Kaelan Blackwood’s hand rose, a clenched fist aimed not quite at Silas Vesper, but at the empty space beside his ear. Before the posturing could escalate into actual violence, Gareth Thorne’s slender fingers connected with Kaelan’s bicep. Not a grip, merely a touch, but it halted Kaelan’s theatrical display with an unexpected finality.
Kaelan’s bravado, thin as spun sugar, dissolved. He sputtered, a strangled sound that barely escaped his throat, a sharp, undignified squawk. Emrys and Joryn Thorne, Gareth’s cousins, snickered from behind their texts. Kaelan rounded on them, eyes blazing.
"Amusing, is it? You find this amusing?" he snarled, elbowing Joryn's ribs.
The three of them — Kaelan still muttering, the Thorne cousins chuckling — swept out of the Scholarium, their footsteps echoing on the polished flagstones. Joryn, pausing at the threshold, offered a casual hand-wave in Caelum's direction. Caelum, ever the affable observer, returned the gesture with a subtle nod. The Lyceum's rigid decorum was always to be upheld, even in jest.
Then, settling back into the cold comfort of his assigned bench, Caelum drew forth a freshly inked quill.
He had just dipped the nib into the onyx well when, before inscribing the first ideogram, his gaze drifted. It swept over the vaulted ceilings, the soaring arches of the ancient chamber, the worn and stained banners depicting forgotten house crests. The air hung thick with the scent of aged parchment and beeswax.
He lowered his head to the desk.
He was on the third problem of his theoretical geometry scroll, absently tapping the quill against the vellum, when he suddenly lifted his eyes.
Beyond the tall, leaded windows, the Lyceum's ancient yew trees stood sentinel, their dark needles turning russet in the chill autumn air. A faint, earthy scent permeated the quadrangle, a stark contrast to the crystalline azure of the sky.
"A cloister of maidens would be far less taxing than this."
The venerated Scholarch Solon, who lectured on the Arcane Histories, often lamented with a sigh that could rattle ancient scrolls.
"This institution is a veritable serpentine labyrinth. A veritable den of vipers. Young scions, fresh from their nurseries, always strive to establish dominance first. By the mid-term evaluations, the volatile currents usually settle. But until then? It’s ceaseless skirmishes, audacious defiance, tests of every Arbiter’s patience, each aspiring to ascend the ranks. By the Ancestors, my head throbs. And I must endure this spectacle anew with each incoming cohort. Let us see… what celestial year were they born under again?"
Then, he would unfurl a gnarled hand and enumerate the knuckle joints one by one, a soft murmur escaping his lips.
"The Serpent, the Raven, the Griffin, the Wyrm, the Lion, the Falcon, the Stag… Let us see, that means—"
Caelum, mimicking the motion, extended his own hand, tracing the smooth bones of his fingers.
He could never quite grasp the pattern, a frustration that pricked at his meticulous mind. He gave up, flipping his hand over, counting the subtle ridges on the back instead.
First, second, third, fourth… ninth.
He never would have predicted, in the balmy languor of early summer, that late Autumn would feel like the frantic, clawing ambition of their first term all over again.
"These nascent lords are naught but untamed beasts. Irrational, driven by base emotion, impulsively aggressive."
Caelum stared at the prominent knuckle of his middle finger, absently tapping his desk like a muted harpsichord.
The reedy voice of the junior Arbiter, likely hoarse from a persistent autumnal chill, droned on, accompanied by the faint, insistent scratch of chalk upon the obsidian board.
His gaze strayed to the empty bench near the front.
For a fleeting instant, he imagined the lingering imprint of a head on the polished timber—one side pressed deep, the other hovering, a ghost of recent rest.
His fingers stilled.
He turned his head.
Gareth Thorne sat hunched over his own workbook, his face half-obscured by the vellum pages.
His eyes, usually so piercing, were half-shuttered.
He would fix his gaze on a complex theorem as if preparing to devour its secrets, only to suddenly sag, pressing his forehead against the book.
Caelum watched as Gareth’s nose became an unfortunate wedge between the pages and his brow.
Then, Caelum turned away.
"…Did I drift into a momentary reverie?"
He felt a peculiar disassociation, as if observing himself from a distance.
He inscribed a small, neat asterisk beside problem three and moved on to the fourth.
---
The midday repast was venison stew with crème fraîche and a goblet of spiced wine.
Gareth Thorne, having swiftly dispatched his wine, suddenly spoke.
"You are second in the Lysander lineage, are you not?"
"Indeed."
"And school-wide?"
"Also second."
"By the Ancestors."
"What troubles you?" Caelum asked, a slight lift to his brow.
"So, the paramount scion in our cohort is also the paramount scion of the entire Lyceum?"
"Were you unaware? I have never surpassed Lady Seraphina Thorne."
"She is even more consumed by her studies than you, is she not?"
"She is. Her private tutors conclude their sessions at the first hour past midnight."
"Gods. That is formidable."
"She possesses extraordinary discipline."
