Lord Varian, scion of the revered House Volkov, was dead. Not in body, but in the brutal, indelible way that mattered most within the gilded cage of the Academy of Veiled Arts. His reputation, once as unassailable as the fortress walls of his ancestral seat, had crumbled to dust overnight. A hushed, venomous quiet had fallen over the grand halls. No piercing sirens rent the air, only the dry rustle of parchment and the soft scuff of bespoke boots. Yet, the chaos was palpable, a suffocating weight that pressed down on every student. Hours ago, the marble courtyard had borne witness to something far more devastating than a physical brawl: a public collapse of arcane authority. Students, usually cloistered within their respective lecture halls, now drifted, whispering, through the shadowy archways. Like brittle autumn leaves caught in a sudden gust, their hushed tones carried on the currents of ambient magic, seeping into every study nook and common room. Even through the thick, sound-dampening wards, the muted murmurs of the next wing’s students drifted. “Did you hear what happened?” a junior acolyte hissed, his eyes wide. “Idiot, of course! Lord Varian, the great scion? He faltered during the Grand Translation.” “Faltered? He made a mockery of the Runic Anathema! They say he invoked a literal imprecation of *base earth* on himself!” “By the Serpent’s Scales! How did I miss that?” They were not mere scholars, but burgeoning arcanists, poised on the precipice of true power. They were shedding the naiveté of youth, discarding childish individualisms for the collective, brutal joy of witnessing a titan’s fall. Such a reaction, Caelen mused, was only natural. “Anyone know a senior in his cohort? Were Varian and Lord Kaelus not allies in the Consortium?” “You haven’t heard the whispers about Lord Varian?” Caelen’s own cohort, tucked away in the Scroll Library’s far alcove, was a microcosm of the Academy. Some reveled in being the purveyors of fresh, damning gossip. Others, quietly ambitious, absorbed the details of the downfall, savoring the subtle shifts in power. A few even offered feigned sympathy, their eyes glinting with a predatory delight. Outside, across the serene Moonpetal Lake, Caelen had seen the dark, unadorned carriage of House Volkov. For the next several bells, the most potent gossip swirling through their cloistered Academy concerned not Varian’s fate, but the identity of the student whose quiet machinations had facilitated his ruin. Rumors, Caelen knew, moved faster than any spoken spell in their five-story, hermetically sealed institution. So, who truly won? Those privy to the true depths of the incident did not spare a single thought for Lord Varian, now spirited away, his public humiliation complete. Instead, they found a grim satisfaction in the fulfillment of a small, almost unconscious wish that had lingered since the semester’s opening convocation. Lord Kaelus. Such contests of influence usually left ambiguous victors, especially when they involved the subtle thrusts and parries of arcane politics. Yet, every twist of fate had favored Lord Kaelus. The insidious rumors, seeded with meticulous precision long before the incident, had ensured Lord Varian’s abject defeat. In the polished, oppressive corridors of the Academy, the whispers solidified: “It turns out Lord Varian’s lineage is… questionable.” “What? The Volkovs are ancient! Pureblood since the first Emperor!” “By the Void, that was all a fabrication! Apparently, his grandmother’s line had a distant, common ancestor. They say his mother consorted with a hedge wizard from the outer provinces. Tainted blood.” “The shame! And he’s from such a rich, powerful House. With enough coin and influence, you can rewrite history, confound it. But you can’t escape your essence.” “Gods above. I never saw Lord Varian like that. A false noble, tainted.” “Heh-heh. If only I were born with such a grand deception. Even a lowborn can ascend to the Academy, but to *fall* from such heights… that’s true humiliation. Do you think he’ll be exiled? Or perhaps assigned to some forgotten outpost?” The conversation drifted, not with Lord Varian, but with the grim specter of his future, stripped of all privilege. Yet, in that short exchange, Lord Varian’s honor was systematically dismembered, his very identity murdered. This act of symbolic murder multiplied by the hundreds of students in the Academy. After his public disgrace, Lord Varian became an empty vessel – almost as if everyone had been silently anticipating his fall, eager for the opportunity to cast him aside. The classroom, still thick with the residue of arcane lessons, weighed calm against rising passion. Eyes flicked back and forth like pendulums between the heavy, leather-bound tomes and the animated faces of their peers. A scorch mark on the polished ebony floor, where Varian’s errant spell had singed the wood, still darkened the surface. Though long cooled, Caelen half-expected it to still smolder if touched. Master Theron, a timid man whose spectacles perpetually slid down his nose, surprised Caelen with his reaction. The next period was scheduled for silent contemplation. The hall, usually vibrant with the day’s hot topic, instantly cooled upon Theron’s entrance. Entering the