A lingering unease tightened its grip on Elias. Kaelen Varr’s words from lunch still echoed: a perfect score in linguistics, yet a general academic rank far lower. It defied the Institute’s logic, a dissonant chord in its carefully orchestrated halls. Elias picked at a candied plum, the sweetness cloying on his tongue. He had barely touched his afternoon repast, the thought of Kaelen’s casual cruelty curdling his appetite. “Lost in thought, Thorne?” A voice, silken and familiar, drifted from his side. Kaelen Varr stood over him, a faint, unsettling smile playing on his lips. His immaculate uniform seemed to absorb all light, a void against the refectory’s gilded splendor. Elias started, nearly dropping the plum. “Lord Kaelen. Merely contemplating the day’s lectures.” He tried to infuse his voice with academic gravitas, a defense mechanism. Kaelen merely chuckled, a sound like glass chimes. He leaned closer, a faint scent of rare spice and parchment clinging to him. His gaze, sharp and assessing, met Elias’s. “Such profound concentration for a simple plum. May I partake?” Before Elias could respond, Kaelen’s long, elegant fingers plucked the candied fruit from his grasp. It was a swift, almost imperceptible motion. Elias felt a sudden rush of heat, an irrational shame. Kaelen brought the plum to his lips, his eyes still fixed on Elias. He bit into it, a soft squish, then licked a trace of syrup from his thumb with languid precision. “Exquisite. You have excellent taste, Thorne.” “It was… left over from the dessert trolley,” Elias managed, the words a dry rustle in his throat. He felt exposed, stripped bare by the simple act. Kaelen merely hummed. “Sharing a delicacy is a bonding ritual, wouldn’t you agree? A subtle exchange of… sensibilities.” His eyes gleamed, hinting at a deeper, more perverse meaning. “A way to understand another’s inner landscape.” Elias swallowed, a bitter taste now overriding the sweetness. Kaelen’s laughter, a low, private sound, followed him as the older student drifted away. Elias’s hands trembled, fingers curling into his palms. *** The hum of the refectory intensified, a sudden clamor breaking through the genteel chatter. Cassian Vance’s voice, rough and indignant, cut through the air. “Whoever took my lexicon, better return it! I need it for the Archival History seminar!” Torvin, a hulking figure from a lesser merchant house, scoffed. “As if you’d use it, Vance. Probably left it in the lavatories again.” He delivered a playful, yet forceful, punch to Cassian’s arm. Cassian yelped, rubbing the spot. “The coin you owe me could buy a dozen such paltry tomes, you lout!” Torvin bellowed, utterly disregarding the disapproving glances from other tables. Their boisterous squabble grated on Elias’s nerves. It was crass, untidy, a stark contrast to the Institute’s polished facade. He watched them, his attention momentarily diverted from Kaelen. Such crude displays of emotion. It reminded him of the outer districts, not the hallowed halls of Aethelred. He wondered what their futures held. Probably nothing beyond their inherited stations, or perhaps the lesser bureaucratic roles, forever outside the true elite. Elias thought of others, those who stumbled and fell. Seraphin, who hadn’t been seen in weeks, or Lord Valerius, whose academic standing had withered under Kaelen’s subtle influence. They were the casualties of this brutal, silent war of intellect and status. Pawns, sacrificed for the ascendance of others. He knew how easily one could be shunted aside, forgotten. His own path, he decided, must be one of unwavering focus. Ignore the noise, the drama, the petty squabbles. It was the only way to avoid becoming another discarded piece. *** The chill of late autumn seeped into the Institute’s venerable stone. Winter would descend soon, a stark season demanding excellence, demanding results. Each student felt the weight of expectation, the pressure to etch their mark into the academic firmament. Yet, exceptions always existed. Lord Valerius, one such exception, returned that afternoon. Elias spotted him through the mullioned windows of the great hall. Valerius moved with a hesitant gait, a shadow of his former boisterous self. Elias’s heart gave an involuntary lurch. Valerius, whose family was once a minor but respected house, now moved like a ghost. Elias hesitated at the threshold of the main study wing. A knot formed in his stomach. He remembered the last time he’d been alone with Valerius, a snide comment from Elias about Valerius’s failing grades, followed by Valerius’s furious retort. No physical altercation, but the humiliation of the exchange lingered. It was a wound in his own self-perception, a moment of weakness he regretted. Steering clear of Valerius was the wisest course. Any interaction, however brief, would fuel the gossip mills, painting Elias as a sympathizer or, worse, an instigator. The Institute’s eyes missed nothing. And the worst outcome? A confrontation, another ugly scene. He was not a fighter. He was a scholar. Elias turned, retreating to the first floor. He loitered by the ancient statuary depicting forgotten scholars, feigning interest in their weathered forms. Only when the main corridor teemed with students making their way to the evening lectures, a bustling ocean of faces, did Elias rejoin the current, heading for his preferred, secluded study carrel. He had successfully avoided a potential pitfall. He tried to quell the persistent flutter of anxiety within him. He pretended not to notice the subtle whispers regarding Valerius’s return, the sympathetic glances, the knowing smirks. His efforts, he believed, were successful. Yet, Valerius, like a volatile reagent, remained a profound variable in the carefully controlled experiment that was Elias’s