Lord Kael, all bluster and unearned arrogance, clenched his fist, a futile gesture hanging in the air. Before the crude display could ripen into actual confrontation, Lord Valerius’s hand landed with unexpected force upon Kael’s forearm. A grip of quiet command, it quelled the nascent scuffle before it could truly blossom.
So it was that Kael’s flimsy bravado dissolved, deflating into a mortified huff. A strange, strangled sound escaped him, like a prize pheasant caught in a snare. Ser Ren and Master Torvin, never ones to miss a chance for sport, erupted in boisterous laughter. Kael, crimson-faced, pivoted to lash out at them.
“Amusing, is it? You find this amusing?” he seethed, cuffing Torvin’s shoulder with a sharp, resentful blow.
A moment later, the trio, still jostling and bickering, swept from the grand study hall. Torvin paused at the archway, turning to offer a theatrical wave in Elian’s direction. Having no cause to refuse, Elian returned the gesture with a small, measured tilt of his head. He then settled into his polished mahogany seat, drawing forth a weighty tome bound in gilded leather.
His fingers had just closed around a delicate stylus crafted from river reed and polished horn when, before inscribing the first character, Elian’s gaze drifted upward. It swept across the vaulted ceiling, where constellations of arcane symbols glittered, then across the unyielding, pearl-grey stone walls of the imperial academy. A quiet hum of scholarly industry filled the air.
Eventually, he lowered his head to his desk. He was deep into the third complex cipher, a faint, rhythmic tap of his stylus against parchment the only sound of his concentration, when his eyes again lifted. Through the tall, arched window, Sunpetal trees shed their autumn scales, dusting the courtyards below in a vibrant, molten gold. A crisp, almost metallic tang, borne on the late afternoon breeze, filtered into the hall. Above, the Sky-Luminaries shimmered in a vivid, impossible blue.
“A convent academy would be far less taxing, I tell you.”
Elder Loremaster Armitage, his voice gravelly from decades spent lecturing on the intricacies of imperial history, often made such pronouncements.
“It’s a viper’s nest, this place. A viper’s nest. These young noble pups, they must establish their pecking order first. By the late spring, things typically settle, the squabbling subsides. But until then? It’s nothing but skirmish after skirmish, boys preening, testing their instructors, clawing their way to a higher perch. By the Sun-King, my head aches. And I must endure this spectacle anew with each year’s fresh intake of acolytes. Let’s see… under what Lunar Auspice were they born, these ones?”
He would then spread a weathered palm, counting the knuckles one by one, muttering under his breath.
“Dragon, Serpent, Horse, Ram, Ape, Phoenix, Hound, Boar… Yes, that would make them—”
Elian, caught in a moment of absentminded mimicry, stretched out his own hand, tracing the smooth joints of his fingers. He couldn’t quite discern the Loremaster’s esoteric pattern. Giving up, he flipped his hand over, counting the subtle ridges along the back of his digits instead.
One, the thirtieth day. Two, the twenty-eighth. Three, the thirty-first. Four, the thirtieth. Five, the thirty-first. Six, the thirtieth. Seven, the thirty-first. Eight, the thirty-first… Nine.
Never, in the languid days of early summer, would Elian have predicted that the cusp of autumn would feel like the frantic, ambition-laden start of spring once more. “These young lords are nothing but untamed beasts. Irrational, driven by raw emotion, prone to impulsive folly.”
Elian’s gaze settled on the slight prominence of bone near his middle finger’s base, his stylus tapping a quiet rhythm against the polished wood of his desk. The Loremaster’s voice, raspy now, perhaps from a seasonal chill, continued its drone, punctuated by the faint scratch of chalk against the dark slate scroll.
His eyes drifted to an empty seat near the front. For a fleeting instant, he imagined a subtle indentation on the polished surface—one side pressed down, the other rising, as if a head had rested there. His stylus stilled.
He turned his head. Lord Valerius sat there, hunched over a heavy lexicon, his face half-buried in its vellum pages. His eyelids drooped, heavy with fatigue. He would fix his gaze on a difficult passage, as if intending to devour its meaning whole, only to abruptly slump forward, pressing his forehead against the ancient text. Elian watched as Valerius’s nose became momentarily flattened between the pages and his brow. Then, he looked away.
“…Did a moment of slumber claim me?”
He felt a strange disconnect, as if not fully anchored in the present. Elian placed a delicate star beside the third cipher and proceeded to the fourth.
Midday repast was fragrant curry of Sun-Spice Chicken and sweet, chilled Moon-Dew Yogurt.
Valerius finished his yogurt first, then abruptly posed a question. “Tell me, you hold the second-highest academic distinction in our cohort, do you not?”
“Indeed, Lord Valerius,” Elian replied, ever formal. “I do.”
“And amongst all the acolytes of the academy?”
“Also second, Lord Valerius.”
