Walls of polished ebony and gilded timber defined Caelum’s world. Within this grand chamber, almost thirty souls moved, each a carefully cultivated species, thriving or withering in the Lyceum’s peculiar ecosystem. A quiet tension hummed beneath the vaulted ceilings, a constant hum akin to a taut string drawn to its snapping point. Here, every young noble had breathed the Lyceum’s air for precisely eighteen cycles, their futures poised precariously.
This exacting strain, Caelum knew, had begun for him at his twelfth year, when the subtle alchemy of forming alliances first revealed itself. Daily, since then, this delicate balancing act had been his ritual. Such was the routine for all, he suspected.
An exquisite cage, concealing a brutal Ascent. So, Caelum mused, was the Lyceum’s classroom for the Heir-Elects.
“Ah…”
His forearm, numbed by the rigid posture he maintained, tingled as he subtly flexed his wrist. A light tap against his tightly wound abdomen offered scant relief. Caelum exhaled a shallow breath, his gaze drifting over the bowed heads before him. Verdant, illuminated panels of arcane script glowed faintly, reflecting on peach-hued napes. At the Lectern of Judgement, Arch-Lector Valerius sat impassively, perusing a crumpled parchment. Students, meanwhile, wrestled with assigned problems of Theoretic Governance or, having surrendered entirely, slumped into uneasy slumber.
“Arouse yourselves, those who slumber,” the Arch-Lector intoned, turning a brittle leaf of the scroll with an audible rustle.
Fifth period had arrived. Caelum had just completed the fifteenth logical paradox, pausing to scratch a finger against his temple before setting his stylus down. His eyes gravitated to the empty seats, two in particular.
As anticipated, neither Aedan Varthos nor Theron Varthos had graced the session. Tomorrow, too, their absences would likely persist, unless Aedan’s mercurial temperament shifted unexpectedly, or some private drama unfolded between them—a drama Caelum felt increasingly shut out from.
He lowered his gaze to the intricate symbols of the paradox before him. The dense, interwoven strokes of ancient Runic script blurred slightly.
Once, a time existed when Caelum had believed he understood Aedan Varthos completely. He had convinced himself he knew Aedan best in this entire Lyceum. That knowledge, he recalled, had been a secret source of pride, even when he measured himself against Lysander Volkov, Aedan’s constant shadow.
Indeed, that quiet conceit had helped him endure the sight of Volkov and Aedan’s easy camaraderie. Deep within, Caelum had savored the clandestine thought that his understanding of Aedan was superior.
Chin propped on his hand, Caelum felt a familiar surge of self-loathing. Such thoughts, he knew, were a poison.
What judgment would descend if others glimpsed the insidious currents swirling within his mind? The answer was chillingly obvious. He would be cast down, pushed to the very lowest tier of the Lyceum’s Ascent, relegated to its widest, most ignoble base.
This thought, a terrifying prospect, tightened his chest. Such a predatory desire, unique to a scheming Heir-Elect, demanded absolute concealment. It had to be buried deep, so profound that even its object would remain oblivious. Ultimately, Caelum knew, he needed to bury it so completely that he himself forgot its existence.
Aedan Varthos, however, had practiced no such restraint. Everyone in their cohort recognized the raw hunger in his eyes.
Caelum subtly lifted his head. All remained hunched over their desks, seemingly oblivious. He pressed his lips into a thin line, staring forward.
Lying forsakenly between the polished rows of desks, a dusty treatise on Historical Doctrine lay splayed, its cover marred by boot prints.
Suddenly, as if sensing his prolonged stare, Caelum bowed his head, burying his face among the others.
Then, he slowly shifted his neck. His gaze settled on the back row. There, a face lay partially obscured by a forearm, as if its owner had collapsed mid-slumber. It was a face that appeared delicate, sorrowful, almost spectral.
...
Caelum found himself scrutinizing Lysander Volkov’s features before his eyes drifted to his arm. Had the already towering Volkov grown yet more? The Lyceum tunic, once perfectly tailored, now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one, an obsidian charm, intricately carved with a raven’s head, stood out vividly—a heavy, unmistakable symbol, an integral part of Volkov’s formidable presence.
Before hearing the rumors, Caelum had assumed Volkov resided in one of the Outer Districts, like Theron Varthos.