life. *** Morning roll call in the grand lecture hall. Magister Thorne, a wizened, stoic man, adjusted his spectacles. Elias sat rigid, his quill poised over a fresh sheet of parchment. Kaelen Varr, unexpectedly, approached Valerius’s desk. “A pleasant surprise, Lord Valerius. We missed your… insightful contributions.” Kaelen’s tone was smooth, almost friendly. It sent a shiver down Elias’s spine. Valerius merely nodded, his gaze distant. Kaelen offered a wide, unsettling smile before returning to his own seat. Magister Thorne began the roll. His voice, usually firm, softened when he reached Valerius’s name. “Lord Valerius. Welcome back.” He paused, a flicker of concern in his eyes. “Still no word from Seraphin, I’m afraid.” He murmured the last part to himself, a heavy sigh escaping him. Magister Thorne rapped his attendance ledger with a finger, moving on. Valerius reached into his desk compartment, intending to retrieve his lexicons and scrolls. A grimace twisted his features. The compartment was empty. A few grimy, torn pages lay scattered, clearly not his own meticulously prepared materials. Two students, who had stored their texts in the communal wall lockers, raised their hands and excused themselves. Valerius’s expression darkened further as they departed. He rarely studied, but his materials, however neglected, were always in his desk. Elias knew. Valerius was particular about his possessions. Silence descended. Every student in the hall understood. Valerius’s texts had not simply vanished. An unspoken, complicit awareness settled over the room. No one spoke, no one met Valerius’s furious gaze. *** Class ended. The anticipated moment arrived. “Who did this?” Valerius’s voice, though low, carried a dangerous edge. He stood, hands jammed into the pockets of his uniform breeches, chin jutted forward. Those uninterested in confrontation slipped out. The curious ones lingered, glancing from Valerius to the scattered, damaged pages. Kaelen Varr, meanwhile, sat at his desk, meticulously sketching some intricate arcane symbol on a damaged piece of parchment, his movements unhurried. “What troubles you, Lord Valerius?” he asked, without looking up. “Who?” Valerius demanded again, louder this time. Kaelen lifted his head, a quizzical expression on his face. “One must articulate their grievances clearly, Valerius. Ambiguity serves no purpose.” His brazen pretense was breathtaking. Elias’s stomach clenched. He watched, an unwelcome fascination holding him captive. “The scoundrel who purged my desk of its contents!” Valerius’s voice rose to a shout. He was not a fool. He sensed the underlying currents, the cruel hierarchy at play. Kaelen’s feigned ignorance was a direct provocation. Even a novice acolyte could discern that. Kaelen merely shrugged. “Did you even possess texts? I recall you were oft found slumped over your desk, lost in slumber.” He laughed then, a light, mocking sound that grated on every nerve. Valerius’s face contorted. “Enough! Was it you, Thorne?” Valerius’s furious gaze snapped to Elias. Elias froze. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was precisely the outcome he had sought to avoid. “No,” Elias stammered, his voice thin. Kaelen interjected, a smile playing on his lips. “Come now, would our meticulous scholar, Thorne, treat his beloved lexicons in such a barbaric manner?” The sarcasm dripped, thick and cloying. Elias felt his face burn. Kaelen was baiting Valerius, and Elias was caught in the crossfire. “Kaelen Varr—damn you, why do you constantly interfere?” Valerius’s voice was hoarse with rage. “Interfere? When a fellow student faces an injustice, it is incumbent upon us to assist.” Kaelen’s tone was pure mockery. “What arcane drivel are you spouting, you fool?” “Fool? That is rather impolite.” Kaelen’s smile widened, sharp as a blade. Valerius scoffed, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Stop your prattle. Who else but you two could have engineered such a deplorable atmosphere in my absence?” He was clearly frustrated, unable to articulate the deeper power dynamics. Only then did Kaelen slowly lay down his sketching quill. His smirk remained, though a flicker of something colder entered his eyes. Valerius’s face twisted in displeasure. With a roar of frustration, Valerius seized a heavy, leather-bound satchel from a nearby vacant desk. He hurled it. It was meant for Kaelen, Elias knew, but his own luck was, as ever, abysmal. The satchel struck him squarely in the chest. “Ah!” A sharp jolt of pain, more startling than truly injurious, made Elias gasp. He clutched his chest, watching the satchel clatter to the floor by his knees. “This madman simply flings objects now,” Kaelen’s voice cut through the ringing in Elias’s ears. It was laced with a genuine, if brief, annoyance. Valerius slowly lifted the corners of his mouth. A triumphant gleam entered his eyes. “Ah, I see,” Valerius declared, as if a great revelation had dawned. Elias frowned, confused. What did he imagine he understood? “Kaelen Varr. Elias Thorne. You two are allied, then?” Elias gaped, utterly speechless. Kaelen’s playful smirk vanished instantly, replaced by a look of bewildered disdain. Elias felt a wave of profound disorientation, far deeper than any concern for Valerius’s missing texts. Kaelen, it seemed, felt the same. “Lord Valerius, forgive me, but your conjecture is so utterly preposterous, I fail to grasp its meaning.” Kaelen brought a palm to his ear, a clear, blatant gesture of mockery. And Kaelen Varr, Elias knew, never stopped at a single jest. This was merely the overture. Sensing the escalating tension, Elias pushed himself to his feet. Kaelen, meanwhile, extended a hand, slowly curling his little finger in a provocative, inviting gesture.

Of Candied Fruit and Collateral Damage