A chill, sharper than the autumn air seeping through the high Scriptorium windows, clung to Elias Thorne. Two days had passed since Lysander Vale’s desk, a once-proud monument to his diligent study, had been overturned. Now, his painstakingly annotated scrolls, his delicate, half-finished illuminations, even a treasured, leather-bound lexicon, lay scattered beside the main incinerator grate, awaiting the acrid kiss of the flames. Someone had methodically torn the vellum, ink bleeding like fresh wounds on the parchment. A few acolytes, junior members of the more boisterous Houses, snickered near the grate, their glances straying to a particular scion of House Alaric, who wore a smug, knowing grin.
Elias knew the orchestrator. He didn’t need to witness the whispers in the bathing chambers, the boastful gestures reported by those who always watched. The currents of the Institute were as legible as any ancient text, once one learned to decipher the subtle nuances of power and disdain.
*How utterly… expedient.* He watched the paper-thin remnants of Lysander’s legacy. The frayed edges of a meticulously drawn celestial chart, the surface fuzzed from countless revisions, now symbolized Lysander’s desperate struggle. He had lost to the shifting tides of opinion, outmaneuvered without ever grasping the true nature of his defeat.
Lysander’s desperation had been palpable in recent weeks. His thinly veiled criticisms of House Blackwood’s rising influence, his increasingly erratic scholarly pursuits—they had turned the very allies he sought to cultivate against him. His animosity toward Lord Kaelen, or perhaps his envy of Silas, had curdled into something volatile. Elias had seen the precise moment the whispers turned into a tide, yet he had felt no compulsion to intercede. The Institute demanded a singular focus: self-preservation.
He wasn’t foolish enough to sacrifice his own precarious position. Defending Lysander, regardless of the perceived nobility of the act, would only invite scrutiny. *Why?* The word echoed in his mind, not as a question of motive, but as a judgment. In this stratified edifice, where over thirty versions of a scholar’s reputation coexisted, even one such query could unravel a lifetime of careful construction.
A tremor of dread ran through him. He leaned his head against the cold stone of the Scriptorium archway, closing his eyes. For a fleeting moment, he wished the labyrinthine halls of Aethelred would simply reconfigure themselves, presenting a world where his anxieties did not exist. Sleep threatened to claim him.
A sharp rap, not unlike a raptor’s beak on wood, startled him awake. Elias straightened, rubbing the crown of his head, and saw Cassian Thorne mirroring the gesture, a faint scowl creasing his brow.
“What in the blazes was that?” Cassian grumbled, his voice a low thrum against the Scriptorium’s hush.
“Daydreaming in the heart of scholarship, Thorne?”
“My business. What is that contraption?”
Cassian’s grin was immediate, unrepentant. He hoisted a polished hawthorn staff, its silver cap gleaming. “This? A recent acquisition. Discovered it propped in the Archives’ forgotten relics bin. A surprising heirloom, wouldn’t you agree?”
Elias’s lips thinned. Cassian Thorne, ever the enigma, always surrounded by some peculiar aura. The staff hadn’t struck with force, yet a prickle of unease lingered. He smoothed his dark hair, checking for any disarray. Cassian, meanwhile, spun gracefully, hooking a vacant carrel stool with the staff’s crook before settling into it. He tossed his satchel onto the polished cedar desk, then, with a sigh, buried his face into it.
“You rouse me from contemplation only to embrace indolence yourself?” Elias muttered, a flicker of irritation sparking.
“Merely ensuring you weren’t neglectful of your studies, Elias. My own evaluations are beyond salvage; no harm in a momentary respite.”
“Nonsense.”
He shifted, his gaze fixed on Cassian. Every utterance from the younger Thorne seemed designed to provoke a retort. Elias nudged Cassian’s foot with his own, a silent challenge. Cassian merely smirked, his face still half-hidden.
“Is it customary to assault the convalescent, Thorne? Truly, you’re an uncouth barbarian.”
The playful sarcasm in his tone made Elias scoff. This time, he flicked Cassian’s staff. It swayed, threatening to topple, but Cassian, without lifting his head, effortlessly caught it. His face remained buried in his satchel, yet a soundless chuckle rumbled from him. Then, his voice, unexpectedly clear, cut through the quiet.
“There was something I wished to inquire about.”
“And what might that be?”
“That wasn’t merely an unfortunate tumble, was it?”
A sharp jolt ran through Elias. Had the faint bruise on his temple, acquired during his last terse encounter with Kaelen Blackwood’s demands, been so obvious? He touched his brow, his composure momentarily fractured. “It was an accident,” he managed, a carefully neutral inflection in his voice.
