A chill, damp cloth, scented faintly with hyssop and dew, lay pressed against Brother Kael’s swollen cheek. His face, still soft with the lingering fog of sleep, seemed ill-suited to the sharp angles of the dawn, even within the cloistered warmth of the scriptorium. Elias spoke, his voice hushed but firm. “You should wear this, Brother. It lessens the puffiness.” Kael peeled the cloth away, revealing the faint, bruised mark of a restless night. He smirked, the gesture more a reflex than genuine amusement. “Ever the diligent, Elias.” “My duty, Brother.” Elias offered a shallow bow. His own hands, slender and pale, trembled ever so slightly as he withdrew, the ghost of Kael’s warmth a phantom burn on his fingertips. This morning ritual, an unspoken obligation born of Kael’s frequent nocturnal transgressions, chafed at Elias’s devout spirit even as he performed it with unblemished perfection. “The Elder Abbot,” Kael mused, stretching languidly, “made no mention of my late return. Thanks to your… foresight, perhaps.” Elias merely nodded, a knot tightening in his stomach. He turned to his own carrel, a small, enclosed booth carved into the cold stone wall. His gaze, however, drifted past it, snagging on the adjacent carrel, where a heavy, leather-bound tome lay open, its pages inscribed with arcane glyphs and ancient Veritas script. This spot was not Elias’s. It belonged to Brother Theron, Kael’s companion, a man whose stature and quiet competence always seemed to dwarf Elias, even when Theron was seated. Elias, frail and often overlooked, found what small comfort he could in occupying the carrel directly behind Kael’s, a constant, if unnoticed, presence. Burying the familiar ache of his own insignificance, Elias allowed a casual query to escape. “When did Brother Theron arrive?” Kael glanced over, stirring a little. “He was already here. Buried in that old commentary when I came in.” “So early?” Elias murmured, a frown creasing his brow. “He retired to his cell before the final vespers last night.” Just as the words left his lips, a rustle of parchment sounded. The heavy tome shifted, revealing Brother Theron’s half-lidded eyes. His gaze, narrowed by sleep, swept over Elias and Kael before he let out a long, silent yawn. “The commentary… it drew me in,” Theron mumbled, his voice gravelly. “Said I’d just read a few more pages before prostrating, and… well.” Kael’s laughter, a low, rumbling sound, filled the space. “This brother, Elias. Looks like he’d rather commune with dust motes than the Living Word, yet he studies with the fervor of a novice. Wholesomer than Brother Matthias, I daresay.” Theron simply leaned back against the cold stone, a quiet chuckle escaping him. His eyes met Elias’s for a fleeting moment, a spark of shared understanding, or perhaps pity. Elias felt a strange, cold prickle across his skin, a discomfiting sensation that made him avert his gaze back to Kael. The early morning scriptorium, usually a sanctuary of quiet reflection, felt relatively light. Such jests often set the tone for the day. Soon, other acolytes and junior Brothers — Brother Joran, Brother Pallas — would drift in, gathering around Kael with their hushed admirations, eager to hear his casual pronouncements. The routine unfolded: whispers, quiet laughter, and, eventually, the arrival of an Elder to usher in the day’s lessons. For Brothers considered the most promising, it was a surprisingly unburdened start to the morning. Elias, despite finding Kael’s worldly anecdotes about clandestine city dealings vaguely distasteful, always played along, feigning a polite interest. He told himself these mornings weren’t entirely bad. But everything had changed a month and a half past. And the reason was entirely Acolyte Silas. --- “Silas is here.” “Truly? After the Abbot’s reprimand yesterday?” Brother Joran openly scoffed, pointing a finger, heavy with disdain, toward the scriptorium entrance. At the tip of his finger stood Acolyte Silas, shuffling awkwardly into the hallowed hall. He clutched his worn scripture satchel to his chest, his face half-hidden by a fringe of dark, lank hair. Silas moved toward a small, forgotten carrel in the deepest corner, depositing his satchel before hunching over the stone slab, his shoulders trembling. Elias watched his pathetic figure, a sigh, laden with an unfamiliar irritation, escaping his lips. Silas was utterly inadequate. His voice was thin, his frame small – a pitiful excuse for a devout. As the murmurs of the acolytes swelled, Kael’s eyes narrowed, a dark, dangerous glint in their depths. He muttered