Caelum harbored no desire to prolong this line of discourse. He scooped a precisely measured spoonful of stew into his mouth.
Fortunately, Gareth did not press the matter. He merely offered a thoughtful nod.
"Ahhh—"
The abrupt halt in conversation felt… ill-timed. Caelum abhorred voids in social interaction, those stark pauses that invited scrutiny.
He deliberated briefly on what to utter next.
Without further contemplation, he blurted, "And your own standing, Lord Thorne?"
"...."
Gareth’s spoon paused, mid-air, suspended over his bowl.
Caelum found his gaze drawn to Gareth's hand.
He wielded his cutlery with impeccable grace, a minor detail, perhaps, but one Caelum noted. If there was one thing Gareth Thorne executed with flawless precision, it was the etiquette of the dining hall.
"Within the cohort…"
"Yes?"
"Ninth."
"…Ninth?" Caelum’s voice was barely a whisper.
"Why do you regard me thus?"
Caelum quickly averted his gaze from Gareth’s hands, feigning interest in a carving on the hall wall.
Was he sincere?
Not dissembling?
The unexpected revelation almost prompted Caelum to voice his disbelief, a stark faux pas. He managed, just barely, to restrain the impulse.
A close call.
Should he offend Gareth, the consequences would be… regrettable. Gareth’s temperament, though usually cloaked in an unsettling calm, was rumored to be fierce.
Caelum hesitated.
Would Gareth prefer commendation for his unexpected performance? Or would he rather Caelum feign indifference, as if it were entirely anticipated?
Caelum’s mind, a finely tuned instrument of social navigation, already weighed the optimal response. Gareth did not appear to hold his usual companions in particularly high esteem.
The latter option, then, offered greater security.
"Hm. You perform with greater aptitude than I might have surmised."
"Surmised? How bereft of intellect did you perceive me to be?"
"I did not deem you unintelligent, merely… I recall you once expressed a disinclination for Ancient Texts?"
"Ancient Texts is my singular weakness. My only one."
"Yet you attend no private tutorial."
"The absence of a private tutor does not preclude one from scholarly endeavor. By the Ancestors, did you truly harbor such an estimation of my faculties?"
"No, no, not at all." Caelum quickly waved a dismissive hand. "It is commendable, however, to achieve such a standing without additional instruction."
"…Truly?"
"Indeed. Quite commendable."
For some inexplicable reason, Gareth Thorne began to mash his spoon into the remnants of his stew.
And—was he flushing?
Caelum caught a glimpse of the tips of his ears, a faint crimson spreading beneath his dark hair.
Now that he considered it, Lysander Theron had languished at thirty-second.
And that was solely due to the presence of others who fared even worse. Thirty-second out of thirty-six.
Reflecting upon it, Caelum realized he had rarely paid attention to anything concerning Lysander Theron beyond matters directly impinging upon himself.
With that piercing realization, a chilling truth struck him. He had been drowning in precisely the kind of pathetic, obsessive infatuation he had once so disdainfully condemned.
Meanwhile, Gareth Thorne, utterly oblivious to Caelum’s internal crisis, had clearly experienced a surge of self-regard. His tone shifted, now brimming with quiet self-satisfaction.
"Oh, a minor detail you likely overlook—my command of Oratory is without equal."
"Indeed? To what extent?"
"A flawless score. I have never yielded a single mark in Oratory."
"Khhkk!"
Caelum choked.
The moment the words escaped Gareth’s lips, Caelum spluttered a mouthful of wine.
Gareth scowled, yanking his tray further away. "By the Wyrm, what precisely is that reaction?"
"I simply… did not anticipate such proficiency."
"Is it truly so astonishing?"
He frowned, a slight pout to his lips. "Yes, my Ancient Texts score is abysmal, but that is inconsequential." There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice.
Caelum, recovering, offered a light retort. "Perhaps a perusal of scholarly tomes, now and then."
"What absurd notions do you harbor? I am, in essence, a devotee of the classical arts."
"A devotee? I have never witnessed you engaged with such literature."
"That is because my pursuits are conducted in the strictest privacy of my chambers."
"Why, pray tell, would such a pursuit necessitate concealment?"
Gareth Thorne’s eyes, which had curved with amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of stew. Then, he casually pressed his lips to the spoon’s edge.
Something in the image stirred a subtle unease within Caelum. He bit the inside of his cheek.
Gareth met Caelum’s gaze as he withdrew the spoon, then lowered his eyes and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to its very tip.
"Even scandalous romances are, fundamentally, literature."
It was undoubtedly a jest, a deliberate provocation. The insolent scion.
Caelum’s face burned.
To conceal his flush, he seized a linen napkin from beside his tray and, with a swift flick, launched it at Gareth.
It struck just below Gareth’s long, narrow eyes, then drifted harmlessly onto the table. One of Gareth’s eyes twitched, a minuscule betrayal of amusement.
Not that Caelum genuinely cared for Gareth’s pique, but he adopted a pretense of contrition. "Cease such vulgar antics. Particularly within these hallowed halls. It is utterly uncouth."
