A quiet expanse, this antechamber of the Grand Library, felt less like a sanctuary of knowledge and more like a cavern of sleeping predators. Beneath the vast vaulted ceilings, a dozen or so apprentice scholars hunched over their desks, their quill-scratching hushed by the sheer weight of expectation. Every soul within these hallowed walls walked a precipice, their futures suspended by the thinnest thread of noble favor and intellectual prowess.
Such a precarious dance began for Lysander at age twelve, when he first learned the subtle art of prostration, the silent language of ambition in the Archduchy of Vesper. Every day since had been a taut wire, a routine of careful balance that surely mirrored every other scholar’s existence.
A cubic expanse, concealing a pyramid. That was the Scholars' Quarter. That was life itself.
An ache throbbed in Lysander’s arm, a dull memory of the previous day’s indignity. Circulation poor, his limbs felt leaden. He gently massaged his tightly coiled stomach, a gnawing emptiness far more profound than hunger. A weak breath escaped his lips as he surveyed the bowed backs before him. Parchment-colored napes, illuminated by the soft glow of enchanted orbs. At the High Scholar’s lectern, Master Arion, the Arch-Librarian, sat, his attention absorbed by a rolled scroll of ancient script. Students, meanwhile, either wrestled with assigned translations or, defeated, slumped in their seats, feigning deeper contemplation.
“A slumbering mind gathers no wisdom,” Master Arion’s voice boomed, sharp as a winter’s wind, as he unfurled another section of his scroll. A gentle tremor went through the room.
Already, the sixth hour of study had commenced. Lysander had been laboring over the fifteenth glyph in a particularly dense funerary text, his index finger tracing the unfamiliar angles before he laid his charcoal stylus aside. His gaze drifted to the empty seats, two in particular.
As anticipated, neither Arch-Duke Cassian nor his favored aide, the young noble Seraphin, had graced the chambers. Lysander doubted their return this week, unless Cassian’s notoriously mercurial whims took an unexpected turn, or some fresh discord brewed between the two that remained hidden from public notice. That 'something', if it existed, was beyond Lysander’s conjecture.
Lysander lowered his eyes to the intricate problems, the archaic strokes of a forgotten tongue blurring on the page.
There was a time when he believed he understood Cassian’s mind, knew its labyrinthine turns better than anyone in Vesper. He had harbored a secret pride in that, even when comparing himself to Lord Varian, whose shadowed presence often drew Cassian’s keenest attention.
Truth be told, that insidious pride had been a bitter solace, a shield against the sting of witnessing Varian and Cassian’s easy communion. Deep within, Lysander relished the quiet, illicit knowledge that he possessed a unique key to Cassian’s inner sanctum.
A hand rose to prop his chin. The sheer audacity of such a thought sickened him, a bile rising in his throat.
What would noble society, these polished predators, think if they knew the venomous tendrils of his ambition? The answer was stark, brutal. He would be cast down, stripped bare, relegated to the very dust of the pyramid’s lowest tier.
The thought was a chilling prospect. Terrifying. This kind of insidious yearning, unique to a low-born scholar daring to dream, had to remain buried, entombed beyond detection. So deep, not even the object of his hidden reverence would sense it. Ultimately, he needed to bury it so completely that even he forgot its wretched existence.
Yet, Cassian never bothered with such discretion. Everyone whispered of his desires, of his singular focus.
Lysander lifted his head slightly, scanning the room. All remained hunched, diligent. He pressed his lips into a thin line, focusing his sight forward.
Discarded and forgotten, a tome lay forlornly between the rows of desks, its leather cover scuffed by countless passing boots. A symbol.
Suddenly, as if sensing an unseen observer, Lysander plunged his head back to his desk, mimicking the others.
Then, he slowly turned his neck, eyes drifting to the rearward benches. There, a face lay partially obscured by an arm, as if the scholar had succumbed to exhaustion mid-collapse. The features appeared delicate, sorrowful, almost belonging to the lifeless.
“...”
Lysander found himself staring at Lord Varian’s face, before his gaze drifted to the arm. Had the already towering Varian grown even more? The formal tunic, once a perfect fit at the start of the academic cycle, now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one wrist, a dark iron gauntlet, intricate and archaic, its surface etched with the bloodline sigils of House Varian—a heavy, unmistakable symbol of his formidable identity.
