A forest of aged oak and dark walnut, this quiet hall served as the heart of Thorne’s knowledge. Within its hushed expanse, nearly thirty souls navigated unseen currents, each bound by a taut, invisible string. Every day brought fresh tension, a delicate, dangerous dance for survival.
This careful balancing act had begun for Lysander at age twelve, the year he learned to chart the intricate map of courtly allegiances. It became his daily routine, an unspoken truth for everyone within the Barony’s shadowed walls.
A cubic maze concealing a pyramid. Such was the Grand Scriptorium, where the aspiring and the overlooked gathered.
“Ah…”
Lysander’s arm, stiff from poor circulation, tingled as he worked it free. Lightly, he tapped his tightly wound stomach. A weak breath escaped him. He surveyed the bowed backs before him, the pale parchment, the dark, serious heads.
At the Arch-Lector’s dais, Arch-Lector Theron sat, ostensibly reviewing an ancient scroll, though his eyes seemed fixed on some distant, crumpled memory. The apprentices and junior scribes were deep in their assigned tasks, or, having surrendered to exhaustion, simply slumped over their desks.
“Those who slumber, rouse yourselves,” Arch-Lector Theron’s voice, a dry rustle, cut through the quiet as he turned a brittle page.
Fifth bell already. Lysander had meticulously completed his fifteenth transcription, pausing only to scratch his temple with an index finger. He set down his quill, its tip still gleaming with fresh ink. His gaze drifted to the empty seats.
Two, particularly, drew his attention.
As anticipated, neither Lord Torvin Thorne nor Apprentice Faelan had attended the session. They likely would not return tomorrow, unless Lord Torvin’s capricious humors shifted, or some new, unknown drama unfolded between them.
Lysander’s eyes returned to the intricate script before him, the delicate strokes of ancient runes filling his vision. There was a time he believed he understood Lord Torvin completely.
He had convinced himself he knew Torvin best in this entire Scriptorium, perhaps even in the sprawling estate. He had taken a grim pride in that, even when comparing himself to Master Kaelen, who often seemed closer to Torvin than anyone else.
In truth, that pride had been a shield. It allowed him to endure the sight of Kaelen and Torvin’s easy camaraderie. Deep down, a cold satisfaction had warmed him, the quiet knowledge that he held the truer key to Torvin’s unpredictable mind.
Propping his chin on a hand, Lysander felt a wave of self-disgust. Such thoughts were vile. What would the Barony’s watchful eyes perceive if these insidious desires were known?
An answer was obvious: he would be crushed. Pushed to the very bottom of the pyramid, occupying its widest, lowest, most forgotten plane. The thought chilled him to the bone.
This insidious yearning, unique to a plotting courtier, had to remain hidden. Buried so deep that not even its object could sense it. So deep, he sometimes wished he could forget it himself.
But Lord Torvin Thorne wore his desires openly. Everyone within Thorne knew.
Lysander lifted his head subtly, scanning the hall. Still, everyone remained hunched over their work. He pressed his lips together, looking forward.
Near the central aisle, forlornly wedged beneath a discarded cloak, lay a small, gilded compendium, its cover marred by a faint boot print.
Suddenly, feeling a prickle of eyes, as if someone might have noticed his prolonged stare, Lysander bent his head, mimicking the absorption of others.
Then, he slowly turned his neck, letting his gaze fall to the back row. A face lay partially obscured by an arm, as if its owner had collapsed mid-task. The face appeared delicate, sorrowful, almost bloodless.
...
Lysander found himself staring at Master Kaelen’s profile before his gaze drifted to the arm. Had the already tall Kaelen grown further? The formal tunic, tailored to perfection at the start of the season, now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one, a band of dark, polished jade beads—an ancient sigil, a heavy, unmistakable mark of Kaelen’s lineage, integral to his identity.
Before knowing more, Lysander had assumed Kaelen hailed from the eastern estates, perhaps the same remote barony as Apprentice Faelan.
Despite his intimidating presence, Kaelen did not exude overt wealth. His eyes, often sunken, were perpetually shadowed by heavy lids, and their faded irises gave him a haunted, weary cast. The thin sclera visible beneath his pupils added to his sharp, gaunt appearance.
Kaelen’s aura was one of grim intimidation, yet it lacked the polished refinement typically associated with noble prosperity. Instead, his face seemed etched by profound deprivation, exuding a melancholic heaviness. Combined with his imposing stature – he was undoubtedly the tallest man in the Scriptorium – it made him doubly formidable.
Fortunately, unlike Lord Torvin, Kaelen’s sharp features possessed a classically handsome symmetry. Without that, people might have actively shunned him. Even so, Kaelen’s face was unsettling, brimming with a nervous, unpredictable energy.
Yet, Kaelen’s temperament was surprisingly dispassionate.
It was not merely indifference to everything; it was as if he intentionally or unintentionally erased events from his memory. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that paradoxically added to his mystique.
Most notably, Kaelen seemed unconcerned with influence or possessions. He never paid attention to how much others spent, or what they sought. If the mood struck him, he would casually bestow a favor or resources to someone nearby, as if the concept of value held no meaning. Sometimes he’d grant patronage and entirely forget it.
Still, he granted favors not to just anyone. He’d indulge random requests on a whim but coldly refuse those truly desperate. Even with his inner circle, Kaelen could be harsh. Lysander once overheard a story of how Lord Perrin, upon seeing Kaelen’s prized peregrine falcon – a bird he rarely showed off – excitedly tried to take its leash without permission. Kaelen had struck Perrin’s hand, sending him stumbling back like a startled pheasant.