curses under his breath. Elias hated it. Kael’s particular brand of sensitivity, his sharp, predatory focus – it twisted Elias’s insides. Kael snatched the ancient historical scroll that had previously covered Theron’s face, balling it into a tight fist. Then, with a casual flick, he hurled it. The heavy parchment struck Silas’s head with a soft thud. Silas’s head slumped further onto his carrel. “By the Mother’s Tears. Don’t parade that wretched visage around first thing in the morning.” Silas placed his arms on the stone, burying his face deeper. He did exactly as Kael commanded. Yet, Kael watched him with undiminished scorn, kicking his own carrel, the hollow thud echoing through the quiet chamber. “Acolyte! Will you not answer me?” When Kael abruptly rose, his voice sharp and loud, Silas, still hunched, stammered, his words trembling. “Y-yes, Brother.” “Lift your head. Look at me. Speak properly.” Did Kael even comprehend the senselessness he demanded? The sheer absurdity of his cruelty pulled a bitter, humorless laugh from Elias’s throat. Whether Kael noticed or not, he began to move. Each measured step he took toward Silas amplified the unpleasant feelings swirling within Elias, raw and vivid. Kael closed the distance between them. That alone was enough to make Elias feel the precarious suppression of his own emotions begin to unravel. This was not the same kind of jealousy Elias felt when Kael spoke with Theron. Instinctively, Elias knew. Deep down, he harbored something just as sinister as Kael did. That was why Kael’s interactions with Theron eventually became tolerable, but his dealings with Silas grew increasingly unbearable. Elias’s hands began to tremble. He clenched them tightly, pressing his nails into his palms, desperate to hide the weakness. Kael kicked Silas’s carrel hard. The ancient stone structure shuddered violently, almost toppling. Silas jolted upright, his voice still unsteady. “F-forgive me.” Kael stood over him, silently looking down at Silas’s face. Silas’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, on the verge of breaking. Yet, in that moment, Elias felt like he was the one who might burst into wretched, uncontrolled sobs. Kael never made Silas run pointless errands, but he always kept his eyes on the acolyte. If Silas left for the lavatorium during a break in lessons, Kael would still be watching his retreating figure, even as he conversed with the others. Elias knew, for he never stopped watching Kael. To be truthful, Elias’s first impression of Acolyte Silas had been unremarkable. His skin was not perfectly unblemished, but his youthful features gave him a face that was easy to look upon. When he smiled, it seemed genuinely unburdened, and even his neutral expression carried a certain gentle light. Before Kael began his torment, no one truly disliked Silas. He seemed a child raised in warmth and love. While not particularly gregarious, preferring quiet solitude, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor. Most considered Silas a decent acolyte. Since he never flaunted the devotion he’d received growing up, he garnered even more quiet praise. Humble, quiet, gentle, and inexplicably pleasant to be near—that was Acolyte Silas. But Elias didn’t particularly favor him from the start. He didn’t detest him either—he simply didn’t care. To say Silas wasn’t even on Elias’s radar would be more accurate. Yet, whenever he spoke with his peers, with Kael, or with Theron’s small group, and Silas’s name surfaced, Elias would find himself casually fabricating, saying, “Oh, Silas? He is… alright. Devout enough.” Kael, like Elias, had paid little heed to Silas initially. Kael was never one to care for the quiet affairs of younger acolytes. After Silas transferred into their cohort in the month of the Serpent, he and Kael didn’t exchange a single word until the month of the Lion. That was how things were. But one day, something shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane flow of their existence. It happened right after the mid-day meal. Looking back, Elias knew he had never regretted an action as profoundly as he regretted what occurred that day. Silas, as was his custom, had taken a corner carrel during the brief free period, to read. He was the kind of acolyte who loved burying himself in ancient texts. Elias, on the other hand, had a habit of being overly familiar with those who held a good reputation. That was why, when he stumbled upon Silas by chance, Elias struck up a conversation about the obscure philosophical treatise Silas was perusing. Elias himself was