Elias felt the phantom weight of Corvus's hand on his wrist. His gratitude had been a lie, a thin veneer over something sharp. A subtle puckering of lips, a fleeting gesture of a thrown kiss, had been Corvus's farewell. Elias only tore at the hardtack biscuit on his desk, mind replaying the scene. A nervous tremor resonated in his leg, a raw, unbidden response, like a novice arcanist grappling with an unstable spell. What to make of it? He could not articulate the sensation.
Biscuit forgotten, a crystallized ginger-root lozenge now nestled on his tongue, Elias wrestled with the unease Corvus evoked. The source was clear, though he fought its admission. A cold mist clung to his thoughts, intangible yet omnipresent.
Is Corvus truly entangled with Artemus? Artemus, whose reputation preceded him like a foul scent – a creature of the Undercity's lowest haunts, a purveyor of illicit alchemical brews, a whisper of dark favors exchanged. Such a path seemed inevitable for many, for those like the lesser apprentices who haunted the Guild Collegium's fringes, their futures already mapped out in the dirt. Elias considered the various faces, the dull eyes, the desperate ambition. Their lives, Artemus's, these anonymous faces – all seemed to blur into a single, bleak trajectory.
“Who pilfered my spiced wafers? Pay up, you scoundrels!”
A junior archivist, Elara, shrieked from across the Lecture Hall. Her voice cut through the hushed tones of study. Others, heads bent over ancient codices, merely flinched. Another apprentice, Finnian, lunged at Elara's arm.
“The coin you owe me would buy a hundred measures of powdered moonstone, you wretch.”
“My wafers!”
The far corner of the hall devolved into a chaos of shouts and scuffles. Finnian and Elara wrestled, heedless of the glares from the Master Scribes at the front. Displeasure rippled through the diligent scholars.
A soft exhalation drew Elias's gaze. Corvus. He sat several benches away, eyes meeting Elias's across the bustling hall. A silent acknowledgement passed between them. Corvus extended a hand, slowly. Elias watched, mesmerized by the elegant curve of his fingers, the manicured nails, the subtle gleam of a signet ring. A snake, coiling. Corvus's long digits wrapped around the white stick protruding from Elias’s lips.
He tugged gently. The sweetened mass, slick with saliva, slid against Elias’s tongue, a warm friction against his lips. Then, with a sudden pop, it was gone.
“A small pleasure, for me.” Corvus's voice was a low murmur, barely audible over the distant squabble.
He licked his lips, slow and deliberate, a glint in his eye. Then, a soft laugh. “Why such a face?”
A tremor ran through Elias. He pressed his lips together, a dry chasm. “Unclean.”
“Don't you know, Elias? The exchange of humours boosts the body's resilience. An ancient wisdom.”
“It's repulsive.” Elias's jaw clenched.
Corvus shrugged, a languid arch of his back. His hand settled on his thigh, brushing against his knee. Elias curled his fingers, hiding them in his palm. He knew, he knew he was a fool, a spineless scholar.
Corvus, skewed in his seat, swallowed the lozenge with a faint click. “You despise ginger, I recall?”
He sucked, a faint whistling sound between his lips. Corvus, in this moment, seemed an ordinary apprentice.
“That was spiced orange.”
“Ah. Then it matters not. I favor spiced orange.”
Corvus licked the candied lozenge, his movements annoyingly precise, undeniably skilled. A slow, infuriating consumption of something he hadn't earned.
---
Another day waned. The Collegium, a skeletal construct of gears and shadow, braced for the deeper chill of Aethelburg's approaching winter. The sky, a perfect, polished cobalt, felt heavier, sharper with each passing hour. Master Proctors spoke of impending trials, of duties owed to the Guilds. Apprentices, even the most indolent, sensed a gravitas in the air. Yet, exceptions always lingered.
Valerius, the disgraced scion of a minor Guild House, along with the street-found apprentices — Kael, Derrin, Lys — these were the outcasts. Excluded from the circles of 'model scholars', they were but discardable cogs, meant to define the majority's ascent. With time, the Proctors' interest in their wanderings faded, their punishments softened. Valerius, however, had patrons, though minor, which made his indiscretions a persistent nuisance.
Truly, the most pitiable was Finn. If not for his entanglement with Valerius, he might have apprenticed within a respectable Guild, his name etched into a ledger he wouldn't shy from. Or, if his grandmother hadn't been seized by the insidious withering blight.
Elias chose to ignore the margins, the shadows outside his carefully defined square. It was the only way to survive, to preserve his own precarious existence within Aethelburg's unforgiving structure.
So he lived, until the day the inevitable manifested. Every potential calamity finds its moment. And Valerius, the fool, had a talent for accelerating fate without a single coherent design.
Valerius returned to the Lecture Hall.
---
Elias clicked his tongue, a soft, almost inaudible sound. Valerius lay slumped over a study desk near the Proctors' lectern, clearly visible through the half-closed door. His father, a lesser Guild Master, must have finally dragged him back. Twenty days. Almost three weeks he'd been missing, only to surface now. If one was to disappear, why linger within the city's labyrinthine alleys, practically begging to be found?
Elias tapped a finger against the worn wood of the doorframe. Entering felt... improper.
His gaze snagged on the back of Valerius's head, where a few stiff, dark strands of hair stood rebelliously. He remembered a time, long past, when he might have smoothed them down, a casual, almost paternal gesture. The memory felt distant, blurred by the city's perpetual haze. He let it go, turning instead toward the winding stairwell leading to the lower archives. Encountering Valerius alone, away from the prying eyes of the Collegium, promised nothing but ill consequence.
