Two cycles after Seraphiel’s lectern had been overturned, his meticulously transcribed cipher-scrolls were consigned to the furnace. Not the grand, Guild-appointed inferno, but a minor, ignoble brazier in the Academy’s refuse yard, its flames licking at the parchment. The delicate script, the intricate geometric patterns Seraphiel had so painstakingly rendered, turned to ash and smoke. It required little deciphering to identify the orchestrator. After a few clockwork chimes marking class periods, a young acolyte, one of Kaelen’s lesser retinue, preened with undisguised triumph. Later, whispers carried through the shadowed corridors, confirming his brazen boasts in the latrine chambers about purging Seraphiel’s entire archive. “A bold gesture,” Elias murmured, his voice a dry rasp in the cavernous silence of the Scriptorium. His gaze fell upon a tarnished bronze coffer, set precisely beside a waste conduit. Within its dented confines, the remnants of Seraphiel’s scholarly ambition mingled with the dross of the Academy. The coffer itself, its edges worn smooth by countless hands, held the silent testament to the struggle between Kaelen’s burgeoning influence and Seraphiel’s fading star. Two cycles prior, Seraphiel had been outmaneuvered, his defeat echoing without his conscious recognition. The motive, to Elias’s discerning intellect, was painfully clear. Initially, he’d dismissed it as mere academic spite, a common affliction among the aspiring Guild apprentices. Yet, a disquieting anomaly had begun to manifest. Even Seraphiel’s most steadfast study partners had noted the deepening pallor of his countenance, the erratic flicker in his eyes. It became increasingly evident that his animosity toward Orion, a scion of the Ascendant Guild, was not merely professional rivalry. The violent outbursts Seraphiel displayed, once dismissed as youthful fervor, now bespoke a profound, almost primal hatred. The truth solidified for Elias the moment he witnessed Seraphiel and Orion clash, their arcane energies sparking in the central quadrangle. Even as the tide of opinion turned against Seraphiel, twisting public perception like a broken compass, Elias felt no impulse to intervene, no prick of guilt to explain. He was no fool to jeopardize his own precarious standing in Aethelburg’s ruthless hierarchy. He knew with chilling clarity how any defense of Seraphiel would be construed. It might brand him as compassionate, even steadfast. But in this labyrinthine city, a place where more than thirty iterations of a man’s identity could exist simultaneously, even one of them would inevitably question. *Why?* That chilling query, like a sliver of ice in his mind, often brought him to a halt. Elias rested his brow against the cool, worn wood of his study desk, his eyes seeking the temporary oblivion of slumber. He wished, for a fleeting moment, that upon awakening, the world would conform to his precise will. The threshold of sleep beckoned. Had he been left undisturbed, he would have surely drifted into its welcoming depths. But a sharp rap against his crown jolted him back to the waking world. He sat upright, rubbing the offended spot, to see Kaelen likewise massaging his forehead, a faint frown creasing his brow. “By the Architect’s mercy, that stung.” “Why do you seek the realm of dreams in the cycle’s first light?” Kaelen’s voice, a low rumble, held a familiar undercurrent of amusement. “My pursuits are my own concern. And what, pray tell, is that?” “This?” Kaelen grinned, a flash of white teeth in the perpetual twilight, and lifted the gnarled, obsidian-tipped staff he usually tucked beneath his arm. “A recent acquisition. Found it discarded in the Academy’s recycling vault, a relic of some forgotten alchemist, I surmise.” Elias’s lips thinned with irritation. Kaelen’s whims were as predictable as a faulty cog in a vast machine—unpredictable. The blow hadn’t been severe, yet Elias ran his fingers through his perpetually disheveled dark hair, worrying it might have become even more unruly. Kaelen, meanwhile, spun, nudging a stool with the toe of his boot, then dropped into it with practiced ease before it could topple. He tossed his satchel onto the desk, propping it as a makeshift pillow before slumping forward. “You rouse me from my rest only to embrace it yourself?” “A mere concern for your scholarly progress, Thorne. Lest you drowse through the Master’s lectures. My own scores are already beyond salvation, so my slumber is inconsequential.” “Blasphemy.” Elias twisted in his seat, a low grumble escaping him. Kaelen possessed an infuriating knack for provoking Elias’s sharpest retorts. He nudged Kaelen’s boot with his own, a flicker of genuine vexation in his eyes. Kaelen merely smirked. “Hark, is it permissible to strike a man of infirmity? You base cur.” The playful blend of sarcasm and mockery prompted Elias to scoff. This time, he kicked Kaelen’s staff. It swayed, threatening to fall, but Kaelen, without so much as lifting his head from his satchel, raised a hand and caught it, his grip surprisingly swift. Even with Elias’s interference, his face remained buried. He let out a silent chuckle, then spoke, his voice a low muffle. “I have been meaning to ask you something.” “What?” “That… wasn’t merely a stumble, was it?” *Confound it.