Two days after Lysander Theron's reading desk had been upturned, his meticulously bound tomes met the hungry flames of the common hall's central brazier. Parchment curled, ink smudged into ash, and the scent of burning leather permeated the gilded atrium.
Finding the perpetrator required little effort. After a few tedious syllogisms on arcane sigils, Aric Vesper caught my eye, a triumphant smirk twisting his lips as he glanced towards a group of acolytes. Their hushed whispers confirmed the stories; Aric had boasted openly of consigning Lysander’s texts to the inferno.
“A bold statement,” a voice murmured beside me.
I looked past the smoldering brazier, past the faint haze of smoke, towards the precise stack of discarded scrolls near the gargoyle-shaped disposal chute. The tattered edges and grimy surfaces whispered of Lysander Theron’s increasingly desperate struggle against Aric.
Lysander Theron had been vanquished two days prior, though he likely hadn't even realized it.
The motive was stark. Initially, I dismissed Aric’s actions as mere displays of dominance. But a creeping unease had settled. Even Lysander Theron’s closest confidants had begun to observe his erratic behavior. His burgeoning resentment towards Aric Vesper transcended mere rivalry, morphing into something dangerously unhinged. When I witnessed their last, desperate confrontation, my certainty solidified.
Yet, as the tide of opinion turned decisively against Lysander Theron, I felt no compulsion to intercede, no gnawing guilt to confess. To align myself with his dwindling cause would be an act of profound idiocy.
I understood the optics. Defending him might brand me as principled, even loyal. But within the cubic labyrinth of the Lyceum, where thirty-fold versions of oneself existed in the minds of others, even one small deviation could invite scrutiny.
*Why?*
The chilling query haunted my waking thoughts.
My forehead found the cool, polished surface of my desk. I closed my eyes, seeking a momentary reprieve. A brief, fleeting desire to wake and find everything precisely as I wished it to be. Slumber began to claim me, a welcome descent into oblivion.
Then, something sharp rapped against my skull, jolting me back to harsh reality. My hand flew to my head, rubbing the tender spot. Beside me, Thorne also touched his brow, a faint frown marring his features.
“By the Void, that stung.”
“Why are you already lost to the Ether this early?”
“My affairs are my own concern. What is that?”
“Oh, this?” Thorne’s grin was unrepentant. He lifted the gnarled staff he had tucked beneath his arm, a piece of dark, twisted wood that looked less like a walking aid and more like a relic. “Scavenged it on my way. Found it amongst the Lyceum’s discarded curiosities.”
My lips thinned with irritation. Thorne always unearthed the strangest artifacts.
Pain was minimal, but a primal urge to smooth my hair seized me. I worried its careful order might have been disturbed. Thorne, meanwhile, kicked aside a lecture stool with practiced ease, then settled into it just before it could topple. He tossed his satchel onto the desk, using it as a makeshift pillow before flopping forward.
“You wake me only to embrace oblivion yourself?”
“My concern was for your scholastic reports, ensuring you didn't miss Master Elara’s lecture. My own scores are already beyond salvation, so it matters little if I sleep.”
“Preposterous.”
My body twisted, a low grumble escaping me. Thorne possessed an uncanny ability to provoke my arguments. I nudged his foot with my own, and he merely smirked.
“Is it permissible to assault the injured, Lysander? You vexatious creature.”
The playful mix of sarcasm and subtle mockery made me scoff. This time, I aimed a kick at his peculiar staff. It tilted, threatening to fall, but Thorne, without lifting his head, simply raised a hand and caught it with effortless grace. He remained sprawled, his face still buried in his satchel, yet a silent chuckle vibrated through him. He spoke suddenly, his voice muffled.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“What?”
“That wasn’t an accident, was it?”
A cold prickle traced my spine. Had it been so obvious? My face hadn’t been unduly marked, I was certain.
My hand brushed casually over my cheek, a quick, almost imperceptible gesture, before I answered with practiced nonchalance. “It was an unfortunate mishap.”
“Hmph.”
Still resting his chin on his satchel, Thorne let out a soft, knowing sound. “Indeed?”
