Cassian Thorne, ever eager for a skirmish, drew back his fist, a childish display of aggression. Before the feigned strike could land, Lysander Volkov’s palm connected with Cassian’s thigh, a dull thud that dissolved the pretense. The brief, blustering challenge evaporated instantly. Cassian’s bravado crumpled. He emitted a strangled, guttural sound, like a falcon snared mid-flight. Valerius Croft and Tiberius Stone, Cassian’s usual companions, erupted into mocking laughter. Cassian rounded on them, a petulant sneer twisting his features. “Amusing, is it? You find this droll?” He punctuated his words with a sharp jab to Tiberius’s arm. Soon after, the trio lumbered from the Scriptoria Minor, their departure echoing slightly in the ancient hall. Tiberius, paused at the archway, offered a fleeting wave. I mirrored the gesture, finding no reason to decline. Settling deeper into my seat, I retrieved my Arcane Codex. My stylus hovered over the parchment. Before inscribing the first glyph, my gaze drifted upwards, sweeping across the austere, cubic walls of the chamber. These stones had stood for millennia, silent witnesses to countless generations of scholars and nascent magisters. My head lowered once more. I reached the third problem, a complex runic cipher, my stylus tapping a soft rhythm against the vellum. Abruptly, I looked up. Beyond the tall, arched window, the ancient Whispering Cypresses bled their leaves, a sickly ochre. A sharp, pungent aroma, distinct to late autumn, drifted across the Lyceum Courtyard. Above, the sky remained a pristine, startling azure. “A convent would offer far more intellectual stimulation than this den of aspiring Archons.” Arch-Magister Eldrin, our venerable instructor in the history of arcane theory, often intoned this very sentiment. His voice, usually raspy from decades of lecturing, would carry a weary resignation. “It is a wilderness. Verily, a wilderness. These young magisters, they first seek to establish their pecking order. By the Ascendance Festival, things might settle. But until then? Endless posturing, petty duels, tests of authority, attempts to claw their way to a higher standing. My head aches. And I must endure this cycle again when the next cohort arrives. Let me see… under what stellar alignment were these current acolytes born?” He would unfurl a gnarled hand, counting the joints of his fingers, a silent, muddled chant beneath his breath. “The Serpent, the Chimera, the Wyvern, the Gryphon… Ah, yes, that means—.” I replicated the motion, extending my own hand, tracing the delicate bones of my fingers. Yet, the pattern of celestial alignments eluded me. I gave up the attempt, flipping my hand over, counting the raised knuckles on its reverse. One, thirty-one, two, twenty-eight, three, thirty-one, four, thirty, five, thirty-one, six, thirty, seven, thirty-one, eight, thirty-one… Nine. In early summer, I would not have predicted that late autumn would feel a repetition of spring’s volatile energies. “Young acolytes are naught but untamed spirits. Impulsive, volatile, governed by base instincts.” I stared at the bone protruding from my middle finger, absently tapping a silent melody upon the dark wood of my desk. Arch-Magister Eldrin’s voice, rough with the persistent Lyceum chill, droned on, punctuated by the faint scratch of chalk upon the slate of the demonstration board. My gaze drifted to a vacant seat near the front. For a fleeting instant, I imagined an indentation upon its surface, as if a form had pressed there, one side weighted, the other ethereal. My fingers ceased their rhythmic tapping. I turned my head. Lysander Volkov sat nearby, hunched over his own workbook, his face half-obscured by the pages. His eyes were narrowed, heavy-lidded. He would fix his gaze upon a problem as though preparing to consume it whole, only to abruptly slump forward, pressing his brow against the parchment. I watched his nose flatten between the pages and his skull. Then, I looked away. “Did a moment of slumber claim me?” A peculiar detachment settled over my thoughts. I affixed a small star beside the third problem and moved to the fourth. --- At lunch in the Refectory, we were served spiced stew and fermented milk. Lysander Volkov finished his fermented milk with an abrupt gulp, then posed a question. “You are second in class, are you not?” “Yes. That is correct.” “And across the entire Lyceum?” “Also second.” “By the Archon’s grace.” Lysander’s tone held genuine surprise. “What troubles you?” I asked, sensing his disbelief. “Then the foremost scholar in our cohort is also the foremost in the entire academy?” “Did you not know? I have never surpassed Lady Aerion’s standing.” “She is even more burdened with