Ashworth's ancient timber floors, polished by centuries of academic ambition, felt less like a foundation and more like a precipice beneath Julian Beaumont’s worn boots. This hushed expanse, a common room overflowing with leather-bound tomes and whispering shadows, housed a peculiar ecosystem. Young men, barely past boyhood, yet already hardened by the cutthroat pursuit of prestige, formed their intricate hierarchies. They gathered in groups, a constant, unspoken jostle for position. Each undergraduate here had endured but eighteen days of term, their lives already strung taut, vibrating with a high-pitched anxiety. Every day demanded a delicate, perilous dance of survival.
This unending tension had begun for Julian not at Ashworth, but much earlier. He remembered twelve years old, learning the brutal art of forming an alliance, of navigating the treacherous social currents. Since then, a daily balancing act had become his routine. He suspected it was everyone else’s, too.
A cubic jungle, he thought, concealing a pyramid. That’s what the college amounted to.
“Ah…”
His left arm, still stiff and bruised from the previous night, sent a sharp tingle up to his shoulder as he stretched it. He tapped a clenched fist lightly against his stomach, a hollow ache residing there. Releasing a shallow breath, he gazed at the backs of his peers slumped over their texts. Woolen jackets, peach-colored napes. At the high table, Master Atherton, our esteemed Classics don, read a creased copy of *The Times*, folded in half. Students, meanwhile, wrestled with assigned problems in ancient Greek, or, having surrendered entirely, dozed with their chins upon their chests.
“A sound mind in a sound body, gentlemen,” the Don boomed, turning a page. “Those among you who slumber, perhaps the body is sound, but the mind wanders.”
It was already the fifth period. Julian had been working through the fifteenth line of a Pindar ode, a complex interplay of dialects and mythic allusion. He paused, scratching his head with his index finger, before setting his lead pencil on the polished desk. His eyes drifted to the empty seats. Two, in particular, caught his attention.
As anticipated, neither Percival nor Alistair had made an appearance. They likely wouldn’t show tomorrow either, not unless Percival underwent one of his unpredictable shifts in temper, or some new drama erupted between the two. Whatever that ‘something’ might be, Julian had no desire to know.
He lowered his gaze back to the intricate problems, his eyes tracing the elegant curves of Attic Greek. Once, he had believed himself the sole authority on Percival. He had convinced himself that no one in Ashworth understood Percival better than he did. A private pride had bloomed from this conviction, even when comparing himself to Edmund, who now seemed to draw Percival’s interest more closely. Deep down, Julian had relished the quiet knowledge that he held the upper hand in deciphering Percival’s mercurial nature.
Propriety demanded he keep his chin up, but Julian found himself resting his jaw on a hand. Such thoughts, he knew, were utterly repugnant. What would his peers, or worse, the Dons, think if they knew these insidious currents churned beneath his reserved exterior? The answer was chillingly obvious: he would be pushed to the very bottom of Ashworth’s pyramid, occupying its widest, lowest plane. A terrifying prospect. This insidious desire for knowledge, this private conceit, had to remain hidden. Buried deep, so deep that not even its object would sense it. Ultimately, he needed to hide it so well that even he might forget its existence.
Percival, however, possessed no such discretion. Everyone in college knew of his desires, his open displays of dominion.
Julian glanced around, lifting his head fractionally. Everyone remained hunched over their desks, lost in their own studies or slumbers. Pressing his lips tightly together, he looked ahead.
Lying forlornly between the rows of desks, near the lectern, was a discarded copy of *Plato’s Republic*, its spine cracked, its cover bearing a distinct boot print.
Suddenly, as if someone might have noticed his gaze, Julian buried his head in his own text, mirroring the other students.
Then he turned his neck, subtly. His gaze fell upon a figure in the back row. A face partially obscured by an arm, as if the student had succumbed to sleep mid-collapse. The face, lean and severe, looked sorrowful, almost belonging to one of the marble busts that lined the college halls.
