A grand lecture hall, this silent expanse, housed near thirty souls.
Here, in Aethelburg’s heart, souls formed hierarchies, gathering into cloistered groups. Each had toiled here for some span, their lives taut, drawn to a breaking point. Tension, a cold, ever-present draft, permeated daily, making survival a delicate, treacherous dance.
For Elias, this constant, gnawing unease began at the tender age of twelve. He learned the cruel art of forming alliances, of navigating shifting loyalties. This balancing act had been his routine since, and he suspected, everyone else’s too.
A labyrinth of stone and shadow, a silent arena. That was the chamber of the Scribes Guild.
“Ah…”
His arm, stiff from poor circulation, tingled. Elias kneaded it, rubbing the chill from his bones. He pressed a fist lightly against his tightly wound stomach, letting out a weak, shallow breath. His gaze drifted over the slumped backs before him. Green chalkboards glowed with arcane symbols, their light reflecting off peach-hued napes. At the dais, Scribe Master Thorne, a stoic man whose face seemed carved from ancient stone, sat hunched. He perused a crumpled parchment, folded thrice. Apprentices, meanwhile, scratched away at assigned problems or, having surrendered entirely, were lost to the gentle pull of slumber.
“Awaken, you who court the slumber-debt,” the Scribe Master called out, his voice surprisingly robust as he turned another page of the parchment. It was the fifth period of study. Elias, grappling with the fifteenth problem, paused to scratch his head, a lone index finger tracing his temple. He set down his stylus, his eyes wandering to the vacant seats. Two in particular drew his eye, like moths to a guttering flame.
As expected, neither Kaelen nor Young Master Cygnus had graced the hall with their presence. They likely would not appear tomorrow, either. Not unless Kaelen suffered one of his unpredictable shifts in temper, or some new intrigue had blossomed betwixt the two of them. What that something might be, Elias could not fathom.
He lowered his gaze to the complex problems before him. His vision swam with the intricate strokes of the Old Tongue, runes of forgotten lore.
There was a time Elias believed he knew all there was to know of Kaelen. He had convinced himself he was the one who understood Kaelen best in this entire Guild chamber. He had taken perverse pride in that, even when comparing himself to Lord Caspian, who often held Kaelen’s ear closer than any.
In truth, that pride had been a bitter solace, helping him endure the sight of Caspian and Kaelen’s easy camaraderie. Deep within, Elias relished the quiet, secret knowledge that he held the true upper hand in deciphering Kaelen’s twisted heart.
Elias propped his chin on his hand. The sheer depravity of such a thought, that he was capable of harboring such dark conceits, filled him with self-disgust.
What would others think if they knew these thoughts swirled within his mind? The answer was a stark, chilling clarity. He would be cast down, pushed to the very bottom of the pyramid, occupying its widest, lowest plane. A pariah. A worm.
The thought sent a shiver through him. It was a terrifying prospect. This insidious desire, unique to a scheming acolyte, had to remain buried. Deep. So deep that not even the object of his fixation would sense its presence. Ultimately, Elias needed to hide it so well that even he, himself, forgot it ever existed.
Yet Kaelen had never troubled himself with such efforts. Everyone in the chamber knew the breadth of Kaelen’s desires. Kaelen wore his cruelty like a gilded cloak.
Elias glanced about, lifting his head but a fraction. Everyone remained hunched over their desks, lost in their own squalid thoughts or feigned industry. Pressing his lips tightly, Elias looked forward.
Lying forlornly between the rows of desks was a dusty treatise, its cover scuffed with what looked alarmingly like the imprint of a boot. A discarded thing. A forgotten thing.
Suddenly, as if someone might have noticed his prolonged stare, Elias buried his head in his arms, mimicking the slumped forms around him.
Then he turned his neck, altering the angle of his view. His gaze fell upon the back row. There, a face lay partially obscured by an arm, as if the owner had collapsed mid-slumber. The face looked delicate and sorrowful, almost as if it belonged to the dead.
“...”
