The Collegium itself seemed to hold its breath. A profound hush, like the quietude of a tomb long plundered, had fallen over the Grand Scriptorium. Valerius, scion of a once-proud house, was not literally deceased, yet the man known by that name had perished. His reputation, already tattered, lay utterly undone. The ancient halls of Aethelburg echoed with a silent clamor, the subtle discord of shifted power. Where hours past, the air had hummed with the soft scrape of quill on parchment, now only the settling dust motes danced in the gloom, disturbed by countless restless feet.
Then, a piercing shriek from the Collegium’s highest spire rent the air—a failed clockwork chime, sharp as splintered bone. Every apprentice, every novice, every acolyte, turned as one to the tall, leaded windows. Their eyes, dull as worn brass, huddled together, a morbid congregation. A low murmur, a tide of hushed voices, crept from chamber to chamber.
“What foulness unfolds?”
“Know ye not? Fool, a confrontation in the Anathema Archives.”
“By the Great Artificer! Who? What?”
“Valerius, of course. And Corvus.”
“Impossible! How did I miss such a spectacle?”
We were apprentices, still caught betwixt the heedless abandon of youth and the grasping ambition of adulthood. The delicate veneer of self-importance crumbled easily, revealing raw, violent passions beneath. Such a response, Elias knew, was only natural. A perverse fascination, a hunger for disruption.
“Did not those two once share common cause? How came they to blows?”
“Have you not heard the latest whispers concerning Valerius?”
Our own Scriptorium was a crucible of reactions: some thrilling in the sudden surge of fresh gossip, others feigning humble acceptance of another's downfall, and a few, like Elias, savoring a strange, quiet vindication. Below, a Guild Healer’s Coach, its brass automatons ticking faintly, waited by the main gates. For the next half-hour, the Collegium’s grandest scandal centered on the identities of those who necessitated its summons. Rumors, Elias mused, spread swifter than contagion through the five-story, labyrinthine corridors of our cloistered institution.
Who, then, had truly prevailed?
Those who gleaned the truth of the incident felt no pity for the two apprentices carried away by the Guild Healers, their injuries grievous enough to warrant the coach. Instead, they took grim satisfaction in the fulfillment of a small, strangely earnest wish harbored since the start of the session.
Corvus.
Battles such as these often lacked a clear victor. One-on-one skirmishes, especially, tended to be ambiguous. Yet, every twist and turn of this day’s confrontation favored Corvus. The carefully cultivated rumors, planted weeks prior, had ensured Valerius’s utter ruin.
In the shadowed passages of the Collegium, the whispers coalesced into accusations:
“Valerius, they say, was dabbling in forbidden scrying.”
“What? He was lauded for his purity of spirit!”
“A falsity! All for show. He sought to peer beyond the Veil, to steal glimpses of the Etherscape. That’s why his scrolls were deemed anathema, why he was stripped of his protections. Terrifying, truly. And his family, wealthy as they are, believed they could merely purchase absolution. Foul deeds, by the Artificer’s grace.”
“By the Mother of Spindles! I never thought Valerius capable of such dark ambition. A true desecrator, it seems.”
“Hee-hee. I wish I possessed such audacity. Even a blasphemer might find a way to circumvent the Guild laws, given enough coin. Will we not soon travel to the Outer Districts for the Grand Observance? Perhaps we might slip away during free time, seek out a hidden seer?”
The conversation drifted from Valerius to the allure of illicit knowledge in the Outer Districts. Yet, in that brief exchange, Valerius’s honor was not merely tarnished, but irrevocably murdered. This act of spiritual execution multiplied with every apprentice who listened, who nodded, who believed.
After his fall at Corvus’s hands, Valerius became a mere wraith, as if everyone had been secretly awaiting his demise.
The Scriptorium hung in a fragile balance, a contest betwixt seething passion and forced calm. Eyes flickered, like the pendulum of a broken clock, between the hushed corners and the entrance. The back of the chamber, where the scuffle had briefly spilled, still bore a dark, damp stain. It must have dried by now, but Elias felt as though if he pressed a finger to it, spectral blood would seep forth.
