Lord Kaelan Thorne raised his hand, a fist barely clenched, as if to summon a challenge. Before the gesture could truly form, Rhys Aethelgard's open palm landed with a soft thud against Kaelan’s thigh, severing the nascent confrontation. The threat withered before it could fully blossom. Kaelan’s attempt at posturing dissolved into a yelp, a strange, choked sound like a starved griffin. Lord Cassian and Ser Alaric burst into hearty laughter, and Kaelan, flushed, rounded on them. "Oh, you find this amusing? Truly? My misfortune brings you such joy?" he sneered, delivering a sharp jab to Ser Alaric’s arm. After that brief flurry, the trio swept out of the Scholarium. Alaric paused at the arched doorway, offering a perfunctory wave in my direction. Having no cause for refusal, I mirrored his gesture, a flicker of my own hand, then settled back into my seat. I drew out my treatise on alchemical catalysts, fingers curling around a silver stylus. Before the first diagram could even claim my attention, my gaze drifted upwards, tracing the intricate carvings on the chamber’s ancient stone walls. Then, my head bowed, a slight slump to my shoulders. My stylus tapped a restless rhythm against the vellum, a soft staccato in the quiet, as I considered the third problem. Suddenly, I looked up. Beyond the tall, mullioned windows, the Ashwood’s Twilight-maples burned with a metallic bronze, shedding their autumnal glory. A sharp, almost acrid scent of decaying leaves and arcane residue permeated the Grand Courtyard below. The sky, however, was a striking, undiluted azure. "A cloister of maidens would be far less taxing than this," Master Arctus, our venerable History loremaster, often lamented. "It is a veritable serpent pit. A pit. These young lords, they must always establish their venomous pecking order first. By the fifth moon, the venom settles, and the air becomes breathable. But until then? It is but endless skirmishes, displays of brute force, subtle testing of tutors, each striving to climb the pile of their peers. By the Void, my head aches. And I must endure this spectacle anew with the next influx of acolytes. Let’s see… under which star sign are they born, this coming crop?" He would then unfurl his hand, counting the constellations on his knuckles, muttering the ancient names beneath his breath. "The Serpent, the Raven, the Griffin, the Wyrm… Let’s see, that means—" I tried to mimic his gesture, stretching out my left hand, tracing the raised veins on my own alchemist’s fingers. The pattern eluded me. I gave up, flipping my hand, counting the subtle bumps of bone along the back. One, the thirtieth day, two, the twenty-eighth, three, the thirtieth, four, the twenty-ninth… I would not have conceived, back in the languid embrace of early summer, that this late autumn would feel so much like the tumultuous dawn of spring. "These young lords are nothing but untamed beasts. Irrational, emotional, impulsive, dangerous." I stared at the faint protuberance of bone on my middle finger, idly tapping the desk like a somber drum. Master Arctus's voice, raspy and frayed, likely from the chill that clung to the Scholarium, droned on, punctuated by the faint, scraping whisper of chalk against the obsidian slate. My eyes drifted to the empty seat near the forefront. For a fleeting moment, I imagined an impression, the phantom weight of a head against the desk, one side pressed down, the other hovering. My fingers stilled their tapping. I turned my head. Rhys Aethelgard sat there, hunched over his runic workbook, his face half-obscured by the pages. His eyes, narrowed to mere slits, fixed upon a complex sigil as if poised to devour it, only to abruptly give way, his forehead slumping forward to rest against the tome. I watched as the bridge of his nose became a soft, yielding curve between the book's spine and his skin. Then, I looked away. "...Did I lose myself for a moment?" A flicker of disorientation. My mind felt… not entirely my own. I marked the third problem with a small star, a nascent bloom, and moved to the fourth. Luncheon in the Refectory was a spiced gruel and a chilled citrus elixir. Rhys, having drained his elixir first, turned to me, his voice deceptively casual. "Tell me, you’re second in the class cohort, aren’t you?" "Yes. That is correct." "And among all acolytes in the Scholarium?" "Also second." "By the Void…" "What troubles you?" "So, the foremost scholar in our cohort is also the paramount acolyte of the entire Scholarium?" "You were unaware? Lady Seraphina has always held the first position, despite her extensive private tutelage in the Arcanum." "Ah. She is even more burdened than you, then." "Her studies often extend