Kaelan raised his fist, a playful challenge, but before he could deliver a mock blow, Lord Torvin’s hand fell, a precise, measured touch against the younger noble’s wrist. It was enough. The gesture ended the skirmish before it truly began, a silent dismissal.
Kaelan’s bravado dissolved. A strangled squawk escaped him, a sound utterly undignified for one of his lineage. Ser Gareth and Lord Harlen erupted in boisterous laughter, their mirth echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings of the scribes’ antechamber. Kaelan turned on them, eyes narrowed.
“Oh, you find this amusing, do you? Such wit, such refined entertainment!” He feigned a punch at Harlen’s shoulder.
A moment later, the three of them swept out, their laughter receding down the corridor.
Harlen paused at the archway, turning back to offer Lysander a careless wave. Lysander, having no reason to refuse, returned the slight gesture. He settled back onto his stool, the polished wood cool beneath his worn velvets, and drew a fresh sheet of vellum closer.
His fingers curled around a fine-tipped quill. Before the first stroke could mar the pristine surface, his gaze drifted, sweeping over the precisely aligned shelves of ancient scrolls, the sturdy stone walls hemming him in.
He lowered his head, refocusing on the task.
Lysander was halfway through illuminating a gilded initial for a minor legal charter, his quill poised, when his eyes lifted again, drawn by an unconscious impulse.
Beyond the arched window, the ginkgo trees in the outer courtyard blazed with autumnal gold. A sharp, musky scent drifted on the cool air, clashing with the crisp, impossibly vivid blue of the sky.
“A court of young ladies, now that would be a sight less vexing than this rabble.”
Lysander recalled the venerable Master Elms, his voice raspy from decades of instructing stubborn novices, his favorite lament. “It’s like a godsdamn lion’s den. A wilderness. Young lords and ladies, they must always establish their pecking order first. By the mid-rains, things might settle, a fragile truce. But until then? It’s just jostling for position, endless boasts, testing their tutors, clawing their way up the social ladder. Gods, my head aches just thinking of next year’s intake. What moon-sign were they born under again?”
Master Elms would spread his palm, counting the joints of his fingers one by one, muttering under his breath.
“The Ram, the Serpent, the Gryphon, the Stag… let’s see, that means—”
Lysander mimicked the motion, his own hand splayed. He tried to follow the intricate astrological pattern Master Elms always claimed to discern, but it remained elusive. Frustration prickled. He flipped his hand over, counting the raised bones on the back instead.
One. Thirty-one. Two. Twenty-eight. Three. Thirty-one. Four. Thirty. Five. Thirty-one. Six. Thirty. Seven. Thirty-one. Eight. Thirty-one… Nine.
He never would have guessed, back in the languid warmth of late spring, that the chill of early autumn would feel so akin to the frantic days of the Vernal Equinox. The cycle of ambition and anxiety seemed endless.
“Young nobles are nothing but untamed beasts. Irrational, impulsive, driven by base desires.”
Lysander stared at the knuckle of his middle finger, a faint ache residing there from a long-forgotten bout of nerves, and absently tapped his quill against the parchment like a nervous drum.
The reedy voice of a junior scholar, likely hoarse from overwork, droned on from a far corner, punctuated by the soft scratch of charcoal against a slate.
Lysander glanced towards the empty alcove near the front, where a particularly ambitious scion often sat.
For a flicker, he imagined the faint impression of a head on the polished lectern – one side pressed flat, the other hovering, restless even in repose.
His quill stopped tapping.
Lysander turned his head. Lord Torvin sat there, hunched over an illuminated chronicle, his face half-buried in the brittle pages.
Torvin’s eyes were half-closed, heavy with fatigue.
He would fix his gaze on a complex passage, as if about to devour its meaning, only to suddenly give up and slump forward, pressing his forehead against the book. Lysander watched, a curious detachment in his gaze, as Torvin’s nose was gently squashed between the old vellum leaves and his brow.
Lysander turned away.
“...Did I drift for a moment?” The question was for himself.
A strange fog seemed to cling to the edges of his mind. Not quite sleep, not quite wakefulness. He marked a small, precise star next to the gilded initial and moved onto the next.
---
Mid-day meal was a hearty venison stew and a small goblet of spiced mead. Lord Torvin finished his mead first, then spoke, an abrupt question breaking the lull of the hall’s quiet clatter.
“Right, you’re second among the Guild’s apprentices, aren’t you?”
“Hmm? Yes, that is correct.”
“And throughout the entire court? Among all the young scholars?”
“Also second, to my knowledge.”
“Gods.” Torvin’s lips thinned.
“What troubles you, my lord?”
“So, the foremost scholar among the Guild’s apprentices is also the foremost in the entire court?”
“You were unaware? I have never attained the first rank, due to the accomplishments of Lady Annelise.”
