A sudden, sharp crackle punctuated the hushed reverence of the Arcana Chamber. Roric, a youth with more bravado than precision, had attempted a minor illumination charm, and it had backfired, spewing faint, acrid smoke. He raised a fist, sputtering, as if to confront the errant spell itself. Yet, before his theatrics could fully unfurl, Kaelen, seated casually across the polished obsidian table, flicked a wrist. A silent gust of force, barely visible, struck Roric’s thigh, extinguishing the fizzling embers and Roric's petty rage in one fluid motion.
Just like that, Roric’s weak attempt at displaying magical might ended in a puff of humiliation.
The flustered student let out a bizarre, choked sound, a strangled croak of indignity. Elara, ever quick to amusement, and Torvin, who lacked any pretense of decorum, burst into snickering laughter. Roric, his face flush with mortification, rounded on them. “Oh, you find that amusing? You dare mock a burgeoning arcanist?” He delivered a light, petulant jab to Torvin’s arm, more a flick of defiance than a blow.
After their little commotion subsided, the three of them—Roric still grumbling, Elara and Torvin still chuckling—stormed out of the chamber. Before he vanished through the archway, Torvin glanced back, offering a dismissive hand-wave in my direction. Having no reason to invite further attention, I offered a subtle, almost imperceptible nod in return. My gaze immediately dropped to the ancient, leather-bound lexicon spread across my workstation.
My fingers, slender and accustomed to the delicate touch of aged parchment, had just settled upon the tarnished silver clasp of my stylus. Before I could even transcribe the first glyph, a subtle prickle of unease stirred me. I lifted my head, my eyes sweeping over the soaring, crystalline walls of the Arcana Chamber, each facet shimmering with trapped light. The air, typically thick with the scent of ozone and old knowledge, still carried the faint, lingering taint of Roric's clumsy magic.
Then, I lowered my head, my focus returning to the intricate etchings of the forgotten script.
I was deep into the third complex linguistic problem, absentmindedly tapping the stylus against the page, when a sudden impulse made me look up again. Beyond the towering, arched window, the High Spires of Aethel pierced a crisp, vivid blue sky. Streaks of amber and vermilion, the residual magical effulgence from some distant arcane experiment, drifted like wisps of silk. A potent, almost metallic scent, characteristic of the city’s constant magical flux, permeated the air.
“A cloister for contemplative mages would be a far gentler place than this.”
The Arch-Praetor, a grizzled veteran of the Conclave and master of Imperial History, often declared this in his booming voice, usually during our lectures on the founding of the Imperial Collegium.
“It is a veritable crucible. A raw, unrefined crucible. Fledgling mages invariably seek to establish dominance first. By the waning of the spring moon, things might settle, the energies perhaps less volatile. But until then? It is merely a cycle of contests, of displays, of testing the very principles of order, striving to claw their way up the intricate hierarchy. By the Lords of Aethel, my mind throbs. And I must endure this again with each new cohort. Let us see… what celestial alignment were they born under again?”
Then, the Arch-Praetor would spread his gnarled palm, tracing the lines of his fate-map, muttering under his breath.
“The Serpent, the Phoenix, the Gryphon, the Basilisk… Let us discern, that signifies—.”
I found myself mimicking the motion, stretching my own hand, tracing the elegant curves of an imagined sigil upon my palm. But the chaotic interplay of the Arch-Praetor’s astrological observations eluded my grasp. I gave up, turning my hand over, my gaze lingering on the delicate network of veins beneath my pale skin. These were the true pathways, I mused, the unseen conduits that carried the subtle currents of life, far more intricate than any crude attempt at divination.
I never would have surmised, back in the nascent warmth of early summer, that late Autumn's chill would feel like the vibrant, untamed chaos of spring anew.
“These fledgling mages are naught but untamed energies. Irrational, impulsively destructive, and endlessly foolish.”
My gaze settled on a prominent knuckle, a small, subtle knob, and I began an absentminded rhythmic tap against the polished obsidian, like a ghost playing a silent chime. The Arch-Praetor’s voice, raspy now, likely hoarse from a protracted cold, droned on, accompanied by the sharp, ethereal hum of a projection spell tracing runes upon the grand aether-screen.
