Lysander’s fist rose, a fleeting, blustering gesture, before Corvus’s palm landed with a sharp crack against his thigh. The nascent skirmish withered before it could bloom. Just like that, Lysander’s meager display of bravado dissolved into ignominious defeat. He yelped, a peculiar, high-pitched sound, as if a clockwork thrush had seized its own throat. Silas and Jareth barked with laughter, and Lysander, crimson-faced, spun on them, swinging a retaliatory punch at Jareth’s arm. “Oh, you find this amusing, do you? A jest at my expense?” he snarled. After that brief, discordant commotion, the three stormed from the Lecture Hall. Jareth, on the threshold, paused to offer me a casual wave. Possessing no cause to decline such a trivial courtesy, I returned it. Then, settling into my worn seat, I drew forth my gilded tome. My fingers had but just closed around the cool metal of my stylus when, before the first arcane cipher yielded its secrets, I lifted my gaze. It swept across the formidable, cubic blocks of dark stone that comprised the Scriptorium walls, ancient and unyielding. I lowered my head to the desk. The third problem presented a knot of tangled temporal equations. My stylus tapped a restless rhythm against the parchment when a sudden impulse made me look up. Beyond the arched, leaded panes of the great window, the gears of the city hummed, a low, ceaseless thrum beneath Aethelburg’s perpetual twilight. The air carried the metallic scent of ozone and the damp earth of the lower districts. The sky, a bruised velvet above the clockwork spires, held a promise of unseen stars. “A Guild Arcana observatory would be a sanctuary compared to this,” the old Scribe, Master Borin, had once grumbled, his voice like grinding cogs. “It’s a damned foundry floor. A forge. These novices, they must always assay their mettle first. By the mid-season, things quiet, a measure of peace descends. But until then? It’s nothing but petty feuds, displays of wit, testing the Scribes, striving to climb the wretched hierarchy. By the Architect, my head aches. And I must endure this travail anew with each cycle’s intake. Let us see… what are their birth-glyphs again?” Then, he would spread his palm, tracing the lines of fate with a calloused finger, muttering his divinations. “Serpent, Gryphon, Basilisk, Hydra, Wyrm, Sphinx, Drake, Chimera… Let us see, that means—” I mimicked the gesture, stretching my own hand, counting the joints on my slender fingers. The intricacies of Aethelburg’s natal glyphs were beyond my grasp without reference, so I abandoned the attempt. I flipped my hand, instead counting the prominent bones across its back. One, the first lunar cycle; three, the third; one, the next… then the fourth, the sixth, the ninth. The inexorable march of time, a constant. I had not conceived, in the early warmth of the brief summer, that the crisp air of the tenth lunar cycle would feel as fraught as the first. “These fledgling minds are naught but untamed beasts. Irrational, emotional, impulsive, witless.” I stared at the knobby bone of my middle finger, absently tapping the desk as if playing a silent clavichord. The raspy discourse of the Scribe, likely hoarse from the pervasive damp, droned on, punctuated by the sharp scrape of chalk on the obsidian slate. My gaze drifted to the vacant seat near the front of the hall. For an instant, I imagined the impression of a head on the desk—one side pressed deep, the other hovering, ephemeral. My fingers stilled their tapping. I turned my head. Corvus sat there, hunched over his runic cipher-book, his face half-buried in the pages. His eyes were narrowed to mere slits. He would fix his gaze upon a problem as if to devour its very essence, only to abruptly surrender, slumping forward, his forehead pressing against the aged vellum. I watched as his nose became somewhat flattened between the pages and his skull. Then, I turned away. “…Had I drifted off, then?” A faint disquiet settled upon me. I did not feel entirely lucid. I placed a small star beside problem three and moved on to the fourth. --- The midday meal in the Guild Mess Hall consisted of nutrient paste and a bitter, invigorating elixir. Corvus drained his elixir first, then abruptly posed a question. “Right, you’re second in the Lecture Hall, aren’t you?” “Huh? Yes.” “Then across the entire Guild Apprentices?” “Also second.” “By the Architect’s Eye.” “What?” “So the top scholar in our own hall is the very pinnacle of the Guild Apprentices?” “Did you not know? I have never attained first place in our hall, due to Seraphina.” “She’s even more relentlessly dedicated than you, is she not?” “Indeed. Her studies at the Academy