Despite his intimidating aura, Volkov exuded no obvious signs of inherited wealth. His eyes, deep-set, were perpetually shadowed by heavy lids, and their faded irises gave him a haunting, aged aspect. Thin sclera showed beneath his pupils, contributing to his sharp, gaunt appearance.
Volkov’s overall bearing was one of grim, formidable power, yet it lacked the polished refinement typically associated with noble scions. Instead, his face seemed etched with a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a melancholic gravity. Combined with his immense stature—he was undoubtedly the tallest Heir-Elect—it rendered him doubly imposing.
Fortunately, unlike Aedan Varthos, Volkov’s sharp features possessed a classically austere symmetry. Without that, Caelum mused, people might actively recoil. Even so, Volkov’s face remained unsettling, intimidating, imbued with a restless energy.
Yet, Volkov’s temperament could not have been more divergent.
He wasn’t merely indifferent to the world; it was as if he actively expunged events from his memory, whether by will or by nature. He carried an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that, paradoxically, enhanced his mystique.
Most remarkably, Volkov appeared utterly unconcerned with coin. He never marked how much others spent or demanded. If the mood struck him, he would casually toss a pouch of silver to a nearby Heir-Elect without a second thought, as if the concept of currency held no meaning. Sometimes he extended credit and entirely forgot the transaction. There were even tales of those who sought to return borrowed sums, only for Volkov to inquire, puzzled, why they presented him with coin.
Still, his generosity was not universal. He indulged capricious requests when favorably inclined but coldly refused those genuinely desperate.
Even with companions, Volkov could be harsh. Caelum once overheard a tale: Lord Kael, seeing Volkov’s prized griffin-mount—a beast rarely shown—had excitedly tried to leap onto its saddle without permission. Volkov, it was said, had summarily dislodged him, sending Kael sprawling on the cobblestones like a stunned beetle.
At the pinnacle of their social order, figures like Volkov and Aedan Varthos shared one cardinal trait: an absolute disregard for others’ estimations. This indifference, in its own way, was the very bedrock of their dominion.
Why did they, with their own hands, bestow the keys to their world upon these untamed predators? Caelum’s thoughts churned, yet no answer emerged.
And still, Lysander Volkov proclaimed adherence to the Verdant Path.
He was the sort of recalcitrant Heir-Elect who slept with a tome of ancestral proverbs beneath his pillow, yet still claimed to uphold their tenets. He abstained from fermented spirits, from the potent fumes of pipe-leaf, from carnal indulgence, and never extorted coin from fellow students. Yet, the doctrine he supposedly followed seemed flawed; anyone could deduce that from the proscriptions on pleasure alone. Caelum had heard the Verdant Path permitted certain liberties.
They said the Path viewed unsanctioned affections as a grave transgression. Was that why Aedan Varthos’s scandalous deeds so repulsed Volkov? Caelum licked his dry lips.
He felt a strange relief at not having been caught observing. If he had, Caelum imagined himself like that discarded treatise, trampled on the floor. Yet, even in that moment, a question gnawed: if Aedan and he had remained close, as they were but a few moons past, would Aedan have shielded him?
The thought surfaced unbidden, dragging with it memories Caelum desperately wished to forget. He drew a deep breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the midday repast threatened to rise.
No. Of course not.
How ludicrous, that he had once possessed such arrogance, believing Aedan would. To Aedan, Caelum had been nothing. Merely a convenient Lyceum acquaintance to pass the interim. He knew this now, recognized it in Aedan’s eyes when he had struck Caelum down. That gaze had spoken volumes. Caelum had not wanted to confront the truth, but it had confronted him.
Aedan sinned openly. Caelum, too, harbored transgressions—but he buried them. And so, Aedan was judged by the High Council, while Caelum remained untouched.
A faint exhalation escaped his lips, so soft it was audible only to himself.
“...So, as long as I remain unobserved, that is all that truly matters.”
Perhaps the High Council possessed a temperament akin to Lysander Volkov’s.
Caelum’s gaze drifted to the desk nearest the Lectern of Judgement. Uncharacteristically, a pang of pity pierced him for Theron Varthos today. Poor soul, ensnared by the shadow of corruption. You lacked the strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Theron, unlike the towering physical presence you possessed. You should have fled the moment Caelum’s warning reached you, fool.
