Grand Lecture Hall hummed, a low vibration of ancient stone and restless intellect. Sunlight, fractured by tall, stained-glass windows, painted streaks across the polished obsidian floor. It felt less like a place of learning and more a wilderness, silent, yet filled with unseen predators. Apprentices, thirty strong, occupied the tiered benches, each having navigated this intricate landscape for a precarious eighteen-day term. Every breath felt carefully measured. Tension coiled through the air like an unspooling hex. Survival here was a constant, fragile dance.
This delicate balancing act had become Caelen’s routine since his arrival, twelve years old and wide-eyed. He’d learned quickly how to identify the subtle currents of power, the silent formations of alliances. This cubic wilderness, he knew, concealed a chilling pyramid.
Rubbing circulation back into his numb arm, Caelen flexed his fingers. Stomach tight, a knot of old anxieties, he breathed shallowly. Eyes lifted to the slumped backs before him: emerald chalkboards, the pale curve of countless napes. Arch-Lector Valerius, usually a formidable figure, now sat at his podium, half-hidden behind a crumpled, ancient scroll, seemingly oblivious. Students either wrestled with assigned runic ciphers or had surrendered, heads buried in their arms.
“Wake, those whose minds wander,” Valerius intoned, voice raspy, as he turned another page of the brittle parchment.
It was the fifth period. Caelen had stalled on the fifteenth cipher, scratching his scalp with an index finger, his stylus resting cold on the desk. His gaze drifted. Two empty seats, specifically, snagged his attention.
Neither Lord Kaelan Vayne nor Seraphim Eldrin had graced the lecture hall today. Kaelan’s absence was hardly a surprise. His moods shifted like desert sands. Unless some unknown tremor had passed between them, they likely wouldn't appear tomorrow either. Caelen swallowed, the taste of dust on his tongue.
He lowered his eyes to the intricate strokes of forgotten glyphs. They blurred slightly.
A time existed when Caelen believed he understood Kaelan completely. He had nursed a quiet conviction, that in this entire hall, his comprehension of Kaelan surpassed all others. A secret, bitter pride had rooted deep within him, even when facing Cassian Draven, who often seemed Kaelan’s shadow. That pride, insidious and cold, had allowed Caelen to endure watching Cassian and Kaelan’s easy camaraderie. Deep within, he savored the hidden knowledge that he held a deeper grasp on Kaelan’s true self.
Caelen propped his chin on a hand. The sheer depravity of such thoughts twisted his gut.
What would these haughty nobles think, if they glimpsed the swirling currents within his mind? The answer was a cold, sharp blade. He would be cast down, shoved to the very lowest, widest plane of this Academy’s cruel pyramid.
A chill snaked through him. The prospect was terrifying. This insidious yearning, a clandestine ambition unique to a low-born scholar, had to remain buried. So deep, not even Kaelan, the object of his fixation, could sense it. Ultimately, he needed to hide it so thoroughly, he himself forgot its very existence.
Kaelan Vayne had never bothered with such concealment. Everyone in the hall knew the extent of his desires, his audacious claims.
Caelen subtly lifted his head. All around him, heads remained bowed. He pressed his lips together, tight. Ahead, between the rows of benches, lay a discarded runic lexicon. Its cover bore the faint, dusty imprint of a boot.
Suddenly, a tremor of paranoia. Someone might have caught him staring. Caelen buried his head in his arms, mimicking the slumped figures around him.
Then, he slowly angled his neck. His gaze found the back row. A face lay partially obscured by an arm, as if the owner had simply collapsed in sleep. The features were delicate, etched with a sorrow that seemed to belong to the long-dead.
“...”
Caelen found himself staring at Cassian Draven’s face. Then his eyes traced the length of Cassian’s arm. Had Cassian grown taller? The Academy robes, tailored perfectly at the term’s start, now left his wrists starkly exposed. Around one wrist, a simple amulet of polished obsidian beads, strung on a dark leather cord, stood out. It was a heavy, unmistakable symbol of his devotion to the Path of the Ascendant—an integral part of Cassian’s identity.