of Aetheric Arts conclude at the first hour past midnight.” “Damnation. That’s relentless.” “She labours with considerable diligence.” I held no desire to prolong that discourse, so I scooped a spoonful of nutrient paste into my mouth and swallowed it whole. Fortunately, Corvus did not press further. He merely nodded. “Aaah—” The timing felt askew. The conversation had cleaved too abruptly. I debated whether to offer another remark. I abhorred awkward silences, so, without forethought, I blurted, “What of yourself? What is your rank?” …His chopstick hovered, suspended in the air. I found my gaze fixed upon his hand. He wielded his utensils with an uncommon grace, considering his usual comportment. If there was one skill Corvus performed with impeccable precision, it was this—holding chopsticks properly. “In the hall…” “Yes?” “Ninth.” “…What?” “Why do you regard me with such an expression?” I averted my gaze swiftly from his hands. Was he earnest? Not fabricating? I was so wholly taken aback that I almost vocalized the question, yet, blessedly, I managed to restrain myself. Damnation. That was a near thing. If I had erred and offended him, I would have had to contend with his volatile disposition. I hesitated. Would he prefer my praise? Or would he rather I feigned indifference, as if his rank were an anticipated outcome? My intellect, honed for navigating perilous social currents, swiftly weighed the optimal response. He seemed to hold his companions in meager esteem. Therefore, the latter course held less risk. “Hm. You perform better than I might have expected.” “What? Expected? How witless did you deem me?” “I did not deem you witless, it is simply… I thought you found the study of Ancient Glyphs challenging?” “Ancient Glyphs is the sole subject I struggle with. Only that.” “You do not even attend a special Academy for such studies.” “Not attending an Academy does not preclude my capacity for study. By the Architect, did you truly consider me an imbecile?” “No, no, not at all,” I quickly waved my hands. “It is impressive, however, considering your diligence without formal Academy instruction.” “…Truly?” “Yes. It is impressive.” For some obscure reason, Corvus abruptly began to mash his spoon into his nutrient paste. And—was he blushing? I caught a glimpse of the tips of his ears, faintly tinged with red. Now that I considered it, Artemus had ranked thirty-second. And that was only because there were others who performed with even less aptitude. Thirty-second out of thirty-six. Reflecting thus, I realized I had never truly paid heed to anything concerning Artemus beyond the incidents directly related to him. And with that realization, a cold dread seized me. I had been drowning in precisely the kind of pathetic, obsessive infatuation I once disdained. Meanwhile, Corvus, utterly oblivious to my existential crisis, had clearly absorbed a significant boost to his self-assurance. His tone was entirely altered now—brimming with self-congratulation. “Oh, right! You likely did not know—I excel at Guild Arcana.” “Indeed? How adept?” “Perfect score. I have never yielded a single point in Guild Arcana.” “Khhkk!” I choked. The instant he uttered those words, I spat a mouthful of elixir. Corvus scowled, yanking his tray away from me. “What in the Abyss? What manner of reaction is that?” “I merely… was not anticipating that.” “Is it truly so shocking?” He frowned, a slight pout to his lips. “Yes. My Ancient Glyphs score is abysmal, but no matter.” There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice. So I jested in return. “Perhaps you should attempt to peruse a scholarly tome once in a while.” “What are you speaking of? I am quite the lore-hound.” “A lore-hound? I have never witnessed you immersed in a tome.” “That is because I delve into forbidden scrolls in secret, at my chambers.” “Why in the blazes would you need to conceal such study?” Corvus’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of food into his mouth. Then, he casually pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something about that image unsettled me. I bit the inside of my cheek. Corvus met my eyes as he withdrew the spoon, then lowered his gaze and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to its very tip. “The Canticles of the Fleshweavers are still literature, Thorne.” That was assuredly a jest. The son of a Clockmaker. My face burned. To conceal it, I seized the crumpled napkin beside my tray and flung it at his countenance. It struck just below his long, narrow eyes and dropped harmlessly onto the table. One of his eyes twitched almost imperceptibly. Not that I harbored any true concern, but merely in