“She’s even more relentlessly dedicated than you, isn’t she?”
“Indeed. Her studies often conclude past the midnight bell.”
“By the Mother’s grace. That’s an arduous pace.”
“Her industry is remarkable.”
Lysander had no desire to extend the conversation. He scooped up a generous spoonful of stew and brought it to his lips, hoping to signal an end.
Fortunately, Torvin did not press. He merely nodded slowly.
“Ah…” A soft sound escaped him. The timing felt off. The conversational thread had snapped too abruptly. Lysander debated whether to offer another remark. He loathed awkward silences, the potential for perceived offense, so without conscious thought, he blurted out, “And what of yourself, my lord? What is your standing?”
.........
Torvin’s spoon paused, suspended halfway to his mouth. Lysander found his gaze fixed on the hand holding the utensil.
Lord Torvin’s table manners were impeccable. If there was one thing Torvin executed with undeniable grace, it was the handling of cutlery, even when deep in thought.
“Among my peers in the Guild…”
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
“...What?”
“Why do you look upon me so strangely?”
Lysander quickly averted his gaze from Torvin’s hand. Could he be serious? Was he not merely jesting? He was so taken aback that the question almost escaped him aloud, but thankfully, he managed to swallow it back.
Gods. A near misstep.
Should he slip, should he utter a word of offense, he would have to endure Torvin’s sharp temper. He hesitated, his mind racing. Would Torvin prefer a compliment, a word of praise? Or would he rather Lysander feign indifference, as if such a rank were entirely expected?
His mind, ever attuned to the intricate dance of courtly survival, already weighed the safest social response.
Torvin, by reputation, did not suffer fools gladly, nor did he seem particularly fond of many of his own companions. The latter option, then, felt safer.
“Hmm. You fare better than I would have anticipated, my lord.”
“What? Anticipated? How dull did you truly believe me to be, scrivener?” Torvin’s brow furrowed.
“I harbored no such belief, my lord. It is merely… I recall you once mentioned a struggle with the Ancient Tongue?”
“The Ancient Tongue is my sole weakness. Only that.”
“Yet you do not attend the private tutors, do you?”
“Absence from private instruction does not preclude one from study. Gods, did you truly think me a simpleton?”
“No, no, not at all.” Lysander quickly waved a hand in a placating gesture. “It is impressive, nonetheless, that you achieve such standing without the benefit of private tutors.”
“...Truly?”
“Indeed. It speaks of great dedication.”
For some inexplicable reason, Torvin suddenly began to mash his spoon into his remaining stew with surprising vigor. And – was that a blush? Lysander caught a faint flush creeping up the tips of Torvin’s ears.
Now that he considered it, Ser Alaric had ranked thirty-second. And that was only because there were a few others who performed even more lamentably. Thirty-second out of thirty-six.
Thinking back, Lysander realized he had never truly paid attention to anything about Ser Alaric beyond the immediate, necessary details. And with that stark realization, it struck him. He had been drowning in precisely the kind of pathetic, self-absorbed obsession he used to despise in others.
Meanwhile, Lord Torvin, completely oblivious to Lysander’s internal crisis, had clearly received a potent surge of confidence. His tone was utterly transformed – brimming with self-satisfaction.
“Oh, right! You likely wouldn’t know this, but – I am rather proficient in the Elven Dialect.”
“Indeed? How proficient, my lord?”
“Perfect recitation. I have never once faltered in Elven.”
“Khhkk!”
Lysander choked. The moment Torvin uttered those words, Lysander spat a fine mist of mead. Torvin scowled, jerking his trencher away from the scrivener.
“What in the blazes? What kind of reaction is that, scrivener?”
“I merely… was not anticipating such a revelation, my lord.”
“It truly is so shocking?” Torvin frowned, his lips forming a slight pout.
“Yes. My facility with the Ancient Tongue is, well, lamentable, but that is of no consequence.”
There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in Torvin’s voice. So Lysander, in rare jest, replied, “Perhaps you should peruse a few more chronicles, my lord.”
“What nonsense do you speak? I am a connoisseur of literature.”
“A connoisseur? I have never observed you with a chronicle, my lord.”
“That is because I indulge in my readings in the privacy of my chambers.”
“And why, pray tell, would such a pursuit necessitate secrecy?”
Lord Torvin’s eyes, which had curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped another spoonful of food into his mouth. Then, with an almost casual intimacy, he pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something about that image unsettled Lysander. He bit the inside of his cheek.
Lord Torvin met Lysander’s eyes as he pulled the spoon away, then lowered his gaze and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the tip of it.
“Even scandalous ballads hold literary merit, scrivener.”
