Lord Kael Thorne was dead.
Not a physical demise, no, for the young lord yet breathed, confined to the healers’ wing with a splinted wrist and a rather unfortunate bruise blooming across his noble jaw. But the entity known as Lord Kael Thorne, the gilded scion, the favored successor, had perished within the hallowed halls of the Valorian Academy.
Academy life, usually a precise waltz of lessons and decorum, convulsed into a disarray of whispers. Though now scoured by the diligent attendants, a faint, metallic tang of spilled ink lingered in the air, ghosting over scuff marks where hurried boots had marred the polished marble of the Grand Refectory.
When the alarm bells, usually reserved for fire or invasion drills, shrilled with a raw, piercing urgency, every novice and retainer had rushed to the archways. Like a flock of startled pigeons, their faces, etched with a peculiar blend of horror and exhilaration, pressed against the ornate grilles. Such was the uproar, even the hushed lectures from the adjacent scriptorium bled into our own study hall.
“What in the Ancestors’ name occurred?” someone breathed, incredulous.
“You haven’t heard? Fool, there was a brawl. A proper, brutal exchange.”
“A brawl? Who?”
“Lord Kael. And Lord Gareth Vesper.”
“By the Serpent’s Scales… how did I miss it?”
We were young, many of us still navigating the precipice of adulthood, caught between the rigid expectations of our noble lineages or our humble stations. A volatile mix of burgeoning ambition and a primal hunger for raw spectacle. Such a reaction, in truth, was only natural.
“Did anyone witness the initial exchange? Weren’t those two… amicable? What could have driven them to such an extreme?”
“The whispers about Lord Kael. Have you not heard them?”
Our hall became a crucible of nascent power dynamics. Some savored the fresh gossip, others feigned disinterest, their eyes darting, while a select few, like myself, watched the unfolding drama with a chilling sense of calculated observation.
Outside, beneath the academy’s soaring archways, a carriage of the Thorne healers, its crest discreetly veiled, waited. For the next bell cycle, the academy’s most avid speculation revolved around which lord had necessitated its summoning. We understood too well how swiftly rumors, once sparked, could consume the tightly cloistered world of our five-tiered, tradition-bound institution.
Who emerged victorious?
Those who pieced together the fragments of truth cared little for the bruised noblemen, though both had been whisked away for mending. Instead, they reveled in the quiet, almost earnest fulfillment of a silent wish that had simmered since the season’s opening ceremonies: the fall of Lord Kael.
Lord Gareth Vesper.
Altercations of this nature rarely yielded a clear victor. Yet, every aspect of today’s fracas seemed to converge in Lord Gareth’s favor. The insidious rumors that had unfurled beforehand ensured Lord Kael’s defeat was absolute, even if his body would eventually mend.
In the grand, echoing corridors of the Valorian Academy, hushed voices breathed life into the whispers:
“They say Lord Kael has… unnatural predilections.”
“What? But he courted Lady Elara with such fervor!”
“A facade! All a grand deception, they say. He exploited his junior retainers, using his position. It’s monstrous. And with his family’s coffers, he believed himself untouchable. If one desires such… indulgences, there are places of discretion.”
“Ancestors above. I never suspected Lord Kael to be so… depraved.”
“Ha! To be born with such silver in one’s mouth! Even one with such tastes can afford their whims. Think of the discretion afforded to those of his station!”
Such conversations, often punctuated by crude jests and knowing glances, seldom lingered on Lord Kael himself. Yet, in each hushed exchange, his honor, that fragile construct of lineage and reputation, suffered a dozen fresh wounds. This act of subtle, social execution multiplied with every student, every retainer, every tutor within the academy walls.
After his ignominious loss to Lord Gareth, Lord Kael became a mere tattered remnant of his former self—as if the entire academy had simply awaited his inevitable unraveling.
---
Our study hall, usually a sanctuary of quiet erudition, now hummed with a tension that weighed passion against enforced calm. Eyes flickered back and forth between the crimson stains that still marked the polished marble near the archway. The attendants had scrubbed, but a faint, rusty hue lingered. It felt as though if one were to press a finger to the spot, blood might yet weep from the stone.
Unexpectedly, it was our usually timid instructor, Aela, a scholar of ancient Valorian lore who seemed more comfortable with dusty scrolls than the volatile temperaments of young lords, who broke. She entered the hall, her usually serene face blotchy and trembling. Without a word, she hurled a priceless illuminated manuscript, a fragile compendium of Thorne family lineage, onto the marble floor. It landed with a sickening thud, pages scattering like startled moths, and then she let out a high-pitched cry that tore through the sudden silence.