The Collegium was a hive of whispers. Even a simple exchange of words with Valerius would ignite gossip, blossoming into wild tales of secret pacts and clandestine dealings. The worst outcome, of course, involved a fist. The thought of Valerius's heavy hand, humiliating.
Valerius ignoring him was a slim chance. Elias was no fool to gamble on such odds. Eliminate the risk before it takes root. He descended to the first floor, lingering near the arcane conduit shafts, until the Collegium gates were near closing. Then, he melted into the torrent of returning students, reaching his study alcove with minutes to spare.
He strove to appear oblivious to the ripples Valerius's return created, or rather, to hide the significant interest festering within him. His carefully constructed facade usually held.
Yet, Valerius remained his greatest variable. Frustration coiled in Elias's gut, bitter and cold. Discomfort and anxiety, a growing tide, surged through his emotions, a phenomenon amplified, he realized, after Corvus had arrived at the Collegium.
Corvus, as if nothing were amiss, walked straight to Valerius. “Well met, Valerius. A long absence, eh?”
His tone, unnervingly convivial, shocked Elias. Curiosity, for a fleeting moment, eclipsed his dread. Corvus stood by Valerius’s desk, his satchel slung carelessly over one shoulder, a broad, unsettling smile pulling at his lips. Valerius merely nodded, offering no reply.
“Such a frigid welcome. What ails you?”
Corvus nudged Valerius's desk with the toe of his boot. An inappropriate gesture, Elias thought, given Corvus's hand in Valerius's fall from grace within the Collegium's delicate social order. But Elias forced his gaze back to his own lesson scroll, attempting to focus on the 'real' problems before him. His efforts, however, splintered as Proctor Kaelen entered for the morning roll call.
Proctor Kaelen seemed genuinely relieved by Valerius's return, yet a clear shadow of guilt crossed his face as he murmured, “Finn is still absent today.”
A quiet lament, implying more than the words conveyed. He concluded the roll, tapping the attendance slate on his desk.
The incident unfurled with startling swiftness. Valerius rummaged through his desk drawer, grimacing at the grimy state of his lesson scrolls. At the same moment, two apprentices, whose own scrolls were kept in the Collegium lockers, rose, seeking theirs. Valerius's expression darkened further as they departed.
He rarely studied, so the absence of scrolls probably mattered little. The true sting for Valerius, a creature of primal hierarchy, was the disappearance of items bearing his mark.
Every soul in the hall knew the truth. Yet, by unspoken pact, no one offered a single word. Not about who had discarded Valerius's scrolls, nor who had orchestrated it.
“Who?”
The moment everyone had unconsciously anticipated began with the end of the lesson.
“I asked, who?”
Valerius, hands jammed into the pockets of his Guild tunic, chin jutted forward, demanded an answer. Those who wished to avoid confrontation slipped from the hall. Others, drawn by morbid curiosity, merely watched. In that charged air, Corvus, holding a smudged, almost unidentifiable stylus, scribbled in a text and remarked, nonchalantly, “What seems to be the trouble?”
“Who?”
“What do you mean, 'who'? Speak clearly, Valerius, if you wish to be understood.”
The audacity was breathtaking, a brazen challenge.
“The fiend who jettisoned my lesson scrolls.”
Valerius, like a cornered beast, knew his scrolls hadn't simply vanished. Corvus's refusal to answer 'who' was an admission of complicity. Even a dullard would grasp this. Yet, Corvus continued to jest, feigning ignorance of the growing tension.
“Did you even possess scrolls? You were perpetually draped over your desk, lost to the dream-realm.”
Corvus laughed, a sound that grated. Valerius's patience snapped.
“Enough. Was it you, Elias?”
Elias stiffened. Of course. In this hall, any fool could see he would be implicated.
“No.” His voice, a thin thread.
“Come now, would our diligent scholar Elias truly desecrate his cherished codices so?” Corvus's words dripped with false sincerity.
“Corvus – confound it, why do you constantly interpose?”
“Interpose? If a comrade faces injustice, it is only right to offer aid.”
“What foul gibberish are you spouting, you imbecile?”
“Imbecile? A harsh judgment.”
“Cease your blathering. Who else could have so thoroughly poisoned the air in my absence, if not the two of you?” Valerius scoffed, his face twisting.
Corvus finally set his stylus down. A faint, irritating smirk still played on his lips. Valerius's face tightened with displeasure. Unable to contain his rage, Valerius snatched a nearby leather satchel and hurled it. It struck Elias squarely in the chest.
“Ah!”
It wasn't a heavy blow, startling more than painful, as it bounced from his ribcage to his knees. Elias frowned, watching the satchel clatter to the floor.
“This mad dog now hurls objects.” Corvus's voice, laced with sudden, cold annoyance, cut in before Elias could speak.
At that, Valerius slowly curved the corners of his mouth. “Ah, I see.”
The look of a predator who believed it had cornered its prey. What did he imagine he understood? Elias's brow remained furrowed, a knot of confusion.
“Corvus. Elias. You two are allied then?”
Elias was speechless, a wave of pure bewilderment washing over him, far exceeding his surprise at the missing scrolls. Corvus's playful smirk vanished, replaced by a rigid mask.
“Valerius, my apologies, but your words are so crudely formed I fail to apprehend their meaning.” Corvus, though he had clearly heard, cupped a hand to his ear, a blatant, dangerous mockery.
Elias, sensing the precipice, rose from his seat. Corvus, meanwhile, stuck his little finger into his ear, twisting it with feigned concentration, his eyes fixed on Valerius.