He found himself staring at Edmund’s face before his gaze drifted to his arm. Had the already tall Edmund grown even more? The college blazer that had fit him perfectly at the start of term now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one of those wrists was a signet ring, its dark crest almost indistinguishable against his pale skin—a heavy, unmistakable symbol of his lineage, an integral part of Edmund’s identity.
Before hearing more about him, Julian had assumed Edmund hailed from a modest background, perhaps the same working-class environs as Alistair. Despite his intimidating aura, Edmund didn’t project the obvious signs of inherited wealth. His eyes were often shadowed by his heavy brows, and his faded irises gave him a perpetually haunted, discerning look. Thin sclera showed beneath his pupils, adding to his sharp, almost gaunt appearance.
Edmund’s overall atmosphere was one of grim, quiet authority, though it lacked the ostentatious refinement Julian associated with the truly affluent at Ashworth. Instead, his face seemed etched with a profound sense of self-possession, exuding a melancholic gravity. Combined with his large frame—he was undoubtedly the tallest student in the hall—it made him doubly imposing.
Fortunately, unlike Percival, Edmund’s sharp features included a classically handsome symmetry. Without that, Julian suspected, people might actively avoid him. Even so, Edmund’s face was unsettling, intimidating, and hummed with a nervous, intellectual energy.
Edmund’s personality, however, couldn’t have been more different from his visage. It wasn’t just that he seemed indifferent to external events; it was as if he actively erased them from his memory, whether intentionally or not. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that ironically added to his mystique. Most notably, Edmund cared little for the conventional currency of social standing at Ashworth. He never paid attention to how much others spent or how much they vied for a tutor’s favour. If the mood struck him, he’d casually dismiss a grand pronouncement or a fawning compliment, without a second thought, as if such social coinage simply didn’t exist for him. Sometimes he would offer an incisive criticism and then forget he had even spoken. There were even stories of students returning borrowed notes, only for Edmund to ask, puzzled, why they were offering them to him.
Still, he didn’t offer his insight to just anyone. He’d indulge random academic requests when in a good mood but coldly refuse those truly desperate for assistance.
Even with friends, Edmund could be harsh. Julian once overheard a tale of how Alistair, upon seeing Edmund’s prized copy of an early Shakespeare folio—a volume he rarely allowed out of his rooms—excitedly tried to leaf through it without permission. Edmund had snatched it back, his voice cutting through the common room like a shard of ice, sending Alistair sprawling backwards with a gasp of shock.
At the apex of Ashworth’s intricate social hierarchy, individuals like Edmund and Percival shared one undeniable trait: a complete lack of concern for others’ opinions. This indifference, in its own peculiar way, was what allowed them to sit at the pyramid’s peak. Why do we, Julian wondered, with our own hands, hand over the keys to our world to these uncontrollable forces? No matter how much he pondered it, he still couldn’t understand.
And yet, Edmund often spoke of a rigorous personal code, a stoic discipline. He was a type of intellectual delinquent who slept with Kant’s *Critique of Pure Reason* beneath his pillow, but still claimed to follow a strict ethical doctrine. He didn’t drink to excess, didn’t gamble, abstained from crude humour, and didn’t engage in the petty extortions common among the older students. Yet the doctrine he followed seemed flawed, inconsistent with the general laxity of the college. Julian licked his dry lips.
Julian felt a strange, cold relief that he hadn’t been ‘caught,’ not truly. If he had been, he would have ended up like that trampled textbook, lying in social ruin. And yet, even in that moment, he wondered—if Percival and he had remained close, as they were just a few months ago, would Percival have protected him? The thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories he desperately wanted to forget. He took a deep breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the meagre lunch he’d eaten earlier threatened to come back up.
No, of course not.
How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to think he would. To Percival, Julian was nothing. Just a convenient intellectual plaything to pass the time with. He knew this now because of the way Percival had looked at him when he’d beaten him to the ground. Those eyes said everything. Julian hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had been staring him in the face.
