Two days after Acolyte Valerius’s meticulously bound lexicon was found rent and scattered across the Scholarium’s central courtyard, his personal research notes were discovered afire within a waste brazier. A scent of singed parchment and despair hung faintly in the air, a sour counterpoint to the usual incense and beeswax. It wasn’t difficult to discern the orchestrator. Within a few class cycles, whispers slithered through the cloistered halls, carried by acolytes who now eyed their own scrolls with an unnerving apprehension. One particularly boorish initiate, a lesser scion of House Theron, preened openly, his triumphant smirk directed across the refectory at a quiet girl from House Cadwell, who merely nodded, her face unreadable.
“How brazen,” Lysander murmured, his fingers tracing the gilded edge of his own arcane primer. He watched the cleanup crew gather the last charred fragments, depositing them into a dull, lead-lined coffer meant for burnt offerings. That box, its edges smudged with soot, contained the tangible remains of Acolyte Valerius’s academic struggle, the remnants of a reputation publicly immolated.
Two days past, Acolyte Valerius had fallen, and perhaps had never truly comprehended the depth of his defeat. The motive was stark, etched into the very fabric of Aethel’s power dynamics. Lysander had initially dismissed it as mere acolyte rivalry, a squabble over preferential access to the Forbidden Archives. But a chill, unplaceable premonition had tightened around him. Even Valerius’s closest confidantes had begun to distance themselves, sensing the shift in the currents. His relentless, almost obsessive, pursuit of a particular fragment of ancient lore wasn’t mere academic zeal; it hinted at a deeper, more dangerous ambition. The moment Lysander witnessed Valerius verbally challenge a senior Arch-Librarian over the authenticity of a House Aethelian cipher, he knew the outcome was sealed. Yet, as the tide of opinion turned, as the whispers solidified into condemnations, Lysander felt no urge to intercede, no prick of guilt.
He wasn’t so foolish as to invite ruin upon his own head. He understood precisely how such a defense would appear. It might brand him as principled, perhaps even loyal. But within the labyrinthine politics of the Scholarium, where every gesture was dissected and every alliance weighed, even a flicker of compassion for the fallen would be questioned.
*Why?* That thought, stark and chilling, always halted him.
He leaned back in his high-backed chair, closing his eyes. A brief respite, a moment to still the restless hum of his mind. For a fleeting instant, he wished that upon reopening his eyes, the world would conform to his desires, its sharp edges softened. He felt the pull of slumber, a welcome oblivion.
Then, a sharp rap echoed, startling him. A light, percussive tap against the crown of his head, enough to jolt him awake. He sat up, fingers instinctively rising to his scalp, eyes blinking open. Kaelen Aethelian, perched casually on the edge of a nearby lectern, met his gaze, a slight smile playing on his lips.
“Lost in the liminal, Lysander?” Kaelen’s voice, a low current in the quiet chamber, held a hint of amusement.
Lysander rubbed the spot. “Merely contemplating the transient nature of scholarly pursuits.” He bristled, but his voice remained level. “Did you require something, Kaelen?”
“Oh, this?” Kaelen’s smile widened, unashamed. He tapped the slender, darkwood rod he held, its tip glinting with a faint, arcane sigil. “A minor focusing staff. Found it discarded near the alchemical waste chute. Thought it might awaken you from your waking dream.”
Lysander’s expression tightened. Kaelen always possessed an uncanny knack for uncovering the peculiar, for turning mundane into unsettling. He ran a hand through his dark hair, ensuring no strand had fallen out of place, no imperfection betrayed his composure. Kaelen, meanwhile, pushed off the lectern, gliding to a vacant chair with languid grace. He spun it once, then dropped into it, his movements fluid, economical. He tossed his satchel onto the polished surface of a nearby desk, using it as a pillow before sprawling forward, his gaze still fixed on Lysander.
“You rouse me from contemplation merely to indulge in idleness yourself?” Lysander inquired, a faint edge to his tone. He nudged Kaelen’s outstretched boot with his own, a small, defiant gesture.
“Worried about your grades, Lysander. Didn’t want you sleeping through lessons. My own scores, they’re hardly worth the ink.” Kaelen’s muffled voice emerged from beneath his arm, laced with a familiar, casual arrogance.
“Preposterous.”
Lysander shifted, turning to fully face Kaelen. A strange compulsion always pushed him to argue, to challenge Kaelen’s flippancy. Kaelen merely smirked, lifting his head slightly.
“Is it permissible to assault a House Aethelian scion? You audacious scholar.” The playful sarcasm was a familiar barb. Lysander scoffed, then kicked Kaelen’s focusing staff. It toppled toward Kaelen, but without even altering his pose, Kaelen’s free hand shot out, catching it with effortless precision. He didn’t bother lifting his face from his arm. Instead, he chuckled soundlessly, then spoke.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Lysander.”
“What?”
“That wasn’t merely an academic ‘accident,’ was it?”
