A vault of polished stone, Lumina Arcanum’s classrooms hummed with a quiet tension. Thirty young minds, each a delicate instrument in the arcane orchestra, lived out their studies under a constant, almost palpable pressure. Every day, hierarchies formed and reformed, groups coalesced and dissolved. These students had endured for precisely eighteen cycles within these hallowed halls, their spirits stretched taut, a string ready to snap.
This unending pressure had begun for Elian Vane at twelve, when he first grasped the art of strategic alliance. Daily, this precarious balance had defined his existence. He suspected it defined everyone else’s too.
An intricate lattice concealing a serpent’s coil. Such was the arcane study hall.
“Ah…”
His writing arm, stiff from hours of intricate runic transcription, tingled as he shook it out. Elian’s stomach, a knot of unease, received a light tap from his fist. He exhaled a weak breath, his gaze sweeping across the bent backs of his peers. Polished obsidian slates shimmered with glowing glyphs, while stooped shoulders reflected the morning light. At the front, Master Valerius, our tutor in ancient lexicons, sat engrossed in a yellowed parchment, its edges crinkled with age. Most students diligently copied complex formulae or, defeated, slumped in their seats, lost to fatigue.
“Those of you communing with the dream realm, rouse yourselves,” Master Valerius called out, turning a page of his ancient text. His voice, usually a melodic drone, held a sharp edge this morning.
Fifth period already waned. Elian had wrestled with the fifteenth problem in his runic grammar text, then paused, scratching his head with an index finger before setting down his enchanted stylus. His eyes drifted to the empty spaces among the desks. Two particular voids snagged his attention.
Expectedly, Kaelen Thorne and Lyra Aethel were absent. They would likely remain so tomorrow, unless Kaelen’s unpredictable humors shifted, or some unforeseen event entangled the two. Elian had no inkling of such an event, nor dared to speculate.
He lowered his gaze to the labyrinthine problems before him, the intricate strokes of ancient glyphs filling his vision.
Once, Elian had believed he understood Kaelen Thorne entirely. He had convinced himself that of all within these walls, he alone knew Kaelen best. A quiet pride had bloomed from that conviction, even when comparing himself to Kaelen’s own brother, Alaric Thorne, who shared a lineage and proximity with Kaelen few could match.
Truthfully, that pride had been a balm, easing the sting of watching Alaric and Kaelen’s easy camaraderie. Deep within, Elian savored the clandestine knowledge that he possessed a superior understanding of Kaelen’s true nature.
Propping his chin in his hand, Elian felt a surge of self-disgust. Such thoughts were vile.
What judgment would rain down if others glimpsed these coiled ambitions in his mind? The answer was chillingly clear. He would be cast to the lowest stratum of Lumina Arcanum’s rigid pyramid, occupying its widest, most despised base.
Such a prospect terrified him. This insidious longing, a distinct malady of an ambitious acolyte, must remain buried. Deep. So deep that not even the object of his fixation might sense its tremor. Ultimately, he had to conceal it so thoroughly, he himself might forget it existed.
But Kaelen Thorne had never done that. Everyone in their cohort knew the breadth of his desires. They were proclaimed in Kaelen’s every glance, every word, every spell.
Elian lifted his head slightly, scanning the room. Acolytes still hunched over their desks, lost in study or slumber. Pressing his lips into a thin line, he faced forward.
Lying forsakenly between the rows of desks was a runic primer, its binding torn, stained by muddy boot prints. A symbol of failure, of expulsion.
Suddenly, as if sensing his prolonged gaze, Elian instinctively buried his head in his arms like the others, pretending sleep.
Then he turned his neck, angling his sight towards a different corner. His gaze snagged on the back row. There lay a face, partially obscured by an arm, as if its owner had succumbed to an abrupt collapse. The features seemed delicate, almost mournful, resembling a marble effigy of the departed.
