The practice room corridor, usually echoing with errant arpeggios, held a different sound today: a low, indignant murmur. Orion Blackwood’s meticulously scored copies of the *Nocturne of Shattered Glass* lay strewn across the worn oak floorboards, each page deliberately torn, some smeared with what looked suspiciously like spilled ink, others crumpled into tight, resentful fists. Near the hearth, where a meager fire usually licked at kindling, a small heap of sheet music smoldered faintly, the acrid scent of burnt paper clinging to the stale air. Not difficult to guess the hand behind this particular humiliation. Minutes after the initial discovery, a junior acolyte, known for his obsequious devotion to Caius Vesper, had been spotted in the main hall, a glint of triumph in his eyes as he spoke to a handful of smirking students. Whispers followed: he’d boasted earlier of "repurposing" Orion’s "sentimentality." "Such ambition." Lysander stared at the discarded pile near the unlit stove, a grim monument to Orion’s downfall. These fragile papers, now desecrated, contained the fervent, almost manic energy of Orion’s recent interpretations, his desperate striving to outshine Lysander, to capture the attention of Julian Montrose. Only two days prior, Orion had lost to a rival, his performance stumbling over a single, crucial phrase during a public recital. He hadn't even realized how deeply he’d been wounded until the ripple of dismissive murmurs had swelled into a tide against him. Motive was stark. Initially, Lysander dismissed it as petty rivalry. A chill, however, settled in his chest. Orion’s obsession with Julian, an absent phantom, had become a public spectacle, distorting his playing, twisting his demeanor. Lysander had witnessed Orion’s frantic, desperate pleas to Maestro Thorne, witnessed the unraveling of a once-promising talent. The wave of public opinion had turned, even Orion’s closest allies now avoiding his gaze. Lysander felt no urge to intercede, no prick of guilt. He was not so foolish as to drown himself protecting a sinking ship. Defending Orion would paint him as loyal, perhaps even kind. But within the Conservatory’s cutthroat cloisters, where every nuance of loyalty was dissected, even one errant glance would incite questioning. *Why?* That single question, unspoken, terrorized him. He rested his brow against the cool, dark wood of his cello’s scroll, closing his eyes. A momentary longing for oblivion, for the world to reshape itself upon waking. Almost, he drifted. Had he been alone, he might have found solace in that brief escape. A sharp tap against the bridge of his cello jolted him. Lysander’s eyes snapped open. Caius Vesper stood beside him, a sardonic smirk playing on his lips, a polished cello bow held negligently in one hand. "Lost in your reveries, Thorne?" Caius’s voice, a low rumble, held an edge of mockery. "Practicing introspection, Vesper." Lysander countered, the words brittle. "A rare art in these halls." "Indeed. Too much quiet makes a man forget the world beyond his own skin." Caius’s gaze was unsettlingly direct. "Though your skin does seem… pallid." Lysander’s fingers instinctively brushed his temple, a nervous gesture. "The air grows thin when one strives for perfection." Caius’s grin widened, a flash of white teeth. He tilted his head. "Perfectly evasive, Thorne. That wasn’t what I asked." His eyes, sharp as obsidian shards, flicked to Lysander’s left hand, which rested on the cello’s fingerboard. A barely perceptible tremor ran through it. Lysander snatched it away, clutching the bow with forced composure. "An accident," Lysander insisted, his voice thin. "A fleeting moment of imbalance." "Hah." Caius’s laughter was a soft, guttural sound, lacking warmth. "Yes?" Caius leaned closer, his scent — a peculiar mix of old parchment, expensive tobacco, and something faintly metallic — filling Lysander’s senses. He pointed a long, elegant finger, not at Lysander's hand, but at his face. Lysander felt the blood drain from his cheeks. "You’re transparent." The moment Caius smiled, a knowing, predatory expression, Lysander’s thoughts scattered like frightened birds. *Transparent? What in the Elder’s name is he saying?