That was undeniably a jest. A rogue’s jest, by the gods. Lysander’s face burned. To hide it, he grabbed a discarded crust of bread from next to his trencher and tossed it at Torvin’s face. It struck just below Torvin’s long, narrow eyes and dropped harmlessly onto the table. One of Torvin’s eyes twitched slightly.
Not that Lysander truly cared, but just in case Torvin was genuinely offended, he adopted a feigned expression of remorse.
“Refrain from such unsavory displays, my lord. Especially within these hallowed halls. It is utterly uncouth.”
“Oh? You mean this? You mean Ser Alaric’s peculiar habit?”
“I care not whose habit it is, my lord. Simply cease.”
“Is this not, pray tell, rather à la mode among our generation now?”
.........
Lysander stared at him, trying to discern if Torvin was jesting or entirely serious. He was sleeping less. That was a sure sign that his body, at least, felt a semblance of comfort. Mornings, which had been dry and sluggish, now felt strangely crisp and refreshing. It was a welcome change – after all, in his mind, the gravest sins for one of his standing were complacency and oversleeping.
“Ah, gods—”
His jaw clicked painfully as he brushed his teeth with a mixture of crushed herbs and salt. Ever since Kaelan had delivered that unexpected, if subtle, blow to his jaw weeks ago, it made an odd grinding noise whenever he opened his mouth too wide.
Other than that, this was a good day. But even in his newfound fragile peace, sudden moments of irritation still arose. The cause was always Ser Alaric. Or rather, the incidents that stemmed from his notoriety. Most of those incidents seemed to find their way back to court.
“Oh, right. I glimpsed Ser Alaric last night.”
Ser Gareth spoke, biting into a thick slice of salted venison, the kind sold by street vendors and whispered to contain questionable parts.
Kaelan, who had been idly jabbing at Gareth’s leg with a blunt knife-hand, suddenly perked up.
“By the Mother’s grace – that’s right! You’ve just reminded me! I was entirely about to mention this. I heard something through the whispers – you all know Lord Roric, don’t you? Right? That wandering aesthete? I heard Alaric is currently residing in his private annex.”
“Lord Roric? That simpleton Lord Roric?” Lord Torvin, rummaging through a small leather pouch, asked casually.
When he pulled his hand out, he held two small, candied fruit pastilles. And for some inexplicable reason, he offered one to Lysander.
“......?”
Lysander stared at it, utterly confused.
“......What is this, my lord?”
He looked at Torvin, a question in his eyes, but Torvin merely offered a slight nod, as if that alone sufficed as explanation. The one who reacted most vehemently was Kaelan, whose pouch of spiced nuts had been subtly raided.
“By the blazes! Those were mine! Why in the names of the Twin Gods are you all consuming my provisions, you rogues?”
“Oh, as if you’ve never pilfered from mine, pig.” Gareth made another mock knife-hand strike at Kaelan’s throat. Kaelan instantly spun, grabbed Gareth’s tunic collar, and swung a playful punch towards his face. Of course, he harbored no intention of truly striking him. That was simply their manner.
Lysander ignored their foolish bickering and looked down at the candied pastille in his hand. The delicate sugar coating had a faint golden hue, and a tiny, stylized citrus fruit was pressed into its surface.
He peeled the thin parchment wrapper, popped the sweet into his mouth, and lifted his head.
“What say you? The taste of first ardor?” Lord Torvin grinned, a glint in his eye.
“I find citrus rather cloying.” Lysander’s answer was not merely about the sweetmeat; it was his unspoken evaluation of Torvin’s jest, too. And more than anything, he did not find notions of “first ardor” amusing. That sticky, bitter feeling clung to the back of his throat. It killed his appetite.
In the end, he could not even finish the pastille. He discreetly tossed it into a refuse bin.
“Oh no, such a waste,” Torvin mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands.
Ignoring him, Lysander reached into Kaelan’s raided pouch to find a different pastille. All of them were citrus, either lemon or lime. Lime was the lesser evil. He unwrapped one and put it in his mouth.
“Anyway, Lord Roric, eh? Sounds entirely like Alaric.”
“What, because they are both of ill repute?” Torvin’s words were sharp, tinged with a dismissive edge.
Uncomfortable, Lysander turned to look at him. Torvin was sucking on his own pastille expressionlessly, twirling the white stick between his lips. Lysander pulled his own pastille from his mouth. Something about this felt wrong. Torvin did not seem to care.
He tilted his pastille in the air like a tiny, sugar-tipped sword and began making random jabbing motions. “He dabbles with patrons – be they men or women. And when he finds someone of decent standing, he directs them straight to Alaric. It’s an entire rotation. Consorting with each other, exchanging favors.”
“So Lord Roric is also… of ill repute?” Kaelan suddenly cut in. Whether he had finished his playful scuffle with Gareth or had simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, Lysander was not sure. Kaelan rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if actually processing the scandalous whispers.