A wilderness of carved stone and hushed ambition, the Grand Lectern Hall unfolded its vastness, a silent testament to the empire’s relentless churn. Here, under the weight of ancient arches and the knowing gaze of sculpted ancestors, some sixty noble scions gathered, each a beast in waiting, poised within the unseen strata of the Sunstone Empire’s social pyramid.
Every day brought its own subtle skirmishes. Every interaction, a delicate dance of veiled intent and whispered judgment. Eighteen days had passed since the commencement of this term, each one pulling at the frayed edges of composure, tightening the string of daily survival.
For Elian, this constant, gnawing tension began not at twelve, but upon his first bewildered step into the academy’s hallowed halls, a stark reminder of his modest origins. The art of forming alliances, of navigating the treacherous currents of noble favor, became his routine—a daily balancing act he suspected others, too, performed with practiced ease.
A cubic jungle, concealing a pyramid. That was the essence of this hallowed hall, a truth etched into the very air.
“Ah…” A faint tremor ran through Elian’s left arm, a ghost of Caelum’s grip. The muscle, still tender beneath his sleeve, protested against the stillness. He subtly massaged it, a small, private gesture. A shallow breath escaped him, the usual tightness in his chest refusing to yield. His gaze drifted over the slumped shoulders of his peers, a sea of velvet and silk, their napes a uniform shade against the polished lecterns. At the elevated dais, Master Lyra, our Imperial Histories tutor, perused a dog-eared chronicle, its pages yellowed with age. Students scribbled notes, or, having surrendered to the day’s demands, dozed with their heads pillowed on forearms.
“Awaken, those of you who have strayed,” Master Lyra’s voice, a dry rustle of parchment, cut through the quiet, turning a page of her worn tome.
Fifth period already. Elian’s stylus hovered over the fifteenth diagram on his scroll, detailing the political machinations of the Seventh Dynasty. He paused, raking a finger through his hair, before setting the stylus down. His eyes, drawn by an instinct he could not suppress, sought out the empty seats. Two in particular gaped like vacant eyes in a sculpted frieze.
As anticipated, Lord Caelum and Lord Kaelen were absent. Their absence had become a predictable fixture. Tomorrow, too, their chairs would likely remain untenanted, unless Caelum’s volatile temperament suddenly shifted course, or some new, undisclosed event had unfolded between the two.
Elian lowered his gaze to the intricate problems of imperial succession before him. His eyes traced the elaborate script of the ancient genealogies, each line a potential claim, a forgotten betrayal.
Once, Elian had harbored a secret conviction that he understood Caelum better than anyone. He took a quiet, perverse pride in that knowledge, even when comparing himself to Lord Valerius, who commanded Caelum’s company far more frequently. That insidious pride had, in its way, helped Elian endure the sight of Caelum and Valerius’s easy camaraderie. He had relished the private assurance that his analytical mind had an edge, discerning nuances others missed.
His chin propped on one hand, Elian felt a familiar wave of self-disgust. Such thoughts, if ever unearthed, would expose the raw ambition beneath his scholarly veneer. What would these privileged scions think if they knew the calculating currents churning within his mind? The answer was chillingly obvious. He would be cast down, not merely to the bottom of this academic pyramid, but to its outermost, most ignominious plane.
Such a prospect was terrifying. This kind of veiled desire, peculiar to a scholar of modest means, had to remain concealed at all costs. He had to bury it deep, so deep that not even its unspoken target would sense its presence. Ultimately, he needed to hide it so thoroughly that even he might forget its clandestine existence.
But Caelum, in his arrogant heedlessness, had done no such thing. The academy hummed with the whispers of Caelum’s unchecked excesses, his flagrant disregard for decorum.
Elian subtly lifted his head, a quick, almost imperceptible scan of the hall. Everyone remained hunched over their desks, engrossed or feigning engrossment. His lips tightened. He looked ahead.
Across the polished aisle, a half-burned parchment scroll lay forlornly, its edges curling, marked with the faint scuff of a boot. A forgotten lineage, perhaps, or a disgraced decree.
Suddenly, as if sensing an unseen eye, Elian bent his head, burying himself in his work like the others.