* Was it so apparent? Elias touched the faint bruise along his jawline, a subtle discoloration he’d hoped to conceal beneath the shadows of the Scriptorium. He hesitated but a fraction of a second, brushing a hand over his face with an exaggerated nonchalance. “A minor misstep. A momentary lapse of focus.” “Hah.” Kaelen, still resting his chin upon his satchel, let out another soft, knowing chuckle. “Indeed?” His eyes, bright as polished emeralds, flicked open, fixing on Elias. He pointed a finger, as if singling him out for scrutiny. Elias, ever vigilant, failed to grasp his intent. “What is your meaning?” “You possess a most remarkable lack of shame.” As Kaelen smiled, leaning his staff against his shoulder, Elias felt a sudden disorienting blankness descend upon his thoughts. *What in the blazes is he implying?* “…Shameless in what regard?” “I apprehend that your ‘misstep’ was… not entirely unassisted.” “…” Kaelen’s words, often enigmatic, now carried a subtle, almost silken menace. His gaze, fixed on Elias, held an unnerving stillness. His bright irises, like twin lamps in the gloom, pierced through the dim light of the Scriptorium. Elias felt as though he were watching the precise trajectory of a bolt from a crossbow, attempting to anticipate its strike. And this time, it was aimed directly at him. His mind, usually a fortress of logical deduction, went utterly blank. Two words echoed, insistent and frantic: *Impossible. He could not have known. Impossible. He could not have known.* Then, Kaelen’s eyes narrowed, a predatory glint within them. “It bore the aspect of an impact, rather than a mere fall.” His long, serpentine eyes curved upward at the corners. Elias’s throat constricted. His breath hitched in his chest. A dry swallow. While Kaelen’s lips parted, Elias found himself unable to blink. “Should others learn of it, it would prove… most inconvenient, would it not?” “…” “I shall keep it secret.” Then, raising the hand that held his staff to his lips, Kaelen whispered the words, a conspiratorial wink following. The breath Elias had been holding, a tightly coiled serpent in his chest, slammed against his ribs. It was as if a great weight had been lifted, only to be replaced by a chilling uncertainty. Kaelen did not even await a reaction. This time, he casually ran a hand through his dark hair, then pointed a finger at Elias. “But tell me, have you perchance adopted my style of hair? It smacks of… mimicry.” Elias was speechless. Kaelen crinkled his nose, an exaggerated show of disapproval. “In any event, I shall now resume my repose.” He yawned, burying his face once more into his satchel. Staring at the back of Kaelen’s head, Elias finally managed to murmur, “I have not copied your fashion, nor have I sought the barber’s shears.” “Oh, indeed?” Kaelen’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his bag. — “By the Architect’s boundless grace, who forgives the folly of man.” Kaelen offered this rather unorthodox prayer, clutching his scroll of aptitude in one hand. The fourth cycle, as the lecture on the intricacies of Aethelburg’s esoteric thaumaturgy concluded, saw the distribution of our monthly performance appraisals. Kaelen buried his head in his unfurled scroll, scanned his abysmal marks, and then, with a dramatic flourish, uttered his petition. He then threw his head back, a sigh of profound despair escaping him. “Ah, I am utterly bereft.” Elias glanced at his own scroll, registered the expected high marks, then folded it precisely, tucking it into the inner pocket of his coat. When he looked back at Kaelen, the younger man was still lost in an operatic lament. Due to the extreme angle of his head, all Elias could perceive was the prominent knot of his Adam’s apple. It bobbed heavily, almost as if chiding Elias for his unseemly scrutiny. Fixing his gaze upon Kaelen’s throat, Elias spoke, “That invocation is not typically employed for such a purpose.” “Who cares for typicality? A prayer remains a prayer.” Then, Kaelen abruptly shifted, his eyes meeting Elias’s. “Hark, is it ‘Architect’ or ‘Grand Weaver’?” It was then that Elias recognized a peculiar facet of Kaelen’s being—his understanding of faith, or rather, his lack thereof, was truly singular. “Why do you ask me? It is your creed.” “My dear Thorne, do not be so reticent. You possess such a prodigious intellect; I presumed you knew all.” “I do not. Nor do I subscribe to any formal faith.” Kaelen, who had been leaning back as far as the stool would allow, suddenly shot forward. Their eyes met, and before Elias could think, he instinctively averted his gaze towards the stained glass depicting the city’s founding, pretending not to have been caught. But for some inexplicable reason, a sharp prickle, like a nascent magical discharge, flared in his chest, as if he’d been caught pilfering a forbidden text. He stared absently out the window, his focus then drifting to the stiff, perfectly starched collar of Kaelen’s tunic. The crisp, white linen rested against Kaelen’s neck, yet with every exaggerated gesture, the sharp line of his collarbone flashed into view. “So? Will you accompany me to the Guild Convocation this weekend?” “What? No.” “Ah, why not? Come along. Should one attend the weekend observances and the annual festival of the Eternal Flame, they dispense… provisions. Fruits, sweetened cakes, spiced meat skewers…” “Wait, do not tell me you frequent these gatherings solely for such spoils?” “Assuredly.” Elias finally met Kaelen’s gaze, his eyes snagging on the slender stylus Kaelen had somehow balanced upon his upper lip. At first, pride alone prevented Elias from admitting it, but in that precise moment, he had to acknowledge the inescapable truth—Kaelen possessed an undeniable, infuriating handsomeness. A smug, self-satisfied rogue. The stylus, wedged between his philtrum and his nose, lent a slurred, disgruntled quality to his voice. “Yet, by your tone, it sounds as if I am engaged in some illicit act. If they offer, what transgression is there in accepting?” “Can one truly claim faith if their belief is predicated on such… base motivations?” “Such is the genesis for all. Individuals do not commence with grand, immutable convictions. They think, ‘Ah, they proffer delectable sustenance. This benefactor must be benevolent.’ And then, by imperceptible degrees, their nascent faith in that ‘benevolent dispenser of treats’ blossoms into absolute conviction in the Grand Weaver, or the Architect, or whatever deity their Guild venerates. The origin and the process are inconsequential. What holds true is that now, I *believe*.” Kaelen spouted absurdities sometimes. Even Seraphiel had been ensnared by them on occasion. Sometimes, his words were pure nonsense, designed to simply irritate. But sometimes, it was the kind of cynical, pragmatic truth that even Elias found himself tempted by. This moment, undeniably, fell into the latter category. Elias ran a hand through his bangs, brushing them back from his forehead. But they possessed a stubborn will, falling back into his eyes, so this time, he shook his head from side to side. His thin strands of dark hair swayed before him. He gathered them near his temples, and finally, the persistent tickle lessened. He had been so engrossed by the recent machinations within the Guilds that he’d neglected his appearance. With Seraphiel and Orion absent, their customary places in the front rows of the Scriptorium remained conspicuously empty. There was no longer any reason for Elias to cast his gaze in that direction, no subtle academic jousting to observe. Six cycles ago, Master Elara, a senior Guild Archivist, had summoned Elias to her office, inquiring if he had heard from Seraphiel. Elias answered honestly, his voice devoid of tremor. “No, Master. He has not sought my company.” “You have not yet mended the rift with young Seraphiel, then?” Her tone was laced with a subtle probing. Elias offered a small, bitter smile, a precisely calculated gesture. In truth, he felt no inclination to smile whatsoever. “No, Master. Seraphiel… he grew vexed with me.” “Seraphiel grew vexed with *you*?” Her brow furrowed, a flicker of surprise in her aged eyes. “Aye.” Rumors, like miasma, already pervaded the Academy. It was not as if Master Elara was entirely oblivious to the implications of Elias’s carefully chosen words. “Very well, I comprehend,” she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. Then, as she settled into her chair, Elias caught a low murmur of her voice, a self-pitying monologue. From the snippets he gleaned, it was mostly grievances concerning Seraphiel and the stern reprimand she had received from Elder Seraphiel, the young man’s father. Elias feigned deafness to the pathetic soliloquy, turning to leave, yet his senses remained acutely attuned. Thus, he absorbed the precise atmosphere within the Archivist’s sanctum. Later, after the Guild-hall’s great clock had chimed the closing hour, while Elias prepared for his private lessons at his family’s modest dwelling, Elder Seraphiel himself called. He posed the identical query as Master Elara—if Elias knew of his son’s whereabouts. Elias gave him the same, practiced response. “No, Elder. Seraphiel has ceased all communication with me.” “—I see…” “I lament that I am unable to offer any assistance.” “—Nay, there is naught for you to apologize for. It is well.” Of late, Elder Seraphiel had been calling with increasing frequency. And each time, the conversation unfolded in the precise same manner. There was something oddly deliberate about his persistent attempts to forge a connection between his missing son and Elias. Elias, sensing the undercurrents, hastened to terminate the communication. Honestly, there was nothing for him to truly apologize for. Yet he offered the words of contrition regardless—to be favored. It was the same ingrained instinct that compelled citizens to praise the aesthetic merits of a Guild Master’s unsightly newborn. A form of social artifice. An ingrained etiquette that governed the complex dance of Aethelburg’s civilized society. Thus, he knew, adults did not perceive him as a pawn to be manipulated. If anything, his politeness was more akin to a crude pantomime, performed by a shrewd court jester. Elias always understood his place within the grand theater. And since he expended such careful effort to be liked, he was destined to become a favored jester. Even if, one day, he committed an error so egregious it caused the audience’s brows to furrow in consternation, they would, in all likelihood, grant him clemency. This was the intricate groundwork he so diligently laid. Unlike some hapless idiot, he navigated the treacherous currents of his existence with an almost preternatural astuteness. Perhaps, from the lofty vantage of a Guild Elder, his strategic mind was nothing more than a narrow, petty ploy to evade consequence. But among his peers, it was an undeniable truth—Elias Thorne was a youth who knew precisely how to manage unforeseen adversities with cunning wisdom. Should proof be required, one need only observe Lysander. — Lysander, once the most fervent of Seraphiel’s companions, now exhibited a desperate urgency to curry Kaelen’s favor. Because of this, he also extended an almost obsequious friendliness toward Elias. For in the eyes of others, Elias had already, subtly and effectively, aligned himself with Kaelen’s ascendant influence early on.

Of Cogs and Ciphers