Elian. My familial name is Vance, and my given name is Elian. Yet, in the labyrinthine halls of the Obsidian Imperium, few of consequence employ my given name alone. They speak of ‘Vance,’ a subtle honorific, a title reflecting the meticulous devotion I have rendered to the Imperium’s archives since youth. The first to defy this quiet custom was Lord Kaelen, his voice a low rumble across the polished stones of the Imperial Academy’s scriptorium. It was our inaugural year, and he, a whirlwind of disinterest in the delicate art of calligraphy, had declared, “Elian sounds better. More… pointed.” From that moment, to a select, maddening few, I became simply ‘Elian.’
Lord Kaelen stood as a stark counterpoint to my own measured existence. His height eclipsed mine by a full head, his complexion bronzed by sun and sport where mine was pale from lamplight. Academically, he disdained the intricate theorems of arcane theory, preferring the visceral thrill of practice duels. His rank among the novices in scholastic assessment consistently hovered near the lowest decile.
Did I harbor disdain upon our first meeting? My upbringing, steeped in the rigorous protocols of the Imperium’s knowledge-keepers, instilled a keen sense of hierarchy. Ordinarily, I would have cataloged him as an undisciplined wastrel. Yet, strangely, Kaelen defied such easy categorization. His eyes, the color of polished obsidian, held a fierce, unblinking intensity that commanded attention, a raw force that pierced through my carefully constructed reserve.
Lord Kaelen possessed an almost palpable aura. It was not a scent, precisely, but an indefinable presence, subtle yet pervasive, like the faint, metallic tang of a storm brewing on the horizon. This colorless fragrance of untamed power captivated me. Unconsciously, I found myself drawn into his orbit, initiating conversations that began as challenges and ended in disquieting fascination.
I often sought common ground, meticulously cataloging any superficial similarities between us. Both hailed from ancient aristocratic houses. Both moved within the higher echelons of the Academy’s social spheres. Such facile connections, I convinced myself, justified the peculiar pull he exerted.
My own lineage, the House of Vance, commanded significant influence within the Imperium’s scholarly guilds and judicial courts. As an only child, reared with every conceivable privilege, my parents’ positions were a golden circlet placed upon my infant brow. This early immersion in subtle power dynamics, I confess, honed a certain cunning within me.
Our Academy drew its pupils from the stratified echelons of both the Imperial Quarter and the burgeoning artisan districts. Lord Kaelen, to my quiet relief, belonged to the former, an heir to a venerable marquessate. This confirmation, a shared status, allowed me to approach him with an outward calm, and our acquaintance blossomed into something disturbingly akin to friendship.
Just as I excelled in the mastery of ancient scripts and codified law, Kaelen proved unparalleled in the swift, decisive negotiation of social dominance. He swiftly gathered about him the most formidable scions of the younger nobility. Before the first quarter of the academic year concluded, he had ascended to an undisputed, if unspoken, leadership within our cohort.
***
A low groan answered Elian’s presence. The heavy, lacquered door before him, which had remained shut through several anxious heartbeats, finally yielded. A sliver of light escaped, revealing a glimpse of Kaelen’s flushed skin, before his hand, reddened, released the latch. It threatened to swing shut again, but Elian, with a desperate, precise movement, slipped through the narrowing gap.
Inside the room, Kaelen was already sprawled upon the bed, clad only in loose linen breeches. A half-burnt, fragrant stick of Imperium incense, unlit, was held idly between his teeth, gnawed to a damp pulp.
“The Marquess is clamoring again,” Kaelen announced, his voice a low growl. He dropped the incense stick onto a carved wooden plate. “Should he dispatch a courier-bird or use a speaking-stone, assure him we were deep in the study of Celestial cartography.”
His thumb flicked open and closed the clasp of a small pouch on the bedside table. He did not light another incense stick. His countenance, however, carried the languid, sated air of one who had just concluded a night of illicit indulgence. A raw, tight knot formed in Elian’s stomach. He pressed a hand to his midriff, then, snatching the mangled incense stick, snapped back with an irritation that belied his usual calm.
“Why should I offer such deceit?”
“Because we are… allies.” Kaelen’s voice drew out the final word, a subtle hesitation that tore at Elian’s chest. He kept his expression meticulously neutral, betraying nothing of the internal rending.
“Know that this obligation will be repaid, Lord Kaelen, in some manner, at some time.”
“Accepted.” Kaelen’s lips curved into a faint, indifferent smile.
The chamber reeked of a heavy, exotic perfume, cloying and sweet, beneath which Elian’s precise senses detected the fainter, cleaner musk unique to certain women. Honestly, only Kaelen’s relentless forays into such revelries had honed Elian’s ability to differentiate these illicit scents.