until the first hour past midnight." "Damn. That is… severe." "She is diligent in her pursuits." I had no desire to extend the conversation. I spooned a generous portion of gruel into my mouth, the spices a brief distraction. Rhys merely nodded, thankfully not pressing the point. "Aaah—" The timing felt off, the flow of words abruptly curtailed. I hesitated, wondering if I should offer another remark. I loathed the uncomfortable stillness that often followed such conversational lulls. Without thinking, the words spilled out, unbidden. "And you? What is your standing, Rhys?" "......." His spoon, midway to his lips, froze. I found myself observing his hand. His grip on the utensil was impeccable, a small grace. If there was one thing Rhys Aethelgard executed with quiet precision, it was the handling of cutlery. "In the cohort…" "Yes?" "Ninth." "...What?" "Why do you look at me so?" I quickly averted my gaze from his hands. Was he serious? No deception? The surprise was so stark, I almost voiced my disbelief, but a prickle of caution caught the words before they could escape. A close call. To inadvertently slight him would invite his temper, an unwelcome storm. I weighed my options. Would he prefer praise? Or would an air of detached expectation serve better? My mind, a crucible of social anxieties, began its rapid assessment for survival. He did not seem particularly fond of his companions. Therefore, the latter path offered safer ground. "Ah. That is… better than I might have anticipated." "What? Anticipated? How dim-witted do you presume me to be?" "I did not presume you dim-witted. It is merely… I understood you struggled with the Ancient Tongue?" "That is my singular failing. Only the Ancient Tongue." "You do not attend private tutelage." "The absence of a tutor does not preclude study. By the Void, did you truly imagine me an imbecile?" "No, no, not at all." I waved my hands, a placating motion. "It is, however, quite commendable, to achieve such a standing without formal guidance." "...Truly?" "Yes. Truly commendable." For some obscure reason, Rhys began to mash his spoon aggressively into his gruel. And—was he blushing? I caught a fleeting glimpse of crimson staining the tips of his ears. Now that I considered it, Valerius Thorne had ranked thirty-second. And that was only because a few acolytes had fared even worse. Thirty-second out of thirty-six. Thinking back, I realized the narrow focus of my own awareness, rarely extending beyond matters directly tied to Valerius. And with that stark realization, it struck me: I had been drowning in the very same pathetic, obsessive fixation I once despised. Rhys Aethelgard, meanwhile, utterly oblivious to my internal crisis, had clearly absorbed a significant boost to his confidence. His tone, now, was entirely transformed—brimming with self-satisfaction. "Oh, that reminds me! You likely did not know—I am quite proficient in Arithmancy." "Indeed? How proficient?" "A flawless score. I have never yielded a single point in Arithmancy." "Khhkk!" I choked. The words were barely out of his mouth when I expelled my citrus elixir. Rhys scowled, yanking his tray away from the unexpected spray. "What in the Nine Hells was that reaction?" "I simply… was not expecting that, Rhys." "Is it so astonishing?" He frowned, a slight pout to his lips. "Yes. My Ancient Tongue scores are abysmal, but what does it matter?" An odd hint of self-deprecation underscored his voice. So, I offered a jest in return. "Perhaps you might consider reading a tome, once in a while." "What nonsense are you uttering? I am entirely a scholar of ancient verses." "A scholar of verses? I have yet to observe you reading a single scroll." "That is because I indulge my passion in secret, within my chambers." "Why in the Void would you need to conceal such a pursuit?" Rhys Aethelgard’s eyes, which had softened with amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped another spoonful of gruel. Then, with an almost deliberate casualness, he pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something in the motion unsettled me. I bit the inside of my cheek. Rhys met my gaze as he drew the spoon away, then lowered his eyes, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to its very tip. "Tales of forbidden desires still qualify as ancient verses." That was undeniably a jest. Son of a viper. My face burned. To conceal the flush, I snatched the crumpled napkin beside my tray and flung it at his face. It struck just beneath his long, narrow eyes, drifting harmlessly onto the table. One of his eyes twitched, a minuscule tremor. Not that I truly cared, but in the unlikely event he was genuinely incensed, I feigned contrition. "Cease