Lord Alaric Thorne was dead. Not in body, but the esteemed scion, once poised for greatness, had perished within the shadowed halls of the Barony. The very essence of his name, carefully cultivated over years of privilege, had been extinguished. Lysander felt a peculiar chill as the news, dressed in whispers, slithered through the Scribes’ Wing. Chaos had gripped the ancient Keep. Minutes ago, a discordant clamor had erupted from the Inner Courtyard, sounds echoing off aged stone walls. Now, hundreds of shuffling boots had erased the scuff marks on the polished flagstones, and a fine dust, disturbed from ages of settled neglect, hung in the chilled air. When the warden’s bell, usually reserved for dire emergencies, tolled its piercing warning, every apprentice scribe and junior courtier rushed to the arched casements. Like forgotten gargoyles on a crumbling facade, their dull, avid eyes pressed against the panes. Through the thick glass, the din from the adjacent courtiers’ mess hall drifted in, a murmur of feverish speculation. “What ignominy unfolds?” someone murmured, their voice a breathless rasp. “Have you not heard? A clash of honor.” “What! With whom?” “Lord Alaric, and Gareth Beaumont.” “By the Mother! How did I miss such a spectacle?” These were young men, on the cusp of true courtly life. Their very souls were a delicate balance, leaving behind the self-absorbed individualism of their youth, yet still prone to reveling in raw, explosive drama. This reaction was, Lysander noted, depressingly predictable. “Does anyone have kin in the Beaumont contingent? Were those two not close? How did it come to blows?” “Have you not caught the whispers about Alaric Thorne?” Lysander’s alcove of the Scribes’ Wing became a tableau of reactions: some thrilling at being privy to the unfolding scandal, others quietly savoring the downfall of a rival, still more delighting in the victory of a newly ascendant star. Below, healers bustled around a stretcher, now being loaded into a covered litter. For the next half-hour, the most fervent gossip was the precise nature of the injuries and the identity of the instigator. Lysander knew well how swiftly rumors metastasized within the cloistered, multi-tiered hierarchy of Thorne Keep. Who, then, had truly won? Those who gleaned the precise truth of the incident did not spare much thought for the two scions carted away by the Keep’s healers. Instead, a grim satisfaction settled upon them, fulfilling a morbid wish secretly harbored since the season’s beginning. Gareth Beaumont. Such confrontations often yielded ambiguous victors. One-on-one disputes, especially, rarely left a clear victor. Yet, today’s clash had orchestrated every detail in Gareth Beaumont’s favor. The insidious whispers that had circulated beforehand only ensured Lord Alaric’s utter annihilation. In the grand, yet often morally squalid, passages of Thorne Keep, the murmurs became declarations: “Alaric Thorne… a devotee of the Shadowed Cult.” “What? But he courted the Baroness’s favor!” “A facade! He was preying on the younger servants, manipulating them for forbidden rituals. They say his private chambers are filled with blasphemous texts. With Thorne gold, there is no depth one cannot plumb. He could simply attend the true houses of pleasure.” “By the Elder Gods! I never imagined Lord Alaric could be so… debased.” “Indeed. Such power, to indulge in such depravity. But is it not cheaper to pursue such dalliances in the border towns? Perhaps during the Baroness’s upcoming tour, we might slip away during the free hours?” This morbid conversation, like many, drifted away from Lord Alaric to the mundane. Yet, in that brief exchange, Alaric Thorne’s honor had been slashed a dozen times and ultimately, utterly murdered. This act of murder multiplied with every tongue that wagged within the Keep. After his ignominious loss to Gareth Beaumont, Alaric Thorne became a pariah, a broken thing—almost as if the entire court had been poised, awaiting his fall. --- The Scribes’ Wing balanced a fragile calm against the burgeoning passion of its inhabitants. Apprentices’ eyes flicked back and forth like a metronome between their parchments and the doorway. Patches of dark, still-damp crimson marred the polished floor near the entrance, testament to the struggle that had spilled briefly into their sanctuary. It must have dried by now, but Lysander felt a phantom chill, as if blood would still seep out if pressed. Unexpectedly, Elder Master Elmsworth, usually a figure of meekness, reacted with an outburst that made the very air crackle. The next period was scheduled for quiet study and transcription. The wing, having buzzed with the day’s shocking events, fell into an unnatural hush as the Master entered. He slammed a heavy folio onto a standing desk, the sound echoing like a thunderclap, then let out a high-pitched cry that seemed to tear at one’s very ears. “What in the Abyss is wrong with you all! You… you insolent whelps! Do you take me for a