Rumors from Kaelen’s earlier academic years spoke of a precocious hedonism, whispers of dalliances initiated even before his passage into the Academy. By the time he enrolled, his mature visage, sculpted features, and brooding, sophisticated aura often led strangers to mistake him for an Imperial Guard captain or a seasoned courtier. His striking appearance, a compelling blend of individually unremarkable features that coalesced into an undeniably captivating whole, served as a potent shield for his libertine life. It was said he frequented the clandestine pleasure-dens of the Ashfall Ward, flashing fabricated permits with audacious confidence, his nights a succession of fleeting encounters.
Elian’s gaze swept the chamber, a meaningless search for evidence that would only deepen his revulsion. The cloying atmosphere, heavy with the aftermath of Kaelen’s escapade, curdled in his stomach.
“And Lord Varian?” Elian asked, the name a bitter taste.
“He departed with the dawn.” Kaelen’s voice held a dismissive amusement. “That rogue is truly a piece of work, for all his pompous pronouncements.” Kaelen rested his chin upon his hand, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. Elian frowned. Lord Varian, scion of House Solara, held the dubious distinction of being the second most despised individual in Elian’s meticulously ordered world.
Varian had cultivated his acquaintance with Kaelen only in their second year. Elian despised the admission, but their constant proximity had solidified their bond into an undeniable camaraderie. When Kaelen reigned supreme among the youth of the Imperial Quarter, Varian commanded a similar, albeit different, reputation among the aspiring magi of the Ashfall Ward.
Their paths rarely intersected. Occasional glimpses might be caught in the grand common mess halls, a shared space for students from both districts. Once, during the midday meal, a junior scribe nudged Elian’s elbow, whispering, “That’s Lord Varian.” Elian, intrigued despite himself, rose slightly on his toes. Among a sea of dark-robed scholars, a tall, sharp-featured youth stood out, his presence almost unnaturally vivid. It was unmistakably him.
“He possesses the countenance of one with a truly wretched disposition,” Elian murmured, more to himself than his companion.
“Indeed,” Kaelen’s sycophant replied. “They say his arrogance knows no bounds.”
Elian smirked, offering only a half-hearted nod. He hated to concede any merit to Varian, yet he understood the fierce rivalry that had once existed between Varian and Kaelen. This understanding only intensified his dislike, yet, for reasons he could not articulate, he found his gaze continually drawn to the Solara heir.
A shadowed luster—that was Elian’s first, unsettling impression of Lord Varian.
By chance, their eyes met. It seemed impossible that Varian could discern Elian’s quiet appraisal amidst the cacophony of the crowded mess hall. Yet, his long, narrow eyes, with pupils like slivers of onyx, fixed on Elian. Reflexively, Elian flinched, as if struck by a tangible blow.
‘What are you staring at?’ The unspoken challenge hung in the air. Varian’s expression, a faint narrowing of one eye, conveyed the query with chilling clarity. Intimidated despite himself, Elian feigned indifference, turning his head. Then, loud enough for his nearby companion to hear, he pronounced, “He moves with the grace of a viper.”
Following that encounter, Varian and Elian often exchanged silent challenges across crowded rooms. Varian, more often than not, would be the first to lower his head, a subtle concession, only to look up moments later, their gazes locking once more. Elian found himself mirroring the gesture on occasion, their silent dance a repetitive, maddening ritual.
***
By some perverse twist of fate, Kaelen and Elian found themselves assigned to the same advanced study cohort in their second year. While Elian savored a secret, disquieting thrill at this continued proximity, his contentment curdled the moment his eyes fell upon a familiar, utterly maddening face. For the first time, he received an unhindered view of the face behind the infamous reputation: Lord Varian.
It was Varian who broke the unspoken truce, addressing Elian with an infuriating lack of decorum. “Vance. Care to share a midday repast?”
Damn him.
As many in the Academy had anticipated, Kaelen and Varian quickly cemented their bond. Kaelen, a connoisseur of raw brilliance, found Varian a worthy counterpoint to his own untamed spirit. Varian was undeniably formidable, commanding respect among his peers, and possessed a certain ruthless charm. Their friendship, Elian grudgingly conceded, was inevitable.
Within their cohort, speculation often arose: should Kaelen and Varian clash, who would emerge dominant? From Elian’s analytical perspective, a true confrontation would never materialize. While Kaelen and Elian remained opposites, Kaelen and Varian were remarkably similar, their spirits forged in the same crucible of ambition and disregard for petty strictures.
Yet, a singular, stark difference separated them.