studies than yourself, I hear?” “Indeed. Her private tutors do not release her until the first hour past midnight.” “By the Void. That is rigorous.” “Her dedication is profound.” I had no desire to extend the discourse. I spooned a generous portion of spiced stew into my mouth, the savory warmth a welcome distraction. Lysander, thankfully, did not press the matter, merely offering a slow nod. “Ah—.” A sudden silence stretched between us, an awkward chasm. The conversation had ended too abruptly. I debated whether to offer a new topic. The weight of uncomfortable quiet always chafed at me. Without forethought, I blurted out, “And you? What is your academic standing?” His fork, laden with stew, halted mid-air. My gaze fixed upon his hand. Lysander’s grip on his utensils was impeccable, a mark of his House’s rigorous upbringing. If a single thing about Lysander Volkov was consistently precise, it was this — the proper handling of his eating implements. “In the cohort…” “Yes?” “Ninth.” “Ninth?” My voice rose inadvertently. “Why do you scrutinize me so?” I quickly averted my eyes from his hands. Could he be serious? Not attempting some jest? The revelation caught me so unawares that the question almost escaped my lips, but I managed to suppress it. A close call. To inadvertently slight him would invite a volatile reaction. I hesitated. Would he prefer commendation? Or a detached indifference, as if such a standing were expected? My intellect, honed by years of navigating subtle social currents, already weighed the optimal response. Lysander did not appear overly concerned with the opinions of his closer associates. Thus, the latter course seemed the safer gambit. “Remarkable. You fare better than I would have anticipated.” “What? Anticipated? How dim-witted did you perceive me to be?” “I harbored no such thought, it is merely… I understood you found Ancient Glyphs a challenge?” “Ancient Glyphs is my solitary failing. My only failing.” “You attend no private academies.” “The absence of external tutors does not preclude self-study. By the Archon, did you truly deem me an imbecile?” “No, no, not at all.” I waved my hands in quick denial. “It is, however, impressive, to achieve such a standing without supplementary instruction.” “Truly?” “Indeed. It is impressive.” For some inexplicable reason, Lysander began mashing his fork into his remaining stew. His ears, I observed, flushed a faint crimson. A curious blush. Now that I considered it, Cassian Thorne had ranked thirty-second. And that was only because a handful of others had performed even worse. Thirty-second out of thirty-six. In retrospect, I realised how little attention I had ever truly paid to anyone beyond those directly connected to my own fixations. The understanding struck me with the force of a blow. I had been drowning in the very kind of pathetic, obsessive infatuation I once disdained. Meanwhile, Lysander Volkov, entirely oblivious to my internal crisis, had visibly swelled with renewed confidence. His tone shifted, now brimming with self-satisfaction. “Ah, yes! You would not know this — but I am proficient in the Elder Tongues.” “Indeed? To what extent?” “Perfect scores. I have never yielded a single point in Elder Tongues.” “Khhkk!” A sudden cough convulsed my throat. The words escaped me as a mouthful of stew nearly spewed forth. Lysander scowled, jerking his tray away from my proximity. “What in the Void? What manner of reaction is that?” “I simply… did not anticipate such an admission.” “Is it truly so astonishing?” He frowned, a slight pout on his lips. “My Ancient Glyphs score is regrettable, but that is merely one subject.” An odd hint of self-deprecation underscored his words. So, I offered a jest in return. “Perhaps a perusal of some archaic texts might aid you.” “What nonsense do you speak? I am, in truth, a connoisseur of forgotten lore.” “A connoisseur? I have never witnessed you engaged in such study.” “That is because I delve into such knowledge in the privacy of my chambers.” “Why, by the Archon, would you need to conceal such an pursuit?” Lysander Volkov’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped another spoonful of food into his mouth. Then, he casually pressed his lips to the spoon’s edge, a slow, deliberate movement. The image unnerved me. I bit the inside of my cheek. Lysander met my eyes as he withdrew the spoon, then lowered his gaze and pressed a lingering, deliberate kiss to its tip. “Even forbidden lore counts as study.” That was undeniably a jest. A vile one. My face burned. To disguise my discomposure, I snatched a crumpled parchment napkin from beside my tray and flung it at him. It struck just below his long, narrow eyes, then drifted harmlessly