Elara. My name is Elara Catherby, though few outside the Cartographer's Guild use my full designation. To most, I am simply Elara. It is a name that holds little sway in Eldoria's grand halls, unlike the whispers that always follow a Varrick or a Torvin. My surname, Catherby, belongs to a lineage of meticulous scribes and quiet scholars, not the boisterous captains of trade or the ancient, blood-bound nobility.
First to suggest shortening my name, stripping it of its formal weight, was Lord Kaelen Varrick. We were but seventeen seasons, both apprentices, though in vastly different disciplines, within the Scriptorium Academy. “Just Elara,” he had declared, his voice a low rumble that made the air around me hum. From that day, I became simply Elara.
Lord Kaelen Varrick, when first our paths converged in the hallowed halls of the Scriptorium Academy, was a stark counterpoint to my own pale existence. His frame, tall and broad-shouldered, seemed hewn from dark granite, a contrast to my own slighter build. His hair, a midnight shade, framed a face perpetually kissed by the sun, while my own skin rarely saw daylight beyond the vaulted libraries and my draughting table.
Even in scholarly pursuits, we stood at opposite ends. My mind devoured ancient texts and charted forgotten pathways. His, I suspected, was more inclined to the strategic geometries of the dueling ground or the complex dance of Eldoria’s social hierarchies. His formal scores would have lain comfortably at the bottom of the academy’s rankings.
Did I look down upon him then? Such was my usual inclination. I believed, as many did in Eldoria, that every soul had a rightful, ordained place within the grand societal tapestry. Yet, with Kaelen, that usual judgment faltered. His eyes, the color of storm-swept seas, held a directness that pierced my carefully constructed shell. They bore down with a force I could not simply ignore.
Kaelen possessed a peculiar scent. Not a common cologne, nor the heavy musk of sweat. It was something akin to distant cedar smoke mingled with petrichor, a clean, wild fragrance utterly out of place within the Academy’s refined air. Like a moth drawn to an unseen flame, I found myself, quite unbidden, striking up conversation.
Often, I sought similarities between us. We both walked Eldoria’s more affluent districts, though my family’s abode was modest compared to his ancestral manor. We moved within the circles of Eldoria’s rising figures, though my presence was that of an observer, his, a gravitational force. These were superficial connections, yet I clung to them.
Our Academy stood sentinel between the sprawling merchant wards and the ancient, hallowed noble quarter. I hailed from the latter, though barely. The Catherby name, while respected for its historical service, held little true power. We possessed enough coin, enough heritage, to secure my place among the privileged. My parents, dedicated scholars, had poured their quiet influence into securing my apprenticeship. This was my treasure, not born of silver, but of tireless study.
Kaelen, however, belonged to the unquestioned aristocracy. His family, the Varricks, were one of the Thirteen Great Houses. Learning this, my cautious excitement surged. It provided a logical anchor, a shared social strata to justify my strange fascination. With this flimsy reason, I approached him without hesitation. Our friendship, if one could call it that, bloomed with surprising speed.
Just as my mind excelled in the precise mapping of Eldoria’s labyrinthine past, Kaelen excelled in the fluid, dangerous currents of its present. He drew the city’s toughest, most charismatic young nobles to his side. Within the season, Kaelen stood at the apex of the Northspire’s unofficial hierarchy. Whispers of his prowess, his effortless command, echoed through the districts. He became the most well-known young lord in the northern reaches of Eldoria.
*****
The oak door, carved with the symbol of the Gilded Gryphon, remained stubbornly closed. My knuckles ached from a prior, hesitant rap. An ache began to spread through my stomach, a familiar, raw twist. Just as I raised a hand to rub the spot, the door finally yielded.
Through the narrow gap, I caught a glimpse of Kaelen’s flushed cheek, the dark sweep of his hair. His hand, still ruddy, released the latch. It threatened to swing shut once more. Desperate, I slipped inside, quick as a shadow.
The chamber air hung heavy. Cloying perfume, rich and exotic, mingled with the faint, sweet scent of spiced wine. Kaelen sat already upon the rumpled bed, his silk tunic unfastened. Nothing but tailored breeches clung to his frame. A half-smoked pipe, its bowl cool, was clutched between his teeth, gnawed absentmindedly.
“Damn it all. My father’s hounds are snapping at my heels again. If he calls, tell him we were poring over ancient treatises. Studying.”
His voice was a low growl. Kaelen flicked a lighter open and closed, the small clang punctuating his words. He made no move to light the pipe. His face, though, held a languidness, a loose ease that spoke of recent revelry. My stomach tightened further. Approaching him, I snatched the pipe from his mouth. “Why should I?” I snapped, the words sharp despite the tremor in my gut.
“Because we are companions,” he drawled, stretching the final word. “Friends.”