He knew he was not a virtuous soul. Selfish and self-serving, such was his nature, and for that, he suffered. Sometimes, a darker thought surfaced: If one’s affections gravitated towards others of their gender, why not choose someone as cunning and deceitful as Caelum? At least then, life might offer a clearer path. Why succumb to someone so guileless and earnest, only to be broken?
These days, Caelum’s perspective had shifted.
Indeed. No one, he knew, could ever truly cherish someone like him. He understood himself too well to entertain such a delusion.
Once, he had believed he could command all. Arrogant, conceited Caelum. Caelum, who at eighteen cycles, presumed to comprehend the world. Wicked, vile Caelum. Pitiful Caelum, who possessed no one to offer solace, and thus endured every burden alone.
That day, Caelum could not progress beyond the fifteenth paradox. He feigned a sudden affliction, slumped over his desk, thinking to himself: *At least I am not as irrevocably ruined as Aedan or Theron.*
Whispers about Aedan and Theron spread like wildfire through the Lyceum’s shadowed corridors. Whether exaggerated or rooted in grim truth, no one could truly discern. Nor was there any means to ascertain the facts. Aedan’s entire retinue had vanished from the Lyceum, as if ripped from its very foundations. The few who remained were too preoccupied forging new allegiances to concern themselves with past dramas, inadvertently fanning the flames of rumor.
“Master Lysander, forgive the intrusion, but who maintained the closest association with Aedan?”
“Aedan… No. Lysander Volkov.”
Caelum overheard this exchange as he passed the antechamber on his way to retrieve his belongings before dismissal. The Prefect of Novices had inquired, and a fellow Heir-Elect had replied. Pretending not to have heard, Caelum entered the chamber. The Prefect glanced uneasily between Caelum and the empty seats, his fingers drumming against the Lectern. Then, as if abandoning an unspoken deliberation, he announced:
“We conclude.”
The moment dismissal was declared, Caelum reached for his satchel. As he slung it over his shoulder, a heavy hand tapped his back.
“Lysander. Attend to matters after studies.”
Caelum turned to face Volkov.
He knew. He had always observed Aedan and Volkov’s every interaction, so he recognized that the individual Volkov most frequently summoned for such attendance was always Aedan. After a brief pause, Caelum offered a dismissive gesture.
“I cannot. Pre-studies await.”
“After that, then?”
“Further studies. Or familial obligations. Go, attend to your own companions.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Why not?”
“Proximity to lesser Heirs only impedes one’s Ascent.”
“Ha.”
Caelum allowed a short, bitter laugh to escape at the sheer audacity.
Right. This, he realized, was why he had found himself able to tolerate Volkov more than expected. Their twisted philosophies seemed to align in strange, unsettling ways.
“So, Lord Kael, Master Valerius—they are ‘impediments’? Even Lady Sera?”
“If you insist upon such nomenclature, then yes, largely. You, however, are distinct.”
That backhanded commendation left Caelum feeling utterly raw.
“What does that imply? You are truly abhorrent.”
“No, I am not.”
“You are profoundly abhorrent.”
“Hmm. It is enshrined in the First Vow. ‘Thou shalt not deceive.’ I merely speak with candor, Lysander.”
Honestly, Caelum thought, Volkov was worse than he. At least Caelum didn’t blatantly dismiss his acquaintances as worthless.
“That is precisely why I am a virtuous individual.”
“…Indeed.”
“Since I am such a virtuous individual, may I visit your quarters?”
Lysander Volkov blinked twice, his gaze unwavering. Caelum met his eyes for a moment before offering a slight nod.
“Very well. Why not.”
As long as Volkov did not interfere with Caelum’s meticulously constructed world, there was little reason to refuse. To secure one’s place in the Lyceum’s exacting hierarchy, one must be prepared for certain concessions. A brief intrusion was a small price for the potential for observation, for understanding the workings of power up close.
For understanding Volkov, and through him, perhaps, Aedan.
And for that quiet, simmering ambition that Caelum Lysander buried so deep, it sometimes felt as if it belonged to another. But it was there, waiting. Always waiting.