“What is wrong with you! You… you reckless, insolent fools! Do you hold my office in such contempt? Why do you live your lives in this base manner? Cease! I command you to cease this mockery! Is this a time for idle chatter? You will be entrusted with great responsibility soon! Great responsibility! Please, I implore you, end this chaos! Do you realize I must bear the burden of your transgressions? I should never have accepted this posting to the Thorne Academy. I feel as though my very spirit is being flayed! If you continue on this path, your lives will be naught but a refuse heap. Do you feel no shame before your ancestors? And how many times must I bid you silence during these sacred hours of study?!”
Most sensible individuals, confronted with such a sudden, raw explosion from a typically demure scholar, would have fallen mute. But this was the Valorian Academy, a place where arrogance often eclipsed reason. Some defied common sense with a casual insolence, some had yet to shed their adolescent petulance, and some, despite their privileged education, committed acts of breathtaking idiocy. Our study hall was a prime example.
“Eh, eh—Instructor Aela is vexed. Truly vexed! Do not be vexed, good Instructor!”
“It is amusing when the old fox bares her teeth.”
Ser Kaelen, a junior noble known more for his brashness than his intellect, called out from the back row. Then, the retainer two seats ahead of me whispered softly, a smirk playing on his lips.
“You scoundrel! What? Do you deem my position a jest? You, step forward. Present yourself!” Instructor Aela's voice, though still trembling, gathered an edge of steel.
“Oh, Instructor, why such a fuss?” Ser Kaelen simpered.
“I said, step forward, you insolent whelp!”
Instructor Aela snatched her heavy attendance ledger from the podium. She hurled it across the room. It flew between the desks, struck the corner of a polished redwood writing station in the third row, then clattered to the floor with a hollow echo.
“My apologies, Instructor. It will not happen again. I beg your forgiveness, yes?” Ser Kaelen kept smirking, his voice laced with feigned contrition. It was always some mediocre opportunist, neither truly influential nor utterly insignificant, who pulled such stunts. The sloppy ones, the desperate ones, acted out. They postured, pretending to be formidable. Only they failed to see that this bluff was the most clumsy and pathetic display in the entire Dominion.
“Step out. Or must I come to you?”
“Ah, Instructor! Is that not excessive! Truly!”
“Silence!”
“Cease your protests, Ser Kaelen. The Instructor has given her command.” I could bear it no longer. Unable to endure the farce, my voice, usually quiet, cut through the clamor. The eyes of the hall turned to me, but I did not falter, taking in that pathetic scene. Honestly, it was so ridiculous that a scoff nearly escaped my lips. I confess, I quite relished situations such as this.
I possess no great martial skill, nor do I affect the swagger of a defiant youth, yet my position in this treacherous social ecosystem was secured. I preyed on individuals such as Ser Kaelen, observing, understanding, and then, when the moment arose, acting with quiet precision.
“Ser Kaelen. Why this sudden seriousness?”
“You are the one who misreads the room.” My gaze was steady, unwavering.
This ascendancy had not, of course, occurred overnight. During the initial period of establishing hierarchy, there had been subtle resistances, veiled threats. But now, my pronouncements were met with a pleasant, almost reverent silence.
“Indeed. Cease your clamor and obey. Can you truly not perceive the gravity of this situation?”
“If you are truly apologetic, then step out. Because of your antics, we all suffer. You thoughtless fool.”
“Ah, what is his concern? Truly. What is his stake?” I heard another retainer, Master Minho, mutter under his breath until the end. Ser Kaelen’s confident, teasing demeanor, directed at the instructor, faded rapidly, like a dying ember. Under the concerted pressure of the entire hall, he finally rose and shuffled to the front. Now, he resembled a cornered rat.
Secretly, I permitted myself a twisted smile. Lord Kael Thorne had fallen. And nothing, I knew, could bring me greater satisfaction. Perhaps it stemmed from the memory of Lord Kael’s disdainful dismissal of my cartographic studies, a public slight that had wounded my fragile pride. Or perhaps it was the very real humiliation he had once visited upon me.
Yes, I was certain. I felt a profound sense of vindication. Honestly, I was surprised by the depth of my own feeling. And I felt that electrifying thrill, as if a long-held power, once denied, now surged back into my grasp.
“Step out into the antechamber immediately!” Instructor Aela commanded.
“…”
After driving the defiant Ser Kaelen from the hall, Instructor Aela placed one hand on the podium, her knuckles white, and silently reined in her anger for a long moment. Perhaps she had gathered her shattered thoughts, for it was fortunate, in many ways, that her tone, when she finally spoke, had calmed considerably. Then, she announced she would summon each student, one by one, to ascertain the true sequence of events.