“By the Sun-King.” Valerius’s eyes widened slightly.
“My lord?”
“Then it stands to reason that the foremost scholar of our cohort is also the paramount student of the entire academy?”
“You were unaware? I have never surpassed Lady Isolde’s achievements.”
“Lady Isolde? She’s rumored to be even more consumed by her studies than you, isn’t she?”
“Her private tutors often keep her occupied until the first morning bell.”
“Damn it all. That is true dedication.”
“She applies herself with great diligence.”
Elian had no wish to prolong this line of conversation. He scooped a generous portion of spiced rice onto his spoon and brought it to his lips. Fortunately, Valerius did not press further, merely offering a slow, thoughtful nod.
“Aah—”
The silence stretched, a sudden, awkward expanse. The conversation had truncated too abruptly. Elian debated whether to offer another remark. He harbored a distinct aversion to uncomfortable pauses, so, without conscious thought, he blurted out, “And you, Lord Valerius? What is your standing?”
Valerius’s chopsticks froze mid-air, a morsel of spiced fish suspended precariously. Elian found his gaze drawn to Valerius’s hand. He possessed excellent chopstick etiquette, a small detail Elian often noticed. If there was one thing Lord Valerius did with undeniable precision, it was hold his utensils.
“In the cohort…”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Ninth.”
“…Pardon?”
“Why do you gaze upon me thus?”
Elian quickly averted his eyes from Valerius’s hands. Was this truth? No deception? He was so taken aback that the question almost escaped his lips, but he managed to swallow it back, a dry, bitter taste. By the Sun-King, that was a near misstep. To offend Valerius, even inadvertently, would invite his volatile temper.
Elian hesitated. Would Valerius prefer praise? Or a feigned indifference, as if such a standing were expected? His mind, ever calculating for survival in the social labyrinth of the court, already weighed the optimal response. Valerius did not seem to cultivate close bonds with his peers.
Therefore, the latter path seemed the safer.
“Ah. You perform better than I might have anticipated, Lord Valerius.”
“What? Anticipated? How dim-witted did you presume me to be?”
“I did not deem you unintelligent, my lord, merely… I understood you found the intricacies of Imperial Law somewhat challenging?”
“Imperial Law is my only weakness. Only Imperial Law.”
“Yet you attend no specialized academy for it.”
“Absence from such a place does not preclude individual study. By the Luminaries, did you truly imagine me an imbecile?”
“No, no, not at all, Lord Valerius.” Elian quickly waved a dismissive hand. “It is impressive, however, given your self-directed efforts.”
“…Truly?” Valerius’s voice softened, a hint of vulnerability. Elian detected a faint flush creeping up the tips of his ears.
“Indeed. It is quite impressive.”
For some obscure reason, Valerius abruptly began to mash his spoon into his spiced rice with renewed vigor. His ears, Elian now observed, were distinctly tinged with scarlet. He recalled that Master Corvan, whose memory still pricked at his jaw, had ranked thirty-second in their cohort. And that was only because there were a handful of acolytes who performed even more lamentably. Thirty-second out of thirty-six.
Reflecting now, Elian realized he had never truly paid attention to anything concerning Master Corvan beyond matters directly impinging upon himself. With this sudden insight, a chilling realization struck him. He had been drowning in precisely the sort of pathetic, obsessive infatuation he had once so utterly despised. Meanwhile, Lord Valerius, utterly oblivious to Elian’s internal crisis, had clearly received a potent surge of confidence. His tone was utterly transformed now, brimming with self-satisfaction.
“Ah, yes! You likely did not know—my skill in Ancient War Strategies is formidable.”
“Indeed, my lord? How formidable?”
“Perfect score. I have never yielded a single point in Ancient War Strategies.”
“Khhkk!” Elian choked. The instant Valerius uttered the words, Elian sputtered his Moon-Dew Water. Valerius scowled, snatching his tray away from the unexpected spray.
“What in the Sun-King’s name? What manner of reaction is that?”
“I merely… did not anticipate such proficiency.”
“Is it truly so shocking?” Valerius frowned, a slight pout forming on his lips. “Yes. My Imperial Law scores are abysmal, but that matters little.” A curious hint of self-deprecation underscored his words. So Elian offered a light jest in return.
“Perhaps a perusal of the Imperial Codes, now and then, would serve you.”
“What absurd notion is that? I am quite the literary connoisseur, I assure you.”
“A literary connoisseur? I have never observed you with a volume of verse.”
“That is because I indulge in forbidden verses in the privacy of my chambers.”
“Why, in the name of the Sky-Luminaries, would you need to conceal such a thing?”
Lord Valerius’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped ever so slightly as he scooped a spoonful of his meal. He then casually pressed his lips to the spoon’s edge, a languid, almost sensual motion. Something about that image unsettled Elian. He bit the inside of his cheek. Valerius met Elian’s gaze as he withdrew the spoon, then lowered his eyes and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to its very tip. “Scandalous romances are still literature, after all.”
