A vast chamber of polished obsidian and dark oak, this hushed expanse held perhaps thirty souls. Each acolyte, like a caged dragon, coiled with latent power and gnawing ambition.
Here, beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Scholarium of Veridian, hierarchies formed with the silent precision of a geomantic array. Every scholar within these walls had endured the crucible of eighteen demanding cycles, their nascent magical cores strained to their limits. Tension, a shimmering veil, draped the very air. Survival, a precarious feat of balance.
For Lysander, this subtle warfare began when he first comprehended the calculus of affiliation, at the tender age of twelve. This daily calibration of worth had become his ritual, a constant hum beneath his skin—and, he suspected, everyone else’s too.
A hallowed cube of arcane knowledge, concealing a spire of power. Such was the lecture hall, with its silent, watchful eighteen.
“Agh…”
His arm, cramped from hours of copying ancient script, tingled as he shook it. Lysander pressed a fist lightly against his stomach, a knot of unease tightening within him. A faint sigh escaped his lips. He lifted his gaze to the hunched backs before him: parchment-pale napes above the dark Scholarium robes.
At the lecturer’s plinth, the Somnus Lecturer, Master Elian, sat engrossed in a rumpled scroll, its arcane symbols folded into an indecipherable mess. Students around him either meticulously etched their own runic problems onto slate tablets or, defeated, slumped into shallow slumber.
“Rouse yourselves, you slumbering drakes,” Master Elian intoned, turning a page of his ancient text, his voice a low, resonant rumble.
Fifth period already. Lysander had wrestled with the fifteenth problem on forgotten conjuration sequences, his stylus paused mid-air. He scratched his temple, then laid the slender bone tool onto his desk. His eyes drifted to the empty seats, two in particular.
As anticipated, neither Elias Valerius nor Seraphina Cadwell had presented themselves for the lecture. They likely would not appear tomorrow either, unless Elias, with his unpredictable currents of raw magical energy, underwent one of his sudden shifts, or some new, unknown confluence of events had stirred between them.
Lysander lowered his gaze. The intricate, forgotten strokes of proto-Aethelian glyphs blurred before him.
There was a time he believed he knew everything about Elias Valerius. He had convinced himself he was the one who understood Elias best in this entire chamber, perhaps in the whole Scholarium. He had cultivated that pride, even when silently comparing himself to Kaelen Aethelian, who by all appearances was far closer to Elias.
In truth, that quiet, secret pride had been his ward against the bitter sight of Kaelen and Elias in easy discourse. Deep down, a cold ember glowed: the knowledge that he held the superior understanding of Elias’s true nature.
He propped his chin on a hand. The fact he harbored such insidious thoughts twisted his gut.
What would others think, if these currents of dark ambition swirled openly in his mind? The answer was chillingly clear. He would be relegated to the deepest stratum of the hierarchy, crushed beneath its widest, lowest plane. A terrifying prospect. This kind of veiled desire, unique to a scholar navigating the perilous currents of Aethel, had to remain concealed. Buried so deep, not even Elias himself would sense its presence. He needed to hide it so thoroughly, he sometimes wished he could forget it himself.
But Elias Valerius had never hidden his desires. Every acolyte in the Scholarium spoke of his ambitions in hushed whispers.
Lysander glanced around, a subtle movement of his head. Still, everyone remained hunched, engrossed or feigning it. He pressed his lips into a tight line, then looked forward.
Between the rows of desks, a dusty, leather-bound grimoire lay forlornly, its ancient cover marred by fresh boot prints.
Suddenly, as if a sudden prick of intuition had warned him, Lysander buried his head in his arms, mimicking the sleeping scholars.
He turned his neck slowly, shifting his gaze. It fell upon the back row. A face lay partially obscured by a draped arm, as though its owner had collapsed mid-study. The features appeared delicate, sorrowful, almost like a death mask.
Lysander stared at Kaelen Aethelian’s face. Then his gaze drifted to Kaelen’s arm. Had Kaelen, already a figure of imposing height, grown still further? The Scholarium tunic that had fit him perfectly at the start of the cycle now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one, a dark, braided cord, entwined with ancient, polished river stones, served as a personal warding amulet—a heavy, unmistakable symbol of his house and its potent, if archaic, practices.
