Dust motes danced in the slivers of light piercing the stained-glass windows, illuminating the Grand Hall of Runes. This vast, hushed expanse was home to near thirty acolytes, a strange, quiet jungle of polished cypress floors. Each morning, a delicate tension settled, like a spider's web woven through the air, unseen but keenly felt. Within these hallowed walls, hierarchies formed as surely as arcane sigils coalesced from raw ether.
Every acolyte navigated this unspoken stratum, their days a precarious dance of survival. For Kaelen, this vigilant balancing act had begun years ago, when he first understood the subtle art of alliance. It had been his routine ever since, a silent burden shared by all who sought favor within the Lyceum.
A cubic jungle, indeed, concealing a pyramid. Such was the lecture hall, a miniature realm of ambition and unspoken dread.
“Ah…”
His arm, still tender from Theron’s brutal grip and numb from poor circulation, tingled as Kaelen flexed his fingers. He pressed a hand against his stomach, a dull ache residing there, a phantom echo of the previous day’s terror. A weak breath escaped him. Ahead, backs hunched over arcane texts, a uniform sea of charcoal robes.
Master Lyra, our instructor in Arcane Ethics, sat at her podium. She read from a crumpled scroll, occasionally turning a page with a rustle that seemed too loud in the quiet. Most acolytes scribbled diligently; others, having surrendered to the labyrinthine problems, were slumped in sleep.
“Acolytes, rouse yourselves,” Master Lyra’s voice cut through the stillness, as she turned another page.
Fifth period already. Kaelen had been tracing the lines of a complex glyph, the fifteenth assigned problem, when he paused to rub his temple. His gaze drifted to the empty seats. Two in particular gaped like vacant eyes.
As anticipated, Theron Vane and Lysander Aethel were absent. They would likely not return tomorrow, unless some unknown shift in Theron’s volatile temper, or an undisclosed interaction between the two, compelled their reappearance. Of that 'something,' Kaelen knew nothing, nor wished to.
He lowered his eyes to the intricate problems before him, the arcane script blurring slightly. There had been a time when Kaelen thought he understood Theron Vane completely. He had convinced himself he knew Theron better than any other acolyte in the Lyceum. A peculiar pride had swelled in his chest then, even when comparing himself to Seraphina Lux, who was undeniably closer to Theron than Kaelen had ever been.
Indeed, that quiet certainty had helped Kaelen endure watching Seraphina and Theron converse with effortless ease. Deep down, he’d relished the private knowledge that he possessed a superior insight into Theron’s true nature.
Kaelen propped his chin on his hand. The sheer depravity of such thoughts sickened him. What would others think if they knew these insidious desires swirled in his mind? The answer was chillingly clear. He would be relegated to the very bottom, cast onto the widest, lowest plane of this arcane pyramid.
That prospect was terrifying. This insidious yearning, unique to a scheming acolyte, had to remain concealed at all costs. He had to bury it deep, so deep that not even its object would sense it. Ultimately, he needed to hide it so completely that he himself forgot its existence.
But Theron Vane had not. Everyone in this hall knew of Theron’s boundless, unchecked ambition.
Kaelen’s head lifted, eyes sweeping the room. All remained hunched over their desks. He pressed his lips tightly, then looked ahead.
Lying forlornly between the rows of carrels was a dusty, forgotten scroll, its parchment cover bearing the faint imprint of a boot. Someone had been caught, then trampled.
Suddenly, as if sensing an unseen observer, Kaelen buried his head in his arms like the others.
Then he shifted, turning his neck in a different direction. His gaze fell upon the back row. There, partially hidden by an arm, lay a figure slumped over, as if fallen asleep mid-collapse. Seraphina Lux. Her face, framed by dark, silken hair, seemed sculpted from winter moonlight, delicate yet unyielding, with an unnerving stillness.
“...”
Kaelen found himself staring at Seraphina’s profile before his gaze drifted to her arm. Had the already statuesque Seraphina grown further? The Lyceum robes that had fit her impeccably at term’s start now left her slender wrists fully exposed. Around one wrist, a dark iron amulet, wrought with the intricate sigil of House Lux, stood out starkly. It was a heavy, unmistakable symbol, an integral part of Seraphina’s formidable identity.