room, he threw a stack of ancient scrolls onto his lectern, the brittle parchment scattering, and let out a high-pitched, reedy wail that grated on the ears. “What in the blazes is wrong with you all! You, you, you blighted children! Do you think I am a joke? Why do you live your lives like this? Stop it. Stop it, I say! Why are you disrupting silent contemplation! Is this the time for gossip? You will be Masters next cycle! Masters! Please, heed my words and cease this discord! Do you know I am held responsible for your decorum! I never should have accepted this posting to the senior halls. I feel my mind fraying. If you conduct yourselves thus, your lives will be naught but ash, do you not see that? Are you not shamed before your families? And how many times must I implore you to observe silence during contemplation!” Most sensible students, witnessing such an outburst from a usually meek scholar, would have promptly clamped their mouths shut. Yet, this was the Academy, a crucible of disparate personalities – some defying common sense, others still clinging to the pathetic arrogance of burgeoning youth. Their cohort, Caelen observed, was exactly such a melting pot. “Eh, eh—Master Theron’s vexed. Vexed! Don’t be vexed!” “It’s rather amusing when the Master loses his temper,” someone in the back by the archival shelves muttered. From two seats ahead of Caelen, a junior acolyte named Sir Alaric whispered softly, “By the stars, he’s having a fit.” “You insolent whelp! What? Do you think I am a joke?! You, step forth. Come to the lectern!” “But Master—why such a fuss?” “I said, step forth, boy!” Master Theron, trembling, hurled a heavy reference tome. It arced wildly between desks, struck the corner of a polished grimoire in the third row, then clattered to the floor, its leather cover flapping open. The heavy book, losing its momentum, landed with a dull thud. “My apologies, Master. I will not repeat the transgression. Will you forgive my lapse in judgment?” Alaric smirked, showing no genuine remorse. Caelen watched, identifying Alaric as a mediocre punk, neither truly respected nor fully outcast. The slovenly ones often postured, striving for an image of defiance. Yet, they alone remained blind to the pathetic clumsiness of their own bluff. “Step forth. Or must I come to you?” “Ah, Master! Is this not excessive! Truly!” “Silence!” “Quiet, you fool. The Master ordered you forward.” Caelen could no longer stand the charade. A quiet tension had built in his chest. He spoke, his voice low but cutting through the agitated murmurs. The class’s eyes turned, startled, to him. Caelen did not flinch, only absorbed the pathetic scene. Honestly, it was so ridiculously transparent that a faint scoff almost escaped him. He found a strange, grim satisfaction in moments like this. He possessed no great physical strength, nor did he dabble in the delinquent acts of the Academy’s rougher elements. Yet, he held a certain, quiet sway in this intellectual jungle precisely because he knew how to subtly dismantle those who relied solely on bluster. “Hey, Caelen. Why the sudden gravity?” a classmate ventured. “You are the one who misreads the room.” Such a dynamic had not formed overnight. During the initial jostling for position in their first year, there had been some resistance to Caelen’s quiet authority. Now, however, it was as pleasant and predictable as a spiral of silence. “Yes. Cease the noise and comply. By the stars, can you not gauge the mood? Do you not perceive the gravity of this moment?” “If you are truly sorry, then go. Because of you, we are all suffering the Master’s ire. You imbecile.” “Ah, what is his deal? Seriously. What makes him so…?” Caelen heard Kim Minho mutter under his breath until the end. The confident, sneering look Alaric had worn while provoking the Master gradually faded, like a dying ember. Under the silent pressure of the entire cohort, Alaric finally stood and moved to the lectern. Now, he resembled a dead rat caught in a snare. Caelen allowed a subtle, twisted smile to touch his lips. Lord Varian had fallen. And nothing could make him happier. Perhaps it stemmed from a small slight, a dismissive glance Varian had once cast Caelen’s way, a quiet insult about his humble, un-arcanist lineage. No, he was certain of it. He felt a profound sense of vindication. Honestly, Caelen was a bit surprised at himself. And he felt that electrifying thrill as a nascent, subtle power returned to him. “Go out into the Solarium, immediately!” Master Theron commanded. “…” After driving the disruptive fool out, Master Theron placed one hand on the lectern and silently held back his anger for a while, breathing heavily. Perhaps he had gathered his thoughts, for his tone calmed considerably, a fortunate shift in many ways. He then announced he would call each student one by one to inquire about what truly transpired. “I promise I will maintain absolute discretion. So please, tell me the unvarnished truth. Do not disappoint me further. Please, I beg you.” He seemed determined to hear an unbiased account. Yet, as a Master whose expertise lay in ancient texts, not the intricacies of Academy politics, he still didn’t appear to grasp the layered, pyramidal world of the noble houses. Once the contemplation