Before hearing the hushed tales, Lysander had assumed Kaelen hailed from the Outer Reaches, the less affluent districts, perhaps the same as Seraphina Cadwell. Yet the Aethelian name dispelled such notions.
Despite Kaelen’s intimidating aura, he did not exude the usual markers of common wealth. His eyes, deep-set, were perpetually shadowed beneath heavy lids, and his faded irises gave him a perpetually haunted look. A thin line of sclera showed beneath his pupils, contributing to his sharp, gaunt appearance.
Kaelen’s presence was one of grim, almost ethereal intimidation, though it lacked the glittering refinement associated with the truly affluent magical houses. Instead, his face seemed marked by a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a melancholic heaviness. Combined with his massive frame—he was undoubtedly the tallest acolyte in the Scholarium—it made him doubly imposing.
Fortunately, unlike Elias Valerius’s raw, untamed charisma, Kaelen’s sharp features possessed a classically austere symmetry. Without that, he might have been actively shunned. Even so, Kaelen’s face was unsettling, full of a nervous, barely contained power.
But Kaelen’s temperament could not have been more different from his forbidding visage.
He seemed indifferent to everything, as if actively erasing events from his memory, whether by design or an innate detachment. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing”—a trait that ironically added to his mystique. Most notably, Kaelen cared little for mundane coin or lesser arcane trinkets. He never paid attention to how much others spent on minor rituals or how much power they squandered. If the mood struck him, he’d casually conjure minor wards for a lesser acolyte nearby without a second thought, as if the concept of material energy expenditure didn’t exist for him. Sometimes he would lend rare components and simply forget. There were even stories of acolytes returning borrowed reagents only for Kaelen to ask, puzzled, why they were offering him such common things.
Still, he did not lend to just anyone. He’d indulge random requests when in a fleeting good humor but coldly refuse those truly desperate for substantial aid or advanced knowledge.
Even with those he considered companions, Kaelen could be harsh. Lysander once overheard how Marcus, a junior Magister, upon seeing Kaelen’s prized scrying mirror—a relic he rarely displayed—excitedly tried to peer into its depths without permission. Kaelen had bodily lifted Marcus and set him down with a jarring thump, sending the younger acolyte sprawling into the aisle like a startled frog.
At the pinnacle of the arcane hierarchy, figures like Kaelen Aethelian and Elias Valerius shared one trait: a complete disregard for others’ estimations. This indifference, in its own way, was what allowed them to ascend to the spire’s apex.
Why did they, with their own hands, yield the very keys to their world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how much Lysander pondered it, he still could not grasp the full measure of such folly.
And yet, Kaelen Aethelian proclaimed himself a devout follower of the ancient Aethelian tenets. He was the type of formidable acolyte who slept with a scroll of prohibitory runes beneath his head, yet his actions often defied the very doctrines he claimed to uphold. The tenets of his house were strict: abstaining from certain lesser incantations, refusing to traffic in certain forbidden components, avoiding petty extortion of lower-ranked students. Yet, Kaelen’s interpretation of these doctrines seemed flawed; anyone could discern that from his casual dismissal of others' struggles alone. Lysander had heard that true Aethelian tradition, while rigorous, advocated for a more balanced approach to the arcane world, not such cold detachment.
They said the ancient doctrine viewed certain passions, certain uncontrolled expressions of raw magical will, as a corruption. Was that why Elias Valerius’s impulsive actions so disgusted Kaelen Aethelian? Lysander licked his dry lips.
He felt a strange sense of relief he hadn’t been caught in Elias’s current maelstrom. If he had, he might have ended up like that trampled grimoire, discarded on the Scholarium floor. And yet, even in that moment, the thought surfaced—if Elias and he had remained close, as they were just a few cycles ago, would Elias have offered him protection?
The thought rose unbidden, dragging with it memories he desperately wanted to inter. He took a deep breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that churned in his chest, as though the alchemical elixir he’d drunk earlier threatened to return.
No. Of course not.
How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to believe it. To Elias, he was nothing. Merely a convenient Scholarium companion to pass the time. He knew this now, because of the look in Elias’s eyes when he had struck him down, months ago, for an imagined slight. His eyes said everything. Lysander hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had been staring him in the face.
Elias bore his transgressions openly. Lysander, too, was a transgressor—but he concealed it. And so, Elias faced the raw judgement of the High Conclave, while Lysander was, for now, spared.