that unpleasant behavior. Especially within a Scholarium of noble scions. It is… most unseemly." "Oh? You mean this? You mean Valerius’s particular affectation?" "I care not whose affectation it is. Simply desist." "Is this not, by chance, a prevailing custom amongst us now?" "......." I simply stared at him, attempting to decipher the jest from genuine inquiry. I had been sleeping less. A sure indicator that my corporeal form had found a measure of ease. Mornings, once a parched, leaden drag, now felt strangely crisp and invigorating. It was a welcome shift—for in my estimation, the gravest sins at eighteen cycles were complacency and oversleeping. "Ah, damn—" My jaw clicked with a painful protest as I brushed my teeth. Ever since Valerius Thorne had struck me, my jaw produced an odd, grinding sound whenever I opened my mouth too wide. Aside from that, this day had been… auspicious. Yet even in my newfound tranquility, sudden pangs of irritation still arose. The genesis was always Valerius. Or rather, the ripples of discord that stemmed from him. Most of those incidents unfurled within the hallowed halls of the Scholarium. "Ah, yes. I glimpsed Valerius last night." Lysander Vance spoke, biting into a convenience-store meat pie, the kind rumored to contain ground griffin beaks and dubious offal. Lord Kaelan, who had been playfully jabbing Lysander’s ankle and making feigned knife-hand strikes, suddenly perked up. "By the Void—that is right! You have just illuminated my memory! I was entirely on the cusp of mentioning this. I heard whispers through the grapevine—you all know Master Florian, yes? Yes? That… wandering purveyor of fleeting affections? I heard Valerius is lodging at his demesne." "Master Florian? That fool, Florian?" Rhys Aethelgard, rummaging through a plastic satchel, asked with an air of casual disdain. When his hand re-emerged, it held two small, glistening sweetbloom pastilles. And for some unbidden reason, he extended one to me. "......?" I stared at it, a flicker of confusion. "......What is this?" My gaze sought explanation, but Rhys merely offered a slight nod, as if that simple motion sufficed. The most vehement reaction came from Kaelan, whose satchel of provisions had been raided. "By the Nine Hells. I purchased those! Why in the Void are you all devouring my provisions, you ravenous beasts?" "Oh, as if you have never pilfered from mine, glutton." Lysander delivered another feigned knife-hand strike at Kaelan’s throat. Kaelan instantly spun, seizing Lysander’s collar, swinging a mock punch at his face. Of course, no actual blow would land. Such was their peculiar dance. I ignored their ridiculous bickering and looked down at the pastille in my hand. Its wrapper depicted a small, halved sunfruit, its vibrant color hinting at a sharp, citrus essence. I peeled the wrapper, popped the candy into my mouth, and lifted my head. "What say you? The very taste of the first blush of affection?" Rhys grinned. "I dislike sunfruit." My answer encompassed more than merely the confection; it was also my evaluation of his jest. And more than anything, I found no amusement in the notion of first affection. That sticky, bitter feeling clung to the back of my throat, spoiling my appetite. In the end, I could not even finish the pastille. I tossed it into the refuse bin. "Oh, such a tragic waste," Rhys mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, I reached into Kaelan’s satchel, seeking a different sweetbloom pastille. All were sunfruit or limefruit. Limefruit was the lesser evil. I unwrapped one and placed it on my tongue. "Anyway, Master Florian, eh? Sounds precisely like Valerius." "Why, because they are both purveyors of fleeting affections?" Rhys’s words were sharp, edged with a cold contempt. Uncomfortable, I turned to observe him. He sucked on his pastille with an expressionless mien, twirling the white stick between his lips. I pulled mine from my mouth. Something in this felt… wrong. Rhys did not seem to care. He tilted his pastille in the air like a miniature blade, making random jabbing motions. "He toys with his clients—regardless of gender or station. And when he discovers someone deemed… ‘suitable,’ he dispatches them directly to Valerius. It is a rotating exchange. Defiling one another, passing each other around like common chattel." "So, Master Florian is also a purveyor of fleeting affections?" Lord Kaelan abruptly cut in. Whether he had concluded his playful skirmish with Lysander, or simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, I could not discern. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing the insidious information he had just absorbed.

A Bloom of Bitter Citrus