"Oh? You refer to this? This… Lysander Theron’s little affectation?"
"I care not whose affectation it is. Simply desist."
"Is this not, pray tell, a common gesture amongst our peers now?"
"...."
Caelum stared at him, attempting to decipher the sincerity behind the jest.
---
Caelum found himself sleeping less. A curious indicator, perhaps, that his body had acclimated to the Lyceum's pervasive anxieties.
Mornings, which had once dawned sluggish and oppressive, now possessed a strange clarity, a bracing sharpness. It was a welcome transformation—for in his estimation, the gravest transgressions for an eighteen-year-old scion were complacency and excessive slumber.
"Ah, damnation—"
His jaw clicked with a painful audible snap as he brushed his teeth.
Ever since Lysander Theron's last, desperate act of malice, his jaw produced an odd, grinding sound whenever Caelum opened his mouth too wide.
Beyond that lingering discomfort, today promised to be a day of serene, calculated progression.
Yet, even amidst his newfound equilibrium, there were moments of sudden, sharp irritation.
The catalyst was invariably Lysander Theron.
Or, more precisely, the echoes of the incidents that stemmed from him.
The majority of these echoes reverberated within the Lyceum’s ancient walls.
"Oh, a curious piece of information. I observed Lysander Theron last eve."
Silas Vesper spoke, biting into a spiced pastry from the common hall, a less refined delicacy often whispered to contain questionable ingredients.
Kaelan Blackwood, who had been playfully jabbing Silas’s ankle with a mock-dagger hand, suddenly stiffened.
"By the Ancestors—that’s right! You have precisely jogged my memory! I was on the very cusp of divulging this. I intercepted a whisper through the whispers—you are acquainted with Master Valerius, are you not? That… unmoored charlatan? I heard Lysander is sheltering within his quarters."
"Master Valerius? That blustering buffoon, Valerius?"
Gareth Thorne, rummaging through a small silken pouch, asked with studied nonchalance.
When he withdrew his hand, he held two small, sugared plums.
And for some unfathomable reason, he extended one to Caelum.
"…?"
Caelum stared at it, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.
"…What is this?"
He looked at Gareth inquiringly, but Gareth merely offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod, as if the gesture itself conveyed its own intricate meaning.
The most vehement reaction came from Kaelan Blackwood, whose pouch of morning provisions had clearly been plundered.
"By the Raven, my provender! Why, in the name of all that is sacred, do you scoundrels pilfer my stores?"
"Oh, as if you have never purloined my own, you avaricious brute."
Silas Vesper feigned another swift, throat-slitting gesture at Kaelan.
Kaelan instantly spun, seized Silas’s tunic collar, and swung a theatrical, mock-punch at his face.
Of course, he possessed no actual intent to strike.
Such were their crude displays of camaraderie.
Caelum ignored their childish bickering and cast his gaze upon the sugared plum in his hand.
The delicate parchment wrapper bore a tiny, stylized citrus fruit, split in half.
He peeled the wrapper, popped the candied fruit into his mouth, and lifted his head.
"What say you? The very essence of first passion?"
Gareth Thorne offered a slight, knowing smirk.
"I find citrus unappealing."
Caelum’s response extended beyond the mere confection—it encompassed his assessment of Gareth’s jest, a dismissive flick of his wrist.
And more profoundly, he found the concept of "first passion" utterly devoid of amusement.
That cloying, subtly acrid sensation clung to the back of his throat. It quite extinguished his appetite.
In the end, he could not even finish the candied plum. He discreetly deposited it into the refuse bin.
"Alas, such prodigal waste," Gareth mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands, a pantomime of distress.
Ignoring him, Caelum reached into Kaelan’s pouch to procure a different candied fruit.
They were all citrus, or close enough. Lemon or lime.
Lime was the lesser of two evils.
He unwrapped one and placed it in his mouth.
"Regardless, Master Valerius, you say? It aligns with Lysander's proclivities."
"What, because they share a certain… profligacy?"
Gareth Thorne’s words were sharp, honed to a cutting edge.
Feeling an odd disquiet, Caelum turned to regard him.
Gareth sucked on his sugared plum, expressionless, twirling the slender wooden stick between his lips.
Caelum pulled his own from his mouth.
Something about this felt… profoundly amiss.
Gareth did not appear to notice Caelum’s sudden discomfort.
He tilted his candied plum, presenting it like a miniature sword, and began to execute random, jabbing motions in the air.
"He engages in… exchanges with his clientele—indifferent to their lineage or their gender. And when he discovers a particularly malleable individual, he dispatches them directly to Lysander. It is an intricate circuit. A continuous cycle of mutual exploitation and shared… intimacies."
"So Master Valerius partakes in such… dalliances as well?"
Kaelan Blackwood interjected abruptly.
Whether he had concluded his playful skirmish with Silas Vesper or had simply frozen mid-brawl to eavesdrop, Caelum could not discern.
Kaelan rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing the disquieting implications of what he had just overheard.