Dust motes danced, slow and deliberate, within the stale breath of the Grand Scriptorium, a vast chamber where the weight of ages pressed down on every soul. Thirty young scions, or those aspiring to serve them, bent over parchment, their breaths shallow, their movements guarded. This quiet expanse, with its soaring, oak-ribbed ceilings, felt less like a place of learning and more like a carefully maintained cage for beasts. Here, every nascent noble, every ambitious scribe, had existed under this singular, taut tension for exactly eighteen days since the last pronouncement from the Volkov Seat. Survival was a delicate script, penned in fear. This constant, gnawing anxiety had first taken root within Aiel at the tender age of twelve, when he’d first learned the grim art of aligning oneself with those whose Essences shone brightest. The balancing act had become his daily ritual, as it had for every other soul tethered to this grand, merciless engine of power. A cubic maze, concealing a pyramid. That was the Scriptorium of the young and the aspiring. “Ah…” His arm, numb from the cramped, precise calligraphy he’d been practicing for hours, tingled as Aiel shook it out, a small tremor running through his delicate wrist. Aiel tapped his tightly wound stomach lightly with the side of his fist, the faint thud against his ribs echoing the hollow ache within him. Letting out a weak breath, he looked at the slumped backs of his peers. Veridian inkwells, peach-colored napes. At the high dais, Master Erling, our instructor of Court Etiquette and Lore, sat, ostensibly reading a crumpled scroll he’d folded in half. Meanwhile, the students were either diligently transcribing the ancient decrees he had assigned or, having long since surrendered to the oppressive calm, were slouched over, lost to sleep. “Rouse yourselves, you slumbering vagrants of thought,” Master Erling called out, his voice surprisingly robust as he turned another page of the historical record, its vellum rasping like dry leaves. It was already the fifth period. Aiel had been meticulously working through the fifteenth problem – the intricate deciphering of an obscure Volkov lineage chart – and paused, scratching his temple with an index finger before setting his finest-tipped quill on the polished oak. His eyes, keen and accustomed to finding patterns in complex scripts, wandered to the two empty seats, prominently placed near the front. Two seats, two gaping voids that drew the eye. As anticipated, neither Lord Kaelen Volkov nor Thane Elara had graced the Scriptorium with their presence. They likely wouldn’t appear tomorrow either, unless Kaelen’s volatile temper shifted like a sudden storm, or some new, devastating truth had been unearthed between the two of them. Whatever that truth might be, Aiel had no desire to speculate. He lowered his gaze back to the intricate problems, his eyes tracing the ancient glyphs that composed the Volkov family crest. There had been a time when Aiel had believed he understood Kaelen Volkov entirely. He had convinced himself that he possessed the keenest insight into Kaelen’s mercurial nature within the entire Scriptorium. Aiel had taken a quiet, fierce pride in that, even when comparing himself to Lord Lysander Thorne, who was undeniably closer to Kaelen than anyone else. In truth, that submerged pride had been the quiet balm that allowed Aiel to endure watching Lysander and Kaelen confer so intimately. Deep down, Aiel had relished the secret knowledge that he held the superior understanding of Kaelen’s true currents. He propped his chin on his hand, the cool wood a small comfort against his feverish skin. The fact that he was capable of harboring such calculating thoughts disgusted him. What would his peers, what would the Volkovs, think if they knew these insidious calculations were swirling in his mind? The answer was chillingly obvious. He’d be pushed to the very bottom of the pyramid, relegated to its widest, most ignoble plane. A terrifying prospect, indeed. This kind of insidious desire, so unique to a scheming, overlooked retainer, had to remain hidden at all costs. He had to bury it deep, so deep that not even the object of his hidden scrutiny would sense it. Ultimately, he needed to hide it so well that even he forgot it existed. But Kaelen Volkov had not done that. Every scion in the Scriptorium knew the blunt force of his desires. Aiel glanced around, lifting his head fractionally. Everyone was still hunched over their desks, lost in their own battles or dreams. Pressing his lips tightly together, he looked ahead. Lying forlornly between the rows of desks, near the central aisle, was a discarded historical ledger, its vellum cover scuffed and marked with