“Hah.” Cassian’s chuckle was low, laced with something Elias couldn’t quite decipher. “Indeed?” His gaze, bright irises framed by long, dark lashes, flicked to Elias. He pointed a finger, singling Elias out. Elias frowned, uncertain of the intent.
“What is it?”
“You are a master of pretense.”
Cassian smiled, leaning his hawthorn staff against his shoulder. Elias’s thoughts stalled. *What in the heavens is he implying?*
“...Pretense concerning what?”
“It hardly seemed a simple fall…”
Silence stretched between them. Cassian’s words, often enigmatic, now carried an unsettling menace. His gaze was unnervingly still. A dark pupil fixed on Elias, unwavering, like the tip of an arrow aimed squarely at his chest. Elias’s mind went blank. Two words hammered a frantic rhythm: *Impossible. He couldn't know. Impossible. He couldn't know.* Then, Cassian’s eyes narrowed, a predatory glint entering them.
“It appeared more like you had collided with something rather… unyielding.”
His long, serpentine eyes curved upward. Elias’s throat constricted. His breath hitched. *Gulp.* Cassian parted his lips, and Elias found himself unable to blink.
“If word of such a mishap were to circulate, it would be… profoundly embarrassing, would it not?”
Elias could only stare, frozen.
“I shall endeavor to keep it a secret.” Cassian raised the hand holding his staff to his lips, whispering the words, then offered a conspiratorial wink. The breath Elias had been holding slammed against his ribs, a trapped animal desperate for release.
Cassian didn't wait for a reaction. He ran a hand through his dark hair, then pointed a finger at Elias again. “But did you truly attempt to replicate my coiffure? Such an unoriginal endeavor.”
Elias was speechless. Cassian wrinkled his nose in mock disapproval. “Regardless, I find myself in need of slumber.” He yawned, burying his face deeper into his satchel. Staring at the back of Cassian’s head, Elias finally managed, “I neither copied your style nor altered my hair.”
“Oh, did you not?” Cassian’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his bag.
***
“Lamb of the Sacred Flame, who purges the stains of this realm,” Cassian intoned, clutching a parchment scroll in one hand.
Fourth period. As the Master of Scholastic Assessments concluded his pronouncements, the midterm evaluations for the preceding month had been distributed. Cassian buried his face in his unrolled scroll, scanning his abysmal scores, then abruptly invoked the ancient prayer. He flung his head back dramatically, releasing a profound sigh.
“Ah, I am utterly bereft.”
Elias glanced at his own commendation, noted the pristine scores, then folded it precisely, slipping it into the inner pocket of his finely tailored robes. He looked back at Cassian, who continued his theatrical lament.
Cassian’s head was thrown back so far Elias could only see the prominent rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. It bobbed heavily, almost chastising Elias for his observation. Fixing his gaze on Cassian’s throat, Elias remarked, “That particular invocation is not typically employed for such mundane anxieties.”
“Semantics, Thorne. A supplication is a supplication.” He paused, then asked, “Tell me, is it ‘Flame’ or ‘Lord’ in that particular catechism?”
It was then Elias recognized the peculiar nature of Cassian’s relationship with the Institute’s official creed—a strange blend of irreverence and casual familiarity.
“Why inquire of me? It pertains to your purported conviction.”
“Elias, do not be so severe. You, with your formidable intellect, surely possess knowledge of all matters esoteric.”
“I do not. And I confess no particular devotion.”
Cassian, who had been leaning back to an improbable degree, suddenly shot forward. Their eyes met. Elias instinctively averted his gaze toward the leaded window, feigning disinterest. Yet, a sharp prickle of guilt, as if he had been caught in a transgression, spread through his chest. He stared absently at the outside world, then shifted his focus to the stiff collar of Cassian’s perfectly pressed tunic. The crisp white fabric rested against his neck, but with every exaggerated movement, a sliver of his finely sculpted collarbone flashed into view.
“So? Care to join me at the Chapel for Sunday vespers?”
“What? No.”
“Ah, why the refusal? Come. Should you attend the weekend services and the Yuletide Vigil, they distribute various provisions. Fine fruits, honeyed pastries, warm spiced wine…”
“Wait, you cannot possibly imply your adherence is predicated solely on such base incentives?”
“But of course.”
Elias finally met Cassian’s gaze. A slender, silver quill pen rested precariously on Cassian’s upper lip. A moment of reluctant admission, a concession to pure, unadulterated observation: Cassian Thorne was remarkably handsome. A truly infuriating individual. The quill, wedged between nose and lip, distorted his voice into a slurred, muffled grumble.
