Two days after Lord Theron Vespera’s research desk had been overturned, his meticulously inscribed scrolls were cast into the Lyceum’s arcane incinerator. A faint scent of singed parchment lingered, a phantom echo of forgotten lore. It required little sagacity to discern the perpetrator. Moments following the morning’s lecture on Chronomancy, a junior acolyte, Master Garrick, preened with undisguised satisfaction before Lord Alaric Blackwood. Whispers confirmed Garrick had openly boasted in the scriptorium of consigning Vespera’s work to the flames. Such a brazen display. Contemplating the ash-stained stone of the incinerator, I registered the subtle shifts in the Lyceum’s social currents. This casual destruction, a mere two days past the public humiliation, solidified Theron Vespera’s fall. He had, in essence, lost a battle he never even knew he was fighting. The motive seemed starkly transparent. Initially, one might surmise it was merely collegiate malice. Yet, a disquieting undercurrent suggested something deeper. Even those within Theron’s once-loyal coterie had begun remarking upon his increasingly erratic comportment, his volatile outbursts deemed more than youthful petulance. The day I witnessed Theron’s heated exchange with Lady Seraphina Valerius, all doubt vanished. Public sentiment curdled against him, yet I felt no compulsion to intercede, no pang of guilt for my silence. Foolhardy indeed to invite ruin upon oneself. To champion Theron Vespera now would brand me as sympathetic to his perceived instability, an undesirable taint in this intricate web of House politics. It might, perhaps, appear loyal. Yet, within the gilded cage of our scholastic hierarchy, where every action was dissected and reinterpreted, a single query would inevitably arise. “Why?” That question, unspoken yet omnipresent, clawed at my composure. I rested my brow against the cool, polished obsidian of my study table, eyelids fluttering shut. A brief respite, a momentary escape. I longed for the simple luxury of awakening to a world remade, moulded precisely to my desires. Sleep, a fleeting promise, began to claim me. Then, a sharp, precise rap upon my scalp jolted me awake. I sat upright, hand instinctively moving to the offended spot. Lord Alaric Blackwood, seated across from me, mirrored my gesture, rubbing his own forehead with a theatrical grimace. “A rather startling salutation, Lord Alaric.” “Why languish in slumber when the day’s arduous studies beckon, Kaelen?” “My repose is hardly your concern. What, pray tell, is that contraption?” “Ah, this?” Alaric grinned, a disarming flash of teeth, and presented the polished darkwood staff he had held tucked beneath his arm. “A serendipitous find. Discovered it abandoned in the Lyceum’s reclamation vaults.” My expression tightened with irritation. Alaric Blackwood possessed a peculiar penchant for acquiring arcane oddities. The impact, though not severe, prompted me to smooth my hand over my dark hair, concerned its already unruly state might have worsened. Alaric, meanwhile, deftly kicked a ceremonial chair into position, settling into it with languid grace before it could fully topple. His balance, as ever, impeccable. He cast his satchel onto the desktop, then propped his chin upon it, closing his eyes. “You rouse me from sleep merely to indulge in it yourself?” I queried, my voice laced with thinly veiled exasperation. Every utterance from Alaric seemed to provoke an argumentative response within me. I nudged his polished boot with my own, a petulant gesture. A faint smirk touched his lips. “Is it permissible to assault an ailing man, Kaelen Thorne? Such a brutish display.” The playful sarcasm, the thinly veiled taunt, elicited a scoff. This time, I aimed a kick at his staff. It tilted towards him, yet without lifting his head, he raised a single hand, catching it with effortless precision. Unperturbed, his face still buried in his satchel, he chuckled softly. Then, unexpectedly, he spoke. “A query I have harboured.” “Speak it.” “That mark upon your brow… it was no mere tumble, was it?” Damn. Was it so readily apparent? The bruise, a subtle discoloration near my temple, had not seemed so pronounced. A flicker of hesitation, then I swept a hand across my face, affecting an air of nonchalance. “A regrettable mishap, Lord Alaric.” “Hah.” His chin still rested upon his satchel. A soft, knowing laugh escaped him. “Indeed?” His eyes, a startling emerald, flicked open, fixing upon me. He extended a finger, pointing with a deliberate gesture. His intent remained obscure. “What is it you mean?” “You are devoid of shame.” The moment his smile widened, the darkwood staff leaning casually against his shoulder, my thoughts fractured. What arcane nonsense was he uttering now? “…Shameless in what regard?” “I suspect your ‘mishap’ involved more than a simple fall…” Alaric Blackwood’s pronouncements often verged on the cryptic, yet this carried a quiet, unsettling menace. His gaze was unnervingly steady. His bright irises held a dark pupil that fixed upon me, unwavering. It felt akin to observing the fletching of an arrow, unable to anticipate its trajectory. And this time, it was aimed squarely at me. My mind became a void. Two words echoed, insistent and chilling: *Impossible. He could not know. Impossible. He could not know.