The timid Magister Hallow, who looked ready to weep at the very mention of such violence, surprised all with her reaction. The next period was scheduled for quiet contemplation. The chamber, once abuzz with this hot topic, chilled instantly upon her arrival. As she stepped through the archway, she hurled a heavy vellum scroll to the polished floor. It shattered into fragments of aged parchment, and from her throat ripped a high-pitched scream, sharp enough to cleave the very air.
“What in the Etherscape possesses you all! You, you, you wretched children! Do you deem me a jester? Why do you live your lives in such base squalor? Cease this! Cease this, I command! Why do you make such din during contemplation time! Is this the hour for idle chatter? Next cycle, you will be Acolytes! Acolytes! Please, I implore you, heed my words and cease this endless discord! Do you know I bear responsibility for every one of your reckless acts! I should never have sought position in this Collegium of untested boys. I never desired such a posting. I feel my sanity fraying. If you continue in this manner, your lives shall be naught but dust and regret, can you not perceive this? Do you not feel shame before your venerable houses? And how many times must I bid you silence during contemplation!”
Most sensible individuals, upon witnessing such a timid soul suddenly erupt, would clamp their mouths shut. But this was an institution solely for young men, a place crowded with all manner of wanting figures. Some defied common sense, some had not outgrown the pathetic humors of their rawest years, and some, though they studied the same arcane texts, were so dim-witted they committed acts of profound idiocy. Our Scriptorium was precisely such a place.
“Eh, eh—Magister rages. Rages! Do not rage!”
“It amuses when the Magister loses her composure.”
Someone seated at the very back, by the shadowed recess, spoke, and the apprentice two seats ahead of Elias whispered low.
“You impudent wretch! What? Do you deem me a jester?! You, step forth. Approach the dais!”
“Nay—Magister, why such vehemence?”
“I bade you step forth, you scoundrel!”
The Magister flung a heavy ledger. It spun betwixt the desks, struck the gilded corner of a lectern in the third row, then clattered to the floor. The ledger, losing its furious momentum, landed with a resonant thud.
“My apologies. I shall not repeat the offense. Forgive me, if you please.”
He smirked, utterly devoid of remorse. It was always some mediocre punk, neither celebrated nor utterly disdained, who pulled such stunts. The slovenly ones acted out, displaying a false bravado. But only they failed to see that this bluff was the clumsiest, most pathetic charade imaginable.
“Step forth. Or must I come to you?”
“Ah, Magister! Is not that beyond measure! Truly!”
“Silence!”
“Hold your tongue, the Magister bids you to the front.”
Elias could endure it no longer. His voice, though low, carried a quiet steel. The eyes of the Scriptorium turned to him, but he cared not, taking in the pathetic scene. Honestly, it was so ridiculous, Elias nearly scoffed aloud. He quite relished such predicaments.
He was no brawler, nor did he feign the part of a street tough, but the reason he occupied a position of quiet, if unacknowledged, authority in this academic jungle was because he fed upon such fools.
“Hark, Theron. Why such sudden solemnity from you?”
“It is you who misjudges the current.”
Of course, this had not transpired overnight. During the hierarchy-setting rituals of the first year, there had been some resistance, but now it was as pleasant as a spiral of silence, a quiet understanding.
“Aye. Cease your din and depart. Ah, truly, can you not perceive the gravity of this moment? Do you not see?”
“If you are truly contrite, then begone. Because of your insolence, we all suffer the consequences. You witless lout.”
“Ah, what is his affliction? Truly. What is his purpose?”
Elias heard Theron mutter beneath his breath until the end. The confident smirk he had worn while baiting the Magister gradually faded, like a dying ember. Under the silent pressure of the entire Scriptorium, he finally stood and shuffled to the dais. Look at him now, a dead rat, caught in a snare.
Elias allowed a faint, twisted smile to touch his lips, unseen. Valerius had fallen. And nothing, he realized, could bring him greater satisfaction. Perhaps it stemmed from the memory of Valerius’s dismissive sneer, his casual derision of Elias’s humble origins.
No, Elias was certain. He felt a profound sense of vindication. Honestly, he was a little surprised by the intensity of his own reaction. And he felt that electrifying thrill, as the power, subtle and unseen, flowed back into his grasp.
“Out into the hallway, this instant!”
“....”
After casting the noisy fool from the Scriptorium, Magister Hallow placed one hand on the dais, silently battling her anger for a time. Perhaps she had collected her thoughts, for it was fortunate in many ways that her tone softened considerably. She then announced she would summon each apprentice, one by one, to ascertain the true events.