Percival sinned openly. Julian, too, was a sinner—but he hid it. And so, Percival might be punished by society, while Julian remained, for now, spared.
A faint, bitter laugh escaped his lips, so soft it was only audible to himself. “…So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.”
Perhaps Ashworth, itself, had a personality like Edmund’s.
Julian’s gaze shifted to the desk near the Don’s podium. This was unusual, but today, he felt a pang of pity for Alistair. Poor soul, caught in the clutches of Percival’s dark influence. You lacked the strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Alistair, unlike the towering figure of Percival. You should have run the moment Julian warned you, fool. He knew he wasn’t a good person. He was selfish and self-serving, and that’s why he’d been punished. Sometimes, he even thought this: if you’re going to be drawn to such dangerous men, why not pick someone sly and deceitful like me? At least then life would be simpler. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering for it?
These days, Julian thought differently. 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 Julian. Julian, who thought he understood the world at eighteen. Wicked, vile Julian. Pitiful Julian, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone.
That day, Julian couldn’t get past the fifteenth question. He used his supposed fatigue as an excuse to lie slumped over his desk, thinking to himself: Well, at least I’m not as ruined as Percival or Alistair.
---
Rumors about Percival and Alistair spread like wildfire through the college. Whether they were exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to find out either. Percival’s inner circle had vanished from the common rooms, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances to worry about anything else, inadvertently fueling the rumors even further.
“Mr. Davies, forgive me, but who was closest to Percival?”
“Percival… No, Edmund.”
Julian overheard this as he passed by on his way back to his rooms before dinner. Master Atherton had asked, and one of Julian’s classmates had answered. Pretending he hadn’t heard, Julian walked into his room. The Don glanced nervously between Julian and the empty seats, drumming his fingers against the podium. Then, as if giving up on some unspoken thought, he announced: “Let’s conclude for today, gentlemen.”
The moment dismissal ended, Julian gathered his satchel. As he slung it over his shoulder, a tap came on his back. “Beaumont.”
He turned to see Edmund. “Indeed. Let us discuss the Hermetic texts after supper, if you have time.”
Julian looked at Edmund’s face. He knew. He had always watched Percival and Edmund’s every move, so he knew that the person Edmund most frequently invited for such scholarly discourse was always Percival. After a brief pause, Julian shook his head. “Cannot. I’ve a private session with Professor Thorne on Byzantine Greek.”
“After that, then?”
“More study. A fellowship examination looms. You should seek out one of your usual acquaintances.”
“Hardly.”
“Why not?”
“Getting too close to the intellectually inferior simply drags one down.”
“Ha.” Julian let out a short, incredulous laugh at the absurdity of it. Right. This was why he’d been able to get along with Edmund better than expected. Their twisted values seemed to align in strange, unsettling ways. “So, Davies, Pembroke—they’re ‘inferior’? Even Ashworth-Smythe?”
“If you put it like that, then yes, precisely. You, however, are different.”
Such a backhanded compliment left Julian feeling deeply uncomfortable. “What’s that supposed to mean? You are quite dreadful, Edmund.”
“No, I am not.”
“Utterly dreadful.”
“Hmm. It is in the Ten Commandments, Beaumont. ‘Thou shalt not lie.’ I am simply being honest.”
Honestly, Edmund’s worse than I am, Julian thought. At least I don’t blatantly dismiss my supposed friends as mere intellectual dross.
“That is why I consider myself a rather good sort.”
“…Naturally.”
“Since I am such a good sort, may I call upon your rooms later this evening? We might peruse that rare Lombardic manuscript you acquired.”
Edmund blinked twice, his gaze unwavering. Julian looked at his face for a moment, weighing the implications, before giving a slight nod. “Very well, then. As you wish.” As long as Edmund didn’t interfere with Julian’s own delicate machinations, there was no reason to refuse. To secure one’s place in Ashworth’s rigid hierarchy, one sometimes had to align with those whose shadows stretched the longest.