not much for such dense tomes—pretending to be intellectually profound was more his style. “You must truly cherish these old texts, Acolyte?” “Huh? Oh, yes, I suppose.” At the time, Silas and Elias were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made the approach easier. “Have you reached the conclusion of this particular argument?” “Well, I am almost at the end.” “Then consider closing it now. The final refutation will disappoint you. It is one of those where the ending unravels the brilliance of the preceding theses.” “You have studied it before, Brother Elias?” “Yes, some time ago.” To satisfy his own intellectual vanity, Elias always sought out commentaries and critiques of the texts he briefly skimmed, ensuring he had something profound to utter in future conversations. Drawing on those memories, he offered a critique—not a real one, merely enough to sound informed—and Silas smiled brightly, looking genuinely pleased. It caught Elias off guard. “You are the first Brother I have met who has read this particular treatise besides myself.” “Oh… truly?” “Yes, but I am still going to finish it. Contemplating why the refutation turned out the way it did is part of the joy.” “Well, certainly. Interpretations differ.” “Hearing you say that makes me look forward to it even more.” That smile still lingered as an uncomfortable memory. Was it some instinctive unease Elias felt back then? After that day, Acolyte Silas started seeking Elias out more frequently. Though Elias found it a bit annoying, often wondering, *Why me?*, he did not outright reject him. Silas, with his untarnished reputation, was not the worst acolyte to keep close. After all, such esoteric texts—outside of the mandated scriptures and daily lessons—were practically forbidden for acolytes their age. Even if one had the time, these tomes were little more than weighty blocks of parchment to them. For Silas, Elias was probably the only Brother around who could discuss such things. That day was one of those routine encounters, but it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days among them. Brother Theron was to blame. To this day, Elias could not fathom why he acted as he did. Why he, someone who never meddled in others’ spiritual studies, chose to stick his nose where it did not belong. Why Theron, of all people, had left his most recent theological disputation scroll wide open for every passing acolyte to see. Elias, who detested having his own scriptural analyses revealed, naturally assumed Theron would want his concealed. So, Elias flipped the scroll over, to hide it. That was when he saw it: Theron’s score. Eighty-one marks. He blinked in disbelief and checked again. It was definitively eighty-one. Considering the exacting grading thresholds for this test of divine law, it would barely scrape into the fourth tier. But still, it was on the higher end of that tier. It was the first time one of Elias’s preconceptions was shattered. It was a small shock to realize Theron was not as spiritually adrift as Elias had imagined. Naturally, that made Elias think of Kael’s scores. Now, *he* was the true spiritual refuse. A Brother who would mark every question with the same obscure rune and sleep through the rest of the examination, Kael had never once managed a respectable score. Perhaps that was why Elias felt such a mix of emotions—like he had found a usable vessel among the broken shards. A Brother he had once dismissed as merely Kael’s shadow turned out to be more salvable than the Brother he… admired. That strange realization must have unsettled him, because Elias did something he normally never would have done. It was nothing grand. He just grabbed a nearby stylus and scribbled a short note at the top of Theron’s scroll. “Focus on the logical fallacies in the Second Canon. You will reach the third tier soon enough. Well done. —Elias. P.S. My apologies for viewing your marks without permission. I merely sought to cover the scroll and happened to see it.” The arrogance of evaluating another’s spiritual progress and offering unsolicited counsel made Elias feel a surge of embarrassment, so he rambled to justify himself. He could not say why he even wrote it in the first place. At the time, he must have been utterly lost in the moment. Looking back, it was clear this was the first mistake in what would become a series of entanglements. Every unraveling begins with a poorly secured first knot. If Elias hadn’t written that note, he wouldn’t have run into Acolyte Silas, clutching a sacred text, down the hallowed corridors.

The Stifled Breath of Dawn