A chill, damp air clung to the Scriptorium stone. Two days had passed since Novice Koren’s meticulously prepared vellum scrolls, intended for the upcoming Conclave of Revelation, had been found defaced. Crude, leering caricatures marred sacred iconography. Burn marks, small but deliberate, blackened the edges of his scripture. His personal devotional journal, filled with careful meditations, lay scattered, its pages ripped from their binding.
Elias knew the hand. He had watched Brother Theron, a smirk playing on his lips, lean into the ear of Brother Silas. Theron’s eyes, bright with cruel triumph, had flickered towards the discarded remnants of Koren’s work. Later, hushed whispers in the Refectory confirmed the culprit. Theron, emboldened by his favored status, had openly boasted of silencing Koren’s ‘unseemly ambitions’.
Such courage, Elias thought, a bitter taste on his tongue. He traced a finger over a broken quill left near the scrap heap, its tip snapped clean. Koren, a novice of decent intellect but a stubborn streak, had made an enemy of Theron. His ambition, once seen as commendable, now branded as arrogance, had sealed his fate.
Two days prior, Koren had been undone, likely without realizing the full depth of the machination. Elias understood the currents shifting against Koren. At first, he’d believed it simple resentment. But Koren’s increasingly vocal critiques of the established rituals, his thinly veiled disdain for Theron’s sycophancy, had turned the tide. Even Koren’s own occasional companions had begun to distance themselves. Elias remembered Koren’s last heated exchange with Theron, a public denouncement of Theron’s ‘lax interpretation of the Third Tenet’.
Elias watched the communal disdain harden around Koren’s name. He felt no urge to intercede. No impulse to speak in Koren’s defense. To do so would invite scrutiny. It would question his own alignment. It might cast him as kind, even principled. Yet, within Veritas’s stark, unforgiving hierarchy, where every word was weighed, such an act could only lead to ruin.
Why? The silent question echoed in his mind. Why would he risk his precarious standing? The thought, raw and terrifying, clawed at his throat.
He slumped over his personal lectern, eyes closing against the flickering lamp. Perhaps, for a fleeting moment, he wished to open his eyes to a world reshaped, a canvas where his own muted ambitions shone without shadow. He hovered on the edge of sleep.
A sharp rap against his skull jolted him upright. He rubbed the tender spot, blinking. Before him stood Brother Lyra, his own hand rubbing his forehead in mock pain.
“Gods, that stung,” Lyra muttered, a wry grin on his face.
“Why disturb my studies?” Elias asked, voice thin with irritation.
“Mind your own vigil. What’s that?” Lyra lifted a gnarled prayer staff, its polished surface marred by deep scratches, from where it had been propped against the table. “Found it. In the rejected relics bin, near the cloister.”
Elias’s brow furrowed. Lyra always found the most peculiar things. The tap hadn’t truly hurt, but Elias ran a hand through his hair, checking for disarray. Lyra, meanwhile, kicked aside a low stool, then settled onto it with an effortless grace that belied his casual demeanor. He tossed his satchel onto the lectern, then flopped forward, using it as a pillow.
“You wake me only to slumber yourself?” Elias grumbled, nudging Lyra’s sandaled foot with his own. Lyra merely smirked.
“Worried you’d miss some profound revelation. My own insights, alas, are quite worthless.”
“Specious reasoning.” Elias retorted, annoyance prickling him. Lyra always provoked such sharp replies. He gave Lyra’s foot another, harder shove.
“Is it pious to assault the infirm, Elias? You sacrilegious wretch.” Lyra’s voice held a playful mix of sarcasm. Elias scoffed, then kicked the prayer staff. It toppled towards Lyra, but without lifting his head, Lyra raised a hand, catching it with practiced ease. He didn’t stir, but a silent chuckle rumbled from his chest. Then, his voice, muffled by the satchel, broke the quiet.
“Something weighs on you, Elias.”
“What?” Elias asked, caught off guard. Was it so apparent? His brow hadn’t been bruised badly, had it?
