Lord Theron, with an ill-advised flourish, gripped the ancient lexicon resting on the lectern. He aimed to impress, to assert his lineage, but his grasp faltered. Before his hand could truly connect, Kaelen Thorne’s palm, swift and decisive, met Theron’s wrist with a sharp *thwack*, silencing the attempt at bravado.
Any pretense of dominance Theron held dissolved in an instant.
He flinched, letting out a choked yelp like a startled rook. Ser Kaelan and Ser Gareth, seated nearby, snickered openly. Theron’s gaze snapped to them, malice flashing in his eyes.
"Find that amusing, do you?" he spat, jabbing a finger at Gareth.
With that minor disruption concluded, the trio swept out of the lecture hall. Gareth paused at the archway, offering a casual wave. I returned it, a polite, almost instinctual gesture, then settled back into my seat.
My fingers closed around the polished obsidian stylus. Before scratching the first rune onto the vellum, I lifted my head. My eyes traced the ornate, yet confining, aether-etched walls of the Lumina Arcanum.
Then, I bowed my head to the task.
I was deciphering the third ancient inscription, the stylus tapping a restless rhythm against the parchment. A sudden lift of my head drew my gaze to the vaulted windows.
Outside, the Crystal-Leaf trees, usually shimmering with pale light, now burned with the fiery hues of late autumn. Their sharp, metallic scent, mingled with damp earth, wafted through a half-open vent. Above, the Aethelgard sky stretched, a canvas of impossible, vivid blue.
"This academy, it’s a crucible for nascent ambition."
Master Borin, our history scholar, often mused on such things, his voice rough with age.
"A hunting ground. The young lords and ladies, they establish their pecking order early. By spring, the lines are drawn. But until then? Endless jousting, displays of raw power, testing the bounds of propriety. My head aches from it. And next cycle, new fledglings will arrive. Let’s see… what celestial alignment will they be born under?"
He would unfurl a gnarled hand, counting the segments of his fingers, muttering names of forgotten constellations.
"The Serpent, The Gryphon, The Wyrm… What portents will they bring?"
I mimicked his motion, stretching my own hand, tracing the faint lines of my palm. The pattern eluded me. I flipped my hand, counting the raised bones on its back.
One, thirty-one, two, twenty-eight, three, thirty-one, four, thirty… nine.
In early summer, I would never have predicted that late autumn would feel like the raw, competitive intensity of first matriculation.
"Young scions are nothing but bundles of pride and insecurity. Irrational, impulsive, easily swayed."
I stared at the knuckle of my middle finger, absently tapping the worn surface of my oak desk like a drum. The dry rasp of a lecturer’s voice, hoarse from a protracted cold, filled the hall, accompanied by the faint crackle of arcane chalk against a self-erasing slate.
My eyes drifted to the empty seat near the front.
For a moment, I imagined the faint imprint of a head on the polished wood – one side pressed deep, the other hovering.
My tapping ceased.
I turned my head.
Kaelen Thorne sat hunched over a heavy tome of Elemental Conjuration, his face half-buried in the pages. His eyes were half-lidded. He’d fix his gaze on an intricate spell diagram as if to devour it, then slump forward, pressing his forehead against the ancient script.
I watched his nose flatten against the crack between the pages.
Then, I looked away.
"Did my focus drift for a moment?"
I felt a strange disconnect from my own presence. I marked the third inscription with a small star and moved to the fourth.
Lunch arrived: spiced gruel and a magically chilled goblet of lumina-mead.
Kaelen finished his mead first, then spoke abruptly.
"You’re second in Runic Lore, aren’t you?"
"Indeed. In our year."
"And academy-wide?"
"Still second."
"By the Ancestors."
"What is it?"
"So that means the top student in our year is the top student in the entire Lumina Arcanum?"
"You were unaware? Lysandra Volkov. I have never surpassed her in Runic Lore. Her grasp is… formidable."
"She’s even more relentless than you, isn’t she?"
"Her private tutelage often extends past the midnight bell."
"By the Serpent, that’s dedication."