* Finally, Alaric’s eyes narrowed further. “It appeared more as though you had collided with something… or someone.” His long, serpentine eyes curved upward. My throat became arid. My breath hitched within my chest. I swallowed, a loud, audible gulp. He parted his lips, and I found myself unable to blink. “Should such a detail become common knowledge amongst the Lyceum’s gossips, it would prove… rather undignified, would it not?” “I shall observe discretion.” He raised the hand clutching his staff to his lips, whispering the words, then delivered a slow, deliberate wink. The breath I had been holding slammed against my ribs, a trapped beast. He offered no pause for my reaction. Casually, he swept a hand through his raven locks, then pointed at me once more. “Yet, have you sought to emulate my coiffure? Such an uninspired choice.” I found myself utterly speechless. Alaric wrinkled his nose in exaggerated disapproval. “At any rate, I shall now resume my slumber.” He yawned, then buried his face once more into his satchel. Staring at the back of his head, I finally managed to articulate, “I have neither emulated your coiffure nor sought a barber.” “Oh, indeed?” His muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his bag. --- “Lamb of the Sacred Flame, who purges the transgressions of this mortal realm.” Alaric Blackwood intoned the prayer, clutching his Prognosticatory Chart in one hand. The fourth period, devoted to the esoteric arts of Elemental Weaving, had just concluded, bringing with it the distribution of our midterm academic reviews. Alaric buried his head in the unfurled scroll, scanned his magical aptitudes, then abruptly uttered that ancient invocation. He then threw his head back with dramatic flair, releasing a profound sigh. “Ah, I am utterly bereft.” I glanced at my own chart, noting the precise calibration of my scores, then folded it neatly and slipped it into the inner pocket of my robes. When my gaze returned to Alaric, he remained engrossed in his performance of despair. His head was tilted so far back that only the prominent curve of his Adam’s apple was visible. It bobbed heavily, almost a silent reproach to my observation. Fixing my gaze upon his exposed throat, I remarked, “That particular supplication is not typically invoked for academic lamentations.” “Such distinctions are trivial. A plea for mercy is a plea for mercy.” Then, quite suddenly, he posed a question. “Kaelen, is it ‘Flame’ or ‘Spirit’ in the original Canticle?” It was then that I again recognized the peculiar nature of Alaric Blackwood’s spiritual inclinations – a curious melange of reverence and pragmatism. “Why solicit my counsel? It is your House’s tradition.” “Kaelen, do not be so reticent. You possess such formidable intellect, I assumed you would hold all such knowledge.” “I do not. My devotion lies with the ancient lore, not with current observances.” Alaric, who had been leaning back with indolent grace, suddenly sprang forward. Our gazes locked for a fleeting instant. Instinctively, I averted my eyes towards the window, feigning disinterest. Yet, a peculiar prickling sensation bloomed in my chest, akin to the guilt of a petty pilferer. My gaze drifted absently across the Lyceum’s verdant grounds, then settled upon the impeccably pressed collar of Alaric’s tunic. The crisp, white linen rested against his neck, yet with every exaggerated gesture, his aristocratic collarbone flashed into view. “So? Will you accompany me to the Grand Ritual of the Sacred Flame this solistice?” “What? No.” “Ah, why not? Do come. Those who attend the quarterly observances and the Great Solstice receive bounteous offerings. Rare fruits, candied elixirs, consecrated bread…” “Wait, do not tell me you attend solely for such mundane inducements?” “Naturally.” My eyes finally met his face, and I registered the delicate feather quill he had incongruously balanced upon his upper lip. At first, my pride resisted, but in that moment, I conceded the undeniable truth – Alaric Blackwood possessed a striking visage. What a smug bastard. The quill, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted his voice into a slurred, disgruntled murmur. “But your tone implies some transgression. If such gifts are freely offered, what fault lies in accepting them?” “Can such utilitarian pursuit truly be termed ‘faith’?” “That is how all belief commences, Kaelen. Mortals rarely embark upon grand philosophical awakenings. They think, ‘Ah, delightful provisions are offered. This patron must be benevolent.’ Then, by degrees, their nascent belief in the ‘benevolent patron of sustenance’ transmutes into absolute devotion to the Archon. The genesis and the progression matter not. What signifies is that now, I believe.” Alaric Blackwood’s pronouncements often contained elements of pure sophistry. Even Theron Vespera had, at times, found himself ensnared by them. Sometimes, it was pure nonsense. Yet, at other times, it was the kind of eloquent sophistry that even my own rigorous intellect found itself drawn to. This, unmistakably, was the latter. I swept a hand through my bangs, pushing them from my forehead. They fell stubbornly back into my eyes. This time, I shook my head, my fine strands of hair swaying. I gathered them near my temples, and the annoying tickle finally abated. I had been so consumed by recent anxieties that I had neglected my appearance, failing to visit the Lyceum’s tonsorial master. With Lord Theron Vespera’s withdrawal, and his subsequent disinclination to attend lectures, the fore of the lecture hall remained notably vacant. No longer any reason for my gaze to linger in that direction. Six days prior, the Magister of Esoteric Scrolls summoned me to his private office, inquiring whether I had received any communication from Lord Theron. I responded with unblemished honesty, devoid of hesitation. “No, Magister. I have not.” “You have yet to reconcile with Theron, I presume?” A small, bitter smile touched my lips. A perfectly calibrated expression. In truth, no mirth resided within me. “No. Theron… expressed considerable displeasure with me.” “Theron expressed displeasure with you?” “Indeed.” The Lyceum buzzed with rumours; the Magister was hardly oblivious to the implications of my words. “Understood, Kaelen,” he granted, dismissing me. As he settled back into his chair, I overheard him muttering under his breath. The snippets I caught spoke of complaints regarding Theron Vespera and the Magister’s frustration over a stern reprimand from Theron’s formidable paterfamilias. I feigned ignorance of that pathetic monologue, turning to depart, yet my hearing remained attuned. Thus, I absorbed the prevailing sentiment within the Magister’s sanctum. Later that evening, while preparing for my supplementary studies within the family’s city dwelling, Lord Vespera himself called. He posed the identical query as the Magister – did I know of Theron’s whereabouts? I provided the same response. “No, Lord Vespera. Theron has ceased all communication with me.” “I see…” “I lament that I am unable to offer any assistance.” “No, there is nothing for which you need apologize, Kaelen. It is quite alright.” Of late, Lord Vespera had called with increasing frequency. Each conversation unfolded in precisely the same manner. There was an unsettling deliberateness to his attempts to perpetually link Theron and myself. I hastened to conclude the colloquy. Honestly, no apology was required. Yet I offered it regardless – to secure favour. It was the same ingrained instinct that compelled courtiers to praise an unsightly newborn. A social convention. A form of exquisite etiquette essential for a functioning, civilized society. Thus, I felt confident that the elder nobles did not perceive me as naive or easily manipulated. If anything, my politeness served as a crude pantomime performed by a scholarly charlatan. I understood my station perfectly. And since I exerted such meticulous effort to be deemed agreeable, I was destined to become a well-loved supplicant. Even if, one day, I committed an error so blatant it drew a frown from my audience, they would, in all likelihood, offer their forgiveness. This was the intricate groundwork I ceaselessly laid. Unlike some impulsive fool, I navigated my life with judicious foresight. Perhaps, from the lofty perspective of the elder Archons, my methodology was naught but a narrow-minded, petty contrivance to elude censure. Yet, amongst my peers, it remained incontrovertible – I possessed the acumen to navigate unpredictable currents with exceptional wisdom. Should proof be required, one needed only observe Master Lyraeus. --- Master Lyraeus, an aspiring acolyte, proved the most fervent in his desire to curry favour with Lord Alaric Blackwood. Consequently, he extended an almost obsequious cordiality towards me, for in the eyes of the Lyceum, I had already aligned myself with Alaric’s powerful orbit. Though Lyraeus had once numbered among Theron Vespera’s closest associates, he now conspicuously demonstrated his severance from that disgraced connection.

A Scholar's Discretion