* "What... is transparent?" "That delicate tremor… it didn't just appear from thin air." A sudden chill seized Lysander. Caius’s words, usually veiled in theatrics, now carried a quiet menace. His gaze, unnervingly still, pinned Lysander. Bright irises held a dark pupil that pierced him, like the tip of an arrow poised to strike. And this arrow, Lysander realized, was aimed directly at him. His mind went blank. Two words echoed. *No way. He couldn’t have. No way. He couldn’t have known.* Then, Caius’s eyes narrowed further. "It looked more like you were running from something. Or someone." His lips curved upward into that serpentine smile. Lysander’s throat dried. Breath caught in his chest. A sharp gulp. He couldn't even blink. "If others found out… the whispers would be quite embarrassing, wouldn’t they, Lysander?" Lysander couldn't speak. "I’ll keep your little anxieties a secret." Caius lifted the bow to his lips, a gesture of mock solemnity, and winked. The air Lysander had been holding hammered against his ribs. Caius didn't wait for a response. He ran a hand through his dark, artfully disheveled hair, then pointed the bow again. "But your current pallor? Did you copy my sleep deprivation? Rather unbecoming, Thorne." Lysander found no words. Caius crinkled his nose in exaggerated disapproval. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a particularly uninspired fugue to attempt." Caius yawned dramatically, turning away. "I don't have sleep deprivation," Lysander finally managed, his voice hoarse. "And I certainly don’t copy you." "Oh?" Caius’s muffled reply came from across the room, as he casually plucked a low note from his own cello. --- "Spirits of Harmony, who cleanse the discord of this wretched world." Caius Vesper muttered a mock prayer, clutching a parchment scroll in one hand. Fourth hour. The weekly "Maestro’s Appraisals" had just concluded. Lysander had folded his own meticulously scored critique, noting the expected laudations, and slipped it into the inner pocket of his velvet vest. Caius, meanwhile, dramatically threw his head back, an audible sigh escaping his lips. "Ah, another week, another disappointment." Lysander fixed his gaze on Caius’s throat, on the prominent bob of his Adam’s apple. "That’s not what that invocation is for." "Who cares? A prayer is a prayer. A plea, a lament, a curse—all the same." Then, Caius tilted his head, eyes glinting. "Tell me, Lysander, are they called the Spirits of Harmony, or the Archons of Discord?" Lysander realized then the peculiar nature of Caius’s convictions – his artistic faith was a strange beast. "Why ask me? It's your devotion." "Lysander, don’t be coy. You, the prodigy, the delicate touch, you must know all the answers." "I don't. I am not devout." Caius, who had been lounging against a dusty plinth, suddenly sprang forward. Their eyes met, and Lysander instinctively averted his gaze, pretending to scrutinize a particularly stubborn cobweb in the corner. A prickling heat bloomed in his chest, as if he’d been caught stealing a forbidden chord. He stared absently at the distant, leaded glass window, then shifted his focus to the stiff, high collar of Caius’s perfectly starched shirt. The crisp white fabric framed his neck, but with every exaggerated movement, the sharp line of his collarbone flashed into view. "So? Join me in my profane devotion?" "What? No." "Ah, why not? If you attend the High Masses of Mockery, they hand out... *favors*. Patronage, commissions, even the choicest vintage port…" "Wait, you only pursue such things for the *favors*?" "Naturally." Lysander finally met his gaze, his eyes snagging on the quill pen Caius had wedged between his nose and upper lip. He wouldn’t admit it, not out of pride, but Caius Vesper possessed a striking, almost arrogant handsomeness. A smug bastard. The quill, distorting his voice into a slurred, disgruntled murmur, barely hid his smirk. "It sounds like I'm stealing, Lysander. If they're offering, what’s wrong with taking it?" "Can you even call it true artistry if you pursue it for such mercenary reasons?" "That’s how everyone starts. They don’t begin with grand, self-sacrificing beliefs. They think, ‘Oh, that Maestro promises a powerful technique. His compositions must be profound.’ And then, little by little, their belief in that ‘profound technique offering powerful results’ turns into absolute artistic faith. The start and the process don’t matter. What matters is that now, I *believe*." Caius Vesper spouted nonsense sometimes. Even Orion Blackwood had been swept up in his arguments once. Sometimes, it was pure bravado. But sometimes, it was the kind of audacious bullshit that even Lysander found himself dangerously tempted by. This was the latter. Lysander ran a hand through his perpetually falling fringe, pushing it back from his forehead. It still tumbled forward. He shook his head, strands swaying. He gathered them near his temples, finally lessening the tickling distraction. He’d been so distracted lately that he’d neglected even a simple trim. Without Orion’s disruptive presence, the front of the practice room felt oddly hollow. No longer did Lysander feel the need to cast uneasy glances in that direction. Six days ago, Maestro Thorne himself had called Lysander to his private studio, asking if he’d heard from Orion. Lysander answered, honestly, without a flicker of hesitation. "No, Maestro, I haven’t." "You still haven’t resolved your… artistic differences with Orion, have you?" Lysander offered a small, bitter smile. A perfectly calculated expression. In truth, his heart felt like a lump of lead. "No. Orion… was deeply vexed with me." "Orion was vexed with *you*?" Maestro Thorne’s brow furrowed. "Yes, Maestro." Whispers already permeated the Conservatory, so Maestro Thorne wasn’t entirely oblivious to the implications of Lysander’s words. "Very well, I understand," Maestro Thorne said, dismissing him with a weary wave. As he settled back into his plush armchair, Lysander caught snippets of a frustrated monologue – complaints about Orion’s increasingly erratic behavior, and the exasperated scolding Maestro Thorne had received from Orion’s powerful patron. Lysander pretended not to hear the pathetic rumbling, turning to leave, yet still listening intently. This was how one gleaned the true atmosphere of the Conservatory’s inner sanctum. Later, while preparing for his private evening lessons, Orion’s patron called Lysander as well. He asked the same question as Maestro Thorne – if Lysander knew of Orion’s whereabouts, or his intentions. Lysander offered the same practiced response. "No, the last I heard, Orion had ceased all communication with me." — *I see…* "I truly regret I can be of no assistance." — *No, my boy, there’s nothing for you to apologize for. It’s quite alright.* Lately, Orion’s patron had been more frequent in his calls. Each conversation unfolded with the same, unsettling deliberateness, as if attempting to somehow bind Orion and Lysander together despite the obvious chasm. Lysander politely but firmly ended the call. Honestly, there was nothing to apologize for. Yet he did so anyway—to be liked. It was the same instinct that compelled one to praise an ill-composed melody. A social convention. An etiquette essential for navigating a civilized, yet treacherous, society. Lysander trusted that the powerful figures did not perceive him as a pawn. If anything, his politeness was a crude pantomime, performed by a court jester. He always knew his place. And since he meticulously laid the groundwork to be liked, he was destined to become a well-loved jester. Even if, one day, he made a mistake so glaring it drew a collective frown from his esteemed audience, they would forgive him. This was the architecture of his survival. Unlike some fools, he played his part with cunning. Perhaps, from the perspective of an aged Maestro, his way of thinking was merely a narrow-minded, desperate trick to wriggle out of trouble. But among his peers, it was undeniable—Lysander Thorne knew how to navigate the capricious currents of Eldoria. Proof? One only needed to observe Thane. Thane, once one of Orion’s closest confidantes, now clung desperately to Caius Vesper’s periphery. Because of this, he also made a point of being overly friendly towards Lysander, who, in the eyes of others, had already subtly aligned himself with Caius. He was making it very clear that he sought Caius’s approval, and by extension, Lysander’s.

The Serpent's Scale