He hesitated, a mere breath, then smoothly brushed a hand over his cheek. “A momentary lapse. A stumble.”
“Hah.” Lyra’s quiet laugh echoed in the stone chamber. Still resting his chin on his satchel, his eyes, bright and unsettling, flicked to Elias. He pointed a finger, a slow, deliberate gesture.
Elias didn’t understand. “What are you implying?”
“You are a fraud, Elias.”
At Lyra’s smile, as he leaned the staff against himself, Elias’s thoughts scattered like startled pigeons.
“What… what nonsense is that?”
“You didn’t just ‘stumble’,” Lyra mused, his voice low, a viper’s hiss.
Elias held his breath. Lyra’s words, often enigmatic, now carried a chilling menace. Lyra’s gaze remained unnervingly still. His irises, light as river stones, held dark pupils that pierced Elias. It was like watching an arrow poised, guessing its trajectory. This one aimed straight for his heart. No, Elias thought. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t know.
Lyra’s eyes narrowed further. “It looked more like you ran into something… or someone.”
His long, serpentine eyes curved upward. Elias’s throat constricted. Air caught in his chest. A sharp gulp. Lyra’s lips parted. Elias couldn’t even blink.
“If others knew,” Lyra whispered, “it would be quite the embarrassment, wouldn’t it?”
Elias remained silent.
“I’ll keep your secret, little scribe.” Lyra raised the hand holding his staff to his lips, then winked. The breath Elias had been holding slammed against his ribs. Lyra didn’t wait for a reaction. He ran a hand through his dark hair, then pointed at Elias once more.
“But did you copy my styling? It seems… derivative.”
Elias was speechless. Lyra crinkled his nose in exaggerated disapproval. “Anyway, I need to commune with the void for a while.” He yawned, burying his face back into his satchel. Elias stared at the back of his head, then finally muttered, “I copied nothing. My hair is simply as it is.”
“Oh, is that so?” Lyra’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his bag.
---
“Lamb of the Most High, who bears the burden of our trespasses.” Brother Lyra intoned, clutching a parchment scroll in one hand.
Fourth Hour, after the Recitation of Ancient Hymns. We received our Edicts of Purity, outlining our spiritual progress over the past moon. Lyra buried his face in his scroll, scanning his low marks, then let out a theatrical sigh. “Ah, I am quite damned.”
Elias glanced at his own Edict. Exemplary marks, as expected. He folded it precisely, slipping it into a pocket within his ceremonial robes. Lyra was still sighing, head thrown back so far Elias could only see his bobbing Adam’s apple. It seemed to chastise Elias for staring. Elias fixed his gaze on Lyra’s throat.
“That specific canticle is not for such despair,” Elias said.
“Who cares? A prayer is a prayer.” Lyra’s head snapped forward. “Elias, is it ‘Most High’ or ‘Venerated One’?”
Elias realized, not for the first time, Lyra’s spiritual devotion was… peculiar.
“Why ask me? It is your own faith.”
“Little Elias, don’t be so petulant. Your intellect is vast. I presumed you knew all truths.”
“I do not. And I have no such laxity in my faith.”
Lyra, who had been leaning back, suddenly straightened. Their eyes met. Elias instinctively averted his gaze towards the stained-glass window, pretending not to have seen. A sharp prickle of guilt, like a caught thief, needled his chest.
He stared absently at the light filtering through the glass, then shifted his focus to the crisp, starched collar of Lyra’s novice tunic. The white fabric pressed against his neck. With every exaggerated movement, a glimpse of Lyra’s collarbone flashed into view.
“So? Join me for the Sanctified Feast on the morrow?”
“What? No.”
“Ah, why not? Come. On High Holy Days, they bestow gifts. Honey-cakes, spiced wine, new candles…”
“You participate solely for such earthly gains?” Elias asked, incredulous.
“Naturally.”