I glanced towards the empty seat near the front, usually occupied by those eager to impress. For a fleeting moment, I imagined the impression of a head on one side of the desk – one side pressed down, the other floating, as if its occupant hovered between wakefulness and slumber. My fingers stilled their tapping.
I turned my head fully.
Kaelen was there, hunched over his own workbook, his face half-buried in the pages. His eyes, typically sharp with an almost feral intelligence, were half-closed, obscured by his dark fringe. He would fix his gaze upon a complex theoretical problem, his posture tense as if he intended to devour it whole, only to abruptly sigh and slump forward again, pressing his forehead against the arcane script. I watched, a flicker of something akin to morbid fascination stirring within me, as the bridge of his nose became comically flattened between the pages and his brow.
Then, with a subtle shift of my weight, I averted my gaze.
“…Did I briefly lose myself?”
A strange dislodgement settled over me, as though my consciousness had momentarily detached. I made a mental note – a faint mental star next to the third problem – and moved on to the fourth.
Lunch arrived, a fragrant stew of spiced rothe-meat and a cup of fermented nectar.
Kaelen, having finished his nectar with a swift, almost practiced gulp, suddenly spoke. “Right, you’re second in the Arcane Theory cohort, aren’t you, Thorne?”
“Indeed. My standing is such.”
“Then what of the entire Collegium?”
“Also second.”
“By the Mother-Light, truly?” His voice held a note of genuine surprise.
“What prompts such an exclamation?”
“So that signifies the foremost scholar in our cohort is also the paramount student in the whole Collegium?”
“Did you not know? I have never attained the first position, due to Anya’s formidable intellect. Her grasp is… absolute.”
“She’s even more consumed by her studies than you are, is she not?”
“She is. Anya often concludes her practical incantation sessions at the first hour past midnight.”
“Abyss-damned. That is… intense.”
“Her dedication is unparalleled.”
I had no inclination to prolong this discourse, so I scooped a generous spoonful of the stew and placed it into my mouth. Fortunately, Kaelen did not press further, merely nodding slowly. “Aah—.”
The timing felt… off. The conversation had truncated too abruptly. I debated whether to offer another remark, to mend the sudden silence. I found the unspoken voids between people rather disquieting, and so, without truly considering my words, I blurted, “What of you, Kaelen? What is your standing?”
“……………”
His spoon, laden with stew, halted midway to his lips. My gaze was drawn, inexplicably, to his hand. He possessed a rather precise, almost artful way of wielding his utensils. If there was one thing Kaelen executed with an unexpected degree of grace, it was this – the proper manipulation of his implements.
“Within the cohort…”
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
“…What?” The single word escaped me, a faint gasp of disbelief.
“Why do you regard me with such an expression?”
I quickly averted my gaze from his hands, forcing my attention elsewhere. Was he serious? Not merely jesting? I was so utterly taken aback that I almost voiced the question aloud, but thankfully, I managed to arrest the words at the precipice of my tongue. Damnation. That was perilously close. If I had inadvertently offended him, I would have had to contend with his notoriously volatile temperament. I hesitated. Would he prefer I offer praise for such a middling rank? Or would it be more prudent to feign indifference, as if it were precisely what I anticipated? My mind, ever vigilant in its calculation of social survival, was already weighing the optimal response. He did not seem to cultivate particularly warm affections for his usual associates. Thus, the latter course seemed the safer one.
“Hmm. Your standing is… rather higher than I might have surmised.”
“What? Surmised? How utterly inept did you take me for, Thorne?”
“I did not deem you inept, Kaelen, it is simply… I had believed your struggles with Ancient Runes were rather pronounced?”
“Ancient Runes are the sole discipline I falter in. The only one.” His voice bristled with a defensive edge.
“You do not even attend the private practical academies.”
“Absence from a private academy does not equate to an inability to study. By the Blazing Heart of the Sun, did you truly believe I was some witless simpleton?”
“No, no, not in the least.” I quickly waved a placating hand. “It is impressive, however, considering you achieve such a rank without supplementary instruction.”
