A sharp crack echoed through the scriptorium, not from a splintering quill, but from Kael’s hand striking the polished oak table. He had raised his fist, intent on asserting some petty dominance, but before he could complete the gesture, Lysander’s palm connected with Kael’s thigh in a surprisingly solid thwack. The small confrontation dissolved before it truly began. Kael’s bluster faltered, his face contorting into a bizarre grimace, a sound like a startled raptor escaping his throat. A ripple of suppressed chuckles ran through the nearby acolytes. Kael’s face, already flushed, snapped towards the source of the laughter. “You find this amusing? *You* dare to laugh?” he snarled, a quick jab at his friend’s arm following the accusation. Moments later, the trio – Kael and his two bickering companions – stormed from the hall. One of them, a lanky youth named Seraph, paused at the archway to offer a flippant wave. Caelen, immersed in the quiet hum of the scriptorium, offered a slight nod in return. He settled deeper into his high-backed chair, drawing a fresh parchment closer. His quill hovered over the virgin page, the tip poised to transcribe the first rune of an ancient Aethelredian text. But his gaze drifted, sweeping over the cold, dressed stone walls that formed the cavernous chamber. Each block, meticulously carved, seemed to absorb sound, trapping thoughts within its confines. He lowered his head again, resuming his study. He was on the third translation, the quill tapping a restless rhythm against the parchment, when his eyes lifted once more. Beyond the arched window, the spectral, silvery leaves of the ancient moon-willows trembled in the autumn breeze. A faint, earthy scent, heavy with decay and damp soil, permeated the academy grounds, a stark contrast to the crisp, cerulean sky that stretched overhead. “A convent school would be far less taxing than this den of vipers.” Arch-Magister Elara, who oversaw the lore archives, often muttered such sentiments. Her voice, usually a dry rasp, would grow weary when speaking of the students. “It’s a veritable serpent pit. Each cohort, upon arrival, immediately seeks to establish its coil. By the middle term, the venom settles, and a semblance of order might emerge. But until then? Constant posturing, tests of will, challenges to every authority. My head aches from it. And to think, the next batch of neophytes will arrive soon. Let me see… which star sign governs their birth year, again?” She would then spread her gnarled palm, tracing the lines and creases, muttering obscure astrological calculations. “First Ascension, Shifting Shadow, Deep Current… Ah, yes, that means…” Caelen found himself mimicking the motion, his own hand outstretched, counting the joints of his fingers. But the pattern, a relic of forgotten celestial lore, eluded him. He gave up, flipping his hand over, counting the raised knuckles instead. One, then thirty-one. Two, then twenty-eight. Three, then thirty-one… He had never anticipated, in the languid days of midsummer, that the late autumn term would feel so much like the turbulent first weeks of initiation. “These young serpents are nothing but raw instinct. Emotional, volatile, prone to displays of foolishness.” Caelen stared at the prominent knuckle of his middle finger, absently tapping the desk as if playing a silent harpsichord. Arch-Magister Elara’s voice, now a dry rustle, continued its drone, accompanied by the faint scratch of her own quill on parchment. He glanced towards a vacant chair near the front, usually occupied by an older student, now empty. For a fleeting moment, he imagined a faint indentation on the desk’s surface, as if a head had been pressed there, one side burdened, the other strangely buoyant. His fingers stilled. He turned his head fully. Lysander sat nearby, hunched over a heavy tome, his face half-buried in the pages. His eyes, though mostly closed, would occasionally snap open, fixing on a passage with an intensity that promised immediate mastery, only to then sag, his forehead pressing against the brittle paper once more. Caelen watched as Lysander’s nose got squashed between the pages and his skull. Then, he looked away. Did he doze off for a second? The thought felt detached, unreal. He placed a small star next to his third translation and moved on to the fourth. --- Mid-day repast was a thick, savory stew and a small chalice of fermented fruit wine. Lysander, having drained his wine with gusto, suddenly spoke, his voice surprisingly clear. “You’re second in our cohort, aren’t you?” “Hm? Yes.” “And overall, in the academy?” “Also second.” “By the Serpent’s Scales!” “What is it?” “So the top acolyte in our cohort is also the top acolyte in the entire