Before whispers reached his ears, Lysander had assumed Varian dwelled in the furthest reaches of the Scholarly District, far from the grand noble estates.
Despite his intimidating aura, Varian did not exude overt wealth. His eyes, always shadowed beneath heavy lids, held faded irises that gave him a perpetually haunted mien. The thin sclera visible beneath his pupils added to his sharp, gaunt appearance.
Varian’s presence was one of grim, cold intimidation, though it lacked the refined sheen of pure opulence. Instead, his face seemed marked by a profound sense of ancient deprivation, exuding a kind of melancholic gravitas. Combined with his immense stature—he was undoubtedly the tallest student in the Scholars’ Quarter—it rendered him doubly imposing.
However, Varian’s reputation for detachment couldn't have been more pronounced.
It wasn’t merely an indifference to all things; it was as if he actively erased events from his memory, whether by design or innate disposition. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that, ironically, added to his mystique.
Most notably, Varian disregarded influence or currency. He never paid heed to how much others spent or how much they sought. If the mood seized him, he might casually dismiss a generous sum to a lesser scholar nearby without a second thought, as if the concept of material worth held no sway. Sometimes he offered his counsel or resources, only to forget the transaction entirely. There were even tales of those who returned his assistance, only for Varian to inquire, puzzled, why they offered him such a tribute.
Still, his favors were not for all. He might indulge random, casual requests when in a amenable humor but coldly reject those who were truly desperate, those who truly needed.
Even with his chosen associates, Varian could be harsh. Lysander once overheard a story of how Scholar Kaelen, upon seeing Varian’s prized arcane diagram—a parchment Varian rarely revealed—eagerly reached to touch it without permission. Varian’s hand shot out, pushing Kaelen back onto the stone floor with a suddenness that left the younger scholar sprawling like a startled rook.
At the apex of the Scholarly hierarchy, individuals like Varian and Cassian shared a singular trait: a complete disregard for the opinions of lesser men. This supreme indifference, in its own potent way, was precisely what allowed them to sit at the pyramid’s peak.
Why do we, with our own hands, hand over the keys to our very world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how many sleepless nights Lysander spent pondering, he still could not fathom it.
And yet, Lord Varian, from a bloodline steeped in ancient Vesperian reverence, called himself a devout follower of the Old Ways.
He was the type of severe noble who slept with a holy sigil beneath his pillow, yet still claimed adherence to the ancient teachings. He eschewed frivolity, avoided petty gossip, abstained from crude revelry, and never resorted to outright theft or extortion from other scholars. Yet the doctrine he followed seemed flawed, anyone could discern. The Old Ways permitted subtle indulgence, not outright denial of life's pleasures.
The Old Ways, they said, viewed… *unnatural affections* as a grave aberration. Was that why Cassian’s reputed inclinations disgusted Lord Varian so profoundly? Lysander licked his dry lips.
A strange sense of relief washed over him; he hadn't been 'caught'. If he had, he would have ended like that discarded tome, trampled on the floor. And yet, even in that moment, a desperate question formed: if Cassian and he had remained close, as they were just months past, would Cassian have offered him protection?
The thought surfaced, unwelcome, dragging with it memories Lysander desperately wanted to erase. He drew a deep breath, trying to suppress the rising wave of nausea, as though the bitter root tea he’d drunk earlier threatened to return.
No, of course not.
How ludicrous, that he had once been so arrogant as to believe such a thing. To Cassian, Lysander was nothing. Merely a curious diversion, a fleeting acquaintance to pass the time. He understood this now, because of the cold amusement in Cassian’s eyes when Lysander had been dismissed, publicly shamed. The truth had been staring him in the face, undeniable.
Cassian sinned openly. Lysander, too, was a sinner—but he veiled it. And so, Cassian received public scorn, while Lysander, for now, was spared.
A faint, dry laugh escaped his lips, a sound so soft only he could perceive it.
“...So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.”
Perhaps the Ancient Divinities had a personality much like Lord Varian’s.