“…Truly?” A subtle shift in his demeanor.
“Yes. It is indeed impressive.”
For some inexplicable reason, Kaelen suddenly began to mash his spoon into the remnants of his stew. And – was he… blushing? I caught a fleeting glimpse of the tips of his ears, a faint rose-flush spreading upwards. Now that the thought surfaced, I recalled that Jareth, the notorious brute, had ranked thirty-second. And that was only because there were a handful of others who performed even more abysmally. Thirty-second out of a cohort of thirty-six. Reflecting upon it, I realized I had never truly paid heed to anything concerning Jareth, beyond the immediate irritations he provoked. And with that stark realization, it struck me with the force of a minor spell. I had been submerged in precisely the kind of pathetic, obsessive preoccupation I once utterly despised. Meanwhile, Kaelen, utterly oblivious to my burgeoning existential crisis, had clearly received a potent surge of confidence. His tone was now entirely transformed—brimming with self-satisfaction.
“Oh, right! You likely did not know – I am rather proficient in Elemental Transmutation.”
“Indeed? How proficient?”
“Perfect mastery. I have never faltered in a single elemental spell.”
“Khhkk!” A sudden, convulsive cough seized me. The moment he uttered those words, a mouthful of nectar, intended for my throat, instead sprayed outward. Kaelen scowled, yanking his tray away with a swift, disgusted motion. “What in the Abyss? What kind of reaction is that, Thorne?”
“I merely… was not anticipating such a revelation.” My voice was still slightly choked.
“Is it truly so shocking?” He frowned, a slight pout forming on his lips. “Yes. My Ancient Runes score is lamentable, but that matters little.” There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice, despite his earlier bravado. So, I offered a wry retort. “Perhaps you should peruse a lexicon once in a while, Kaelen.”
“What nonsense are you uttering? I am entirely a scholar of esoteric lore.”
“Esoteric lore? I have never observed you with any tome beyond the required texts.”
“That is because I delve into such forbidden knowledge in secret, within the confines of my own chambers.”
“Why, by the Blazing Heart, would you need to conceal such pursuits?”
Kaelen’s eyes, which had curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped another spoonful of stew into his mouth. Then, with an almost casual deliberation, he pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge, a slow, sensual gesture. Something about that image, that subtle, almost carnal contact, unsettled me deeply. I bit the inside of my cheek, a sharp, internal pain.
Kaelen met my eyes as he drew the spoon away, then lowered his gaze and pressed a slow, deliberate, almost provocative kiss to the tip of it.
“Unsanctioned grimoires are still lore, Thorne.”
That was assuredly a jest. The scoundrel. My face burned with an abrupt, unwelcome flush. To conceal it, I seized the crumpled napkin beside my tray and flung it, a feeble missile, at his face. It struck just below his long, narrow eyes, falling harmlessly onto the table. One of his dark brows twitched slightly. Not that I genuinely cared, but solely in the event he was genuinely incensed, I feigned a flicker of remorse. “Do not enact such vulgarities, Kaelen. Especially within the Collegium. It is utterly uncouth.”
“Oh? You mean this? You speak of Jareth’s peculiar mannerisms?”
“I care not whose mannerisms they are. Simply cease the crude display.”
“Is this not, then, a common affectation amongst us now?”
“……………”
I simply stared at him, attempting to decipher if he spoke in jest or with genuine, disconcerting earnestness.
---
My periods of slumber had grown markedly shorter. This, I reasoned, was a reliable indication that my spirit, if not my body, had found a precarious comfort. The mornings, which had once dragged forth in a languid haze, now possessed a peculiar crispness, an invigorating sharpness. It was a welcome transformation—for in my estimation, the gravest sins at eighteen were complacency and the debilitating grip of excessive sleep.
“Ah, damnation—.” My jaw clicked with a painful audible snap as I brushed my teeth, the taste of mint and arcane toothpaste acrid on my tongue. Ever since Jareth’s crude assault, my jaw emitted an odd grinding noise whenever I opened my mouth too wide, a constant, low-level thrum of discomfort. Aside from that persistent irritation, today held the promise of being a good day. Yet, even in this fragile, newfound peace, sudden, sharp stabs of annoyance would arise. The cause, inevitably, was Jareth. Or rather, the disagreeable incidents that stemmed from his brutish presence.
