Acolyte Theron’s fist hovered, a silent challenge in the cavernous Scriptorium. Before the gesture could ripen into something substantial, Acolyte Valerius struck Theron’s thigh with an open palm, a sound like a wet slap, extinguishing the nascent conflict.
Theron’s bravado crumpled. A strange, choked sound, like a dove caught in a net, escaped him. Acolyte Joric and Acolyte Kael erupted in laughter, and Theron spun on them, his face contorted.
“Oh, you find this amusing? Truly?” he snarled, a playful jab landing on Kael’s arm.
The brief commotion subsided as quickly as it had begun. The trio, a tangle of limbs and muffled jests, shuffled towards the archway leading to the Outer Cloister.
Kael paused, turning to offer Elias a quick, almost imperceptible nod. Elias, without conscious thought, echoed the gesture. Then, he sank back onto his bench, the cool, worn wood pressing against his spine. He reached for the uninked quill, its tip hovering over the pristine vellum of his scripture scroll.
He had just dipped the quill into the inkwell when his gaze drifted, sweeping past the rows of occupied carrels, over the cubic, unadorned stone walls that enclosed their labor. A profound quiet settled, broken only by the faint rustle of parchment and the rhythmic scratch of other quills.
Elias lowered his head. His fingers trembled slightly as he traced the intricate lines of a sacred verse, the meticulous script a balm against the churning anxieties within him. He was on the third problem of exegesis, his quill tapping an absent rhythm against the vellum, when he abruptly lifted his head.
Beyond the arched window, the old ivy vines clinging to the cloister walls had begun their slow surrender, their leaves turning a deep, melancholy russet. A sharp, earthy scent, like decay mixed with damp stone, permeated the air. Above, the sky stretched an impossible, vivid blue, untouched by the monastic gloom.
“A hermitage would be less arduous than this,” the aging Brother Augustine, their scholar of ancient texts, often lamented.
“It’s a veritable proving ground. A spiritual gauntlet. The novices, they establish their pecking order first. By the Feast of the Ascended, things settle, a fragile truce. But until then? It’s a constant struggle, displays of piety, tests of will, each striving to ascend. Saints preserve us, my head aches. And I must endure this again with the next intake of postulants. Let’s see… what celestial sign marks their birth?”
He would unfurl a gnarled hand, counting the knuckles, muttering the ancient celestial cycles.
“Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Serpent, Horse, Ram…”
Elias, lost in the memory, found himself mimicking the motion, stretching his hand, counting the joints of his slender fingers. He couldn’t discern the pattern, the esoteric significance eluded him. He flipped his hand, counting the raised bones on the back instead.
One, thirty-one, two, twenty-eight, three, thirty-one, four, thirty, five, thirty-one, six, thirty, seven, thirty-one, eight, thirty-one… nine.
He never would have imagined, in the early warmth of the Rite of Spring, that the cold kiss of late Autumn would feel like the relentless pressures of initiation once more.
“Novices are nothing but fledgling predators. Impulsive, emotional, driven by base desires.”
Elias stared at the bone protruding from his middle finger, a pale ridge beneath the skin, and absently tapped the worn timber of his carrel, as if playing a silent hymn. Brother Augustine’s raspy voice, likely hoarse from perpetual study, droned on from the front, a low counterpoint to the sharp scrape of chalk on the slate tablet.
His gaze fell upon the empty seat near the front, Novice Koren’s abandoned station.
For a moment, he imagined a phantom impression on the desk’s surface—one side pressed down, the other rising, as if a head had been abruptly lifted.
His fingers stilled.
Elias turned his head.
Acolyte Valerius sat hunched over his own scripture text, his face half-buried in the parchment. His eyes were half-closed, heavy-lidded. He would fix his gaze upon a complex passage, as if to devour its meaning whole, only to suddenly slump forward, his forehead pressing against the text.
Elias watched Valerius’s nose flatten between the pages and his brow.
Then, he turned away.
“Had I truly drifted?”
A vague, disoriented sensation lingered. He marked the third problem with a small star and moved to the fourth.
***
Later, in the Refectory, the midday meal was thick lentil gruel and a small cup of sweetened goat’s milk. Valerius, having drained his milk first, spoke abruptly.
“You are Second Exemplar for our tier, yes?”
“Yes, Acolyte.”
“And for the entire novitiate?”
“Also second.”