Shivers traced Lysander’s spine. Had it been so glaringly obvious? His face hadn’t betrayed him, surely. He paused, a mere beat, before brushing his hand over his jawline, adopting a nonchalant air. “A regrettable mishap, Kaelen. A careless spill of ink, perhaps.”
“Hah.” Kaelen’s soft chuckle resonated, still muffled against his arm. “Indeed.” His eyes, the color of twilight skies, flickered to Lysander, then he slowly raised a finger, pointing it with unnerving precision. Lysander’s throat tightened. He didn’t comprehend Kaelen’s intent, so he simply asked, “What is it?”
“You possess a remarkable lack of shame.” The moment Kaelen smiled, the focusing staff now leaning against his shoulder, Lysander felt his thoughts scatter. *What in the Abyss is he saying?*
“…What is shameless?”
“I don’t believe you merely ‘spilled ink’…”
Lysander could only stare. Kaelen’s words, often enigmatic, now carried a quiet, unsettling menace. His gaze was unnervingly still. The bright irises held a dark pupil that fixed upon Lysander, as direct as an arrow aimed true. Lysander’s mind went blank. Two words repeated, a frantic rhythm in his skull. *No way. He couldn’t have. No way. He couldn’t have.* Then, Kaelen’s eyes narrowed further.
“It looked more as if you *allowed* the ink to spill. Or perhaps, aided it.”
His long, serpentine eyes curved upward at the corners. Lysander’s mouth went dry. His breath hitched in his chest. A silent gulp. Kaelen parted his lips, and Lysander couldn’t even blink.
“If others were to discover the nuances, it would prove… inconvenient for your carefully cultivated image, wouldn’t it?”
“….”
“I shall endeavor to keep your… meticulous observations, a secret.” Kaelen raised the hand holding his staff to his lips, whispering the words, then offered a swift, conspiratorial wink. The breath Lysander had been holding slammed against his ribs like a trapped beast, desperate for release. Kaelen didn’t wait for a reaction. He ran a hand through his dark, artfully disheveled hair, then pointed again, his gaze lingering on Lysander’s own carefully tamed strands.
“But did you adopt my coiffure, Lysander? That’s rather… unoriginal.”
Lysander was speechless. Kaelen wrinkled his nose in exaggerated disapproval. “In any case, I shall now resume my own contemplative state.” He yawned, a wide, languid stretch, and buried his face once more into his satchel. Lysander stared at the back of Kaelen’s head, finally managing to mutter, “I did not adopt your coiffure, and my hair remains untrimmed.”
“Oh, does it?” Kaelen’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his makeshift pillow.
---
“By the Void, grant me strength,” Kaelen intoned, clutching a parchment scroll in one hand. Fourth period, after the Archival Lore class, when the Proctors distributed the quarterly performance evaluations. Kaelen buried his face in the unfurled scroll, scanned its contents, then immediately invoked a rather unorthodox supplication. He then threw his head back dramatically, letting out a deep, mournful sigh.
“Ah, I am utterly bereft.”
Lysander glanced at his own evaluation, noted the precise marks of his exemplary scholarship, then folded the parchment with meticulous care, slipping it into a concealed compartment in his satchel. When he looked back at Kaelen, the Aethelian scion was still sighing, his Adam’s apple bobbing with exaggerated distress. Lysander fixed his gaze on Kaelen’s throat, a peculiar tremor in his own voice. “That particular invocation is hardly suited for academic despair.”
“Who cares? An appeal to the Void is an appeal to the Void.” Kaelen then asked, “Lysander, what is the appropriate term: ‘Void’ or ‘Abyss’?”
Lysander realized something peculiar about Kaelen: his adherence to arcane doctrine was… fluid. “Why do you ask me? It is your House’s ancestral lore.”
“Lysander, do not be so reticent. You are so versed in ancient tongues, I presumed you held all such answers.”
“I do not. Nor do I adhere to any single dogma.”
Kaelen, who had been leaning back precariously, suddenly shot forward. Their eyes met, and Lysander, caught off guard, instinctively averted his gaze towards the leaded glass window, pretending not to have been startled. But for some reason, his chest pricked sharply, as if he’d been caught in a moment of unguarded vulnerability. He stared absently out the window, then shifted his focus towards the immaculate collar of Kaelen’s finely tailored tunic. The crisp, dark fabric rested against Kaelen’s neck, but with every exaggerated movement, the sharp line of his collarbone flashed into view.
“So? Wish to accompany me to the House rituals this cycle?”
“What? No.”
“Ah, why not? Come along. If you attend the solstices and the quarterly observances, they distribute… certain privileges. Access to restricted texts, forgotten cantrips, perhaps even minor familial favors.”
“Wait, do not tell me you attend merely for such… dispensations?”
“Of course I do. Why else would one feign piety?”
Lysander finally met Kaelen’s gaze, his eyes landing on the slender stylus Kaelen had somehow balanced on his upper lip. At first, he didn’t want to admit it, not out of any sense of propriety, but from a deeper, more primal pride. But at that moment, he had to acknowledge it: Kaelen Aethelian was undeniably striking. What an infuriating, smug bastard. The stylus, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted Kaelen’s voice into a slurred, disgruntled mumble. “But the way you phrase it, it’s as if I am pilfering. If they offer such advantages, what is amiss with accepting them?”