Elias found himself staring at Lord Caspian’s face. His eyes then drifted to Caspian’s arm. Had the already towering Caspian grown even more? The Guild tunic that had fit him perfectly at the start of the season now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one of those wrists was a heavy chain of dark, polished beads—a Chain of Seraphim, a clear mark of his devotion to the Celestial Order. It was a visible, unmistakable symbol, an integral part of Caspian’s formidable identity.
Before whispers reached Elias, he had assumed Caspian hailed from the Outer Marches, the same desolate area as Young Master Cygnus.
Despite his intimidating aura, Caspian did not appear overly wealthy in his demeanor. His sunken eyes were always shadowed by his heavy lids, and his faded irises gave him a perpetually haunted look. The way his thin sclera showed beneath his pupils added to his sharp, gaunt appearance. Caspian’s overall atmosphere was one of grim intimidation, though it lacked the refined opulence usually associated with the city’s true elite. Instead, his face seemed etched with a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a kind of melancholic heaviness. Combined with his immense build—he was undoubtedly the tallest acolyte in the Guild—it made him doubly imposing.
Fortunately, unlike Kaelen, Caspian’s sharp features possessed a classically handsome symmetry. Without that, Elias mused, people might have actively fled his presence. Even so, Caspian’s face was unsettling, intimidating, and vibrant with a strange, nervous energy.
Yet Caspian’s personality could not have been more different.
It wasn’t merely that he seemed indifferent to all things; it was as if he actively expunged events from his memory, whether by will or by some other, deeper faculty. He carried an air of “detached ownership of naught,” a trait that ironically added to his mystique.
Most notably, Caspian held little regard for wealth. He never noted how much others spent or how much they sought. If the mood struck him, he would casually toss coin to someone nearby without a second thought, as if the concept of currency held no meaning. Sometimes he lent gold and forgot about it entirely. There were even tales of acolytes returning borrowed sums only for Caspian to ask, puzzled, why they tendered payment.
Still, he did not lend coin to just anyone. He would indulge random requests when in a good humor but coldly refuse those truly desperate, those truly in need.
Even with friends, Caspian could be harsh. Elias once heard a story of how Master Alaric, upon seeing Caspian’s prized Sky-Chariot—a vehicle he rarely displayed—eagerly tried to leap onto the rear perch without permission. Caspian, without a word, pushed him off, sending him sprawling on the cobbled street like a startled beetle.
At the apex of the social hierarchy, figures like Caspian and Kaelen shared one common trait: a complete disregard for others’ opinions. This utter indifference, in its own way, was the very key that allowed them to perch at the pyramid’s peak.
Why did they, with their own hands, grant the keys to their world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how long Elias pondered, he still could not comprehend.
And yet, Lord Caspian called himself a devout follower of the Celestial Order.
He was the type of scion who slept with a tome of Aethelburg’s old scriptures beneath his head, yet he still laid claim to its teachings. He did not imbibe spirits, nor smoke the pungent pipe-leaf, nor consort with harlots. He did not steal or extort coin from other acolytes. Yet the doctrine he claimed to follow was flawed—anyone could discern that from the strictures regarding pleasure alone. Elias had heard that the Celestial Order permitted moderate enjoyment of such things.
They said the Order viewed the unnatural affections as a grave sin. Was that why Kaelen’s proclivities disgusted Lord Caspian so profoundly? Elias licked his dry lips, the taste of parchment and dust on his tongue.
He felt a strange, cold relief that he had not been exposed. If he had been, he would have ended up like that trampled treatise, lying forgotten on the floor. And yet, even in that bleak moment, he wondered—if Kaelen and he had remained close, as they were but a few cycles ago, would Kaelen have offered him protection?
The thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories he desperately wished to inter. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the thin gruel he’d eaten earlier threatened to return.
No, of course not.
How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to believe Kaelen would. To Kaelen, Elias was nothing. A mere convenience, a high-minded acolyte to pass the long hours of study. Elias knew this now, because of the way Kaelen had looked at him when he had beaten him to the ground. His eyes spoke volumes. Elias had not wanted to know the truth, but it had been staring him in the face, undeniable.
Kaelen sinned openly. Elias, too, was a sinner—but he hid it. And so, Kaelen was punished by whatever gods held sway, whilst Elias was spared. For now.