His eyes flicked towards me, a finger pointing with unsettling precision. I couldn’t decipher his intent. “What is it?”
“You possess no shame.”
The moment his lips curved into a smile, the gnarled staff leaning against his side, my thoughts scattered.
What in the fathomless depths was he implying?
“…What lacks shame?”
“I suspect you didn’t merely stumble…”
“………”
Thorne’s words were always enigmatic, but this time, a quiet menace laced his tone. His gaze was unnervingly still. Bright irises, dark pupils, fixed intently upon me. It was like watching the tip of a poisoned arrow, unable to predict its trajectory. This one was aimed directly at me. My mind went blank. Two words repeated, a frantic drumbeat in my skull: *Impossible. He couldn’t know. Impossible. He couldn’t know.*
Then, Thorne’s eyes narrowed further.
“It appeared more as if you ran into something.”
His long, serpentine eyes curved upward. My throat tightened. Breath hitched in my chest. I swallowed, a dry, rasping sound. His lips parted, and I found myself unable to blink.
“Should the others discern the truth, it would be quite… discomfiting, wouldn’t it?”
“………”
“I shall keep your secret.”
He raised the hand clasping his staff to his lips, whispering the words, then offered a conspiratorial wink. The breath I had been holding slammed against my ribs, a caged beast lashing out.
He didn't await my reaction. His hand raked through his dark bangs, a casual gesture, before he pointed at me again. “Did you, perchance, mimic my coiffure? That would be rather… uninspired.”
Speechless, I watched as Thorne wrinkled his nose in exaggerated disapproval. “Regardless, I shall now resume my slumber.”
A yawn stretched his jaw as he buried his face in his satchel. Staring at the back of his head, I finally managed to murmur, “I did not copy you. Nor have I altered my hair.”
“Oh, really?” His muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his bag.
---
“Lamb of Lumina, who bears the burden of the world’s failings.”
Thorne intoned the prayer, clutching his scrutiny report in one hand. It was fourth period. The tedious lesson on ancient runes had just concluded, yielding our midterm performance ledgers. Thorne buried his head in his unfolded report, scanned the scores, and then uttered the ancient invocation. He flung his head back dramatically, a profound sigh escaping him.
“Ah, I am utterly bereft.”
I glanced at my own report, noted the flawless script, then folded it precisely in half before slipping it into the inner pocket of my robes. When my gaze returned to Thorne, he was still sighing, his head thrown so far back that only the prominent curve of his Adam’s apple was visible. It bobbed heavily, almost chastising my prolonged stare.
Fixing my gaze upon his throat, I said, “That invocation is not for such petitions.”
“Who truly cares? A prayer is a prayer.” Then, he abruptly inquired, “By the way, is it Lumina or the Arch-Deacon?”
It was then that I truly registered the peculiarity of Thorne’s faith – a strange, pragmatic devotion.
“Why ask me? It is *your* creed.”
“Lysander, do not be so obtuse. You possess such vast intellect; I assumed you would know everything.”
“I do not. I am not devout.”
Thorne, who had been leaning back precariously, shot forward. Our eyes met. Instinctively, I averted my gaze towards the arched window, feigning disinterest. Yet, a sharp prickle, as if caught in a clandestine act, blossomed in my chest.
I stared absently at the outside world, then shifted my focus to the stiff collar of Thorne’s impeccably pressed tunic. The crisp white fabric rested against his neck, but with every exaggerated movement, the sharp line of his collarbone flashed into view.
“So? Care to attend the Spire with me?”
“What? No.”
“Ah, why not? Come. Attend on the days of High Ritual and on Lumina’s Feast. They bestow gifts. Rare fruits, potent tinctures, even warming draughts…”
“Wait, do not tell me you attend solely for such trifles?”
“Of course, I do.”
My eyes finally met his face, landing on the quill he had balanced on his upper lip. Pride initially forbade the admission, but in that moment, I conceded—Thorne possessed a striking, if roguish, handsomeness. What an insufferable, smug wretch.
The quill, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted his voice into a slurred, disgruntled mumble. “But your tone implies I am pilfering. If they are offered, what transgression is there in accepting them?”
