Two cycles after Acolyte Lyra’s research scrolls were found charred, his intricate rune-tablets lay shattered within the incinerator pit. A minor scion from House Valerius, Lysander, made no secret of his triumph. Whispers carried his boast from the Refectory, tales of how Lyra’s volatile ramblings had ‘provoked’ the necessary disposal. Elian watched the smoke curl from the pit, carrying with it the remnants of Lyra’s life’s work.
“How… decisive,” Elian murmured, the words tasting like ash.
Next to the pit, a discarded crate bore the faint scorch marks. Within, a few fragmented runic carvings, too small to fully burn, offered a glimpse into Lyra’s frantic studies. Two cycles past, Lyra had lost everything without ever truly comprehending the forces aligned against him.
His downfall, Elian knew, stemmed from more than mere academic rivalry. Lyra had exhibited a disconcerting flair for unpredictable, raw magic, often challenging the established protocols of the academy. He’d openly questioned the Elder Thorne’s preferred runic interpretations, a grave error. This defiance, coupled with escalating outbursts, had turned the current of opinion against him. The moment Lyra openly defied the Thorne house’s favored protégé, his fate was sealed. Yet, as the academy’s sentiment solidified into quiet condemnation, Elian felt no urge to intercede, no prick of conscience to offer explanation.
He harbored no foolish illusions about jeopardizing his own precarious standing. Intervening for Lyra would brand him as a sympathizer, a fool aligned with failure. It might, in some rare estimation, be perceived as noble, even principled. But within the rigid, serpentine coils of Lumina Arcanum, where every action was weighed against power and prestige, such a defense would only prompt a singular, damning question:
“Why?”
That chilling query, Elian knew, could unravel everything he painstakingly built. He leaned back against a cold stone pillar, closing his eyes. If only, when he next opened them, the path before him would be clear, free of the shadow of others’ ruin. He felt the familiar pull of exhaustion, a heavy cloak settling over him.
A sharp tap, more insistent than accidental, against his forehead jolted him alert. He sat upright, a hand instinctively rising to his brow. Across from him, Alaric Thorne, seemingly materialized from the very air, casually adjusted a sleeve of his perfectly tailored robes.
“Lost in the ether, Vane?” Alaric’s voice was a low, resonant hum, cutting through the muted sounds of the academy. “Or merely dreaming of a higher station?”
“A moment of contemplation, Acolyte Thorne,” Elian replied, his voice formal, controlled.
“Contemplation,” Alaric echoed, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. He lifted a hand, inspecting his manicured nails. “A luxury few can afford, least of all those who must strive for every scrap of recognition. Unlike myself, whose station is… immutable.” He let the words hang, a veiled reference to his own effortless superiority, a birthright Elian could only dream of.
He watched as Alaric kicked aside a stray scroll with the toe of his boot, then settled onto a low stone bench as if it were a throne. Alaric’s own satchel, crafted from rich, dark leather, landed on the bench beside him, instantly becoming a casual armrest.
“You stir me from my thoughts, only to indulge in your own idleness?” Elian managed, a flicker of irritation sparking.
Alaric’s gaze drifted to him, sharp and knowing. “Merely ensuring you do not succumb to scholastic stupor. While my own academic endeavors are, admittedly, a triviality.” He gave a dismissive flick of his wrist. “My true lessons lie elsewhere.”
Elian subtly rubbed his left forearm. The faint, barely visible scrape from his hasty retreat from Alaric's presence two days prior still smarted. He had caught himself on a loose runic crystal, a momentary lapse in his usual vigilance.
“Tell me, Vane.” Alaric’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper, yet it seemed to fill the space. “That small imperfection on your arm… it wasn’t simply an accident, was it?”
Elian’s hand froze. “A minor mishap, Acolyte Thorne. A misstep in the cloistered passages.”
Alaric chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. He didn’t lift his head, merely inclined it slightly. “Ah. The architecture of Lumina Arcanum is known for its treacherous angles. Or perhaps,” his eyes, cold as obsidian, flicked to Elian, “one simply ran into something… less yielding than stone.”
A cold dread bloomed in Elian’s chest. Was it truly so obvious? His injury was negligible, a fleeting mark. Yet Alaric had seen through his pretense with unnerving ease. The words, though delivered with a casual air, held a quiet menace.