“Friends.” The word tasted bitter, flat. It felt as though something vital tore within my chest, but my expression remained shamelessly calm. My carefully cultivated control held. “Know this. I will exact payment for this debt.”
“Expected nothing less,” Kaelen murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “My thanks, Elara.”
The room reeked. That heavy, opulent perfume, certainly not mine, was everywhere. And beneath it, a subtle, clean aroma. I had learned to identify such scents only because of Kaelen Varrick.
Rumors from his days at the Wardens’ Garrison—a prior, less academic training—spoke of his dalliances beginning almost as a boy. Whispers claimed he’d lost his innocence in the stables with a stable girl, no older than himself. That detail spoke volumes.
Even then, they said, Kaelen possessed the bearing of a man beyond his years. His mature appearance was far from typical for a young noble apprentice. Most who encountered him mistook him for a seasoned veteran of Eldoria’s social circles. His bold, defined features gave him a brooding, sophisticated aura.
Once he entered the Academy, Kaelen made little secret of his escapades. He frequented the exclusive gambling dens and private clubs whenever boredom struck. Wealth was no object, and somehow, he procured forged chits of identity with an adult’s birth year. He brandished them with a confidence that made them seem genuine, drew the attention of attractive women, and made discreet, fleeting encounters his regular pastime. His striking looks played a major role in shielding his hedonistic lifestyle.
Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth were not flawless. But woven together, they formed an inexplicably captivating face. His presence was so refined, so commanding, that no one believed him merely an apprentice. Most assumed him at least five-and-twenty, a seasoned veteran of life.
My gaze drifted, feigning interest in the room's gilded decor, though my mind registered nothing. The heavy atmosphere, thick with the aftermath of Kaelen’s latest revelry, threatened to overwhelm me with nausea.
“Where is Lord Torvin?” I asked, my voice tight.
“Gone. Vanished into the morning mist.”
“...”
“That fool is truly beyond the pale. No matter how I consider it. A jest, nothing more.” Kaelen rested his chin on a fist, a soft, cynical laugh escaping his lips. I frowned.
Lord Torvin was the second man I despised most.
Torvin had only grown close to Kaelen during our second year at the Academy. As much as I hated to admit it, they spent so much time together that calling them companions felt almost accurate. Kaelen, the most celebrated young lord in the Northspire, found his counterpart in Torvin, who held similar sway in the Silvermere district.
Still, our paths rarely crossed. The only times I saw him were in the grand refectory, a building shared by apprentices from both Northspire and Silvermere houses.
Once, while within the refectory’s bustling hall, someone nudged my shoulder. “That’s Lord Torvin,” a hushed voice whispered. Curious, I stood on my tiptoes, peering over the sea of dark-robed apprentices. Among them, a tall, sharp-featured young man stood out. I knew immediately it was him.
“His character appears rather unpleasant,” I remarked, more to myself than my companion.
One of Kaelen’s followers, standing nearby, replied, “Aye, a bit. They say he’s utterly consumed by self-regard.”
I smirked faintly at the comment, offering only a half-hearted nod. Yet, even as I disliked him, I could not quite turn away. As much as I loathed to admit it, I understood why he found himself in a peculiar rivalry with Kaelen. This only fueled my dislike, but for some reason, I found myself drawn to observe him.
A dazzling gloom—that was my first impression of Lord Torvin.
By chance, our eyes met across the crowded hall. It was strange that he noticed my gaze, given the multitude of eyes surely upon him. His long, hooded eyes and thin pupils made a striking impression. Reflexively, I flinched, as if struck by a thrown stone.
‘What are you staring at?’ His lips, though unmoving, seemed to form the unspoken words. He narrowed one eye at me. Honestly, I felt a flicker of intimidation. I pretended it was nothing, turning my head. Then, loud enough for the young man beside me to hear, I declared: “He carries himself like a viper.”
After that, Torvin and I often made eye contact. We always ignored each other. Whenever our gazes met, he would lower his head, then lift it again, seeking my eyes. Nine times out of ten, he was the first to look away. Sometimes, though, I found myself following his lead. I ceased counting after the eighteenth such exchange.
*****
By some twist of fate, Kaelen and I found ourselves in the same advanced studies cohort again the following season. Secretly thrilled by this continued, fragile connection, I then saw a familiar face enter the chamber. My heart dropped. It was utterly maddening. For the first time, I stood in the same classroom as the infamous Lord Torvin, face-to-face.
Torvin spoke to me first.
“Young Catherby. Care to share a table?”
Blast him.
And just as everyone had anticipated, Kaelen and Torvin forged a curious bond. Kaelen was a man who reveled in his own brilliance, and Torvin, subtly regarded as his primary rival, met Kaelen’s exacting standards. He was masculine, successful among his peers, and highly regarded by his own house. Their complex friendship, or rivalry-turned-companionship, felt inevitable.