“Can one truly call it adherence if one’s belief is born of such self-serving reasons?”
“That is how all adherence begins, Lysander. People do not commence with grand, absolute conviction. They think, ‘Ah, they grant access to rare knowledge. That House must be potent.’ And then, little by little, their appreciation for that ‘potent House with rare knowledge’ transforms into unwavering fealty, a belief in its inherent strength. The genesis and the process are inconsequential. What matters is that now, I believe.”
Kaelen often spouted such calculated provocations. Even others, lesser acolytes, were sometimes drawn into his cynical orbit. Sometimes, it was pure sophistry. But sometimes, it was the kind of cold, ruthless logic that even Lysander, despite himself, found tempting. This, he realized, was the latter.
He ran a hand through his meticulously combed dark hair, brushing it back from his forehead. But the fine strands kept falling into his eyes, a minor annoyance. This time, he simply shook his head from side to side. His thin strands swayed, briefly clearing his vision. He gathered them near his temples, and the tickling sensation finally lessened. He had been so consumed by his studies, by the silent machinations of the Scholarium, that he’d forgotten to request a barber.
With Acolyte Valerius’s absence, and the implied disgrace of his few remaining supporters, the front row of the Archival Lore chamber now lay conspicuously empty. There was no longer any reason for Lysander to glance in that direction, no subtle rival to observe.
Six days past, Arch-Librarian Seraphina Cadwell had summoned Lysander to her private scriptorium, inquiring if he had heard from Acolyte Valerius. Lysander had answered honestly, without hesitation.
“No, Arch-Librarian. I have not.”
“You have yet to reconcile with Acolyte Valerius, I presume?”
Lysander offered a small, carefully modulated smile, a bitter curve of his lips. In truth, he felt no inclination to smile. “No, Arch-Librarian. Acolyte Valerius… he grew quite distant with me.”
“Acolyte Valerius grew distant with *you*?” Seraphina’s brow furrowed, a flicker of surprise in her eyes.
“Indeed.”
Rumors already permeated the Scholarium, so Seraphina Cadwell was not entirely oblivious to the implications of Lysander’s words. “Very well, I comprehend,” she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. Then, as she settled back into her high-backed chair, Lysander caught a faint murmur. Snippets of complaint about Valerius, and frustration over the stern reprimand she had received from a senior consul of House Valerius. He pretended not to hear the pathetic monologue, turning away, but his ears remained acutely attuned. That was how he grasped the full measure of the atmosphere within the Arch-Librarian’s private sanctum.
Later, after the evening bell, while Lysander prepared his ancient texts for solitary study in his spartan chamber, a senior scrivener from House Valerius called upon him. He posed the same query as Arch-Librarian Cadwell: if Lysander knew the whereabouts of Acolyte Valerius.
He gave the same precise answer. “No, scrivener. Acolyte Valerius has not reached out to me, nor I to him.”
— *I see…*
“I am truly regretful I cannot be of more assistance.”
— *No, there is nothing for you to lament. It is… understood.* Valerius’s scrivener had called more frequently of late, and each time, the conversation unfolded in the same carefully choreographed manner. There was something oddly deliberate about his persistent attempts to link Acolyte Valerius and Lysander. Lysander courteously, but firmly, concluded the communication.
Honestly, there was nothing for which to apologize. But he offered his regrets anyway – to be favored. It was the same ingrained instinct that compelled acolytes to praise a newly commissioned, deeply flawed rune-circle as ‘innovative.’ A social convention. A form of etiquette that oiled the gears of a civilized, yet deeply stratified, society. He harbored no illusion that the adults, the true powers, saw through his performance. If anything, his politeness was a crude pantomime, enacted by a jester in a gilded cage. He had always understood his place.
And since he applied such rigorous effort to be liked, he was destined to become a well-loved jester. Even if, one day, he made an error so glaring it wrinkled the brows of the High Conclave, they would extend their forgiveness. That was the groundwork he meticulously laid. Unlike some unfortunate fools, he was navigating this life with shrewd calculation.
Perhaps, from the perspective of an Arch-Librarian or a House Elder, his way of thinking was merely a narrow-minded, petty trick to wriggle free of consequences. But among his peers, among the striving acolytes, it was undeniable: Lysander Thorne was one who knew how to handle unpredictable situations with subtle wisdom. If proof were required, one only had to observe young Acolyte Veridian.
Acolyte Veridian was now the most desperate to ingratiate himself with Kaelen Aethelian. And because of that, he now feigned a camaraderie with Lysander, for in the eyes of the Scholarium, Lysander had already secured his proximity to Kaelen. Though Veridian had once been among Acolyte Valerius’s closest companions, he was now making it exquisitely clear that the winds had shifted, and his loyalties with them.