Puffiness bloomed across Jaric of House Valerius’s face, a testament to hours squandered in forbidden crypt-explorations. A chilled flask of revitalizing cordial, mist still clinging to its etched silver, arced through the air. It landed with a soft thud on his writing desk. “Enough with the blowfish impression,” Caelen drawled, feigning irritation. He made a habit of these small offerings on mornings Jaric indulged his less-than-scholarly hobbies. Jaric’s face, unfortunately, swelled with remarkable ease. “Thanks.” Jaric’s voice was a gravelly murmur. “Did your father not rage this dawn?” “Thanks to you, no.” Jaric shrugged, a flicker of pride in his heavy-lidded eyes. Caelen merely smirked, turning to his own seat. His gaze snagged on a broadsheet of Academy bulletins draped over the desk beside Jaric. That desk belonged to Lord Kaelen, heir to House Aeridor. Caelen, shorter than Jaric by a handspan, sat two rows back. Lord Kaelen, taller than Jaric by half a hand, naturally occupied the neighboring spot. Caelen often cursed his own modest height, finding meager comfort in his assigned position directly behind Jaric—a small, stolen intimacy. He buried the familiar prickle of jealousy, pointing shamelessly at the sleeping noble. “When did he arrive?” “No idea,” Jaric rumbled, pulling the cordial to his lips. “He was like that when I showed.” “How does someone who left the archives early last eve look as if he wrestled a grimoire all night?” A rustle answered his question. The broadsheet slid, revealing Lord Kaelen’s half-lidded eyes. A narrow, assessing gaze swept over Caelen and Jaric before his lordship opened his mouth in a wide, uninhibited yawn. “…Swore I’d only decipher a few more glyphs before rest, and, well.” Yawns, truly, were contagious. Jaric mimicked the stretch, then scrunched his face into a smug grin. “This scion. Appears a rogue, yet more diligent than even Novice Lysander.” “Do bore off,” Lord Kaelen muttered, slumping back. “Heard you, dullard.” Lord Kaelen, whether realizing Jaric’s mocking tone or simply uncaring, let out a soft, hearty laugh. Caelen watched him, and their eyes met for a fleeting instant. Lord Kaelen’s gaze shifted to the high, arched window, then back to Caelen. A strange tickle on his skin, Caelen scratched his shoulder, redirecting his attention to Jaric. A fragile calm settled over the scriptorium in the early morning. Such casual banter often dictated the day’s rhythm. Soon, acolytes like Lysander and Seraphon would drift over, admiring Jaric as they eagerly absorbed his embellished tales of daring academic transgression. The routine would unfold: murmured gossip, hushed laughter, and, eventually, the Head Scholar’s arrival to begin the day’s lessons. For acolytes considered the most prominent in their cohort, it was a surprisingly unblemished start to the morning. Yet, underneath it all, they were still but apprentices. Tales of wild, disordered pursuits from the night before, particularly when Jaric was involved, often left a sour taste in Caelen’s mouth. Still, he played along, feigning amusement. Despite the underlying currents, these mornings held a tolerable rhythm. But everything had shifted a moon and a half ago. And the catalyst, entirely, was Elara. “Look, Elara’s here.” “By the Elder Serpent’s scales. Gross.” “Does that witless wretch not consider absenting herself after such an embarrassment?” Lysander openly scoffed, pointing with exaggerated disdain. At the tip of his finger, Elara, a scholar from a lesser house, awkwardly stepped into the chamber. She hid her face behind a curtain of dark hair. Elara shuffled towards a desk in the front row, placed her worn satchel upon it, and immediately slumped over. Watching her hunched figure, Caelen let out a sigh laden with irritation. Elara was utterly pathetic. Her voice was thin, her frame small—a pitiful excuse for a student, even from a humble lineage. As murmurs swelled through the scriptorium, Jaric glared daggers at Elara’s bowed back, muttering curses under his breath. Caelen hated it. That raw, visceral sensitivity of Jaric’s—it grated on his nerves. Snatching the Academy broadsheet that had covered Lord Kaelen’s face, Jaric balled it up in one hand. Then, with a light toss, he hurled it at Elara’s head. Thud. A soft sound, and Elara’s head slumped further onto her desk. “Blast it. Don’t parade that wretched visage first thing this morn.” Elara placed her arms on the desk, burying her face. She did precisely as Jaric had commanded. Yet, Jaric watched with disdain and kicked his own desk. “Hey! Are you not going to answer me?” Jaric abruptly stood, his voice echoing. Elara, still hunched, stammered in a trembling whisper. “Y-yes.” “Lift your head, look at me, and speak it properly.” Did Jaric even comprehend the absurdity he spouted? The sheer ridiculousness of his demands made Caelen let out a bitter, silent laugh. Whether or not he noticed, Jaric moved, approaching Elara. With every step he took, the unpleasant feelings inside Caelen grew more vivid, more raw. Jaric closed the distance between himself and Elara. Just that alone made Caelen feel a terrifying loss of control over the emotions he’d worked so diligently to suppress. This was not the same familiar pang of jealousy he felt when Jaric grew close to Lord Kaelen. Instinctively, Caelen knew. Deep down, he harbored something just as sinister, just as dark, as Jaric did. That was why watching Jaric with Lord Kaelen eventually became bearable, but his interactions with Elara unsettled Caelen more and more. His hands started trembling; he clenched them tightly, hiding the tremor within his sleeves. Jaric kicked Elara’s desk hard. The ancient wood shook violently, almost toppling, and Elara jolted upright in alarm. Her voice was still unsteady. “S-sorry.” Jaric stood over her, silently looking down at Elara’s face. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, on the precipice of breaking. Yet, in that moment, Caelen felt like he was the one who might burst into tears. Jaric didn’t make Elara run pointless errands, but he always kept his eyes on her. If Elara went to the ablution chambers during break, Jaric would still watch her retreating figure, even while conversing with Caelen and the others. Caelen knew this because he never stopped watching Jaric. To be honest, Caelen’s first impression of Elara had been unremarkable. Her skin was not the clearest, but her youthful features gave her a face that was easy to behold. When she smiled, it felt genuinely bright, and even her neutral expression carried a certain quiet composure. Before Jaric started tormenting her, no one truly disliked Elara. She seemed like a novice who had grown up in a warm, nurturing environment. While she wasn’t overtly sociable, preferring to spend time alone in the archives, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in her demeanor. Most acolytes considered Elara a decent, if quiet, individual. Since she never flaunted the affection she’d received growing up, she earned even more unspoken praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be around—that was Elara. But Caelen hadn’t particularly liked her from the start. He didn’t hate her either; he simply didn’t care. To say she wasn’t even on his radar would be more accurate. Yet, whenever he spoke with his friends, or Jaric, or Lord Kaelen’s group, and Elara’s name arose, Caelen would find himself casually lying, saying, “Oh, her? She’s quite alright. Pleasant enough.” Jaric, much like Caelen, hadn’t paid much attention to Elara at first. Jaric was never one to care for minor academic affairs. After Elara transferred into their cohort in the Month of Blossoms, she and Jaric didn’t exchange a single word until the Month of Sun’s Zenith. That was the natural order of things. But one day, something changed. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane flow of their academic lives. It happened right after the mid-day meal. Looking back, Caelen didn’t think he’d ever regretted an action as much as what transpired that day. Elara, as was her habit, had taken a corner seat in the scriptorium during the break, engrossed in a bound arcane text. She was the kind of scholar who loved burying herself in ancient lore. Caelen, on the other hand, cultivated a habit of being overly congenial toward those with good reputations. That was why, when he stumbled upon Elara by chance, Caelen struck up a conversation about the tome she was reading. He wasn’t much of a reader himself, beyond mandatory texts—pretending to be cultured was more his style. “You must truly cherish those old texts, yes?” “Hmm? Oh, yes, I suppose.” At the time, Elara and Caelen were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made approaching her easier. “Have you concluded that one?” “Well, I am almost at the end.” “Then simply close it now. The final cantos will disappoint you. It’s one of those tomes where the ending tarnishes everything.” “You’ve read it before?” “Yes, some time ago.” To satisfy his intellectual vanity, Caelen always sought out critiques and analyses of the few ancient texts he skimmed, ensuring he had something learned to say in future discussions. Drawing on those distant memories, he offered a critique—not a real one, just enough to sound informed—and Elara smiled brightly, looking genuinely pleased. It caught Caelen off guard. “You are the first soul I’ve met who has read this particular tome, besides myself.” “Oh… truly?” “Yes, but I am still going to finish it. Contemplating why the ending unfolded as it did is part of the allure.” “Well, certainly. Everyone’s interpretations differ.” “Hearing you voice that makes me anticipate it even more.” That particular smile still lingered as an uncomfortable memory. Was it some instinctive unease Caelen felt back then? After that day, Elara started seeking Caelen out frequently. Though he found it a touch annoying and often wondered, *Why me?*, he didn’t outright reject her. Elara, with her quiet good reputation and dedication to scholarship, was not the worst person to keep close. After all, ancient texts—outside of the mandatory scrolls—were practically forbidden for most acolytes their age. Even if someone had the time, such lore was little more than glorified sleep aids to them. For Elara, Caelen was likely the sole apprentice around who could speak on such matters. That day was one of those routine encounters, but it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days among them. Lord Kaelen was to blame. To this very day, Caelen couldn’t fathom why he’d acted the way he did. Why he, an acolyte who never meddled in others’ affairs, chose to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. Why Lord Kaelen, of all things, had left his scored Glyph Interpretation Scrutiny parchment wide open for anyone passing by to see. Caelen, who loathed having his own grades revealed, naturally assumed Lord Kaelen wouldn’t want his exposed either. So, he flipped the parchment over to hide it. That’s when he saw it: the score. Eighty-one sigils. Caelen blinked in disbelief and checked again. It was definitely eighty-one. Considering the high grade thresholds for this particular trial, it would barely scrape into the Fourth Tier. But still, it was on the higher end of that tier. It was the first time one of Caelen’s preconceptions had been shattered. A small shock to realize Lord Kaelen wasn’t as much of a lost cause as Caelen had thought. Naturally, that made him think of Jaric’s grades. Jaric, now, he was the true waste. An acolyte who’d mark every question with a ‘Glyph of Indifference’ and sleep through the rest of the trial, Jaric had never once managed a respectable score. Perhaps that was why Caelen felt such a strange mix of emotions—like he’d found a latent spark among the dross. A scion he’d once dismissed turned out to possess more redeemable potential than the one he admired. That bizarre realization must have unsettled him, because Caelen did something he normally never would have done. It wasn’t anything grand. He simply grabbed a nearby quill and scribbled a short note at the top of Lord Kaelen’s parchment. “Focus on the Elemental Script questions. You’ll hit the Third Tier soon enough. Well done. —Caelen Thorne. P.S. My apologies for viewing your score without leave. I merely flipped it to cover it and happened to discern the marking.” The arrogance of evaluating another’s grade and offering unsolicited counsel made Caelen feel a bit embarrassed, so he rambled to justify himself. Caelen couldn’t say why he even wrote it in the first place. At the time, he must have been entirely out of his mind. Looking back, it was clear this was the first mistake in what would become a series of entanglements. Every mess truly begins with a poorly fastened first button. If he hadn’t written that note, he wouldn’t have run into Elara, carrying a tome down the hall, moments later… ---

A Serpent's Coil Begins