“I pledge to maintain the utmost secrecy. So please, speak the truth. Do not disappoint me. Please, I beg of you.”
She seemed determined to hear an unbiased account, yet as a sheltered scholar, she still failed to grasp the brutal, intricate pyramid that defined the Valorian Academy’s social world. Once study time concluded and Instructor Aela—her face still flushed—finished catching her breath and departed, Master Ren, a senior retainer with an unnervingly pragmatic mind, closed the ornate archway doors and offered a stark warning to everyone.
“Listen closely. Choose your words with extreme caution. Make the correct judgment about whose star will ascend here—Lord Gareth Vesper’s, or that… that disgraced Kael’s.”
“Lord Kael initiated the physical exchange. You comprehend the gravity of that, do you not?” Ser Kaelen, ever the opportunist, chimed in. Such admirable loyalty, was it not?
---
Less than a week later, Lord Gareth Vesper returned to the academy.
Lord Gareth came back, his jaw still swollen, a vibrant tapestry of blue and purple. His nose, clearly broken, was plastered with a square bandage held fast by layers of silk tape. In stark contrast to his bruised face, however, the aura radiating from him was more formidable and arrogant than ever. He grinned wide, then tapped his now perfectly reattached canine with an index finger. I offered a slight, knowing nod in return.
Directly after the altercation, Lord Gareth, to everyone’s astonishment, had risen casually to his feet and walked unaided to the Thorne healers’ carriage. It was a bizarre, yet spectacularly attention-grabbing display that dominated the academy’s chatter for days. I had hurried after him, my steps light. And just before he ascended into the carriage, I pressed a small, tightly folded packet into his hand.
“This is yours, my Lord. Say it contains a rare spore, kicked up from the Refectory floor, that could cause a peculiar, lingering discoloration if not treated with utmost care. It will add to the mystique of your injuries.”
At that moment, Lord Gareth wiped his face with his left hand, smearing the drying blood, and looked at me. But the crimson, already stiff, refused to truly dislodge. Honestly, seeing half his face caked in rusty red was not a pleasant sight. My focus, however, was on how his unusually keen eyes, pupils narrowed, were locked onto my hand. In that gory state, he spoke, and I strained to listen, caught off guard.
“...I will seek you out.”
His hand, crusted with dried blood, brushed lightly against my cheek. It was an abrupt, unsettling gesture.
“...My Lord?” All I could do was stand there, momentarily stunned.
Soon after, a messenger hawk delivered a terse scroll: ‘Nerves intact. All reattached. Expect my return.’ And as soon as he returned to the academy, Lord Gareth Vesper took the ceremonial seat directly adjacent to mine in the study hall. When my original seatmate, Master Elian, appeared, Lord Gareth, without even glancing at him, merely gestured with a thumb towards another, less prominent, empty chair. Master Elian quietly retreated and settled elsewhere.
Before I quite realized it, that formidable young lord was beside me, tapping my shoulder twice with his index and middle fingers in quick succession. Then he suddenly murmured,
“Here is a token.”
“A token? What do you mean, my Lord, out of nowhere?”
“Silence, and extend your hand.”
I set down my stylus and opened my palm. At the same instant, he carefully placed something upon it. I felt a sharp, cold glint against the center of my hand that left me quite unsettled. When he lifted his large hand from mine, I saw a jagged shard of polished obsidian, clearly a fragment from a shattered object, and clinging to its dark surface, faint, dark red stains.
Ancestors! What was this? Confused by the shard’s peculiar, almost metallic sheen and the persistent crimson traces, I glanced at Lord Gareth. He leaned back against the intricately carved chair, a subtle smirk playing on his lips.
“Let this remind Lord Kael Thorne of the consequence of his arrogance. That obsidian was part of his personal signet, carved into his writing desk. Now, he will use a common piece of parchment for the rest of his life, his mark broken.” Hee-hee-hee. Then he twisted his shoulders, laughing like he was genuinely amused—like a pure, unburdened youth.
“Did you observe?”
“…”
“I won.”
This damnable lord. For a moment, I nearly threw that obsidian shard against the wall. Lord Gareth’s return caused another profound stir within the academy. After all, he was the first of the main figures to reappear, his face not as utterly ruined as many had expected, and he showed none of the gloomy aura of a defeated man.
Whispers about who had truly triumphed spread like wildfire among the second-year noble cohorts. Most of those who truly understood the incident were of our own year. For the junior novices, the drama of the second-years was a distant, yet fascinating, spectacle.