Within the cohort, the topic often arose: if Kaelen Varrick and Lord Torvin truly clashed, who would emerge victorious? From my perspective, they would never truly fight. While Kaelen and I were surface-level opposites, Kaelen and Torvin were remarkably similar in their underlying ambition and drive.
Yet, one stark difference existed between them.
Torvin possessed a strange, almost straight-laced side. Despite his ears being adorned with multiple piercings—a sign of youthful rebellion—he sometimes acted with a surprising adherence to ancient codes. He might dismiss the most scandalous of Kaelen’s antics with a wry, knowing smile, but his own life maintained a strange distance from such explicit hedonism.
For example, when Kaelen felt the stirrings of desire, he would simply choose a woman he admired and spend the night with her, openly. Later, he would recount his steamy early morning adventures with a casual pride. In stark contrast, Torvin would often laugh off the usual crude remarks about wanting to grope some servant girl’s chest. Sometimes, he’d mock the speaker outright by grabbing the chest of a portly, pompous noble nearby, squeezing hard enough to elicit a shriek.
“This boar has more flesh than any maiden. Why not grope him instead? And good heavens, your posture is atrocious. Wear a proper doublet, man. Stop parading such ungainly proportions—it offends the eye.” Even his crude remarks were laced with an arch, almost scholarly sarcasm.
Yet, when the opportunity arose, Torvin would declare something utterly baffling like, “My purity is reserved for the Lord of my future line.” That was the chasm between them.
Kaelen once offered to procure forged identity chits for Torvin—an offer he had never once extended to me—but Torvin dismissed it as a pointless diversion and flatly refused.
Kaelen’s friends found Torvin’s eccentricities endlessly entertaining. I did not. The reason was simple: Torvin was close to Kaelen. And they wandered Eldoria’s grand halls like inseparable confidantes. That alone was enough for me to harbor a simmering dislike, a quiet jealousy.
Still, I managed to maintain a civil, if cold, rapport with Lord Torvin. One of my strengths, a finely honed survival instinct in Eldoria’s complex social strata, was hiding my true feelings, no matter the situation. Besides, he was close to Kaelen. Indeed, everything in my social existence revolved, in some unspoken way, around Kaelen Varrick.
To be honest, more days were spent in frustrated self-reproach for this relentless devotion than were spent contemplating Kaelen himself. I often felt a complete idiot. Yet, even so, I remained unchanged.
Kaelen tossed a few casual words my way before heading into the antechamber, likely to bathe. I sat in silence, my thoughts a tangled knot. A few minutes later, the chime of his private ledger-box, a communication device, sounded from the bed. Fresh from his ablutions, Kaelen picked up the device and tossed it to me. I caught it reflexively. On the other end, Elder Lord Varrick’s authoritative voice boomed.
Clearing my throat, I answered, striving for an impossible composure. “Yes, this is Elara Catherby.”
“Elara? Are you with Kaelen right now?” His voice was sharp, demanding.
“Yes, my Lord. I am.”
“Ah, I see. I was worried for naught. I feared Kaelen might be out carousing again. You possess such a pleasant voice, Elara.”
“Thank you, my Lord.”
“No, truly. How fares your day?”
“I fare well, thank you, my Lord. And you?”
“The same. You speak with such grace. If only Kaelen spoke with half your manners. That boy is a boor. So, you were poring over your studies together?”
“Yes, my Lord. Kaelen must have forgotten to relay his progress. He has been quite consumed with preparations for the upcoming Guild examinations.”
“So, he has been with you the entire time?”
“Yes, my Lord. He has been by my side since late yesterday eve.”
“Well, that is a relief. If he is with you, I can rest easy.”
“It is nothing, my Lord. Merely my duty as his appointed study companion.”
“No, it is something. If he is with you, he cannot fall into further trouble.”
“Truly, it is nothing. I shall ensure he reaches his chambers safely before dawn.”
“Good. Take care of him, Elara. Remain companions, and do not quarrel.”
“Yes, my Lord. Of course. Farewell.”
Lies flowed effortlessly from my lips, smooth as polished obsidian.
After ending the connection, I tossed the ledger-box back to Kaelen, who grunted a short “Thanks” while fastening his tunic. Without another word, I turned to leave. Kaelen made no move to stop me. “Until later, Elara.” That was all he said. It was to be expected. This was all our relationship amounted to. The vast chasm between us, unspoken but ever-present, was painfully clear. Perhaps that is why I quickened my pace. My throat ached as I hurried out into the pre-dawn chill, the lingering perfume clinging to my skin like a curse. The Gilded Gryphon's grand facade offered no comfort as I fled Eldoria’s early morning streets.