academy?” “You weren’t aware? I’ve never surpassed Lady Lyra.” “She’s even more perpetually occupied than you, isn’t she?” “Indeed. Her advanced warding sessions often run past midnight.” “Damn. That’s devotion.” “She applies herself diligently.” Caelen had no desire to extend the conversation. He scooped a generous portion of stew into his mouth, chewing slowly. Fortunately, Lysander did not press. He merely nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Aaaah—” The abrupt silence felt… unmoored. Caelen hesitated, an unfamiliar discomfort settling in. To break the quiet, he blurted out, without thinking, “And you? What is your standing?” Lysander’s fork paused, suspended in mid-air. Caelen found his gaze drawn to the hand holding it. Lysander held his cutlery with impeccable grace. If there was one thing Lysander excelled at, it was the presentation of refined manners. “In the cohort…” “Yes?” “Ninth.” “…What?” Caelen quickly averted his eyes from Lysander’s elegant grip on the fork. Was he being serious? Not fabricating a jest? The surprise was so potent that Caelen almost vocalized his disbelief, but mercifully, he managed to swallow the question. By the Serpent’s Shadow. That was a near slip. To inadvertently offend Lysander would be to invite his capricious temper. Caelen weighed his options. Would a word of praise be preferred? Or perhaps an indifferent, unsurprised response? His mind, ever calculating for social survival in the academy’s treacherous currents, sought the safest passage. Lysander did not appear overly fond of his current companions. The latter option felt prudent. “Hm. You perform better than I might have anticipated.” “What? Anticipated? How dull did you deem me?” “I did not consider you dull, merely… I understood you struggled with Elemental Script?” “Elemental Script is my sole weakness. Only Elemental Script.” “Yet you attend no private tutelage.” “The absence of a tutor does not preclude one from study. By the Serpent’s Eyes, did you truly think me a simpleton?” “No, no, not at all.” Caelen waved a placating hand. “It is impressive, truly, considering your independent study.” “…Indeed?” “Yes. It is impressive.” For reasons Caelen couldn't quite fathom, Lysander began mashing his spoon into the remnants of his stew. And… was he blushing? Caelen caught a faint flush creeping up the tips of Lysander’s ears. Now that the thought occurred, Valerius, for all his bluster, had ranked thirtieth among the thirty-six acolytes. And that was only because a few others had performed even more abysmally. Thirtieth out of thirty-six. Reflecting on it, Caelen realized how little attention he had ever paid to Valerius, beyond the immediate interactions. The sudden insight struck him with a hollow thud. He had been drowning in the very kind of pathetic, obsessive fixation he once disdained. Lysander, utterly oblivious to Caelen’s internal crisis, had clearly received a boost to his self-assurance. His tone shifted, brimming with a new, self-satisfied cadence. “Ah, right! You likely wouldn’t know—I am quite proficient in Ancient Draconic.” “Oh? How proficient?” “A perfect score. I have never lost a single point in Ancient Draconic.” “Khhkk!” Caelen choked. The words had barely left Lysander’s lips before Caelen spluttered, spitting a fine mist of wine. Lysander scowled, yanking his tray further away. “What in the nine hells? What kind of reaction is that?” “I merely… was not expecting that.” “Is it truly so shocking?” Lysander frowned, a slight pout forming on his lips. “Yes. My Elemental Script score is abysmal, but that is merely one subject.” There was an odd, self-deprecating hint in his voice. Caelen, recovering, offered a mild jest. “Perhaps you should consult a proper lexicon occasionally.” “What are you speaking of? I am, in truth, quite a connoisseur of ancient texts.” “A connoisseur? I have never observed you with such a volume.” “That is because I indulge in my studies in the privacy of my chambers.” “Why, by the Void, would you need to conceal it?” Lysander’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped another spoonful of stew. He then casually pressed his lips to the spoon’s edge. Something about the gesture unsettled Caelen. He bit the inside of his cheek. Lysander met his eyes as he drew the spoon away, then lowered his gaze and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to its tip. “Forbidden scrolls are still literature, Caelen.” It was undeniably a jest. The scoundrel. Caelen’s face burned. To hide it, he snatched a crumpled napkin from beside his tray and flicked it at Lysander’s face. It struck just below Lysander’s long, narrow eyes and drifted harmlessly onto the table. One of Lysander’s eyes twitched slightly. Not