Before learning of her lineage, Kaelen had assumed Seraphina hailed from some secluded, austere minor House, far from the bustling Lyceum district. Despite her commanding aura, Seraphina didn’t project the obvious opulence of her peers. Her eyes, often shadowed by her heavy lids, held a faded, distant quality, giving her a perpetually haunted look. The sliver of pale sclera beneath her pupils added to her sharp, almost predatory, appearance.
Seraphina’s overall presence was one of grim intimidation, though it lacked the polished refinement of true wealth. Instead, her face seemed marked by a profound, almost ancient sense of deprivation, exuding a melancholic heaviness. Combined with her striking height—she was undeniably among the tallest acolytes in the entire Lyceum—it made her doubly imposing.
Fortunately, unlike Theron Vane, Seraphina’s sharp features possessed a classically handsome symmetry. Without that, Kaelen suspected, acolytes might have actively recoiled from her. Even so, Seraphina’s face was unsettling, intimidating, and charged with a nervous, coiled energy.
Yet Seraphina’s personality could not have been more different from her appearance.
It was not merely that she seemed indifferent to everything; it was as if she actively erased events from her memory, whether intentionally or not. She had an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that ironically added to her mystique.
Most notably, Seraphina cared little for coin. She never paid attention to how much others spent or how much they sought. If the mood struck her, she’d casually toss a rare component or an intricately carved charm to someone nearby without a second thought, as if the concept of material value held no sway. Sometimes she lent precious scrolls and forgot about them entirely. There were even tales of acolytes returning borrowed artifacts only for Seraphina to ask, puzzled, why they were offering them to her.
Still, she didn’t lend such favors to just anyone. She’d indulge random requests when in a benevolent mood but coldly refuse those truly desperate for aid.
Even with friends, Seraphina could be harsh. Kaelen once overheard a story about how Elara, upon seeing Seraphina’s prized grimoire—a tome she rarely displayed—excitedly tried to open it without permission. Seraphina had kicked her back on the spot, sending Elara sprawling across the dormitory floor like a startled frog.
At the peak of the Lyceum’s arcane hierarchy, acolytes like Seraphina Lux and Theron Vane shared one defining trait: a complete disregard for others’ opinions. This profound indifference, in its own way, was what allowed them to sit at the pyramid’s apex.
Why did we, with our own hands, hand over the keys to our world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how much Kaelen pondered it, he still could not comprehend.
And yet, Seraphina Lux meticulously adhered to the Veridian Creed.
She was the type of formidable acolyte who slept with the Grand Tome of Ancient Runes beneath her pillow, yet still claimed to follow the sacred tenets. She abstained from illicit elixirs, avoided forbidden cantrips, held no clandestine assignations, and never stole or extorted lesser students. Yet the doctrine she followed seemed flawed—anyone could tell from the rules concerning elemental summoning alone. Kaelen had heard that the Creed, in its oldest interpretations, permitted much more flexibility.
They said the Creed viewed emotional weakness as a grave impediment to magical purity. Was that why Theron Vane’s erratic actions and displays of raw, uncontrolled emotion disgusted Seraphina so deeply? Kaelen licked his dry lips.
A strange sense of relief washed over him, that he hadn’t been utterly exposed. If he had, he would have ended up like that trampled scroll. And yet, even in that moment, he wondered—if Theron and he had remained close, as they were just a few months ago, would Theron have protected him?
The thought surfaced against Kaelen's will, dragging with it memories he desperately wanted to suppress. He took a deep breath, trying to quell the rising nausea in his chest, as though the bitter Lyceum tea he’d drunk that morning threatened to come back up.
No, of course not.
How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to think so. To Theron, Kaelen was nothing. Just a convenient friend, a useful tool to pass the time. He knew this now, because of the way Theron had looked at him, his face contorted with scorn, as he’d beaten Kaelen to the ground. Theron’s eyes had said everything. Kaelen hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had been staring him in the face.
Theron sinned openly. Kaelen, too, was a sinner—but he hid it. And so, Theron was punished by the Lyceum’s unspoken laws, while Kaelen was spared, for now.
A faint, bitter laugh escaped Kaelen’s lips, so soft it was only audible to himself.