A faint, bitter laugh escaped his lips, so soft it was only audible to himself.
“…So, as long as one is not exposed, that is all that matters.”
Perhaps the High Conclave possessed a disposition much like Kaelen Aethelian’s.
His gaze shifted to the desk near the lecturer’s plinth. This was unusual, but today, Lysander felt a pang of cold pity for Seraphina Cadwell. Poor soul, ensnared in the raw, untamed allure of Elias. She lacked the inner strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Seraphina, unlike the towering presence of her own house’s ancestral lineage. She should have fled the moment Lysander warned her, fool.
He knew he was not a good person. He was selfish, self-serving, and for that, he bore a different kind of burden. Sometimes, he even entertained the thought: if Elias must turn to others, why not choose someone as sly and discerning as Lysander? At least then, life would be simpler, more calculable. Why fall for someone so guileless and earnest, only to end up suffering for it?
These days, his thoughts were different.
Yes. Of course no one could ever truly value someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise.
There was a time he believed he could have it all. Arrogant, conceited Lysander Thorne. Lysander, who thought he understood the subtle currents of the world at eighteen cycles. Wicked, vile Lysander. Pitiful Lysander, who had no one to offer solace, so he endured everything alone.
That day, he could not surmount the fifteenth problem. He used his supposed fatigue from arcane studies as an excuse to lie slumped over his desk, thinking to himself: Well, at least I am not as irrevocably ruined as Elias or Seraphina.
Whispers about Elias and Seraphina spread like wildfire through the Scholarium. Whether they were exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to ascertain, either. Elias’s coterie had vanished from the Scholarium, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances to worry about anything else, inadvertently fueling the rumors even further.
“Master Elian, forgive the interruption, but who was closest to Elias Valerius?”
“Valerius… No, Kaelen Aethelian.”
Lysander overheard this exchange as he passed by on his way back to the lecture hall before dismissal. The Somnus Lecturer had inquired, and a junior acolyte had answered. Pretending he hadn’t heard, Lysander walked into the room. Master Elian glanced nervously between Lysander and the empty seats, his fingers drumming against the plinth. Then, as if yielding to some unspoken resignation, he announced:
“Let us conclude.”
The moment dismissal ended, Lysander gathered his satchel. As he slung it over his shoulder, Kaelen Aethelian tapped him lightly on the back.
“Lysander. Join me after lecture.”
Lysander met Kaelen’s gaze. He knew. He had always observed Elias and Kaelen’s every interaction, so he knew the acolyte Kaelen most frequently invited for informal study was always Elias. After a brief pause, Lysander waved him off.
“I cannot. I have urgent supplemental arcane studies.”
“And after that?”
“Further immersion in ancient texts. Seek out one of your usual associates.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Why not?”
“Clinging to the lesser only diminishes one’s own standing. A waste of vital energy.”
“Ha.”
Lysander let out a short, hollow laugh at the stark absurdity of it.
Right. This was precisely why he had been able to tolerate Kaelen better than expected. Their twisted values, their pragmatic philosophies, seemed to align in strange, unsettling ways.
“So, Marcus, Alaric—they are merely ‘lesser’ then? Even Lyra?”
“If you wish to frame it thus, then yes, largely. But you, Lysander, are… different.”
The backhanded compliment left a cold, unpleasant taste in Lysander’s mouth.
“What is that supposed to signify? You are detestable.”
“No, I am not.”
“You are profoundly detestable.”
“Hmm. It is in the High Conclave’s ancient tenets. ‘Thou shalt not speak falsehoods.’ I am merely being honest, Lysander.”
Honestly, Kaelen was worse than Lysander. At least Lysander didn’t so blatantly dismiss his companions as refuse.
“That is why I embody sound judgment.”
“…Indeed.”
“Since my judgment is so sound, may I accompany you to your chambers?”
Kaelen Aethelian blinked twice, his ancient marble eyes unreadable. Lysander looked at his face for a moment, then gave a slow, measured nod.
“Yes, why not.”
As long as Kaelen’s presence did not impede his own carefully plotted ascent, there was no logical reason to refuse. To secure one’s place in the unforgiving hierarchy of Aethel, sometimes one had to endure the company of predators.
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