Lord Valerius was dead. Not in the corporeal sense, for Elias had seen the carriage bearing him away, but the formidable entity that was Valerius, the scion of House Aethelred, had perished within the Institute’s stone embrace.
The academy seethed. Just hours prior, the grand marble hall, now scuffed by the hurried footsteps of countless students and swirling with the dust of agitation, had borne witness to a crude, shattering violence. The piercing bell, usually a marker of class changes, now wailed, a jagged, incessant shriek that clawed at one’s ears. Every student, a mass of nervous energy, surged towards the nearest archway or gallery overlook. Like pale, captive specimens, their wide, unblinking eyes devoured the unfolding drama. The Institute buzzed with a thousand whispers, a cacophony so pervasive that hushed exclamations from adjacent wings drifted through the ornate grilles.
“What in the hallowed blazes is happening?”
“You haven’t heard? Fool, there was a confrontation in the Antechamber of Chronography.”
“What! Who?”
“That arrogant ox, Valerius, and young Kaelen Varr.”
“By the Elder Gods… That’s impossible. How did I miss this?”
Young men we were, standing at the precarious precipice of adulthood. We were shedding the last vestiges of delicate, self-absorbed individualism, feeling an endless, delicious shame for our earlier selves, and reveling in the raw, unrefined power of emergent rivalries. This reaction, Elias mused, was nothing short of inevitable.
“Has anyone spoken to someone from the Chronography wing? Weren’t those two previously… neutral? How did it come to blows?”
“Haven’t you heard the whispers about Lord Valerius?”
Our cohort fractured into factions: some thrilled to be at the epicenter of the unfolding scandal, others quietly accepting the downfall of a perceived titan, and a select few savoring the sweet taste of vindication. Below, on the gravel path leading to the infirmary annex, a somber, enclosed carriage waited. For the next half-hour, the most delicious gossip sweeping through the Institute’s hallowed halls revolved around the identity of the one who had necessitated that grim conveyance. We all knew, with chilling certainty, how swiftly rumors propagated within the five-tiered, insular world of the Aethelred Institute.
So, who had prevailed?
Those privy to the true account of the incident spared no thought for the scion who had been injured enough to require immediate transport. Instead, they took a perverse delight in the fulfillment of a quiet, yet deeply held, wish that had germinated with the very start of the term.
Kaelen Varr.
Such confrontations rarely yielded unambiguous victors. One-on-one skirmishes, especially, often concluded in a muddy stalemate. Yet, every element of today’s incident conspired in Kaelen Varr’s favor. The tendrils of rumor, already snaking through the student body, had ensured Valerius’s utter defeat long before the first blow was struck.
In the dimly lit, polished corridors of this ancient academy, the whispers slithered:
“Lord Valerius, it seems, has been exposed as a plagiarist.”
“What? But his family’s artistic legacy is so revered!”
“By the Mother Tree! That was all a grand charade! They say he commissioned lesser artists, paying them coin to sketch his family’s famed botanical studies, passing them off as his own. It’s a disgrace. And he’s from such an esteemed lineage, isn’t he? If one has ancestral wealth, there’s no artifice one won’t attempt, damn him. He could simply have purchased authentic pieces.”
“Gods above. I never imagined Valerius capable of such a thing; turns out, he’s a total fraud.”
“Heh-heh. If only I were born with such a gilded lineage. Even a fraud can command respect. But isn’t the Commoner’s Quarter cheaper for such dealings? We’re touring the Quarter for our socio-historical studies, aren’t we? Think we can slip away during free time? Wanna see if the rumors are true?”
The conversation drifted, not with the shattered reputation of Valerius, but with the tawdry allure of the Commoner’s Quarter. Yet, in that brief exchange, Valerius’s honor had been slashed a dozen times and ultimately murdered. This act of murder multiplied with every student within the Institute.
After falling to Kaelen Varr, Lord Valerius became a mere rag, as if everyone had silently anticipated his unraveling.
The study hall, usually a bastion of quiet contemplation, now weighed stillness against unrestrained passion. Everyone’s eyes darted back and forth like a metronome between the hushed conversations and the rigid silence enforced by the junior Master. The polished oak floor near the Chronography wing, Elias had heard, was still stained dark with an ink spill that resembled an ancient, spreading bruise. It must have dried by now, but one imagined that if pressed, blood would seep out.