"She strives with a fierce resolve."
I had no desire to prolong the conversation. I scooped a mouthful of gruel, chewing slowly. Kaelen, thankfully, did not press. He merely nodded.
"Ah—"
The timing felt off. The exchange had ended too abruptly. I debated whether to offer another platitude. Awkward silences felt like open wounds, so I blurted out, without much thought,
"And you? What is your standing in Elemental Conjuration?"
“……”
His spoon paused mid-air. My gaze fixed on his hand. His table manners, at least, were impeccable. If Kaelen Thorne excelled at anything beyond physical prowess, it was maintaining a semblance of noble decorum.
"In the year…"
"Yes?"
"Ninth."
"…Ninth?"
"Why do you look at me thus?"
I quickly averted my eyes from his hands. Was he serious? No deception? The surprise nearly escaped me as an audible question. I swallowed it, just in time.
Curses. A near blunder. To risk offense, to incur his ire, would be imprudent. I hesitated. Should I offer effusive praise? Or maintain an indifferent air, as if such a rank were entirely expected? My mind, ever calculating for survival, weighed the social currents.
He seemed to hold little true affection for his usual companions.
The latter approach felt safer.
"Ah. Higher than I had anticipated, then."
"What? Anticipated? How dull did you consider me?"
"Not dull. It’s merely… I believed the intricacies of Aetheric Flux vexed you?"
"Only the historical theory of Aetheric Flux. Only that. I do not struggle with practical application."
"You do not attend private academies."
"Refusing external tutelage does not equate to lacking diligence. By the Ancestors, did you truly think me an idiot?"
"No, no, not at all." I waved a hand dismissively. "It is impressive, however, to achieve such a rank without supplemental instruction."
"…Truly?"
"Indeed. Quite impressive."
For some inexplicable reason, Kaelen began to mash his spoon into his gruel. And… was that a flush? I caught the subtle reddening of his ear tips.
Now that I considered it, Valerius Blackwood ranked thirty-second. And that was only because a handful of others had abandoned their studies entirely. Thirty-second out of thirty-six active students.
Reflecting, I realized my attention had rarely strayed beyond the immediate orbit of Valerius. With that realization, a cold clarity struck me. I had been ensnared in precisely the kind of pathetic, obsessive fixation I once despised.
Meanwhile, Kaelen Thorne, oblivious to my internal crisis, had visibly swelled with a renewed sense of self-importance. His tone, when he next spoke, brimmed with satisfaction.
"Oh, I suppose you wouldn’t know. I excel at Battle Runes."
"Do you? To what degree?"
"Perfect score. I have never lost a single point in Battle Runic application."
"Kkhhkk!"
I choked. The confession, utterly unexpected, sent a spray of mead from my mouth. Kaelen scowled, yanking his tray away.
"By the Serpent! What manner of reaction is that?"
"I merely… was not anticipating such an assertion."
"Is it so shocking?" He frowned, a slight pout to his lips. "My historical scores are abysmal, but that is inconsequential."
There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice. So, I offered a dry jest.
"Perhaps perusing a few more ancient tomes would benefit your historical acumen."
"What foolishness! I am a connoisseur of ancient lore!"
"A connoisseur? I have never observed you with anything but a combat manual."
"That is because my true studies are conducted in secret, in the quiet of my quarters."
"Why, by all the Hallowed Arcanum, would you need to conceal such a pursuit?"
Kaelen Thorne’s eyes, which had curved with amusement, drooped slightly as he spooned more food into his mouth. Then, casually, he pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something about the gesture unsettled me. I bit the inside of my cheek.
Kaelen met my gaze as he withdrew the spoon, then lowered his eyes and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to its tip.
"Obscure ritualistic texts are still literature."
That was a jest. A crude one. My face burned. To hide it, I snatched the crumpled napkin beside my tray and flung it at him. It struck just below his sharp, narrow eyes, dropping harmlessly onto the table. One of his eyes twitched subtly. Not that I cared, but in case he was genuinely provoked, I feigned contrition.