fool? Why do you conduct yourselves with such disregard? Silence! I demand it! Why this chatter during study hours! Is this a time for idle gossip? Next season, you will serve as full courtiers! Full courtiers! Please, heed my words and cease your reckless antics! Do you comprehend that I bear responsibility for your every transgression! I never should have accepted this post among such an unruly brood. I feel my sanity fraying. If you persist in this manner, your lives will be nothing but wasted potential, can you not see that? Have you no shame before your noble houses? And how many times must I command silence during study!” Most sensible individuals, upon witnessing such a timid man erupt, would immediately seal their lips. But this was Thorne Keep, a place crowded with figures of varying intellectual and emotional maturity. Some defied common sense, some had yet to shed the boorishness of their formative years, and some, despite their lineage, were so dim-witted they committed acts of staggering idiocy. The Scribes’ Wing was precisely such a place. “Listen to the Master! Fuming, isn’t he? Fuming!” someone by the outermost desks stage-whispered. “A comical sight, the Elder Master enraged,” Ser Roric, two tables ahead, muttered, a smirk playing on his lips. “You impudent cub! What? Do you imagine me a jest?! You, come forward. Approach this desk!” “Master… why such harshness?” Ser Roric challenged, his voice dripping with feigned innocence. “I said, *come forward*, you insolent boy!” Elmsworth seized a thick, leather-bound ledger. He hurled it. It arced between the standing desks, struck the corner of a meticulously arranged table in the third row, then clattered to the floor. The ledger, its momentum spent, made a surprisingly loud noise in the sudden, sharp silence. “My apologies, Elder Master. It shall not happen again. Please, forgive me, yes?” Roric remained in his seat, a defiant, unrepentant smirk plastered on his face. It was always some mediocre junior, neither truly favored nor a complete outcast, who pulled such stunts. The untalented ones sought attention. They paraded a false bravado, failing to see the clumsy, pathetic nature of their bluff. “Come forward. Or must I drag you from your seat?” “Ah, Master! Is that not excessive! Truly!” “Silence!” “Hold your tongue, Ser Roric. The Elder Master commanded you to approach.” Lysander could endure it no longer. He spoke, his voice quiet but clear, carrying a surprising weight. Every eye in the Scribes’ Wing turned to him, but he paid them no mind, absorbing the pathetic scene. Truly, it was so ridiculous that a scoff almost escaped his lips. He rather enjoyed situations such as this. Lysander was not a man of martial prowess, nor did he feign the rough mannerisms of a street tough. Yet, the reason he held a respected, if quiet, position in this labyrinthine jungle was his innate ability to dismantle fools like Ser Roric. “Scribe Kael, why such gravity now?” “You, Ser Roric, are the one who misjudges the room.” This quiet authority had not been forged overnight. During the initial months of Lysander’s apprenticeship, there had been some resistance to his scholarly resolve, but now, his presence commanded a pleasant spiral of silence. “Indeed. Cease this noise and approach the Master. Have you no sense of propriety? Do you not grasp the solemnity of this moment?” Lysander’s gaze was unwavering. “If you are truly apologetic, then rise. Because of your insolence, we all suffer the Master’s ire. You insipid simpleton.” “What… what is his concern? Truly.” Lysander heard Ser Roric mutter under his breath until the very end. The confident sneer he had worn while baiting the Elder Master gradually faded, like a dying ember. Under the collective, silent pressure of the entire wing, he finally rose and shuffled to the front. Now, he resembled a cornered rat. Lysander allowed a twisted smile to play on his lips, hidden from view. Lord Alaric had fallen. Nothing could bring Lysander greater satisfaction. Perhaps it stemmed from a time when Lord Alaric, in a moment of thoughtless arrogance, had once struck Lysander across the face for a perceived slight. No, Lysander was certain. He felt a profound sense of vindication. Honestly, even he was surprised by the potency of his own satisfaction. And he felt that electrifying thrill as a subtle return of influence, a quiet power, began to course through him. “Into the hallway, this instant!” Elmsworth finally shrieked at the cowed Ser Roric. “…” After driving the noisy fool out, the Elder Master placed a trembling hand on the standing desk and silently wrestled with his anger for a long moment. Perhaps he had gathered his thoughts, for it was fortunate, in many ways, that his tone calmed considerably. He then announced he would summon each apprentice, one by one, to ascertain the true events. “I vow to keep all confessions in strictest confidence. So please, speak the truth. Do not cause me further disappointment. Please, I beg of