Before learning of his true lineage, Caelen had assumed Cassian hailed from the forgotten districts, perhaps the same shadowed alleys as Seraphim Eldrin.
Despite his formidable aura, Cassian did not exude overt wealth. His eyes, always deeply set, were shadowed by heavy lids, and his faded irises lent him a perpetually haunted quality. The thin, pale sclera visible beneath his pupils added to his sharp, almost gaunt appearance.
Cassian’s presence was one of grim, controlled power, though it lacked the polished refinement of the true aristocracy. Instead, his face seemed marked by a profound lack of sentiment, exuding a melancholic heaviness. Combined with his large frame—he was undoubtedly the tallest student in the Academy—it made him doubly imposing.
Fortunately, unlike Kaelan Vayne, Cassian’s sharp features possessed a classically handsome symmetry. Without it, Caelen thought, people might actively recoil. Even so, Cassian’s face was unsettling, full of a nervous, coiled energy.
Cassian’s personality, however, was a stark contrast.
Not merely indifferent to everything, he often seemed to actively erase events from his memory, whether by design or true detachment. He possessed an unsettling air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that ironically added to his mystique.
Most strikingly, Cassian seemed to disregard wealth. He never noted how much others spent, nor how much they pleaded for. If the mood struck him, he’d casually toss a pouch of silver to an apprentice nearby, as if currency held no meaning. Tales circulated of him lending substantial sums, only to forget the debt entirely. Some even claimed he’d been genuinely puzzled when attempts were made to repay him.
Yet, he wasn't indiscriminately generous. He’d indulge trivial requests on a whim but coldly refuse those truly desperate. Caelen recalled a story: Elara, an apprentice in their cohort, had once, upon seeing Cassian’s personal conjured skiff—a rarity he rarely displayed—excitedly tried to leap onto its rear platform without permission. Cassian, without a word, had simply manifested a swift gust of wind, sending her sprawling onto the flagstones like a startled griffin chick.
At the pinnacle of this social hierarchy, individuals like Cassian Draven and Kaelan Vayne shared a singular trait: a complete disregard for others' opinions. This profound indifference, in its own way, was the very key that allowed them to perch at the pyramid’s apex.
Why did we, with our own trembling hands, surrender the keys to our world to these uncontrollable forces? The question echoed, unanswered, a constant source of his quiet torment.
And yet, Cassian Draven proclaimed himself a devout follower of the Path of the Ascendant.
He was the sort of academic delinquent who slept with a Codex of Celestial Precepts tucked beneath his pillow, yet still claimed adherence to its teachings. He abstained from potent elixirs, avoided the potent smoke of arcane herbs, maintained celibacy, and never extorted coin or favor from other apprentices. Still, the doctrine he followed seemed flawed. Caelen had heard that the Ascendant Path permitted moderate consumption of some elixirs and even certain sacred smokes. And they spoke of Kaelan Vayne's open transgression.
They said the Path viewed certain desires as sin. Was that why Kaelan Vayne’s actions so deeply repulsed Cassian Draven? Caelen licked his dry lips, a strange sense of relief washing over him. He hadn’t been caught. If he had, he might have ended up like that trampled lexicon. Yet, even in that fleeting moment, a dark question surfaced: if Kaelan and he had remained as close as they were mere months ago, would Kaelan have protected him?
The thought rose unbidden, dragging with it memories he desperately wished to suppress. Caelen inhaled deeply, trying to quash the nausea that churned in his chest, as though the thin gruel he’d eaten earlier threatened to return.
No. Of course not.
How ludicrous, that he had once been so arrogant as to believe such a thing. To Kaelan, Caelen was nothing. Merely a convenient, high-born friend to pass the time. He knew this now. He knew it from the cold scorn in Kaelan’s eyes when his cruel words had pierced him. He hadn’t wanted the truth, but it had stared him down, undeniable.
Kaelan sinned openly. Caelen, too, was a sinner—but he hid it. And so, Kaelan was punished by the Ascendants. Caelen, by virtue of his discretion, was spared.
A faint, bitter laugh escaped him, barely a whisper. Audible only to himself.
“...So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.”