case he truly felt aggrieved, I feigned a measure of remorse. “Do not utter such abominations. Especially within the Guild halls. It is utterly repulsive.” “Oh? You mean this? You mean Artemus’s… particular gesture?” “I care not whose gesture it is. Cease it at once.” “Is this not, like, a common trend among us now?” …I stared at him, attempting to discern if he was jesting or entirely serious. --- I had been sleeping less. That, at least, was a certain sign my body had found a precarious comfort. Mornings, once dry and sluggish, now felt strangely crisp, almost invigorating. It was a welcome shift—for in my mind, the gravest transgressions at eighteen were complacency and the languor of oversleeping. “Ah, damnation—” My jaw clicked with a painful protest as I brushed my teeth. Ever since Artemus had struck me, my jaw produced an odd, grinding sound whenever I opened my mouth too wide. Other than that singular affliction, this day held promise. But even in my newfound, fragile peace, there arose sudden, sharp moments of irritation. The cause was invariably Artemus. Or rather, the ripples of chaos that stemmed from his existence. Most of these incidents occurred within the Guild grounds. “Oh, right. I saw Artemus last night.” Thane spoke, biting into a convenience-stall gristle-bun, the kind rumored to contain ground clockwork parts and discarded street sweepings. Lysander, who had been mock-sparring with Thane’s ankle, making feigned knife-hand strikes, suddenly perked up. “Holy gears—that’s right! You just sparked my memory! I was utterly about to bring this up. I heard something through the grimy alleyways—you all know Master Volkov, yes? Yes? That wandering old patron? I heard Artemus is lodging at his demesne.” “Master Volkov? That addled old Keeper?” Corvus, rummaging through a stained cloth bag, asked with casual disinterest. When he withdrew his hand, he held two small, iridescent Lumina shards—hard candies. And for some inexplicable reason, he offered one to me. “…” I stared at it, utterly bewildered. “What… is this?” I regarded him with a questioning expression, but Corvus merely offered a slight nod, as if that alone served as ample explanation. Lysander, whose bag of meager provisions had been raided, reacted most vehemently. “By the Abyss! Those were mine! Why in the nine hells are you all devouring my provisions, you curs?” “Oh, as if you’ve never plundered mine, pig.” Thane made another feigned knife-hand strike at Lysander’s throat. Lysander instantly spun, seized Thane’s collar, and swung a mock punch at his face. Of course, he possessed no actual intention of striking him. That was simply the nature of their interactions. I ignored their foolish bickering and gazed down at the Lumina shard in my hand. Its wrapper depicted a small, golden-yellow citrus fruit, cleaved in half. I peeled the wrapper, popped the candy into my mouth, and lifted my head. “What do you think? The taste of first devotion?” Corvus grinned. “I dislike citrus.” My response was not merely concerning the candy—it was my blunt assessment of his jest, too. And more than anything, I found little amusement in the notion of first devotion. That sticky, bitter sensation clung to the back of my throat, an unwelcome intrusion. It curtailed my appetite. In the end, I could not even finish the candy. I tossed it into the refuse bin. “Oh no, such a deplorable waste,” Corvus mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, I reached into Lysander’s bag to seek a different Lumina shard. They were all citrus, either lemon or lime. Lime presented the lesser evil. I unwrapped one and placed it in my mouth. “Anyway, Master Volkov, eh? Sounds precisely like Artemus.” “What, because they both cultivate… clients?” Corvus’s words were sharp, cutting. Uncomfortable, I turned to regard him. He was sucking on his Lumina shard expressionlessly, twirling the white stick between his lips. I pulled my own from my mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong. Corvus did not appear to care. He tilted his Lumina shard in the air like a tiny blade and began to make random, jabbing motions. “He cultivates connections, doesn’t matter their station. And when he finds someone… pliable, he introduces them to Artemus. A grim exchange. Passing them around like currency, extracting their worth.” “So Master Volkov is… of that inclination too?” Lysander suddenly interjected. Whether he had concluded his playful skirmish with Thane or had simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, I could not tell. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing the dark implication of what he had just heard.

The Weight of Gold-Leaf