Lysander’s gaze shifted to the desk nearest the High Scholar’s lectern. An unusual pang of pity struck him for Seraphin today. Poor soul, caught in the shadow of the Arch-Duke, snared by that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Seraphin, despite his noble birth. He should have fled the moment Lysander’s subtle warnings had been given, fool.
He knew himself to be no virtuous soul. Selfish, self-serving, and perhaps that was his penance. Sometimes, the thought, dark and unwelcome, crossed his mind: If one were to seek a hidden companion, a confidant in the shadows, would it not be wiser to choose one adept at concealment, like myself, rather than a guileless soul who invites ruin? At least then, the machinations of power would be simpler.
These days, however, he thought differently.
Yes. Of course, no one could ever truly love someone like him. He knew his own depths too well to believe such a falsehood.
There had been a time when he thought he could grasp everything. Arrogant, conceited Lysander Thorne. Lysander, who believed he understood the world at eighteen. Wicked, vile Lysander. Pitiful Lysander, with no one to offer solace, so he endured everything in solitude.
That day, he couldn’t decipher beyond the fifteenth glyph. He used his feigned illness as an excuse to slump further over his desk, a cold comfort taking root: At least I am not as publicly ruined as Cassian or Seraphin.
Rumors about Cassian and Seraphin spread like wildfire through Vesper’s shadowed courts. Whether they were exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no true way to ascertain. Cassian’s inner circle had seemingly vanished from the public eye, as if ripped out by the roots. The few nobles who remained focused solely on forming new alliances, inadvertently fueling the whispers even further.
“Master Arion, forgive me, but who holds the Arch-Duke’s closest ear these days?”
“That would be… no, Lord Varian.”
Lysander overheard this exchange as he passed a secluded alcove on his way back to the main chamber before the day’s dismissal. A lesser noble had inquired, and one of the senior scholars had answered. Pretending he had heard nothing, Lysander entered the room. Master Arion glanced nervously between Lysander and the empty seats, his fingers drumming against the ancient lectern. Then, as if abandoning some unspoken worry, he announced:
“Let us conclude.”
The moment dismissal was granted, Lysander gathered his satchel. As he slung it over his shoulder, a cold hand tapped him on the back.
“Scholar Thorne. A word, if you please. After your studies.”
Lysander turned to face Lord Varian. He knew. He had always watched Cassian and Varian’s every interaction, knew that the one Varian most frequently sought out was always Cassian. After a brief pause, Lysander waved a dismissive hand.
“My apologies, Lord Varian. Tonight, I have… private studies to attend.”
“And after that, Thorne?”
“Further research. You should seek out one of your peers, my lord.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Why so, my lord?”
“Proximity to lesser minds only dulls one’s own acumen.”
“Ah.”
Lysander let out a short, hollow laugh at the stark truth of it.
Right. This was precisely why he had found an unexpected, albeit unsettling, alignment with Varian. Their twisted philosophies, their pragmatism, seemed to converge in strange, dark ways.
“So, Scholars Kaelen, Lyra—are they lesser minds? Even Master Arion?”
“If you require such explicit phrasing, then yes, largely so. But you, Thorne, you are… different.”
The backhanded compliment, or perhaps observation, left Lysander feeling a strange mix of unease and a perverse spark of validation.
“What is that supposed to mean, my lord? You are uncharitable.”
“No, I am not.”
“You are exceedingly uncharitable.”
“Hmm. The Ancient Ways counsel forthrightness, Scholar Thorne. ‘Let truth be thy only tongue.’ I am merely being honest.”
Honestly, Varian was worse than Lysander himself. At least Lysander veiled his disdain for those he deemed lesser, did not blatantly treat even his tenuous allies as disposable.
“That is why I am a righteous man.”
“...Indeed.”
“Since I am such a righteous man, may I accompany you to your chambers?”
Lord Varian blinked twice, his dark eyes unwavering. Lysander held his gaze for a moment, then gave a slow, deliberate nod.
“Certainly, my lord. If you insist.”
As long as he did not impede Lysander’s own designs, there was no reason to refuse. To secure one’s precarious place in the shadow-draped hierarchy of Vesper, one could not afford to refuse an outstretched hand, even if it belonged to a serpent.
---