Most of these transpired within the hallowed, yet often profane, halls of the Collegium.
“Oh, right. I observed Jareth last night, lingering near the Alchemist’s Guild.” Glynn spoke, his words muffled as he bit into a dense, unappetizing bread roll, the kind whispered to be made from discarded grains and arcane residue.
Roric, who had been playfully jabbing Glynn’s ankle with mock spell-casting motions, suddenly perked up. “By the Lesser Spirits—that is correct! You have stirred a memory! I was entirely on the verge of imparting this. I heard something through the subtle currents of the Collegium’s gossip—you all recall Lord Garrick, do you not? Right? That wandering, dissolute arcanist? I heard Jareth is currently residing at his townhouse.”
“Lord Garrick? That witless scion, Garrick of the Fallen House?” Kaelen, rummaging through a satchel, inquired with an air of casual disinterest. When he withdrew his hand, he held two small, iridescent arcane sweets. And for some inexplicable reason, he extended one to me.
“……………?”
I stared at it, a flicker of confusion. “…………What is this, Kaelen?”
I looked at him, my question implicit, but Kaelen merely offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod, as if that gesture alone sufficed as explanation. The one who reacted most vehemently was Roric, whose satchel of provisions had clearly been plundered. “By the Fates! I procured those! Why in the Abyss are you all consuming my provisions, you wretched gluttons?”
“Oh, as if you have never pilfered mine, swine.” Glynn delivered another mock spell-strike, aiming for Roric’s throat, a gesture of playful menace. Roric instantly spun, seized Glynn’s collar, and swung a mock punch towards his face. Of course, he had no true intention of connecting. That was simply the nature of their boisterous camaraderie.
I ignored their puerile bickering and looked down at the iridescent sweet in my hand. The wrapper depicted a small, almost painfully bright sigil of ephemeral light, split in twain. I peeled back the shimmering foil, placed the sweet upon my tongue, and lifted my head. Its flavor was sharp, almost painfully sweet, like raw magical essence.
“What do you surmise? The taste of nascent enchantment?” Kaelen grinned, a predatory flash of teeth.
“I find this particular resonance… rather cloying.” My answer was not merely about the candy; it was my unspoken evaluation of his puerile jest, too. And more than anything, I found the concept of ‘nascent enchantment’ presented in such a crude fashion utterly unamusing. That sticky, bitter aftertaste clung to the back of my throat. It soured my delicate appetite. In the end, I could not even finish the candy. I tossed it, a glittering discard, into a nearby refuse receptacle. “Oh, such a waste,” Kaelen mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands, a theatrical gesture of feigned despair. Ignoring him, I reached into Roric’s satchel, seeking a different sweet.
They were all either ‘ephemeral light’ or ‘whispering void’ – the latter being the lesser evil. I unwrapped one and placed it in my mouth, the cool, subtle hum a gentler sensation.
“Anyway, Lord Garrick, hmm? It sounds precisely like Jareth’s dealings.” Glynn mused.
“What, because they are both… ethically flexible in their dealings?” Kaelen’s words were sharp, infused with a certain biting cynicism. Uncomfortable, I turned to observe him. He was sucking on his iridescent sweet expressionlessly, twirling the white stick, now glowing faintly, between his lips. I pulled mine from my mouth.
Something about this felt profoundly wrong.
Kaelen did not seem to care. He tilted his sweet, now a small, shimmering rod, in the air like a diminutive sword, making random, jabbing motions. “He barters with clients – it matters not if they are men or women, supplicants or patrons. And when he encounters someone of… potential, he directs them straight to Jareth. It is a rotation of influence. Exploiting one another, passing each other around, like ill-gotten arcane trinkets.”
“So Lord Garrick is involved in such… unsavory trade too?” Roric suddenly interjected. Whether he had concluded his playful skirmish with Glynn or had simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, I was unsure. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if actually processing the bleak reality he had just heard, the rot beneath the gilded surface of Aethel.