Alaric leaned his head against the stone, his gaze unsettlingly still. His bright irises, rimmed with a darker hue, pinned Elian. It felt like watching the tip of a spell-bolt, knowing it was aimed but unsure of its precise target. Elian’s mind raced, two desperate thoughts echoing: *No way. He couldn’t have known.* *No way. He couldn’t have.*
Then, Alaric’s eyes narrowed further. “Such trivialities, if exposed to the wrong ears, might be construed as… weakness. A lack of self-possession, perhaps.” His long, serpentine eyes curved upward. Elian’s throat constricted. His breath hitched.
“Should such a minor indiscretion reach the Dean’s ears, it would be… unbecoming,” Alaric continued, his voice a silken thread. “I, of course, have no interest in such gossip tarnishing the reputation of those I deem… useful.” He raised a hand, tracing the faint outline of a rune on his own wrist, then pressed his finger to his lips, a gesture of silent secrecy. The air Elian had been holding expelled in a ragged gasp.
Alaric offered no pause for a response. He smoothed back a lock of dark hair, then, with an almost bored expression, gestured vaguely at Elian. “Still, that meticulous part in your hair, Vane. Did you cultivate it in emulation of my own? A rather uninspired choice.”
Elian felt a rush of heat, then cold. He was speechless. Alaric wrinkled his nose in feigned distaste.
“Regardless, I find this conversation tiresome. More pressing matters await my attention.” He yawned, a silent, predatory stretch, and rose from the bench.
Staring at the departing figure, Elian finally managed a choked whisper. “I did not… emulate your hairstyle. Nor have I altered it.”
“Indeed?” Alaric’s muffled voice rumbled as he disappeared into the shadowy passage.
—
“By the Elder Thorne, whose wisdom guides the weak,” Alaric intoned, clutching a parchment of ornate script. “Grant me… discretion.”
Fourth bell. The Proctors had just distributed the Citations of Merit, the mid-term evaluations. Alaric, seemingly unfazed, held his parchment with a sardonic grin. He allowed himself a dramatic sigh.
“Ah, the crushing weight of expectation.”
Elian, by contrast, glanced at his own citation. All ‘Exceptional’ marks in ancient languages and runic theory, ‘Proficient’ in practical abjuration, ‘Adequate’ in elemental manipulation – the latter two far less impressive than his theoretical scores. He folded the parchment precisely, tucking it into the inner pocket of his robes. Alaric, meanwhile, continued his theatrical display. He’d thrown his head back so far that Elian could only see the prominent line of his throat, the Adam’s apple bobbing with each exasperated breath.
“That… is not the correct invocation,” Elian observed, his voice carefully neutral.
“Does it matter?” Alaric countered, lowering his head slightly, his eyes glinting. “A plea is a plea.” Then, with a sudden shift, he asked, “Tell me, Vane. Is it ‘Elder Thorne’ or ‘Arch-Sorcerer Thorne’ that we should supplicate?”
Elian found Alaric’s approach to academic and spiritual matters… peculiar.
“Why ask me? You are of House Thorne.”
“Elian, do not be so obtuse. You, with your formidable intellect, surely know the intricacies of such arcane politesse.”
“I do not. My studies lie in the languages of power, not the rituals of obeisance.”
Alaric, who had been leaning back with studied nonchalance, suddenly shot forward. Their eyes met, and Elian instinctively averted his gaze, focusing on a distant window, a prickling sensation of being caught in a compromising act. He felt the sharp, uncomfortable twist of suspicion, as if his own thoughts had been laid bare.
He stared absently at the etched glass of the window, then shifted his focus to the stiff collar of Alaric’s impeccably pressed tunic. The crisp, dark fabric rested against Alaric’s neck, but with every exaggerated movement, a hint of collarbone, sharp and defined, flashed into view.
“So, Vane? Do you wish to observe a true ritual? A demonstration of power, perhaps?”
“A demonstration?”
“Indeed. Not of trivial runes, but of influence. Of how the truly powerful operate.” Alaric’s lips curled into a faint smile. “If you join me on the Morrows, when the Houses gather for their endowments, you might witness something… illuminating. There are often certain… dispensations. Favors granted, positions opened.”
“You mean to say you attend the ceremonial endowments for… such reasons?” Elian couldn't hide his skepticism.