“The way you phrase it, it suggests I am pilfering. If these provisions are freely offered, what transgression is there in accepting them?”
“Can one truly claim conviction if the foundation of their belief is so patently selfish?”
“Such is the genesis for many, Elias. One does not commence with grand theological pronouncements. They think, ‘Ah, delightful provisions are offered. The source of these provisions must be benevolent.’ And then, by incremental stages, their belief in that ‘benevolent provider of provisions’ transforms into an absolute conviction in the Sacred Flame itself. The initial impulse, the journey, these are inconsequential. What matters is the present state: I believe.”
Cassian Thorne often spouted such calculated absurdities. Even Lysander Vale, in his time, had been drawn into their eddy. Sometimes, it was merely sophistry. But sometimes, it was a peculiar brand of wisdom that even Elias, despite his academic rigor, found himself tempted to consider. This was one of those latter instances.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, brushing it back from his forehead. It immediately fell back into his eyes. He shook his head from side to side, and the thin strands swayed. He gathered them near his temples, and the faint tickle finally receded. He had been so consumed by recent anxieties he had quite forgotten a trim.
With Lysander Vale’s sudden, ignominious departure, the front carrel of the Scriptorium remained conspicuously empty. Elias no longer had cause to glance in that direction.
Six days prior, the Master of Discipline had summoned Elias to his chambers, inquiring if he had received any communication from Lysander.
Elias had responded with unvarnished honesty, devoid of hesitation. “No, Master. He has not.”
“You have yet to reconcile with young Vale, have you?”
Elias offered a small, bitter smile. A precisely calibrated expression. In truth, the notion of smiling felt entirely alien. “No, Master. Lysander… held a profound grievance against me.”
“Vale harbored a grievance against *you*?”
“Indeed.”
Whispers, like currents in a shadowed river, had already circulated through the Institute. The Master of Discipline was hardly oblivious to the implications of Elias’s words. “Very well, Thorne. I understand,” he stated, dismissing Elias. As he settled back into his chair, Elias heard him mutter under his breath. The fragmented phrases Elias caught were mostly complaints about Lysander’s intransigence and frustration over a reprimand received from Vale’s exasperated guardian.
Elias feigned deafness to the pathetic monologue, turning away, yet still listening. This subtle attention allowed him to grasp the full, shifting atmosphere within the Master’s chambers. Later that day, while preparing his notes for private study at his family’s Institute residence, Lysander’s guardian, the Baron Vale, had called. He posed the same question as the Master of Discipline—if Elias knew of Lysander’s whereabouts.
Elias offered the same response. “No, Baron. Lysander ceased all contact with me some time ago.”
*—I see…*
“I am truly regretful that I cannot be of assistance.”
*—No, young Thorne, there is nothing for you to apologize for. It is quite alright.*
Lately, Baron Vale’s inquiries had grown more frequent. Each conversation unfolded with an identical cadence. There was something unsettlingly deliberate in his persistent attempts to link Elias and Lysander. Elias had hastened to end the call.
Truthfully, there was nothing for him to apologize for. Yet he offered it anyway—to cultivate favor. It was the same ingrained social instinct that prompted polite declarations of beauty for an unsightly newborn. A convention. An etiquette, functioning within this rarefied society. He harbored no illusion that the adults perceived him as a mere pawn.
If anything, his politeness was a crude pantomime, performed by a court jester. He understood his place. And by investing such meticulous effort into being liked, he would, inevitably, become a well-loved jester. Even should he, one day, commit a transgression so blatant it would furrow the brows of his distinguished audience, they would forgive him. Such was the groundwork he meticulously laid.
Unlike some hapless fool, he navigated his existence with astute calculation. Perhaps, from an adult’s perspective, his machinations amounted to nothing more than a narrow-minded, petty trick to evade consequence. But among his peers, it was an undeniable truth: he was a scholar who understood how to manage the unpredictable currents of the Institute with consummate wisdom.
Proof of this lay in the current demeanor of Reinaldo, Lysander’s former confidant.
Reinaldo, now utterly desperate to garner the attention of Cassian Thorne’s inner circle, had begun to affect a similar friendliness toward Elias. In the eyes of their peers, Elias had, after all, subtly aligned himself with the enigmatic Cassian Thorne early on. Though Reinaldo had once been among Lysander’s most ardent companions, he now made it abundantly clear that the tides of his allegiance had irrevocably shifted.