Elias finally met his gaze. Lyra had a small, polished stone resting on his upper lip. Elias, despite himself, found a grudging admission forming. Lyra was handsome. A smug bastard. The stone, wedged between his nose and lip, distorted his voice into a slurred mumble. “But you say it as if I steal. If they offer, what offense in taking?”
“Can it be called faith,” Elias challenged, “if it is born of such selfish desire?”
“That is how all belief begins, Elias. Rarely with grand pronouncements. It begins, ‘Oh, sweet food. This giver must be benevolent.’ And then, slowly, that belief in the ‘benevolent giver of sweet food’ blossoms into absolute devotion. The origin, the process – these are trivial. What matters, Elias, is that now, I believe.”
Lyra often spouted such strange philosophies. Sometimes it was pure nonsense. Other times, it held a compelling, unsettling logic, one that tugged at Elias’s own hidden thoughts. This was the latter.
He ran a hand through his fringe, pushing it back from his forehead. It fell back, tickling his eyes. He tried again, shaking his head. Thin strands of hair swayed before him. He gathered them near his temples. The distraction lessened. He had been so lost in thought, he’d forgotten his regular trim.
With Novice Koren absent, and Theron and Silas rarely in the main Scriptorium, the front rows felt empty. Elias had no reason to look in that direction anymore.
Six days past, Brother Kael had summoned Elias to his chambers. Kael’s voice, a low rumble, asked if Elias had seen Koren.
Elias answered, carefully, honestly. “No, Brother. I have not.”
“You had not mended your differences with Koren, then?” Kael asked, his gaze sharp.
Elias offered a small, bitter smile. A precisely calculated expression. He felt no true inclination to smile. “No, Brother. Koren… he grew quite vexed with me.”
“Koren grew vexed with *you*?” Kael’s brow furrowed.
“Yes, Brother.”
Whispers traveled fast in Veritas. Kael was not entirely ignorant of the implications. “Very well, Elias. You may go.” As Kael settled back into his seat, Elias heard him mutter beneath his breath. Scraps of complaint about Koren, frustration over a recent admonishment from the Head Scrivener, Koren’s family patron. Elias pretended not to hear the pathetic monologue. He turned, but still listened. He gauged the shifting currents within Kael’s chamber.
Later that day, as Elias prepared his private studies, a message arrived from the Head Scrivener himself. He inquired after Novice Koren. He asked the same question as Brother Kael.
Elias gave the same answer. “No, Head Scrivener. Koren… he has not sought me out.”
“—I see…” The Head Scrivener’s voice, usually booming, was subdued.
“I am deeply sorry I cannot be of greater assistance.”
“—No, Elias. There is nothing for you to apologize for. It is well.”
Lately, the Head Scrivener had called with increasing frequency. Each conversation followed the same, careful pattern. Elias sensed a strange, deliberate effort to link Koren’s fate with his own. He ended the call swiftly. He had nothing to apologize for, truly. But he said sorry anyway. To be liked. It was the same instinct that prompted praise for an unlovely newborn. A social convention. An unspoken etiquette, vital for survival in Veritas.
Elias knew the elders did not perceive him as a pawn. Rather, his politeness was a crude pantomime. A performance by a jester, eager for approval. He understood his place. He applied the effort to be liked, to become a cherished fool. Even if, one day, he stumbled, made a mistake so glaring it drew a frown from the high echelons, they would forgive him. This was the foundation he painstakingly laid.
Unlike some hapless fools, Elias navigated life with meticulous foresight. Perhaps, from an Elder’s perspective, his methods were but narrow, petty machinations. Yet among his peers, his wisdom in handling unpredictable situations was undeniable. One only needed to observe Novice Darrius for proof.
Novice Darrius, once a steadfast shadow to Koren, now clung desperately to Lyra’s attention. He even feigned friendliness towards Elias. In the eyes of many, Elias had, quite early on, aligned himself with Lyra. This was Elias’s groundwork.
His strategy, a silent scripture written in careful movements and whispered apologies, offered him a measure of protection. It granted him a fragile, gilded cage of acceptance.