“Of course I do.” Elian finally met his gaze, and his eyes fell to the rune-carved quill Alaric had resting on his upper lip. He had to admit, despite himself, that Alaric possessed an undeniable, if arrogant, handsomeness. The quill, wedged between his nose and lip, made his voice a low, slurred rumble.
“It sounds as though you accuse me of opportunism, Vane. If positions are granted, why should one not avail oneself?”
“Can one truly call it… a path to power, if one seeks it for such selfish gain?”
“Everyone begins with such inclinations. Few start with grand, selfless ideals. They observe, ‘Ah, this House offers opportunities. This individual is influential.’ And then, little by little, that initial pragmatic interest in the ‘influential individual with positions’ transforms into unwavering loyalty, into a path to power. The initial impetus and the process are irrelevant. What matters is the ultimate outcome: ascent.”
Alaric spouted rhetoric sometimes. Sometimes it was just cynical bravado. But sometimes, it was a philosophy so pragmatically appealing that even Elian, the diligent scholar, found himself tempted. This, he realized, was the latter.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, pushing it back from his forehead. It still fell stubbornly into his eyes, so he shook his head, the fine strands swaying. He gathered them near his temples, finally lessening the irritating tickle. He’d been so distracted recently that he’d forgotten to visit the academy’s barber.
With Acolyte Lyra now entirely absent, the front of the classroom felt emptier than usual. There was no longer any reason to glance in that direction.
Six cycles ago, Master Sorcerer Borin had summoned Elian to his chambers, asking if he’d heard from Lyra.
Elian answered without hesitation, his voice even. “No, Master Sorcerer. I have not.”
“You and Lyra… you still hadn’t mended your… academic differences, had you?”
Elian offered a small, carefully calculated smile, though inside, he felt only a faint, bitter twist. “No, Master Sorcerer. Lyra… grew rather impassioned during our last discourse.”
“Lyra grew impassioned with you?”
“Indeed.”
Rumors, Elian knew, had already begun to circulate, so Master Borin was hardly oblivious to the subtle implications of his words. “Very well, I understand,” Borin said, dismissing him. Then, as he settled back into his high-backed chair, Elian caught snippets of a low grumble. Complaints about Lyra’s erratic behavior, frustration over the scolding Borin had received from Lyra’s lesser-noble patron. Elian pretended not to hear the pathetic monologue, but listened intently, gathering the full measure of the room’s atmosphere.
Later that day, while Elian was preparing his lexicon for private study, Lyra’s patron, a minor dignitary from a lesser House, sent a missive asking the same question as Master Borin—if he knew Lyra’s whereabouts.
Elian returned the same measured reply.
“No, Lyra has ceased all correspondence with me.”
— I see…
“I regret that I cannot be of any assistance.”
— No, there is nothing for you to apologize for. It is quite alright.
Lately, Lyra’s patron had sought him out with increasing frequency. And each time, the exchange followed the precise same pattern. There was something oddly deliberate in the way they continued to connect Elian and Lyra. He hastened to conclude the exchange.
Honestly, there was nothing for which to apologize. But he offered his regrets anyway—to cultivate favor. It was the same ingrained instinct that compelled courtiers to praise a fledgling heir’s first, awkward steps. A social convention. A subtle form of etiquette essential in a refined, yet brutal, society. So he did not believe the powerful saw him as being manipulated.
If anything, his politeness was more akin to a precise, intricate dance performed by a skilled courtier. He always knew his place. And because he invested such meticulous effort into being perceived favorably, he was destined to become a favored, if quiet, instrument.
Even if, one day, he made an error so glaring it drew a frown from the most discerning, they would extend him leniency. That was the intricate groundwork he was laying.
Unlike some impulsive fools, Elian was navigating his life with calculated wisdom. Perhaps, from the perspective of an Elder, his way of thinking was merely a narrow-minded, petty trick to escape immediate scrutiny. But among his peers, it was an undeniable truth: he was someone who knew how to navigate unpredictable situations with strategic cunning.
If proof were needed, one only had to observe Acolyte Rhys.
—
Acolyte Rhys, once a vocal critic of Elian’s academic focus, now made an overt effort to engage him in conversation. He had, after all, witnessed Elian’s proximity to Alaric Thorne and, by extension, the influence of House Thorne. Rhys, who had once aligned himself with Lyra’s academic circle, now made it abundantly clear where his loyalties lay, carefully cultivating Elian as a conduit to greater influence.