It was unsettling, Elias thought, to witness the sudden eruption of Master Elara, our timid homeroom prefect, who had seemed ready to burst into tears at the mere mention of the incident. The following period was a self-study session. The hall had been buzzing with excitement over this hot topic, but it instantly chilled when Master Elara entered. As she stepped over the threshold, she threw the stack of scrolls she was holding onto a reading desk, sending them scattering, and let out a high-pitched shriek that could tear one’s ears.
“What in the heavens is wrong with you! You, you, you reprobates! Do you imagine I am a jester? Why do you live your lives in such disgraceful chaos? Cease this. Cease, I command you! Why are you making such a racket during self-study time! Is this the hour for idle chatter? You will be seniors next year! Seniors! Please, for the sake of your future, listen to me and stop causing such trouble! Do you not comprehend that I bear responsibility for your every transgression! I never should have accepted a position at an all-scion institute. I never wished to come to a place like this. I feel my mind fraying. If you conduct yourselves thus, your lives will amount to nothing but refuse, do you not perceive this? Are you not ashamed before your noble parents? And how many times must I instruct you to maintain silence during self-study!”
Most sensible individuals, upon witnessing someone so timid suddenly explode, would have clamped their mouths shut. But this was an all-scion institute, a place crowded with all manner of flawed human figures. Some defied common sense, some had not outgrown their pathetic early adolescence, and some, despite their rigorous studies, were so intellectually dim-witted that they committed idiotic acts. Our study hall was precisely such a place.
“Eh, eh—Master’s vexed. Vexed! Don’t be vexed!”
“It’s rather amusing when Master Elara loses her composure.”
A student perched in the very back, by the corridor entrance, spoke, and the scion two seats ahead of Elias whispered softly.
“You wretch! What? Do you imagine I am a jester?! You, step forward. Come to the fore!”
“Master—! Why are you like this?”
“I said come forward, you insolent boy!”
Master Elara snatched up a heavy leather-bound ledger. It flew between the desks, struck the corner of a reading stand in the third row, then clattered to the floor. The ledger, its momentum spent, made a shockingly loud noise.
“My apologies. I shall not repeat it. Please forgive me. Understood?”
The offender, a boy named Finnian, kept smirking, showing no genuine remorse. It was always some mediocre punk, neither popular nor a complete outcast, who pulled stunts like this. The sloppy ones acted out. They postured, pretending to be formidable. But only they failed to see that this bluff was the clumsiest and most pathetic display in the world.
“Come forward. Or must I come to you?”
“Ah, Master! Is that not excessive! Truly!”
“Silence!”
“Quiet, the Master told you to step forward.”
Elias could not endure it any longer. Unable to bear the spectacle, he spoke up. The entire hall’s eyes swiveled to him, but he did not care and coolly surveyed the pathetic scene. Honestly, it was so ridiculous that he nearly scoffed. He quite enjoyed situations such as this.
He was no brawler, nor did he put on a delinquent act pretending to be tough, but the reason he occupied a fairly elevated position in this jungle of intellects was because he fed on guys like Finnian.
“Finnian, why such sudden seriousness?”
“You are the one who misreads the room.”
Of course, this influence had not materialized overnight. During the hierarchy-setting period in the first year, there had been some resistance, but now it was as pleasant as a spiral of silence.
“Indeed. Cease this noise and step forward. Ah, truly, can you not gauge the gravity of the situation? Do you not see how serious this is?”
“If you are genuinely apologetic, then comply. Because of your foolishness, we are all being chastised. You insufferable imbecile.”
“Ah, what is with him? Seriously. What is his wretched deal?”
Elias could hear Finnian muttering under his breath until the very end. The confident look he had worn while teasing the Master gradually faded, like a dying ember. Under the concentrated pressure of the entire class, he finally stood up and went to the front. Look at him now, like a drowned rat.
Elias secretly permitted himself a twisted smile. Valerius had fallen. And nothing could make him happier. Perhaps it stemmed from the fact that Valerius had once, metaphorically, swung a fist at Elias with his casual dismissals and cutting remarks about Elias’s artistic inclinations.
No, Elias was certain of it. He felt a profound sense of vindication. Honestly, he was a bit surprised at himself. And he felt that electrifying thrill as the subtle currents of power returned to his influence.
“Go into the corridor right now!”
“....”
After driving the noisy fool out, Master Elara placed one hand on the podium and silently reined in her anger for a while. Perhaps she had gathered her thoughts, because it was fortunate in many ways that her tone calmed down considerably. Then she announced she would call each student one by one to inquire about what truly transpired.
“I promise I shall maintain absolute discretion. So please, tell me the truth. Do not make me disappointed in your integrity. Please, I am imploring you.”