“Can one even call it true faith if belief stems from such base desires?”
“Such is the genesis for all. Grand beliefs are rarely born fully formed. One thinks, ‘Ah, they offer succulent provisions. That beneficent entity must be benevolent.’ And then, little by little, that belief in the ‘generous purveyor of sustenance’ transmutes into absolute devotion to Lumina. The genesis and the process hold no consequence. What truly matters is that now, I believe.”
Thorne often spouted such calculated absurdities. Even Lysander Theron, in his calmer moments, had been drawn into his convoluted logic.
Sometimes, it was pure nonsense. Other times, it possessed a dangerous allure, the kind of spurious reasoning that even I found myself tempted by. This was the latter.
My hand raked through my bangs, sweeping them back from my forehead. They stubbornly fell back into my eyes. This time, I shook my head, my thin strands of hair swaying. I gathered them near my temples, and the irritating tickle subsided.
I had been so distracted lately, neglecting even a simple trimming of my unruly hair.
With Lysander Theron and Aric Vesper now absent, the front of the lecture hall remained conspicuously empty. There was no longer any reason to direct my gaze that way.
Six days ago, Master Elara, our instructor, had summoned me to her chambers. She inquired if I had heard from Lysander Theron.
My answer was swift, honest, and unburdened by hesitation. “No, Master. He has not contacted me.”
“You still have not reconciled with Theron, then?”
A small, bitter smile, perfectly calculated, touched my lips. In truth, the urge to smile was entirely absent. “No. Lysander… became quite incensed with me.”
“Incensed with *you*?” Her brow furrowed.
“Indeed.”
Rumors already permeated the Lyceum’s ancient stones. Master Elara was not so naive as to miss the implications of my words.
“Very well, I comprehend,” she said, dismissing me. As she settled back into her chair, a soft murmur escaped her lips.
Snippets reached my ears: grievances about Lysander Theron’s increasingly defiant attitude, frustration over a sharp reprimand from Lord Theron. I pretended not to hear her pathetic monologue, turning away, but my senses remained attuned. Thus, I gleaned the atmosphere of the instructor’s private sanctum.
Later, after the day’s lectures concluded, as I prepared for my private tutelage in my family’s Lysander wing, Lord Theron himself called. He posed the same question as Master Elara: did I know of Lysander Theron’s whereabouts?
I offered the same, carefully constructed reply. “No, Lord Theron. Lysander has ceased all communication with me.”
— *I see…*
“I am truly sorry I cannot be of more assistance.”
— *No, there is nothing for you to apologize for, Lysander. It is quite alright.*
Lord Theron’s calls had become unusually frequent of late. And each conversation unfolded with an identical, unsettling cadence. There was something oddly deliberate in his persistent attempts to bind Lysander Theron and me together. I hastened to conclude the exchange.
Honestly, no apology was required. Yet I offered it anyway—a practiced gesture of deference, a means to cultivate favor. It was the same instinct that compelled one to declare an unsightly hatchling ‘charming.’ A social convention. A form of exquisite etiquette that greased the gears of our civilized, hierarchical society.
I felt no adult perceived me as a pawn. Rather, my politeness was a crude pantomime performed by a well-trained court jester.
I understood my station implicitly.
And because I diligently applied myself to being liked, I was destined to become a beloved jester, indeed.
Even if, one day, I committed an error so blatant it would furrow the brows of the audience, they would forgive me. That was the groundwork I meticulously laid.
Unlike some witless fools, I navigated my existence with shrewdness. Perhaps, from an adult’s vantage, my intricate machinations were nothing more than narrow-minded, petty contrivances to wriggle from difficulty. But amongst my peers, it was an undeniable truth: I possessed the acumen to manage unpredictable situations wisely.
For proof, one needed only observe Kael.
---
Kael, ever desperate to ingratiate himself with Thorne, now extended his oily friendship to me. In the eyes of the Lyceum, I had already secured my alignment with Thorne early on. Though once among Lysander Theron's most vocal companions, Kael now made his loyalties conspicuously clear, a weathervane turning with the prevailing wind.