“…”
Elian found himself staring at Alaric Thorne’s face. His gaze drifted to Alaric’s arm. Had Alaric, already so tall, grown further still? His standard arcane tunic, which had fit perfectly at the year’s commencement, now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one of those wrists was a chain of polished obsidian beads, each carved with an intricate glyph of protection—a consecrated charm, heavy and unmistakable. It was an integral part of Alaric’s identity, a stark declaration.
Before learning of his lineage, Elian had assumed Alaric dwelt in the Outer Precincts, far from the noble estates, perhaps in the same district as Lyra Aethel.
Despite his intimidating aura, Alaric did not appear ostentatiously wealthy. His eyes, deep-set and shadowed by his lids, held a perpetually haunted look. His faded irises and the thin sclera visible beneath his pupils contributed to a gaunt, sharp appearance.
Alaric's overall demeanor exuded a grim, unsettling intimidation, yet it lacked the polished refinement often associated with the truly affluent noble houses. Instead, his face seemed marked by a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a melancholic heaviness. Combined with his formidable build—he was undeniably the tallest student in Lumina Arcanum—it rendered him doubly imposing.
Yet, Alaric’s personality could not have been more divergent from his bearing.
It wasn’t merely that he appeared indifferent to everything; it was as if he actively expunged events from his memory, whether by will or by nature. He projected an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that, ironically, magnified his mystique.
Most strikingly, Alaric exhibited no concern for material wealth. He never noted what others spent or how much they requested. Should the mood strike him, he might casually toss a handful of electrum coins to a nearby acolyte without a second thought, as if the concept of currency held no meaning. Sometimes he loaned funds and promptly forgot the transaction. Tales circulated of students returning borrowed coins, only for Alaric to stare, puzzled, wondering why they offered him payment.
Still, he did not offer his largesse to just anyone. He indulged random requests when his temper was mild, but coldly refused those in genuine desperation.
Even with companions, Alaric could be unsparing. Elian had once overheard a story of Marcus, upon seeing Alaric’s prized runic-enhanced sky-skiff—a vessel he rarely displayed—excitedly attempting to board the rear nacelle without permission. Alaric had kicked him off on the spot, sending Marcus sprawling onto the cobblestones like a startled gargoyle.
At the apex of the social hierarchy, individuals like Alaric and Kaelen shared one crucial trait: a complete disregard for others’ opinions. This utter indifference, in its own peculiar way, was precisely what allowed them to occupy the pyramid’s summit.
Why do we, with our own hands, concede the reins of our shared world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how many times Elian wrestled with the question, he still found no answer.
And yet, Alaric Thorne proclaimed himself a devout follower of the Celestial Weave.
He was the type of acolyte who slept with a consecrated text under his pillow, yet adamantly claimed adherence to its tenets. He abstained from potent elixirs, avoided smokeweed, held no dalliances, and never stole or extorted coins from other students. Yet the doctrine he espoused seemed flawed—any novice of the Celestial Weave could discern as much from the rules regarding elixirs and smokeweed alone. Such earthly pleasures were not forbidden.
The Celestial Weave, it was said, viewed unbridled ambition and unnatural attachments as sins. Was that why Kaelen Thorne’s actions so clearly disgusted Alaric? Elian licked his dry lips.
Elian felt a strange relief that he hadn’t been caught staring. Had he been, he might have found himself like that runic primer, trampled and discarded. And yet, even in that moment, he wondered—if Kaelen and he had remained close, as they were merely months ago, would Kaelen have offered protection?
The thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories he desperately wished to bury. He took a deep breath, fighting the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the stale Lumina bread he’d eaten earlier threatened to resurface.
No, of course not.
How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to believe such a thing. To Kaelen, Elian was nothing. Merely a convenient fellow acolyte to pass the time with. He knew this now, because of the way Kaelen had looked at him when he had struck him down. Kaelen’s eyes had spoken volumes. Elian hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had stared him in the face.
Kaelen sinned openly, his ambition a blazing inferno. Elian, too, was a sinner—but he hid it beneath layers of diligence and feigned deference. And so, Kaelen faced the judgment of the Celestial Weave, while Elian remained, for now, untouched.