“By the Saints…”
“Why the surprise?”
“So, the foremost Exemplar in our tier is the foremost of the whole novitiate?”
“Did you not know? I have never surpassed Exemplar Seraphina. Her devotion is unparalleled.”
“She is even more diligent than you, is she not?”
“She is. Her private devotions often stretch until the first vespers of the new day.”
“Damnation. That is rigorous.”
“Her dedication is profound.”
Elias had no wish to prolong the discussion. He scooped a measure of gruel into his mouth, its blandness a familiar comfort. Fortunately, Valerius did not press. He merely nodded.
“Ahhh…”
The silence felt abruptly cut. Elias deliberated. He despised such sudden voids in conversation. Without thinking, he blurted out, “And you, Acolyte? What is your standing?”
“…”
Valerius’s spoon stilled mid-air. Elias found himself staring at his hand, observing the practiced, precise way he held the utensil. If there was one thing Acolyte Valerius did with an unexpected grace, it was this.
“Within our tier…”
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
“What?”
“Why do you gaze so?”
Elias quickly averted his eyes from Valerius’s hand. Was he serious? Not deceiving him? He was so taken aback he almost voiced the question, but bit down on his tongue, stopping himself just in time.
Saints above, that was a near miss. If he slipped, if he caused offense, he would have to endure Valerius’s sharp temper. He hesitated. Would Valerius prefer praise? Or would he rather Elias act with indifference, as if such a rank were expected?
Elias’s mind, ever wired for survival in Veritas, rapidly weighed the optimal social response. Valerius did not seem to cultivate close bonds with many. The latter option, then, felt safer.
“Indeed. You fare better than I would have presumed.”
“What? Presumed? How dim-witted did you take me to be?”
“I did not deem you foolish, merely… I thought your grasp of exegesis was…challenged?”
“Exegesis is my sole failing. Only exegesis.”
“Yet you attend no private tutoring.”
“The absence of a private tutor does not preclude study. By the Saints, did you truly believe me an imbecile?”
“No, no, not at all.” Elias waved his hands quickly. “It is impressive, though, to achieve such a standing without private instruction.”
“…Truly?”
“Yes. It is impressive.”
For some reason, Valerius suddenly began to mash his spoon into his gruel. And—was he blushing? Elias caught a glimpse of the tips of his ears, a faint crimson bloom.
Now that he considered it, Novice Koren had ranked thirty-second. And that was only because there were a few others whose scores were even more lamentable. Thirty-second out of thirty-six.
Thinking back, Elias realized he had never truly paid attention to anything about Koren beyond the things directly concerning him. With that realization, a cold dread settled. He had been drowning in precisely the kind of pathetic, obsessive infatuation with rank and approval he used to despise.
Meanwhile, Acolyte Valerius, entirely oblivious to Elias’s internal crisis, had clearly received a boost of confidence. His tone was utterly transformed—brimming with self-satisfaction.
“Oh, indeed! You likely were unaware—my command of the ancient tongues is quite formidable.”
“Indeed? How formidable?”
“A perfect score. I have never lost a single mark in ancient linguistics.”
“Khhkk!”
Elias choked. The instant the words left Valerius’s lips, Elias spat out a mouthful of goat’s milk. Valerius scowled, yanking his wooden tray away.
“What in the hallowed heavens? What manner of reaction is that?”
“I merely… did not anticipate such an aptitude.”
“Is it so astonishing?” Valerius frowned, a slight pout to his lips. “Yes, my exegesis score is lamentable, but that is all.” A curious hint of self-deprecation tinged his voice. Elias offered a jest in return.
“Perhaps attempt to peruse a devotional text once in a while.”
“What folly do you speak? I am entirely a scholar of ancient wisdom.”
“A scholar? I have never witnessed you reading a sacred codex.”
“That is because I study such matters in secret, within my cell.”
“Why in the sacred name of Veritas would you need to conceal such devotion?”
Valerius’s eyes, which had curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of gruel. Then, with a casualness that felt deliberately provocative, he pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something about the image unsettled Elias. He bit the inside of his cheek.
Valerius met Elias’s gaze as he drew the spoon away, then lowered his eyes, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to its tip.
“Heretical verse is still literature.”
