by an unseen burden. And Elias, watching her from a shadowed alcove, felt a profound emptiness.
Everything about the scene felt absurd, a futile dance of power and submission. Elias turned back.
Later, confined to his narrow cell of a study, the single lamp casting long, distorted shadows, Elias considered his retreat. A sense of weary satisfaction settled over him. His curiosity was sated, or perhaps, quelled. He had glimpsed the edge of a precipice and chosen to step back. Better not to gaze too long into such depths. Elias Thorne was not so foolish as to pry open a forbidden sarcophagus of emotion out of petty fascination.
Lyra’s quiet submission to Kaelan seemed to intensify with each passing week. Kaelan, for his part, maintained an air of chilling command, a casual disdain that bordered on cruelty. Elias observed the way Lyra flinched, the way her eyes darted away whenever Kaelan’s gaze snagged on her. The raw, almost predatory edge to Kaelan’s expressions towards her did not go unnoticed. Elias felt a cold, sharp thrill. At least he had not intervened earlier in their unsettling dynamic. Perhaps, in some twisted way, this was for the best.
He laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back against the rough stone of his cell wall. His gaze drifted to the ancient, water-stained ceiling. He was a junior scribe, a minor figure in the vast, crumbling edifice of the Athenaeum, but he possessed a mind that rivaled many senior scholars. He had known quiet comforts, the solace of countless texts, the respect of his mentor, Archivist Seraphina. He had never been denied the pursuit of knowledge. Until he had fallen into the silent, suffocating thrall of Lord Kaelan Vex.
Kaelan, that audacious scion, had shown Elias the cruel truth: not every desire could be satisfied by intellect or diligence. Elias suspected Lyra was learning that bitter lesson too. The Grand Athenaeum, for all its supposed enlightened pursuit, could be mercilessly cruel.
At least Elias had learned restraint, to mask his profound yearning. Kaelan, on the other hand, was a storm of raw ambition and possessiveness, so consumed by his desires that he seemed blind to the uneasy stirrings he caused in Lyra. That sudden, abnormal intensity must have been profoundly unsettling for her.
Elias understood that feeling perfectly. He had experienced it too. But while Elias had endured in silence, Kaelan acted. Instead of cultivating Lyra’s respect, Kaelan cultivated fear. For Elias, this suited him perfectly.
“Please, remain utterly oblivious,” Elias murmured to the empty air.
Or better yet, let Lyra grow weary of Kaelan’s demands and flee the Athenaeum. Elias held no hope for Kaelan to turn his attention to him. If anything, such a thought terrified him.
He desired only one thing: for a day to arrive when he no longer loved Kaelan, and for Kaelan to find his affections elsewhere, far from the Athenaeum. That was all. But the ancient halls of Eldoria, steeped in tradition and stagnant expectation, rarely bent to such fragile desires.
Another unsettling shift occurred. Kaelan, who usually held his private consultations in the isolated Chamber of Whispers, now demanded Lyra’s presence in his more prominent, frequently trafficked study on the third tier. He had arranged for her to occupy a cramped table directly adjacent to his own, obscuring the view of the main reading alcove for other scholars. Lyra’s original assigned scribe, a quiet woman named Elara, awkwardly offered Elias and Master Corvus a weak smile, her expression caught between embarrassment and alarm.
“Greetings, Scribes.”
Corvus and Elias exchanged a glance, offering only a curt nod. Elara’s awkward laugh died in the air, unacknowledged. Neither of them harbored any interest in Kaelan’s sudden, unsettling rearrangement.
Lyra sat beside Kaelan, silent, her quill scratching faint apologies on parchment. Elias desperately wished they could remain like this, frozen in awkward tension, for another season, another year. Perhaps someday, this moment would dissolve into a vague, forgotten dream.
---
A further change unfolded. Kaelan, whose reputation for clandestine research and late-night academic duels was legendary, seemed to curb his more extravagant excesses. Or so it appeared. From the hushed gossip Elias overheard from Corvus’s circle, Kaelan had not ceased his shadowy pursuits entirely. But at least he no longer boasted of his intellectual conquests in the common scriptoriums, nor did the faint, acrid scent of esoteric compounds cling to his robes.