Varian harbored a strange, almost archaic rigidity beneath his rebellious exterior. Despite his ears being adorned with several intricate silver studs, he occasionally displayed a startling adherence to certain Imperial virtues.
For instance, when Kaelen’s passions were aroused, he would simply select a paramour from his many admirers and disappear into the night, recounting his scandalous early morning escapades with unapologetic relish. In stark contrast, Varian would merely offer a cynical laugh at the typical lewd remarks exchanged among the male youth. Sometimes, he’d mock them outright, grabbing the corpulent belly of a nearby companion, squeezing hard enough to elicit a yelp.
“This specimen boasts a more substantial endowment than most courtesans. Perhaps you should direct your affections here. And truly, your attire is an affront. A proper binding, if you please. Cease parading such obscenities – it offends the sensibilities.” Even Varian’s crudest jests were laced with a biting, almost puritanical sarcasm.
Yet, when the opportunity arose, Varian would utter something utterly baffling, like, “My integrity remains unblemished, reserved for the Ancestral Spirits of my future lineage.” That, Elian realized, was the profound difference.
Kaelen had once offered Varian access to his network of forged permits for the Ashfall dens – an offer Kaelen had never extended to Elian. Varian, however, dismissed the idea as a useless diversion and refused.
Kaelen’s other companions found Varian’s eccentricities endlessly entertaining. Elian did not. The reason was painfully simple: Varian was close to Kaelen. And they moved through the Academy’s hallowed halls like brothers-in-arms. That alone was sufficient to fuel Elian’s simmering resentment, a jealousy he struggled to conceal.
Still, Elian managed to navigate a cordial, if distant, relationship with Varian. One of Elian’s strengths lay in his unwavering capacity to mask his true feelings, regardless of the circumstance. Besides, Varian commanded Kaelen’s regard. Every facet of Elian’s social calculus revolved, maddeningly, around Lord Kaelen.
To be honest, more days were spent in frustrated self-loathing for this unyielding attachment than in contemplating Kaelen himself. He often felt like a pathetic fool. Yet, despite this gnawing self-awareness, he remained unchanged.
Kaelen tossed a few casual words towards Elian before retreating into an adjoining antechamber, presumably for a swift ablution. Elian remained seated, lost in the turbulent currents of his thoughts. Minutes later, Kaelen’s personal speaking-stone began to vibrate with an incoming call. Fresh from his refreshment, Kaelen retrieved it from the bed and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed it to Elian. Elian caught it, seeing the Marquess’s seal illuminated on the crystalline surface.
Clearing his throat, Elian answered, his voice a calm, even timbre. Why did he even bother with such an elaborate performance of composure?
“This is Scribe Elian Vance, speaking on Lord Kaelen’s behalf.”
“Vance? Are you with Kaelen at this moment?” The Marquess’s voice, sharp and authoritative, filled the small space.
“Indeed, Lord Marquess, I am.”
“Ah, I see. My concern was unwarranted. I feared Kaelen might have wandered into some less-than-reputable engagement. You possess such a refined voice, Scribe Vance.”
“I am grateful for your kind observation, Lord Marquess.”
“No, truly. How fares your own health, Scribe?”
“I fare well, thank you, Lord Marquess. And yourself?”
“The same. Your command of the High Imperial tongue is impeccable. If only Kaelen possessed such decorum. That boy lacks all grace. So, you were engaged in scholarly discourse?”
“Yes. Kaelen, I fear, must have overlooked informing you. He has been deeply immersed in the preparations for the forthcoming Arcane Examinations.”
“You have been studying together this entire duration?”
“Yes, Lord Marquess. He has been under my direct observation for the entirety of the evening.”
“Well, that is a considerable relief. If he is in your company, Scribe Vance, I can rest assured.”
“It is merely my duty, Lord Marquess.”
“No, it is more than duty. If he is with you, he cannot embroil himself in scandal.”
“Indeed, Lord Marquess. I shall personally ensure his safe return to the Imperial Academy.”
“Excellent. Guard him well, Scribe Vance. Maintain your alliance; do not allow discord to separate you.”
“Yes, of course, Lord Marquess. Farewell.”
Lies, expertly crafted and effortlessly delivered, flowed from Elian’s lips. After concluding the communication, he tossed the speaking-stone back to Kaelen, who merely offered a terse, “My gratitude,” as he fastened the last button of his tunic. Without another word, Elian turned to depart. Kaelen made no move to detain him.
“Until later, Elian.” That was the extent of their exchange. It was precisely what Elian expected, a painful confirmation of the vast, unspoken chasm between them. Perhaps that was why he quickened his pace, the lingering ache in his throat a testament to the suffocating silence. He hastened from the lodge, seeking the cool embrace of the pre-dawn air.