She seemed determined to hear an unbiased account, but as a female prefect, she still did not appear to grasp the ruthless pyramid world of the all-scion Institute. Once self-study time concluded and the Master—her face still flushed—finished catching her breath and departed, a senior prefect, Lyra Vancroft, quietly closed the windows and the study hall door and gave everyone a low-voiced warning.
“Listen closely. Choose your words carefully. Make the correct judgment about who will continue to hold sway here—Kaelen Varr, or that disgraced scion.”
“Valerius initiated the physical altercation. You understand, do you not?”
Finnian, chastened yet eager to ingratiate himself, chimed in. Such admirable loyalty, Elias thought, dripping with thinly veiled contempt.
And less than a week later, Kaelen Varr returned to the Institute.
Kaelen Varr came back, flaunting his swollen jaw, now a mottled blue-purple. His nose must have been badly bruised, for there was a small, square compress plastered with layers of tape across its bridge. In stark contrast to his slightly battered face, though, the energy radiating from him was more imposing and arrogant than ever. He grinned wide, then tapped his now perfectly reattached canine with his index finger. Elias let out a light, almost imperceptible chuckle in return.
Immediately after the confrontation, Kaelen Varr had casually risen to his own feet and walked towards the waiting infirmary carriage. It was bizarre, but in a flashy, attention-grabbing way that dominated everyone’s chatter for days. Elias, unseen, had hurried after him. Just before Kaelen climbed into the conveyance, Elias pressed a small, folded note into his hand.
“This is yours. Claim it was found amongst Valerius’s scattered papers, suggesting he was attempting to frame you with fabricated evidence.”
At that moment, Kaelen Varr wiped his face with his left hand and looked at Elias. But the ink, already dried stiff, would not come off entirely. Honestly, seeing half his face caked in crimson-black, dried to a rusty hue, wasn’t exactly a pleasant sight. Elias’s focus was on how Kaelen’s unusually small pupils were locked on his hand. In that gory state, Kaelen spoke, and Elias strained to listen, caught off guard.
“...I’ll remember this.”
His hand, still crusted with dried ink and a faint smear of blood, brushed Elias’s cheek as he took the note. It was an abrupt, almost possessive gesture.
“...Huh?”
All Elias could do was stand there, dumbfounded.
Soon after, a messenger hawk arrived at Elias’s window with a scroll, detailing Kaelen’s recovery and the successful reattachment of a minor facial nerve. And as soon as he came back to school, Kaelen Varr took the study desk next to Elias’s. When Elias’s original seatmate, a nervous first-year, showed up, Kaelen, without even looking at him, simply pointed his thumb to another empty chair across the hall. The boy quietly relocated.
Before Elias realized it, that brute was sitting beside him, tapping Elias’s shoulder twice with his index and middle fingers in quick succession. Then he suddenly said,
“Here’s a present.”
“What? What do you mean, out of nowhere?”
“Quiet and open your hand.”
Elias put down his mechanical quill and opened his palm. At the same moment, Kaelen carefully placed something on it. Elias felt a rough, almost jagged sensation in the center of his hand that left him slightly unsettled. When Kaelen lifted his large hand from Elias’s, Elias saw a small, ornate fragment of a shattered glass lens, its edges sharp and uneven, with a dark, almost brownish-red stain clinging to one side.
What the devil is this? Confused by the lens’s strange, opaque quality and the faint, unsettling stain, Elias glanced at Kaelen Varr. Kaelen leaned back against the chair, a smirk playing on his lips.
“I ensured Lord Valerius would never again gaze upon a true artistic composition through his family’s acclaimed optical instruments.”
Hee-hee-hee. Then he twisted his shoulders, laughing like he was genuinely having fun—like a perverse child.
“Did you see?”
“...”
“I won.”
This damnable scion.
The one showing absolutely no remorse, only triumph, was Kaelen Varr. For a moment, Elias nearly hurled that shattered lens at the wall.
Kaelen Varr’s return caused another stir throughout the Institute. After all, he was the first principal actor to reappear, his face not as battered as people had expected, and he showed none of the gloomy aura of a defeated man. Rumors about who won spread like wildfire among the second-years. Most of the scions who truly knew what happened were in our year. For the first-years, second-year drama was too far removed, something interesting but distant, a fleeting spectacle.
Valerius, meanwhile, remained conspicuously absent. His name, once spoken with deference, was now merely a whispered caution, a faded mark of what not to be in the ruthlessly stratified world of the Aethelred Institute.