He then angled his neck, his gaze drifting towards the back row. There, Lord Valerius, a figure of silent, imposing authority, lay with his face partially obscured by an arm, as if slumber had claimed him mid-thought. Valerius’s features, even in repose, held a delicate, almost sorrowful cast, reminiscent of ancient, sculpted grief.
“…”
Elian found himself studying Valerius’s face for a moment, before his gaze settled on his arm. Valerius, already possessed of an impressive height, seemed to have grown further. The academy’s uniform, tailored perfectly at the start of the term, now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one, a heavy signet ring gleamed, its unfamiliar crest a stark, unmistakable symbol—an integral part of Valerius’s ancient identity.
Before learning of his family’s estates, Elian had assumed Valerius hailed from one of the empire’s northern marches, a region known for its harsh beauty. Despite his intimidating aura, Valerius did not possess the overt flash of wealth. His eyes, though presently closed, were usually shadowed by heavy lids, his irises a faded umber that lent him a perpetually haunted look. The sliver of thin sclera visible beneath his pupils added to his sharp, gaunt appearance.
Valerius’s overall presence was one of grim intimidation, yet it lacked the polished refinement associated with the empire’s most opulent houses. Instead, his face seemed etched by a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a kind of melancholic gravity. Combined with his formidable build—he was undoubtedly the tallest student in the academy—it made him doubly imposing.
Yet, Valerius’s disposition could not have been more divergent from his austere mien. It was not merely that he seemed indifferent to everything; it was as if he actively pruned events from his memory, whether by intention or not. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that ironically amplified his mystique.
Most notably, Valerius rarely concerned himself with gold. He never paid attention to how much others spent or requested. If the whim struck him, he would casually bestow a considerable sum upon an acquaintance without a second thought, as if the concept of currency itself held no meaning. Sometimes he would lend coin and then entirely forget the transaction. Tales circulated of nobles attempting to repay him, only for Valerius to inquire, genuinely puzzled, as to why they were offering him money.
Still, he did not offer his largesse to just anyone. He would indulge a random, minor request when in a good mood, yet coldly refuse those truly desperate for assistance.
Even with friends, Valerius could be unsparing. Elian had once overheard how Lord Seraphin, upon seeing Valerius’s prized ancestral blade—a weapon he rarely displayed—had excitedly reached to examine its hilt without permission. Valerius had, without a word, disarmed him with a precise, almost disdainful flick of the wrist, sending Seraphin sprawling amidst a scattering of scrolls like a startled hawk.
At the apex of the academy’s social hierarchy, individuals like Valerius and Caelum shared one crucial characteristic: a complete lack of concern for others’ opinions. This profound indifference, in its own way, was precisely what allowed them to sit at the pyramid’s peak.
Why do we, with our own hands, concede the reins of our world to these untamed predators? No matter how thoroughly Elian analyzed the intricate social mechanisms, he still could not fully comprehend it.
And yet, Lord Valerius, in his own severe way, claimed to uphold the Empire’s ancient codes of honor and the Divine Mandate. He was the type of scion who slept with the Emperor’s foundational edicts under his head, yet his adherence to doctrine was flawed. He did not overtly engage in the petty intrigues or debaucheries common among his peers. He abstained from blatant bribery and the extortion of lesser students. But the code he followed, Elian knew, permitted a harsh, pragmatic justice, often at odds with popular morality. They said the Divine Mandate viewed open ambition for one’s social betters as a grave transgression. Was that why Caelum’s flagrant displays of power, his unbridled aggression, so thoroughly disgusted Valerius? Elian’s lips felt dry.
A strange sense of relief washed over Elian, a quiet gratitude that his own hidden transgressions had not been exposed. If they had, he imagined, he would have ended up like that discarded parchment, trampled and forgotten. And yet, even in that moment, a flicker of a darker thought surfaced—if Caelum and he had remained close, as they were just a few months ago, would Caelum have protected him?
The thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories he desperately wanted to bury. He drew a deep breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the midday meal he’d reluctantly consumed were threatening to resurface.
No, of course not.
How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to believe he might. To Caelum, Elian was nothing more than a convenient diversion, a temporary academic curiosity. He understood this now, forged in the humiliation of Caelum’s fists. The contempt in Caelum’s eyes had spoken a truth Elian had refused to acknowledge, a truth that had been staring him in the face all along.