“I promise I shall keep your confidences. So please, speak the truth. Do not disappoint me further. Please, I beg of you.”
She seemed resolute in seeking an unbiased account, but as a female Magister, she still did not appear to grasp the ruthless pyramid of the all-male Collegium. Once contemplation time ended, and the Magister—her face still flushed—finished catching her breath and departed, Prefect Lysander sealed the windows and the Scriptorium door, delivering a chilling warning to all.
“Hark, all of you. Guard your tongues. Make the correct judgment concerning who shall hold sway here—Corvus, or that blighted scryer.”
“Valerius struck the first blow. You comprehend, do you not?”
Theron, surprisingly, chimed in. Such admirable loyalty, Elias noted with a cynical internal curl, from one so recently chastised.
Less than a cycle later, Corvus returned to the Collegium.
Corvus swaggered back, his jaw swollen and bruised a livid blue. His nose must have been torn, for a square bandage, secured by layers of fine tape, adorned it. In stark contrast to his wretched countenance, however, the aura radiating from him was more imposing, more arrogant, than ever before. He grinned wide, then tapped his now perfectly reattached canine with an index finger. Elias offered a faint, internal chuckle in return.
Directly after the altercation, Corvus had casually risen to his feet and walked into the Guild Healer’s Coach of his own accord. It was bizarre, yet executed with a flamboyant, attention-grabbing flourish that dominated all discourse for days. Elias hurried after him. And just before Corvus climbed into the coach, Elias handed him a small, unmarked phial.
“This is yours. Claim it fell during the struggle, and declare you might contract a spectral blight if the wounds are not cleansed with a potent alkahest.”
In that moment, Corvus wiped his face with his left hand and looked at Elias. But the blood, already dried stiff, would not come away. Honestly, seeing half his face caked in crimson, dried to a rusty hue, was not a pleasant sight. Elias’s focus was on how Corvus’s unusually small pupils were locked onto Elias’s hand. In that gory state, Corvus spoke, his voice a low rumble, and Elias strained to listen, caught off guard.
“...I shall send for you.”
His hand, crusted with dried blood, brushed Elias’s cheek. It was an abrupt, unsettling gesture.
“...Eh?”
All Elias could do was stand there, dumbfounded.
Soon after, Corvus sent a coded missive, stating that most of the nerves were still viable, and the Guild Healers had managed to reattach everything. And as soon as he returned to the Collegium, Corvus took the seat next to Elias’s. When Elias’s original seatmate appeared, Corvus, without even glancing at him, merely gestured with a thumb towards another empty chair. The other apprentice quietly retreated.
Before Elias realized it, that audacious apprentice was sitting beside him, tapping his shoulder twice with his index and middle fingers in quick succession. Then Corvus suddenly spoke, a low, conspiratorial murmur.
“Here is a gift.”
“What? What meaning has this, from nowhere?”
“Silence and open your hand.”
Elias set down his mechanical quill and opened his palm. At the same moment, Corvus carefully placed something upon it. Elias felt a crinkling sensation in the center of his hand that left him unsettled. When Corvus lifted his large hand from Elias’s, Elias saw one broken tooth, its root torn away, and another whose root remained fully intact.
What in the abyssal depths was this? Confused by the tooth’s strange yellowish end and the dark red stains clinging to it, Elias glanced at Corvus. Corvus leaned back against the chair, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face.
“I have ensured Valerius will masticate upon soft meats with a false tooth for the remainder of his blighted existence.”
Hee-hee-hee. Then Corvus twisted his shoulders, laughing as if genuinely amused—like a pure, uncorrupted child reveling in a simple game.
“Did you witness it?”
“...”
“I prevailed.”
This damnable apprentice.
The one displaying absolutely no remorse was Corvus. For a fleeting moment, Elias nearly hurled those teeth at the polished wall.
Corvus’s return caused another tremor through the Collegium. After all, he was the first main player to reappear; his face was not as battered as many had expected, and he showed none of the gloomy aura of a defeated man.
Whispers about who had truly won spread swiftly among the second-year apprentices. Most of those who truly knew the hidden currents were in our own year. For the first-year novices, the drama of the second-years remained a distant, intriguing spectacle, a macabre puppet show whose strings they could not yet discern.