to the table. One of his eyes twitched almost imperceptibly. Though I cared little for his actual indignation, I feigned contrition. “Refrain from such unsavory acts. Especially within an academy of this standing. It is utterly repulsive.” “Oh? You refer to this? Septimus Valerius’s favored gesture?” “I care not whose affectation it is. Cease.” “Is this not, by common report, a burgeoning trend amongst our peers?” I stared, attempting to discern sincerity from mockery. --- My slumber had grown lighter. That, I knew, was a sure indication of my spirit finding a measure of ease. Mornings, once dry and leaden, now held a strange crispness, a refreshing clarity. It was a welcome shift—for in my estimation, the gravest sins at eighteen were complacency and excessive repose. “Ah, damnation—.” My jaw clicked with a sharp pain as I performed my ablutions. Ever since Septimus Valerius had struck me, my jaw emitted an odd grinding sound whenever I opened my mouth too wide. Otherwise, this day held promise. But even within this newfound calm, sudden currents of irritation could surface. The cause invariably traced back to Septimus Valerius. Or, more precisely, the unfortunate incidents that stemmed from his presence. Most of these transpired within the Lyceum’s ancient confines. “Ah, yes. I encountered Septimus Valerius last eve.” Valerius Croft spoke, biting into a convenience-store hand-pie, a wretched concoction rumored to contain dubious remnants. Cassian Thorne, who had been playfully jabbing Valerius’s ankle with a mock-dagger hand, suddenly perked up. “By the Void! You remind me! I was about to relay this very news. I overheard murmurs through the lesser guilds—you know Master Silas, do you not? That wandering sage of questionable repute? I heard Septimus is sheltering at his den.” “Master Silas? That imbecile Silas Park?” Lysander Volkov, rummaging through a plastic pouch, queried casually. He withdrew his hand, clutching two small, crystallized spell-sweets. For reasons unknown, he offered one to me. My brow furrowed in confusion. “What is this?” I asked, meeting his gaze. Lysander merely offered a slight nod, as if the gesture alone sufficed as explanation. Cassian Thorne, whose pouch of confectioneries had been raided, reacted most vehemently. “By the Archon’s Beard! Those are mine! Why do you scavenge my provisions, you wretched magpies?” “As if you have not plundered mine, glutton.” Valerius Croft made another playful, mock-dagger strike at Cassian’s throat. Cassian instantly spun, seized Valerius’s collar, and swung a feigned blow at his face. Of course, he harbored no true intention of connecting. Such was their customary interaction. I disregarded their inane squabble, directing my attention to the spell-sweet in my palm. Its wrapper bore a small, vibrant depiction of a lemon, cleanly halved. I peeled the wrapper, placed the candy upon my tongue, and lifted my head. “What say you? The very essence of first adoration?” Lysander grinned, his eyes alight with mischief. “I find no pleasure in the taste of lemon.” My answer encompassed more than the confection; it was my assessment of his jest. More significantly, I found no amusement in the notion of first adoration. That cloying, bitter sensation still clung to the back of my throat, spoiling my appetite. In the end, I could not finish the spell-sweet. I discarded it into a waste receptacle. “Oh, the waste,” Lysander mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, I reached into Cassian’s pouch, seeking a different flavor. All were lemon or lime. Lime was the lesser of the two evils. I unwrapped one and placed it in my mouth. “At any rate, Master Silas, you say? It sounds precisely like Septimus.” “What, because they are both, shall we say, unprincipled?” Lysander’s words held a sharp edge. Unease stirred within me. I turned to observe him. He sucked on his spell-sweet, his expression unreadable, twirling the white stick between his lips. I withdrew my own from my mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong. Lysander appeared unconcerned. He tilted his spell-sweet in the air like a miniature blade, making random, jabbing motions. “He dallies with his associates—regardless of their nature. And when he encounters someone of potential, he directs them straight to Septimus. It is an unfortunate cycle. Engaging in depraved acts, passing each other amongst their sordid circle.” “So, Master Silas is also… unprincipled?” Cassian Thorne interjected abruptly. Whether he had concluded his playful skirmish with Valerius or simply paused mid-fight to eavesdrop, I could not tell. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing the unpleasant revelation.

A Bitter Distillation