A faint laugh escaped his lips, so soft only he could hear its brittle sound.
“…So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.”
Perhaps the Celestial Weave judged with Alaric Thorne’s detached indifference.
His gaze shifted to the desk near Master Valerius’s podium. Unusually, a pang of pity struck Elian for Lyra Aethel today. Poor soul, ensnared in the clutches of a devil. She lacked the inner strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Lyra, despite the formidable presence of House Aethel. She should have fled the moment Elian had warned her, foolish girl.
Elian knew he was not a good person. He was selfish, self-serving, and for this, he felt he was constantly being punished. Sometimes, a darker thought surfaced: If one must fall for another acolyte, why not choose someone sly and deceitful, like him? At least then life would be simpler, perhaps even understood. Why choose someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering so profoundly?
These days, his thoughts held a different, more somber hue.
Yes. Of course, no one could ever love someone like him. He knew himself too intimately to believe otherwise.
There had been a time when he believed he could grasp everything. Arrogant, conceited Elian Vane. Elian, who at eighteen, had presumed to understand the very fabric of the world. Wicked, vile Elian. Pitiful Elian, who had no one to offer solace, so he endured everything alone.
That day, he could not surmount the fifteenth problem. Elian used a feigned malaise as an excuse, slumping over his desk, thinking: At least I am not as irrevocably ruined as Kaelen or Lyra.
Rumors about Kaelen and Lyra spread like wildfire through the academy. Whether exaggerated or grounded in truth, none could say for certain. There was no way to ascertain the facts. Kaelen’s usual cohort had vanished from Lumina Arcanum, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied forming new alliances to fret over anything else, inadvertently fueling the whispers even further.
“Master Valerius, forgive me, but who was closest to Kaelen?”
“House… no, Alaric Thorne.”
Elian overheard this exchange as he passed by on his way back to the classroom before dismissal. The homeroom Master had inquired, and a junior acolyte had answered. Pretending he had heard nothing, Elian entered the room. Master Valerius glanced nervously between Elian and the two empty seats, his fingers drumming against the podium. Then, as if abandoning an unspoken query, he announced:
“Let us conclude.”
The moment dismissal ended, Elian gathered his satchel. As he slung it over his shoulder, Alaric Thorne tapped him on the back.
“Elian. Let us convene after lessons.”
Elian looked at his face.
He knew. He had always observed Kaelen and Alaric’s every interaction, so he knew that the individual Alaric most frequently invited to gather was always Kaelen. After a brief pause, Elian waved him off.
“I cannot. I have supplemental runic studies.”
“What of after that?”
“Further study. Go, gather with one of your usual companions.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Proximity to lesser minds only dulls one’s own edge.”
“They are your companions.”
“Existence is a calculus of gain. Clinging to detritus only contaminates one’s own aspirations.”
“Ha.”
A short, sharp laugh escaped Elian at the sheer absurdity, yet it held a hollow ring.
Right. This was why he had always found an unsettling kinship with Alaric. Their twisted values seemed to align in peculiar, dangerous ways.
“So, Marcus, Seraphina—they are detritus? Even Gareth?”
“If you frame it thus, then yes, largely. But you are… different.”
Such a backhanded compliment left Elian feeling profoundly uncomfortable.
“What is that meant to signify? You are atrocious.”
“I am not.”
“You are utterly atrocious.”
“Hmm. It is enshrined in the Celestial Weave’s foundational texts: ‘Thou shalt not speak falsehoods.’ I merely speak truths, Elian.”
Honestly, Alaric was worse than Elian. At least Elian didn’t so blatantly regard his own companions as refuse.
“That is why I am a righteous individual.”
“…Indeed.”
“Since I am such a righteous individual, may I accompany you to your quarters?”
Alaric Thorne blinked twice. Elian met his unwavering gaze for a moment before nodding slowly.
“Yes, why not.”
As long as Alaric did not interfere with Elian’s own precarious machinations, there was no reason to refuse. To secure one’s place in the academy’s unforgiving hierarchy, one must…