At the peak of Thorne’s intricate hierarchy, figures like Kaelen and Lord Torvin shared one trait: a complete disregard for others’ opinions. This indifference, in its own way, was what allowed them to sit at the pyramid’s apex.
Why do we, with our own deferential hands, surrender the keys to our world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how much Lysander pondered it, he still could not comprehend.
And yet, Master Kaelen spoke often of adherence to the ancient Vows of Thorne. He was the type of lord who slept with a tome of ancestral wisdom beneath his pillow, yet claimed to follow its teachings.
He did not gamble away his lands, did not engage in overt banditry, abstained from crude debauchery, and did not directly extort lesser nobles. Yet the doctrine he espoused seemed flawed. Lysander recalled the Vows concerning restraint and stewardship. He’d heard the Vows allowed certain freedoms, not absolute abstinence.
They said the Vows forbade disloyalty to the Barony. Was that why Lord Torvin’s brazen actions disgusted Master Kaelen so much? Lysander licked his dry lips.
He felt a strange relief that he had not been caught staring. If he had, he might have ended up like that trampled compendium. And yet, even in that moment, a question lingered: if Torvin and he had remained close, as they were just a few seasons ago, would Torvin have protected him?
Against his will, the thought surfaced, dragging with it memories Lysander desperately wanted to forget. He took a deep breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the stale midday meal threatened to return.
No, of course not.
How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to think he would. To Torvin, Lysander was nothing. Just a convenient friend for passing the time between courtly duties. He knew this now, because of the cold amusement in Torvin’s eyes when he’d casually dismissed Lysander. The truth had been undeniable.
Torvin sinned openly. Lysander, too, was a sinner – but he hid it. And so, Torvin received his due, while Lysander was spared.
A faint laugh escaped Lysander’s lips, so soft it was only audible to himself.
“…So, as long as I remain undetected, that is all that matters.”
Perhaps the spirits of Thorne held a personality like Master Kaelen’s.
Lysander’s gaze shifted to the desk near the Arch-Lector’s podium. Today, unusually, he felt a pang of pity for Apprentice Faelan. Poor soul, caught in the clutches of the Baron’s son. Faelan lacked the strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Faelan, unlike the towering reputation of his family. He should have fled the moment Lysander had warned him, fool.
Lysander knew he was not a good person. He was selfish and self-serving, and that was his burden. Sometimes, he even harbored thoughts like this: If one must pursue dangerous liaisons, why not choose someone sly and calculating like Lysander himself? At least then, life might be simpler. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering for it?
These days, his thoughts were different.
Yes. Of course no one could ever truly love someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise.
There was a time when he thought he could have it all. Arrogant, conceited Lysander. Lysander, who thought he understood the world at eighteen. Wicked, vile Lysander. Pitiful Lysander, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone.
That day, he couldn’t bring himself to continue past the fifteenth transcription. He used a feigned illness as an excuse to lie slumped over his desk, thinking: At least I am not as ruined as Torvin or Faelan.
Rumors about Lord Torvin and Apprentice Faelan spread like wildfire through the estate. Whether exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to find out either. Torvin’s inner circle had vanished from the estate, as if uprooted. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances to worry about anything else, inadvertently fueling the whispers even further.
“Arch-Lector, pardon me, but who holds closest counsel with Lord Torvin now?”
“Lord… No, Master Kaelen.”
Lysander overheard this exchange as he passed by on his way back to the Scriptorium before dismissal. The Arch-Lector had asked, and a nervous junior scribe had answered. Pretending he hadn’t heard, Lysander entered the room. Arch-Lector Theron glanced nervously between Lysander and the empty seats, drumming his fingers against the dais. Then, as if abandoning some unspoken thought, he announced:
“Let us conclude.”
At the moment dismissal ended, Lysander gathered his materials. As he slung his satchel over his shoulder, Master Kaelen tapped him on the back.
“Lysander. Let us convene after this.”
Lysander looked at Kaelen’s face. He knew. He had always watched Torvin and Kaelen’s every move, so he knew the person Kaelen most frequently invited to convene was always Lord Torvin. After a brief pause, Lysander waved him off.
“Cannot. I have urgent archival work.”
“And after that?”
“Further study. Go, seek the company of your usual companions.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Proximity to lesser men only diminishes one’s standing.”
“Ha.”
Lysander let out a short, hollow laugh at the sheer audacity.
Right. This was precisely why he had found himself able to tolerate Kaelen’s company better than expected. Their twisted values aligned in strange, uncomfortable ways.
“So, Lord Perrin, Lady Seraphina—they are ‘lesser’? Even Master Corvan?”
“If you insist on such precise terminology, then yes, largely. But you are… different.”
The backhanded compliment left Lysander feeling cold.
“What is that to mean? You are quite awful.”
“No, I am not.”
“You are so awful.”
“Hmm. It is in the Vows. ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness.’ I am merely honest, Lysander.”
Honestly, Kaelen was worse than Lysander. At least Lysander did not openly treat his associates like refuse.
“That is why I am a good man.”
“…Indeed.”
“Since I am such a good man, may I accompany you to your family quarters?”
Master Kaelen blinked twice. Lysander looked at his face for a moment before giving a short nod.
“Certainly, why not.”
As long as Kaelen did not directly interfere with Lysander’s precarious existence, there was no reason to refuse. To secure one’s fragile place in Thorne’s merciless hierarchy, one did what was necessary.
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