you.” He seemed determined to hear an unbiased account, but as a cloistered scholar, he still appeared oblivious to the brutal pyramid world of Thorne Keep. Once quiet study time concluded and the Master—his face still flushed—finished regaining his composure and departed, Lord Cedric Valerius, a shrewd courtier known for shaping narratives, quietly closed the great oak doors and the heavy casements of the Scribes’ Wing. He then addressed the assembled apprentices with a warning. “Listen closely. Choose your words with care. Make the correct judgment about who will continue to hold sway here—Gareth Beaumont, or that… that debauched scion.” “Lord Alaric threw the first challenge. You understand, do you not?” Ser Roric chimed in, his loyalty now admirably swift. Lysander merely observed. --- Less than a week later, Gareth Beaumont returned to the Keep. Gareth came back flaunting a swollen jaw, bruised a deep, mottled blue. His nose must have been badly damaged, for a square bandage, layered with sticky balm and tape, covered it. In stark contrast to his wretched face, however, the energy radiating from him was more imposing, more arrogant, than Lysander had ever witnessed. Gareth grinned wide, then tapped his now perfectly reattached canine tooth with his index finger. Lysander offered a small, almost imperceptible nod in return. Immediately after the confrontation, Gareth had casually risen to his own feet and walked, albeit unsteadily, towards the waiting healers’ litter. It was a bizarre, yet flashy and attention-grabbing spectacle that dominated every conversation for days. Lysander had hurried after him. And just before Gareth climbed into the litter, Lysander had pressed a small, carefully folded parchment into his hand. “These are the specifics of the incident. Note the sequence. Frame your injuries thus: ‘A sudden, unprovoked assault, a broken tooth upon the unforgiving flagstone.’ Imply risk of infection, a deep contamination of the bone itself, if not diligently tended.” At that moment, Gareth had wiped blood from his face with a gauntleted hand, his eyes, unusually small and sharp, locking onto Lysander’s. The blood, already dried stiff, would not come off. Honestly, seeing half his face caked in crimson, dried to a rusty hue, was not a pleasant sight. Lysander’s focus, however, remained on those eyes, now fixed on his hand. In that gory state, Gareth spoke, and Lysander strained to listen, caught off guard. “…You have keen eyes, Scribe Kael. A most valuable asset.” His hand, crusted with dried blood, brushed Lysander’s cheek, a startlingly abrupt gesture. “…Indeed?” Lysander could only stand there, momentarily dumbfounded. Soon after, a messenger hawk arrived with a terse note for Lysander: *Nerves mostly alive. They reattached. Your counsel was… precise.* And as soon as he returned to the Keep, Gareth Beaumont took the seat adjacent to Lysander’s. When Lysander’s original seatmate, a quiet junior scribe, approached, Gareth merely pointed a thumb to an empty chair in another alcove, not even bothering to look at him. The junior scribe quietly relocated. Before Lysander quite realized it, Gareth was beside him, tapping his shoulder twice with his index and middle fingers in quick succession. Then, suddenly, Gareth spoke. “A token, Scribe Kael.” “For what purpose? Unprompted.” “Open your hand, and hold your tongue.” Lysander set down his charcoal stick and opened his palm. At the same time, Gareth carefully placed something upon it. Lysander felt a crinkling, unsettling sensation in the center of his hand. When Gareth lifted his large hand from Lysander’s, Lysander saw two small, discolored objects: one a broken tooth with no root, the other, shockingly, a full tooth, root still intact, stained dark with dried blood and something else, something gritty. The unique, almost translucent yellow hue of the enamel was unmistakable. What in the Abyss was this? Confused by the ghastly tokens, Lysander glanced at Gareth. He leaned back against the high-backed chair, a chilling smirk on his lips. “Lord Alaric will chew on bitter regret for the rest of his days. These… are but a reminder.” A low chuckle rumbled in Gareth’s chest, genuine and full of delight, like a child discovering a morbid game. “Did you witness it?” “…” “I won, Scribe Kael.” This arrogant brute. For a moment, Lysander nearly flung the grisly trophies against the stone wall. Gareth Beaumont, he observed, displayed absolutely no remorse. Gareth’s return caused another stir throughout Thorne Keep. After all, he was the first principal actor to reappear, his face not as battered as many had expected, and he showed none of the gloomy aura of a defeated man. Rumors of his victory spread quickly among the junior courtiers. Most of those who truly understood what had transpired were from Lysander’s own wing and adjacent departments. For the newly arrived squires, the drama of the senior ranks was a distant, yet fascinating, spectacle to devour.

A Crown of Broken Teeth