Caelum had transgressed openly, his sins etched in the academy’s memory. Elian, too, harbored his own transgressions—but he hid them. And so, Caelum faced dismissal, while Elian remained, spared for now.
A faint, bitter laugh escaped his 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 Divine Mandate, in its inscrutable wisdom, had a personality much like Lord Valerius’s.
Elian’s gaze shifted to the lectern near Master Lyra’s dais. A pang of pity, unusual and unwelcome, stirred within him for Lord Kaelen. Poor soul, caught in the clutches of Caelum’s monstrous, seductive power. Kaelen had lacked the strength to resist. Fragile, helpless Kaelen, despite his noble birth. He should have fled the moment Elian’s subtle warnings had brushed against him, fool.
Elian knew he was not a good man. He was selfish and self-serving, and that, he now believed, was why he had been punished. Sometimes, he even entertained a wicked thought: If one were to succumb to a destructive influence, why not choose someone sly and calculating like him? At least then, life might be simpler, more predictable. Why fall for someone so transparently cruel and earnest in his ruthlessness, only to end up suffering for it?
These days, Elian thought differently.
Yes. Of course no one could ever truly value someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise. There was a time when he believed he could have it all—the respect, the influence, the quiet ascent. Arrogant, conceited Elian Vance. Elian, who at eighteen, had presumed to understand the intricacies of the world. Wicked, vile Elian. Pitiful Elian, who had no one to offer solace, and so endured everything alone.
That day, Elian could not make sense of the fifteenth diagram. He used his still-mending injuries as an excuse, allowing himself to slump further over his desk, a private thought forming: Well, at least I am not as ruined as Caelum or Kaelen.
Rumors regarding Caelum and Kaelen spread like wildfire through the academy’s corridors. Whether exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to ascertain the facts. Caelum’s coterie had vanished from the academy as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances to concern themselves with the past, inadvertently fueling the rumors even further.
“Master Lyra, who, if anyone, was closest to Lord Caelum?”
“Lord… No, Lord Valerius.”
Elian overheard this exchange as he passed a secluded alcove on his way back to the Lectern Hall before dismissal. The junior tutor had asked, and a classmate had answered. Pretending not to have heard, Elian walked into the room. Master Lyra glanced nervously between Elian and the empty seats, her fingers drumming an ancient rhythm on the dais. Then, as if abandoning some unspoken thought, she announced: “Let us conclude.”
The moment dismissal ended, Elian gathered his scrolls. As he slung his satchel over his shoulder, Lord Valerius tapped him lightly on the back.
“Vance. Join me after these studies.”
Elian looked at Valerius’s face. He knew. He had always observed Caelum and Valerius’s every movement, so he knew that the person Valerius most frequently invited to company was always Caelum. After a brief pause, Elian offered a polite refusal.
“My apologies, Lord Valerius. My scheduled tutelage awaits.”
“And after that?”
“Further study. Perhaps you should seek the company of your usual companions.”
“No.”
“May I inquire why?”
“Clinging to lesser minds only dulls one’s own edge.”
“Ha.” Elian let out a short, disbelieving laugh at the sheer audacity.
Right. This was precisely why he had found Valerius’s company, despite its sharp edges, more tolerable than expected. Their twisted values, in some strange, unsettling way, seemed to align.
“So, Lords Seraphin and Torvin—they are lesser minds? Even Lord Kaelen?”
“If you insist on such phrasing, then, yes, largely so. But you, Vance, are different.”
The backhanded compliment left Elian feeling a strange disquiet. “What is that supposed to signify? You are… remarkably blunt, Lord Valerius.”
“I am merely honest.”
“You are exceedingly blunt.”
“Hmm. The Divine Mandate speaks of truth. I am only upholding it, Vance.”
Honestly, Valerius was worse than Elian. At least Elian did not blatantly dismiss his acquaintances as inconsequential.
“That is why I am of sound character.”
“…Indeed.”
“Since my character is so sound, may I accompany you to your residence?”
Lord Valerius blinked twice, his gaze unwavering. Elian met his eyes for a moment before offering a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “As you wish.”
As long as Valerius did not interfere with his own meticulously planned routines, there seemed no logical reason to refuse. To secure one’s precarious place within the intricate social hierarchy, sometimes one had to embrace the very predators who shaped its apex.