period ended, and Master Theron – his face still flushed – finished catching his breath and departed, a senior acolyte named Lord Valerius closed the windows and the classroom door, then delivered a stern warning to everyone. “Listen closely. Choose your words with utmost care. Make the correct judgment about who will hold sway here: Lord Kaelus, or that tainted Volkov.” “Lord Varian himself invoked the tainted spell first. You understand, do you not?” Alaric chimed in, having returned from the Solarium, his earlier bravado replaced by an almost sycophantic eagerness. Such admirable loyalty, Caelen thought, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. --- Less than a week later, Lord Kaelus returned to the Academy. Kaelus came back, his usually impeccable robes slightly askew, a faint bruise beneath one eye, and a carefully bandaged cut on his chin. In contrast to these superficial marks, however, the raw, imposing energy radiating from him was more dominant and arrogant than ever. He grinned, a wide, challenging baring of teeth, then tapped his index finger against the newly affixed, perfectly re-set emerald stud in his earlobe. Caelen offered a light, almost imperceptible nod in return. Right after the incident, Kaelus had casually walked out of the hall, unassisted, to the private medical wing. It had been bizarre, but in a flashy, attention-grabbing way that dominated everyone’s chatter for days. Caelen, a shadow in the periphery, had hurried after him. Just before Kaelus vanished behind the ward-protected entrance, Caelen had pressed something into his hand. “This is yours. Say you found it dislodged from the Runic Anathema during Varian’s fumble, and that it contains an unstable resonance that might cause irreparable damage if not immediately purged.” At that moment, Kaelus wiped a smudge of dried ink from his cheek with his left hand and looked at Caelen. The ink, already dried stiff, wouldn’t come off completely. Honestly, seeing half his face faintly smudged, a dark, abstract stain, wasn’t a pleasant sight. Caelen’s focus had been on how Kaelus’s unusually sharp pupils locked onto the small, intricately carved glyph in Caelen’s hand. In that disheveled state, Kaelus spoke, and Caelen strained to listen, caught off guard. “...I will remember this.” Kaelus’s hand, still stained, brushed Caelen’s arm as he took the glyph. It was an abrupt, almost possessive gesture. “...Huh?” All Caelen could do was stand there, momentarily dumbfounded. Soon after, Kaelus sent a short message via a familiar: the glyph had been successfully integrated, its resonance now stable. And as soon as he returned to the Academy, Kaelus took the seat beside Caelen’s, a coveted spot usually reserved for more senior acolytes. When Caelen’s original seatmate, a nervous junior, appeared, Kaelus, without even looking at him, merely pointed his thumb to another empty chair across the aisle. The junior quietly found somewhere else to sit. Before Caelen quite processed it, Kaelus, the newly dominant power, sat beside him, tapping his shoulder twice with his index and middle fingers in quick succession. Then, quite suddenly, he said, “Here’s a small token.” “What? What do you mean, out of nowhere?” “Silence and open your hand.” Caelen set down his quill and opened his palm. At the same time, Kaelus carefully placed something on it. Caelen felt a cold, sharp sensation, unsettlingly fragile, in the center of his hand. When Kaelus lifted his large hand from Caelen’s, Caelen saw two objects: a fragment of obsidian, clearly from a shattered ancestral *Amulet of Lineage*, its intricate Volkov crest marred and broken, and a page from the *Codex of Elders*, scorched and torn, its ancient script stained with a viscous, dark purple ichor. One of the Volkov’s family glyphs, etched on the amulet, was clearly snapped cleanly in half, its integrity lost. By the Serpent’s coils, what was this? Confused by the amulet’s violent end and the ominous ichor clinging to the sacred text, Caelen glanced at Lord Kaelus. Kaelus leaned back against his chair, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. “Lord Varian will be forced to present a falsified lineage at every formal gathering for the rest of his miserable life. The lie will burn him from within.” Hee-hee-hee. Then he twisted his shoulders, laughing as if genuinely amused – like a pure, uncorrupted child reveling in a cruel jest. “Did you witness it?” “…” “I won.” This arrogant, brutal man. For a moment, Caelen nearly hurled that broken amulet and defiled page against the wall in a visceral spasm of disgust and burgeoning fear. But he didn’t. He merely tightened his grip. Lord Kaelus’s return caused another tremor of speculation throughout the Academy. After all, he was the first principal player to reappear, his bearing showing none of the somber gloom expected of one who had endured such a political maelstrom. And his subtle injuries only added to his mystique. Rumors about who truly won spread like wildfire among the senior acolytes. Most of the students who knew the real intricacies of the situation were in their year. For the junior acolytes, senior drama was too far removed – something interesting, but not yet relevant to their immediate concerns.

A Serpent's Due