"Do not practice such vulgarity. Especially not within the academy halls. It is… unseemly."
"Oh? This? You mean Valerius’s… affectation?"
"I care not whose affectation it is. Cease it."
"Is this not… a fashionable gesture amongst certain circles now?"
“……”
I stared at him, trying to discern earnestness from mockery. My sleep had lessened. A clear indication my body was adapting, finding a precarious new comfort. Mornings, once dry and sluggish, now held a strange, crisp clarity. It was a welcome change, for in my mind, the gravest transgressions at my age were complacency and oversleeping.
"Ah, curse it—"
My jaw clicked painfully as I polished my teeth. Ever since Valerius Blackwood’s fist had connected, my jaw made an odd grinding noise whenever I opened my mouth too wide. Aside from that, this day possessed a fragile sense of calm.
But even in this nascent peace, sudden currents of irritation surfaced. The source remained consistent: Valerius Blackwood. Or rather, the ripples of chaos he left in his wake. Most of those incidents manifested within these very walls.
"Oh, right. I saw Valerius Blackwood last night."
Ser Gareth spoke, biting into a dense meal-ration bar, the kind rumored to be forged from alchemical substitutes and gristle.
Lord Theron, who had been mock-sparring with Gareth’s ankle, striking with playful knife-hands, suddenly perked up.
"By the Hallowed! That is correct! You reminded me! I was about to relay this. Through a whispered current, I heard… you recall Arcanist Eldrin, yes? That wandering, unconventional mage? I heard Valerius is quartered at his residence."
"Arcanist Eldrin? That blustering fool Eldrin?"
Kaelen Thorne, rummaging through a small satchel, asked casually. When his hand emerged, he held two small, crystalized candies. For some reason, he offered one to me.
“……?”
I stared at it, perplexed. “……What is this?” I met his gaze, but Kaelen merely offered a slight nod, as if the gesture required no further explanation.
Theron reacted most vociferously, his satchel of provisions clearly plundered. "By the Void! I acquired those! Why, by the Seven Hells, are you scoundrels consuming my stores?"
"Oh, as if you have never pilfered mine, glutton."
Gareth delivered another mock knife-hand strike at Theron’s throat. Theron instantly spun, seized Gareth’s collar, and swung a feigned punch at his face. Of course, no actual contact was intended. Such was their peculiar dynamic.
I ignored their puerile bickering and looked down at the candy in my hand. The wrapper bore the image of a split Sun-Lime. I peeled the wrapper, placed the candy in my mouth, and lifted my head.
"What do you think? The taste of first ardour?"
Kaelen grinned.
"I dislike Sun-Lime."
My answer extended beyond the candy itself. It was my tacit evaluation of his attempted jest. More than anything, I found no amusement in the notion of 'first ardour.' That sticky, bitter-sweet sensation clung to the back of my throat, spoiling my appetite. In the end, I could not even finish the candy. I tossed it into a refuse chute.
"Oh, what a grave waste," Kaelen mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, I reached into Theron’s depleted satchel to find a different confection. All were Sun-Lime or Moon-Citron. Moon-Citron was the lesser evil. I unwrapped one and placed it in my mouth.
"Anyway, Arcanist Eldrin, then? Sounds entirely like Valerius."
"What, because they are both… promiscuous in their dealings?"
Kaelen’s words held a sharp edge. Uncomfortable, I turned to observe him. He sucked on his candy expressionlessly, twirling the pale stick between his lips. I pulled mine from my mouth. Something about this felt wrong.
Kaelen seemed unconcerned. He tilted his candy in the air like a miniature blade, making casual jabbing motions.
"He traffics in questionable artifacts, deals with any client, regardless of their standing or alignment. And when he finds a particularly… promising patron, he funnels them directly to Valerius. It’s a vicious cycle. Exploiting, trading favors, passing each other around."
"So Arcanist Eldrin is… also of such ill repute?"
Lord Theron suddenly cut in. Whether he had ceased his playful tussle with Gareth or merely halted mid-feint to eavesdrop, I could not tell. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing the unpleasant revelation.