A faint, dry laugh escaped his lips, so soft it was only audible to himself, a rustle of brittle leaves.
“...So, as long as I remain un-caught, that is all that matters.”
Perhaps the gods possessed a personality akin to Lord Caspian’s.
Elias’s gaze shifted to the desk near the Scribe Master’s dais. This was unusual, but today, he felt a pang of pity for Young Master Cygnus. Poor soul, caught in the clutches of that devil Kaelen. Cygnus lacked the strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Cygnus, unlike the towering figure of his family’s reputation. He should have fled the moment Elias had warned him, fool.
Elias knew he was no good person. He was selfish and self-serving, and that was why he had been punished, perhaps. Sometimes, he even thought this: If one must find comfort in another man, why not pick someone sly and deceitful like him? At least then life would be simpler, less prone to such brutal awakenings. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering for it?
These days, Elias thought differently.
Aye. Of course, no one could ever love someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise. No, not love. Not true affection. Perhaps, convenience. Perhaps, use.
There was a time when he thought he could have it all. Arrogant, conceited Elias Thorne. Elias Thorne, who believed he understood the world at eighteen cycles. Wicked, vile Elias Thorne. Pitiful Elias Thorne, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone.
That day, Elias could not conquer the fifteenth question. He used his supposed lingering malaise as an excuse to lie slumped over his desk, thinking to himself: Well, at least I am not as ruined as Kaelen or Young Master Cygnus.
Whispers about Kaelen and Cygnus spread like wildfire through the Guild halls. Whether they were exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to ascertain, either. Kaelen’s usual coterie had vanished from the Guild, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances, inadvertently fueling the whispers even further.
“Apprentice Thorne, forgive me, but who amongst your peers was closest to Kaelen?”
“Kaelen… No. Lord Caspian.”
Elias overheard this as he passed by on his way back to the Grand Lecture Hall before dismissal. The Scribe Master had inquired, and one of his classmates had answered. Pretending he hadn’t heard, Elias walked into the room. The Master glanced nervously betwixt Elias and the empty seats, drumming his fingers against the dais. Then, as if surrendering some unspoken thought, he announced:
“Let us conclude.”
The moment dismissal was announced, Elias grabbed his satchel. As he slung it over his shoulder, Lord Caspian tapped him lightly on the back. A touch like ice.
“Elias. Let us pursue some distraction after our duties.”
Elias looked at Caspian’s impassive face. He knew. He had always watched Kaelen and Caspian’s every move, so he knew that the person Caspian most frequently invited to such pursuits was always Kaelen. After a brief pause, Elias waved him off.
“Cannot. I have cipher duties.”
“And after that, then?”
“Further studies. Go, find distraction with one of your closer companions.”
“Nay.”
“Why not?”
“Clinging to the lesser souls merely drags one down.”
“They are your companions.”
“Life is but a calculus of gain. To cling to dross only ruins one’s own ascent.”
“Ha.”
Elias let out a short, hollow laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. Aye. This was why he had been able to endure Caspian’s presence better than expected. Their twisted values, it seemed, aligned in strange, disquieting ways.
“So, Master Alaric, Apprentice Lyra—they are dross? Even Scribe Renwick?”
“If you posit it thus, then aye, largely so. But you, Elias, are different.”
The backhanded compliment left Elias feeling cold, exposed. “What is that meant to signify? You are odious.”
“Nay, I am not.”
“You are utterly odious.”
“Hmm. It is enshrined in the precepts of the Celestial Order. ‘Thou shalt not lie.’ I am merely being honest, Elias.”
Honestly, Caspian was worse than Elias. At least Elias did not blatantly treat his lesser companions like refuse.
“That is why I am a righteous soul.”
“...Verily.”
“Since I am such a righteous soul, may I accompany you to your dwelling?”
Lord Caspian blinked twice, his eyes like ancient, grey stones. Elias looked at his face for a moment, then gave a curt nod.
“Aye, why not.”
As long as he did not interfere with Elias’s own clandestine designs, there was no reason to refuse. To secure one’s precarious place in the Guild hierarchy, one must make allies where one could. Even monstrous ones.