that Caelen truly cared, but in case Lysander genuinely felt provoked, Caelen feigned a contrite expression. “Do not perform such distasteful displays. Especially within an academy of this caliber. It is utterly uncouth.” “Oh? You refer to this? You mean Valerius’s favored gesture?” “I care not whose gesture it is. Cease it.” “Is this not, now, a rather trending display among us?” Caelen stared at him, attempting to decipher the sincerity behind the jest. He was sleeping less, a sure sign that his spirit felt less burdened. Mornings, once a dry and sluggish affair, now felt strangely crisp and invigorating. It was a welcome change, for in his private estimation, the gravest transgressions at his age were complacency and excessive slumber. --- “Ah, by the Serpent’s Fang—” Caelen’s jaw clicked painfully as he brushed his teeth. Ever since Valerius’s last, casual shove, his jaw emitted an odd grinding sound whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Beyond that minor irritation, today was a promising day. But even in this newfound tranquility, sudden flashes of vexation arose. The cause was always Valerius. Or rather, the ripples created by his presence. Most of these incidents occurred within the academy’s walls. “Oh, indeed. I saw Valerius last night,” murmured Theron, biting into a dense, unappetizing ration cake, the kind rumored to be composed of ground griffin talons and discarded scales. Kael, who had been idly jabbing Theron’s ankle with a mock-knife hand, suddenly perked up. “By the Whispering Glyphs! You’ve just stirred my memory! I was just about to reveal this. I heard through the scrying mirrors—you recall Lord Alaric, yes? That… wandering libertine? I heard Valerius is presently housed in his chambers.” “Lord Alaric? That feckless Lord Alaric?” Lysander, rummaging through a small satchel, asked casually. When his hand emerged, he held two small, gleaming sugar-globes. For some inexplicable reason, he offered one to Caelen. “……?” Caelen stared at it, bewildered. “……What is this?” He looked at Lysander with a questioning gaze, but Lysander merely offered a slight nod, as if the gesture alone sufficed as explanation. The most pronounced reaction came from Kael, whose own satchel of confectionaries had been raided. “By the Blight! Those are mine! Why in the nine hells are you consuming my provisions, you ravenous beasts?” “Oh, as if you have never purloined my stores, pig.” Theron made another fake knife-hand strike at Kael’s throat. Kael instantly spun, seized Theron’s collar, and swung a mock punch at his face. He, of course, had no intention of actually connecting. That was simply their customary dynamic. Caelen ignored their juvenile bickering and looked down at the sugar-globe in his hand. The wrapper depicted a small, halved citra fruit. He peeled the wrapper, popped the candy into his mouth, and lifted his head. “What do you think? The taste of first ardor?” Lysander grinned. “I find citra displeasing,” Caelen replied. His answer was not solely about the confection; it was his verdict on Lysander’s jest, too. And more than anything, he found little amusement in the notion of first ardor. That sticky, cloying sensation clung to the back of his throat. It stifled his appetite. In the end, he could not even finish the candy. He tossed it into a nearby refuse bin. “Oh no, such a deplorable waste,” Lysander mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, Caelen reached into Kael’s satchel to find a different sugar-globe. It was all citra or veridian-lime. Veridian-lime was the lesser of two evils. He unwrapped one and placed it in his mouth. “At any rate, Lord Alaric, then? Sounds entirely consistent with Valerius.” “What, because they are both… unconstrained?” Lysander’s words were sharp, cutting through the ambient hum. Uncomfortable, Caelen turned to observe him. Lysander was sucking on his sugar-globe, an expressionless mask on his face, twirling the slender stick between his lips. Caelen pulled his own candy from his mouth. Something about this felt wrong. Lysander, however, seemed unconcerned. He tilted his sugar-globe in the air like a tiny rapier, making random, jabbing motions. “He dallies with patrons—it matters not if they are of high or low birth, male or female. And when he encounters someone… suitable, he dispatches them directly to Valerius. It’s a perpetual rotation. Intertwining, passing one another between them.” “So Lord Alaric is also… inclined towards men?” Kael suddenly interjected. Whether he had concluded his playful scuffle with Theron or had merely paused mid-strike to eavesdrop, Caelen could not be certain. Kael rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing the revelation.

A Serpent's Sting