A rigorous logic always guided my hand, my mind. True understanding, I believed, blossomed only between kindred spirits. That was my foundational truth, the very bedrock of my existence. Similar devotion to forgotten lore, similar disdain for the hollow politics of this place, similar hunger for cosmic truth. I, Caelan Thorne, a diligent scholar, knew this was the only viable path. It promised a meaningful life, free from the labyrinthine whims of the powerful. An expressway to a quiet, profound happiness. I was a clever child, convinced I held the map.
Then, the year I turned seventeen, a profound disquiet settled within me. Not kinship, not admiration. It was a gravitational pull towards an erratic, dangerous star. A presence, undeniably powerful, undeniably disturbing. I dismissed it. An academic anomaly, perhaps. Merely the vertigo of proximity to true, untamed arcane power. A high schooler’s first infatuation, I told myself, a silly, fleeting fascination. I brushed it off, determined to remain rational, logical.
Still, that unbidden awareness persisted. A knot of raw, unsettling energy lodged itself deep in my throat. It tightened, a physical constriction, choking the clear pathways of my mind. It tainted my meticulously ordered thoughts, a dissonant chord struck in the grand cosmic design I so carefully charted.
“Please, attend me at the Crimson Atrium. Now.”
The words weren't spoken. They simply *were*. A cold whisper, a tendril of psychic will, reaching through the stone and silence of my high-spired cell. It tore through the fragile peace of my early morning studies, an intrusive appointment, sudden and unyielding.
A low curse escaped my lips. I sat on my cot, the chill of the message sinking deeper than the dawn air that crept through my narrow window. My small sanctuary, tucked away in the lesser spires of the Obsidian Conclave, offered no witnesses to my private torment. No chance anyone would notice I was gone.
I rose. My boots scraped softly on the ancient flagstones. The summons held a strange compulsion, an undeniable urgency that bypassed my will. I decided to go. Every instinct screamed against it.
Outside my chamber, in the shadowed corridor, a warped celestial armillary sphere lay propped against the grey wall. Its bronze rings, once polished to a mirror sheen, now showed the green-black patina of neglect. Not mine, this relic. A new master had taken the adjacent archive, a private sanctum with a view only the elite enjoyed. I had never seen him in person. Never encountered this figure who now occupied a space so close, yet so utterly removed, from my own humble corner. Judging from the discarded device, a relic of a greater cartographer's art, this one dabbled in my sacred domain. A careless, powerful hand.
That abandoned armillary, a delicate instrument of truth, was either casually left out in front of the ornate entry or shoved into a forgotten corner of the alley, tightly chained up. Somehow, it reminded me of myself. A tool, discarded. Valued for its potential, but neglected in its current state. I stared at its tarnished curves briefly, a flicker of kinship, before turning my gaze away, heading into the labyrinth of the Conclave.
My footsteps echoed in the vast, empty halls. The air, heavy and still, tasted of forgotten incantations and cold stone. My gaze fixed on the shadowed corridors, a twisting maze of ancient power. They wound downwards, ever deeper into the heart of the Conclave, toward the richer, older, more potent veins of arcane energy. The descent pressed against my chest, a growing weight. I always felt it, this oppressive aura of the Conclave, a vast, hungry entity.
As someone who easily grew disoriented in these winding paths, I found my focus blurred. The familiar churn in my gut tightened, a nauseous unease. I eventually gave up trying to map the endless turns and closed my eyes instead. Just walked, guided by the cold, insistent pull of the summons.
For months, the simple act of sustenance had become a burden. A gnawing void settled beneath my ribs, a constant, low-level thrum of discomfort. This journey only amplified it. I tried to ease the tightness lodged in my chest, drawing a slow, deliberate breath. I'd made a habit of ignoring emotions that unsettled me, pushing them down, burying them under layers of logical thought. With enough effort, I'd managed to keep a composed façade all this time—just like I was now, stepping out of the deepest corridors and into the hushed grandeur of the Crimson Atrium.
The imprint burned in my mind: Crimson Atrium, private retreat, level seven. I swallowed hard. My fist clenched at my side, then slowly released. The ornate portal loomed, a massive slab of obsidian carved with stylized star-eaters, their gaping maws frozen in eternal hunger. It radiated an opulent, almost decadent power. The air here was cloying, thick with the scent of forbidden oils and something else—a faint, lingering sweetness that spoke of indulgence.
I raised my hand. Three sharp raps against the cold, unyielding stone. “Lord Vexan,” I called, my voice clipped, betraying nothing of the internal turmoil. “You summoned me.”
Only the echoing silence answered from the other side. A deep, profound stillness. My jaw tightened. Irritation pricked at my composure. He always did this, a deliberate act of power play, forcing others to wait, to stew. A bitter exhalation escaped me. I hammered again, harder this time, knuckles aching against the obsidian.
“I said, open the damn gate, you indolent wretch!”
This charade—honestly, it was abhorrent. Imagining what might’ve gone on in this room overnight, the careless decadence, the frivolous waste of powerful ritual components, the illicit dalliances with lesser adepts or forbidden spirits… it made my skin crawl. The very air felt saturated with it, a sickly-sweet miasma. But I couldn't stop myself from knocking. Lord Vexan Kaelen had asked me to come, or rather, commanded. And I was enduring this repulsive scene because he was the one who’d infected me with that first “illness.” That unsettling, unwanted pull towards his dangerous, erratic brilliance.
“Why the hell are you calling me at this ungodly hour when you’re off having some useless, indulgent dalliance, you worthless scion of privilege?”
Gods, this is unbearable.
The life of an eighteen-year-old scholar in the Conclave’s shadowed halls.