That was undeniably a jest. A crude, provocative jest. Elian’s face burned. To conceal his sudden flush, he snatched a crumpled napkin from beside his tray and, with a swift, almost clumsy motion, tossed it at Valerius. It struck just below his long, narrow eyes and fell harmlessly onto the polished table. One of Valerius’s eyes twitched, barely perceptible. Not that Elian truly cared, but in the event Valerius was genuinely incensed, Elian feigned a measure of remorse.
“Do not indulge in such vulgar displays. Especially not in a hall of acolytes. It is utterly uncouth.”
“Oh? You mean this? You mean Corvan’s little flourish?”
“I care not whose ‘flourish’ it is, Lord Valerius. Cease it.”
“Is this not, pray tell, a common affectation amongst our peers now?”
Elian stared at him, attempting to discern if the remark was made in earnest or jest. His nights had grown shorter, the sleep less profound. A sure sign, he knew, that his being was finally settling into a fragile comfort. Mornings, once dry and sluggish, now arrived with a strange, refreshing crispness. It was a welcome transformation—for in his mind, the gravest sins at eighteen were complacency and the indulgence of excessive slumber.
“Ah, by the King—”
His jaw clicked painfully as he cleansed his teeth. Ever since Master Corvan’s unexpected blow, his jaw made a faint grinding sound whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Beyond that lingering discomfort, this day felt, in its nascent hours, like a good day. Yet even in this newfound peace, sudden stings of irritation arose. The cause was invariably Master Corvan. Or, more precisely, the unpleasant incidents that stemmed from him. Most of those occurred within the academy grounds.
“Ah, yes. I saw Master Corvan last eve.” Ser Ren spoke, biting into a spiced pastry from a common vendor, the kind rumored to contain ground bone meal and lesser cuts of meat. Lord Kael, who had been playfully jabbing at Ren’s ankle and making mock dagger thrusts, suddenly perked up.
“By the Sun-King—that’s right! You remind me! I was entirely about to mention this. I heard whispers through the kitchens—you know Elder Silas, yes? Yes? That wandering libertine? I heard Corvan is residing at his estate.”
“Elder Silas? That oafish Silas from the lesser merchant houses?” Lord Valerius asked, rummaging through a silken pouch. When his hand emerged, it held two small, candied gems. And for some inexplicable reason, he offered one to Elian.
“…?” Elian stared at it, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. “What is this, my lord?”
He looked at Valerius with a silent question, but Valerius merely offered a slight nod, as if that simple gesture sufficed as explanation. The most vocal reaction came from Kael, whose pouch of confections had just been raided. “By the Abyss! I procured those! Why in the name of the Ancestors are you gorging on my provisions, you wretched curs?”
“Oh, as if you have never pilfered from mine, you gluttonous boar.” Ren made another mock dagger thrust at Kael’s throat. Kael instantly whirled, grabbing Ren’s collar, and swung a feigned punch at his face. Of course, he harbored no true intention of striking him. Such was the nature of their camaraderie. Elian ignored their puerile bickering and looked down at the candied gem in his hand. The wrapper depicted a small, halved citron. He peeled the delicate paper, placed the confection into his mouth, and lifted his head. “What do you think? The essence of initial infatuation?” Lord Valerius grinned.
“I have no particular fondness for citron, my lord.” Elian’s reply was not merely about the candy; it was his quiet assessment of Valerius’s jest. And more than anything, he found little amusement in the concept of ‘initial infatuation.’ That sticky, saccharine-bitter sensation clung to the back of his throat, stealing his appetite. In the end, he could not even finish the candy. He tossed it into a nearby refuse bin. “Oh, what a lamentable waste,” Valerius mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands.
Ignoring him, Elian reached into Kael’s abandoned pouch for a different candied gem. All of them, alas, were either citron or lime. Lime was the lesser of the two evils. He unwrapped one and placed it onto his tongue. “At any rate, Elder Silas, hmm? Sounds precisely like Corvan.”
“What, because they are both wantonly hedonistic?” Valerius’s words were sharp, cutting. Uncomfortable, Elian turned to look at him. Valerius sucked on his candied gem with an expressionless mien, twirling the slender stick between his lips. Elian pulled his own out of his mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong. Valerius, however, seemed utterly unconcerned. He tilted his candied gem in the air like a miniature blade, making random, jabbing motions.
“He dallies with his patrons—be they men or women, it matters little. And when he encounters someone suitable, he dispatches them directly to Corvan. It’s a full rotation, a circuit of casual liaisons. Engaging in shared affections, circulating among their particular coterie.”
“So Elder Silas is also given to such proclivities?” Lord Kael abruptly interjected. Whether he had concluded his playful skirmish with Ren or merely halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, Elian could not say. Kael rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing the newly acquired information.