For Elias, that was a small mercy. He no longer had to endure the tangible proof of Kaelan’s illicit forays up close.
“Lord Kaelan, have your nocturnal ventures lost their thrill? Perhaps you’ve found a more… demure subject?”
Scribe Theron, a junior scholar known for his brazen wit, leaned suggestively, his hand gesturing towards a stack of bound treatises. Kaelan’s face tightened, a barely perceptible flicker of annoyance crossing his sharp features. He glanced swiftly at Lyra, who merely flinched, then snapped at Theron.
“Mind your words, Theron! Such vulgar insinuations are unbecoming here.”
“Why the sudden aversion to honest inquiry, my Lord?”
“Press this further, Theron, and you’ll regret your impudence.”
“My Lord—”
“Silence!”
“...As you command.”
The other junior scholars present exchanged disappointed glances. Kaelan, with his imposing stature and cultivated aura of dangerous intellect, had once been the perfect outlet for the frustrated ambitions of younger men. His exploits, whispered and exaggerated, fueled their own dormant desires for power.
The scholars in Kaelan and Corvus’s circles were not novices; they had all navigated the clumsy politics of the Athenaeum. Compared to the truly naive, they were more easily swayed. With Kaelan’s subdued manner, their attention drifted to Corvus. But Corvus merely bared his teeth in a wry, disgusted smirk.
“You craven sycophants.”
“Ah, Corvus at it again! His usual pronouncements.”
“A peculiar dedication, truly. Such wasted potential.”
Mirthless laughter rippled through the reading room, loud and fleeting.
Most of the younger scholars had ventured into forbidden texts or illicit power plays at least once, but for some reason, Master Corvus had not. While they teased him as an eccentric, calling him a “puritan,” no one actually disrespected him. He was Master Corvus, after all, with a mind sharp as any ancient blade. At the same time, Corvus possessed a lighthearted, almost flippant attitude about everything, which made his scathing observations seem casual and his words easy to dismiss. People found that either charming or unsettling, often remarking that his demeanor didn’t match his formidable intellect.
“Scribe, cease your judgmental glares. You’ll make me drop my inkwell.”
“Indeed, Corvus’s scowl could curdle milk.”
“Are you imbeciles truly seeking a formal challenge?”
Corvus scowled, and the group burst into laughter again, though there was little actual humor in it. A few elder scholars at the back of the room, who might have been Corvus’s colleagues—or perhaps less than that—joined in with their fake chuckles and vacuous chatter. Elias, seated among them, stared blankly at the ink-stained wood of his desk, lost in thought.
He recalled no stirring of desire for any acolyte, male or female. Such mundane considerations seemed distant. He had, however, felt a strange, thrilling warmth in his chest when considering the forbidden passages of old Eldorian texts, or in the hushed presence of a truly brilliant mind. A primal curiosity, distinct from simple awe. He supposed that made him different, perhaps by his very nature.
He had once ventured to a notorious scholar’s den, dragged along by Kaelan’s insistent invitations, but he hadn’t even made it past the threshold. He possessed no fake credentials. Instead, he had waited outside until Kaelan emerged, his mind cold and analytical. Brothels or common taverns? Disgusting. The thought of such places repulsed him. He wondered why anyone would frequent them.
Because of this, the scholars in Corvus’s group jokingly called him “Abstinent Thorne,” but in reality, his abstinence was more a reflection of his own peculiar desires.
Elias let out a small, quiet sigh.
The others were too busy laughing at Corvus’s retorts to notice. Taking advantage of the brief distraction, Elias glanced at Kaelan, who sat silently at his imposing desk. Kaelan was staring at the back of Lyra’s bowed head as she meticulously organized a pile of unbound scrolls.
And, as always, Elias regretted it. Why had he looked? Why had he indulged the insidious tendrils of curiosity? To distract himself, he posed a pointless question to Corvus.
“Tell me, Corvus, are you truly content to remain unburdened by attachments until you achieve Master Scholar rank?”
Corvus, lounging in his chair as if he owned the entire tier, suddenly looked directly at Elias’s hands, then his face. His gaze was so piercing that Elias instinctively drew his arms closer, shielding himself. What in the Three Moons was that about?