Perhaps the Ascendants possessed a personality akin to Cassian Draven’s.
His gaze shifted to the bench nearest the Arch-Lector’s podium. Today, unusually, Caelen felt a pang of pity for Seraphim Eldrin. Poor soul. Caught in the clutches of that Vayne, that devil. Eldrin had lacked the strength to resist Kaelan’s monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Eldrin. Unlike the towering frame of Eldrin’s family line. He should have fled the moment Caelen had offered his quiet warning, the fool.
Caelen knew he was not a good person. He was selfish and self-serving. Perhaps that was his punishment. Sometimes, a darker thought surfaced: *If you must desire men, why not choose someone sly and calculating like me? At least then, life would be simpler. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to suffer for it?*
These days, his thoughts were different.
Yes. Of course no one could ever truly love someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise.
A time existed when he thought he could possess it all. Arrogant, conceited Caelen. Caelen, who believed he understood the world at eighteen. Wicked, vile Caelen. Pitiful Caelen, who had no one to comfort him, and so endured everything alone.
That day, Caelen never moved past the fifteenth cipher. He used a fabricated ailment as an excuse, slumping over his desk, a cold comfort in his mind: *At least I’m not as ruined as Kaelan or Eldrin.*
Rumors about Kaelan and Eldrin spread like a wildfire through the Academy. Whether exaggerated or rooted in truth, no one could say. There was no way to discover. Kaelan’s entire circle had vanished from the Academy, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forging new alliances to worry about anything else, inadvertently fueling the whispers even further.
“Arch-Lector, if I may, who was closest to Lord Kaelan Vayne?”
“Lord... No. Cassian Draven.”
Caelen overheard the exchange as he passed the Arch-Lector’s chambers, heading back to the lecture hall before dismissal. Arch-Lector Valerius had asked, and a nervous junior acolyte had answered. Pretending not to have heard, Caelen stepped into the silent room. Valerius glanced nervously between Caelen and the empty seats, drumming his fingers against the podium. Then, as if abandoning some unspoken deliberation, he announced: “Let us conclude.”
The moment dismissal ended, Caelen retrieved his satchel. As he slung it over his shoulder, a cool hand tapped his back.
“Thorne. Accompany me to the Arcane Scriptorium after studies.”
Caelen looked at Cassian Draven’s face. He knew. He had always watched Kaelan and Cassian’s every interaction, knew that Cassian’s invitations for shared research or warding practice were almost exclusively directed at Kaelan. After a brief pause, Caelen waved him off.
“I cannot. Personal research in the Great Archive.”
“After that, then.”
“More research. Find one of your usual companions.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Why not?”
“Proximity to a weak intellect only impedes my progress.”
“They are your peers.”
“Life demands maximization of arcane gain. Clinging to lesser talents only erodes one’s own potential.”
“Ha.”
Caelen let out a short, hollow laugh at the sheer audacity. Right. This was precisely why he’d found himself surprisingly compatible with Cassian. Their twisted values, their ruthless pursuit of advancement, seemed to align in unsettling ways.
“So, Elara, Lysander—they are ‘lesser talents’? Even Thane?”
“If you insist upon such categorizations, then yes. But you, Thorne, are different.”
The backhanded compliment left Caelen feeling a strange mix of discomfort and grim satisfaction.
“What is that supposed to mean? You are awful.”
“No, I am not.”
“You are truly awful.”
“Hmm. It is in the Twelve Edicts of Purity. ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness.’ I merely speak truths, Thorne.”
Honestly, Cassian was worse than Caelen. At least Caelen didn’t openly dismiss his delinquent companions as mere hindrances. *That is why I am a good person,* Cassian had said.
“...I suppose.”
“Since I am such a ‘good person,’ may I accompany you to your private study?”
Cassian Draven blinked twice, his expression unreadable. Caelen met his gaze for a moment, then gave a curt nod.
“Very well. As long as you do not impede my work, there is no reason to refuse.” To secure one’s place in the Academy’s rigid hierarchy, there were no casual invitations. Only calculations. And Caelen, for all his quiet desperation, knew how to calculate. He needed to rise. No matter the cost.