“...So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.”
Perhaps the Lyceum’s judgment had a personality like Seraphina’s.
Kaelen’s gaze shifted to the empty desk near the instructor’s podium. An unusual pang of pity struck him for Lysander Aethel. Poor soul, caught in the clutches of Theron Vane’s demonic obsession. Lysander lacked the strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Lysander, despite the towering reputation of House Aethel. He should have fled the moment Kaelen warned him, fool.
Kaelen knew he was not a good person. He was selfish and self-serving, and that was why he had been punished. Sometimes, he even thought this: If you’re going to be drawn to darker influences, why not pick someone sly and deceitful like me? At least then life would be simpler. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering for it?
These days, Kaelen thought differently.
Yes. Of course no one could ever truly care for someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise.
There had been a time when he thought he could have it all. Arrogant, conceited Kaelen. Kaelen, who thought he understood the world at eighteen. Wicked, vile Kaelen. Pitiful Kaelen, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone.
That day, he couldn't get past the fifteenth glyph. He used his supposed illness as an excuse to lie slumped over his desk, thinking to himself: Well, at least I’m not as ruined as Theron or Lysander.
Rumors about Theron and Lysander spread like wildfire through the Lyceum. Whether they were exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to find out either. Theron’s immediate circle had vanished from the Lyceum, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances to worry about anything else, inadvertently fueling the rumors even further.
“Acolyte Thorne, forgive my query, but who is closest to Theron Vane?”
“That would be… Seraphina Lux, Master Elara.”
Kaelen overheard this exchange as he passed by the Master Elara’s antechamber on his way back to the Grand Hall before dismissal. The instructor had asked, and a junior acolyte had answered. Pretending he hadn’t heard, Kaelen walked into the room. Master Lyra glanced nervously between Kaelen and the empty seats, drumming her fingers against the podium. Then, as if giving up on some unspoken thought, she announced:
“Let’s conclude our studies for today.”
The moment dismissal ended, Kaelen gathered his satchel. As he slung it over his shoulder, a cold, slender finger tapped his back.
“Thorne. Accompany me to the archives after classes.”
Kaelen looked at Seraphina’s impassive face. He knew. He had always watched Theron and Seraphina’s every move, so he knew that the acolyte Seraphina most frequently invited to such pursuits was always Theron. After a brief pause, Kaelen shook his head.
“I cannot. I have a deciphering assignment.”
“After that, then?”
“Further studies. Find one of your other companions.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Why not?”
“Approaching lesser beings merely hinders my progress.”
“Ha.”
Kaelen let out a short, incredulous laugh at the blatant absurdity. Yes. This was why he’d been able to tolerate Seraphina better than expected. Their twisted values seemed to align in strange, unsettling ways.
“So, Elara, Milo, Aric—they are all ‘lesser beings’? Even Master Kimora’s apprentice?”
“If you insist on such phrasing, then, yes, largely. You, Thorne, are different.”
That backhanded compliment left Kaelen feeling a cold knot in his stomach.
“What is that supposed to mean? You are quite awful.”
“No, I am not.”
“You are so awful.”
“Hmm. It is in the Ancient Tenets of Arcane Conduct. ‘Thou shalt not conceal the truth.’ I am merely being honest, Thorne.”
Honestly, Seraphina was worse than Kaelen. At least he didn’t openly treat his few casual acquaintances like refuse.
“That is why I am a good acolyte.”
“...Naturally.”
“Since I am such a virtuous acolyte, may I accompany you to your chambers?”
Seraphina blinked twice, her gaze unwavering. Kaelen looked at her face for a moment, the blood thrumming behind his ears, before nodding slowly.
“Certainly. Why not.”
As long as she did not interfere with his solitary, hidden rituals, there was no reason to refuse. To secure one’s precarious place in the Lyceum’s hierarchy, sometimes one had to endure such intrusions. Kaelen had learned that bitter lesson well.
“Excellent,” Seraphina murmured, already turning to exit the Hall. Her steps were silent, deliberate. Kaelen watched her go, a fresh wave of dread mixing with his strange, fragile relief. He was not as ruined as Theron or Lysander. Not yet. Not while he played the game better.