“And why does that concern you, Scribe? Are you offering to enlighten me?”
Naturally. Corvus always delivered malicious jests. The others chuckled, and Elias kicked Corvus’s shin beneath the table. Such was the rhythm of Elias’s days—over and over again, the same, monotonous cycle.
---
When Elias was alone in his cell, the quiet solitude often led him down labyrinthine mental paths, contemplating all sorts of improbable scenarios. Inevitably, those thoughts sometimes drifted into strange, unsettling fantasies.
Today, he found himself wondering what it would have been like if he had fallen into a silent devotion for Master Corvus instead of Lord Kaelan Vex. It seemed a far less torturous existence. If he had loved Corvus, he wouldn’t have had to endure the peculiar heartbreak caused by Kaelan’s unsettling relationship with Lyra.
Even so, his heart would still ache.
Neither Lord Kaelan Vex nor Master Corvus would ever return his affections, after all. But at least his heart wouldn’t be pierced by the sharp agony caused by Lyra’s pained expressions.
That train of thought eventually led to familiar feelings of inadequacy and a quiet, burning frustration. In the end, Elias just wished he could graduate quickly and become a stranger to Lord Kaelan Vex.
---
At some point, Elias had started unconsciously placing his hands under his desk whenever he sat down. This habit truly began during his tenure as a junior acolyte, and the cause was always the same—men. As he absently traced the intricate carvings on his wooden pen, he got lost in thought. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? The faint, rhythmic click of his thumbnail against the wood filled the quiet room. Just as he applied a slight pressure with his thumb, contemplating a further indulgence, someone knocked sharply on his door.
“Elias? Are you studying?”
“…Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!”
Elias nearly had a heart attack. Today was clearly not the day. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damn the sudden interruption.
---
Lately, Lord Kaelan Vex had become insufferable.
Sometimes, when Lyra risked a glance in Elias’s direction, Kaelan would deliberately strike up a conversation with her. Lyra, caught between the two, would flicker her eyes towards Elias, her lips parting as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if wary of Kaelan’s looming presence, she would lower her head and answer in the faintest whisper.
“Y-yes, my Lord…”
Just like that. Lyra subtly sought Elias out more, her timid requests for assistance growing bolder. She even began to address him simply as “Thorne.” Aside from Archivist Seraphina, almost no one called him that, so the change was noticeable. Lyra seemed to think she was being careful, but she wasn’t. The worst part was how Kaelan couldn’t hide his discomfort whenever Lyra made any attempt at informal interaction.
“Acolyte Lyra, stop bothering Scribe Thorne while he concentrates.”
“My Lord?”
“Stop bothering him. Do you not understand?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes, my Lord…”
When Lyra stammered and avoided his gaze, Kaelan immaturely slammed his fist against the leg of his ornate desk. Elias pretended not to notice. Annoyingly, Lyra, in her quiet desperation, seemed to think Kaelan no longer cared about her calling him “Thorne.” She grew bold, casually using it as if it were normal.
“Uh, Thorne… forgive me for disturbing your focus.”
Elias stiffened, staring at her in disbelief. Was she oblivious? Kaelan was sitting right there.
Sure enough, Kaelan pounded his fist on the desk again. Damn him.
“Acolyte Lyra!”
“…My Lord?”
The atmosphere turned sour instantly.
“I told you.” Kaelan’s anger was blatant. “I told you not to address him as ‘Thorne,’ did I not?”
“…W-well…”
“You will call him Scribe Thorne. That is his full title—Scribe Thorne.”
His gaze turned sharp, almost predatory, as he looked at Elias. Elias hated that look and instinctively lowered his head. At that moment, Master Corvus, seated beside Elias, casually draped his arm over Elias’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Elias’s ear.
“Lord Kaelan, if you continue this charade, you will truly unravel.”
“What insolence are you spouting now, Corvus?”
“I am saying you will regret it.”
Corvus smirked, and Elias felt a flicker of irritation. For one reason only. Lord Kaelan Vex did not deserve Corvus’s insight, however cynical. Kaelan, blinded by his own desires, was treading on dangerous ground, unknowingly accelerating a collapse. And Elias, caught in the silent, suffocating current, could only watch, and dread.