That was undeniably a jest. A blasphemous, unsettling one. Elias’s face burned. To conceal it, he snatched a crumpled bread crust from beside his tray and tossed it at Valerius. It struck just below his long, narrow eyes and fell harmlessly onto the table. One of Valerius’s eyes twitched slightly. Not that Elias cared, but just in case Valerius was genuinely angered, he feigned contrition.
“Cease such foul displays. Especially within an all-male order. It is… most unholy.”
“Oh? You refer to this? To Novice Koren’s mannerisms?”
“I care not whose mannerisms they are. Simply desist.”
“Is this not, by the blessed saints, a trend among us now?”
“…”
Elias stared at Valerius, attempting to discern if he jested or spoke in earnest.
***
Elias slept less. A sure sign, he knew, that his spirit had found a precarious comfort. Mornings, which had been dry and sluggish, now felt strangely crisp, almost invigorating. It was a welcome change—for in his mind, the gravest sins at his age were complacency and an excess of sleep.
“Ah, damnation—!”
His jaw clicked painfully as he cleansed his teeth. Ever since Koren’s clumsy blow, his jaw made an odd grinding noise whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Other than that, today held a fleeting sense of peace. Yet, even in this newfound reprieve, there were sudden surges of irritation.
The cause, invariably, was Novice Koren. Or rather, the incidents that stemmed from his disgrace.
Most of these whispers traveled through the Scriptorium and the Refectory.
“Oh, indeed. I glimpsed Novice Koren last night.” Acolyte Gideon spoke, biting into a dried fig from a stolen pouch, the kind rumored to be preserved with questionable, worldly spices.
Acolyte Theron, who had been playfully jabbing Gideon’s ankle with mock staff strikes, suddenly perked up. “Holy heavens—that is right! You have just illuminated my memory! I was utterly about to relay this. I heard through the shadows—you know Brother Malachi, yes? That unmoored Brother? I heard Koren seeks refuge within his dwelling.”
“Brother Malachi? That heedless Brother Malachi?” Acolyte Valerius, rummaging through a pouch of Theron’s illicit candied plums, asked casually. When he withdrew his hand, he held two small, glistening spheres. For some reason, he offered one to Elias.
“…”
Elias stared at it, confused.
“What is this?” he asked, eyeing Valerius, but Valerius merely offered a slight nod, as if the gesture alone sufficed. The most vocal reaction came from Theron, whose pouch had been raided.
“Damned be! I procured those! Why in the hallowed name are you all consuming my provisions, you wretched fiends?”
“Oh, as if you have never plundered mine, glutton.” Gideon made another feigned staff strike at Theron’s throat. Theron instantly spun, grabbed Gideon’s tunic, and swung a mock punch at his face. Of course, he would not actually connect. That was merely their way.
Elias ignored their foolish squabble and looked down at the candied plum in his hand. The preserved fruit, plump and dark, shone faintly. He peeled the delicate skin, popped the sweet into his mouth, and lifted his head.
“What do you surmise? The taste of first transgression?” Valerius grinned.
“I find no pleasure in such sweetness.”
Elias’s answer wasn’t solely about the plum—it was his judgment of Valerius’s jest, too. And more than anything, he did not find such “first transgressions” amusing. That sticky, cloying feeling clung to the back of his throat. It stole his appetite. In the end, he couldn’t even finish the candied plum. He tossed it into a refuse bin.
“Oh, what a lamentable waste,” Valerius mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, Elias reached into Theron’s pouch to find a different plum. All were the same preserved variety. The one he chose felt a lesser evil. He unwrapped it and put it in his mouth.
“In any case, Brother Malachi, you say? Sounds precisely like Koren.”
“What, because they both defile their vows?” Valerius’s words were sharp, cutting. Uncomfortable, Elias turned to look at him. Valerius was sucking on his own candied plum expressionlessly, twirling the white stem between his lips. Elias pulled his own plum from his mouth. Something about this felt wrong.
Valerius didn’t seem to care. He tilted his plum in the air like a small, dark blade and began making random jabbing motions.
“He cavorts with… clients—be they men or women, it matters not. And when he finds someone suitably pliable, he directs them straight to Koren. It’s a sordid rotation. Defiling each other, passing each other around like common offerings.”
“So Brother Malachi is… also of such vices?” Acolyte Theron suddenly cut in. Whether he had finished his playful scuffle with Gideon or had simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, Elias was unsure. Theron rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if actually processing the abhorrent revelation he had just heard.