footprints – a stark testament to disrespect. Suddenly, as if someone might have noticed his gaze lingering, Aiel buried his head in his arms, mimicking the posture of the more exhausted students. Then he turned his neck, subtly shifting his gaze to a different direction. His eyes fell on the back row. There, Lord Lysander Thorne lay partially hidden by his arm, as if he had collapsed mid-study. The face, partially obscured, looked delicate and sorrowful, almost as if it belonged to one of the ancient spirits whose deeds were chronicled in these very halls. Aiel found himself staring at Lysander’s face before his gaze drifted to his arm. Had the already tall Lysander grown even more? The ceremonial tunic that had fit him perfectly at the start of the season now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one of those wrists was a prayer-strand of polished river stones—a heavy, unmistakable symbol, an integral part of Lysander Thorne’s austere identity. Before hearing the rumors, Aiel had assumed Lysander hailed from the distant, rugged Thorne Marches, the same region as Thane Elara. Despite his intimidating aura, Lysander didn’t look overtly wealthy. His sunken eyes were always shadowed by prominent lids, and his faded irises gave him a perpetually haunted look. The way his thin sclera showed beneath his pupils added to his sharp and gaunt appearance. Lysander’s overall atmosphere was one of grim intimidation, though it lacked the refined indulgence often associated with true Volkov wealth. Instead, his face seemed marked by a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a kind of melancholic heaviness. Combined with his large, ascetic build—he was undoubtedly the tallest student in the Scriptorium—it made him doubly imposing. But Lysander’s inner Essence, his driving core, couldn’t have been more different from his outward stoicism. It wasn’t just that he seemed indifferent to everything; it was as if he actively erased events from his memory, whether intentionally or not. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that ironically added to his mystique. Most notably, Lysander didn’t care for coin. He never paid attention to how much others spent or how much they sought. If the mood struck him, he’d casually toss a purse of silver to someone nearby without a second thought, as if the concept of currency didn’t exist for him. Sometimes he lent money and forgot about it entirely. There were even stories of retainers returning borrowed funds only for Lysander to ask, puzzled, why they were giving him coin. Still, he didn’t lend money to just anyone. He’d indulge random requests when in a good mood but coldly refuse those who were truly desperate. Even with his closest companions, Lysander could be harsh. Aiel once overheard a tale of how Master Fenn, upon seeing Lysander’s prized hunting hawk—a magnificent creature he rarely displayed—excitedly tried to reach for its jesses without permission. Lysander had struck Fenn’s arm away on the spot, sending him stumbling back like a startled fawn. At the apex of the social hierarchy, scions like Lysander Thorne and Kaelen Volkov shared one chilling trait: a complete lack of concern for others’ opinions. This indifference, in its own brutal way, was what allowed them to sit at the pyramid’s peak. Why do we, with our own trembling hands, surrender the keys to our world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how much Aiel turned the question over in his mind, he still couldn’t fathom it. And yet, Lysander Thorne proclaimed himself a devotee of the Iron Path, a severe, ancient discipline that preached austerity and unyielding purpose. He was the type of scion who slept with a scripture of the Path’s tenets beneath his head, yet his actions often seemed to bend the very spirit of its teachings. He didn’t partake in the common revels of wine, nor indulge in the fragrant leaf, nor consort with courtesans, nor steal from the less fortunate. Yet the doctrine he followed, in Aiel’s estimation, seemed flawed in its interpretation; even the most cursory knowledge of the Iron Path allowed for modest indulgences. They say the Iron Path views emotional attachments as a weakness, a deviation from the clear pursuit of Essence. Is that why Kaelen Volkov’s overt affections disgust Lord Lysander so much? Aiel licked his dry lips. He felt a strange sense of relief that he hadn’t been caught—caught in the gravitational pull of the Volkov scandal. If he had been, he would have ended up like that discarded ledger, trampled underfoot. And yet, even in that moment, a flicker of a treacherous thought: if Kaelen and Aiel had remained close, as they were just a few months ago, would Kaelen have protected him? The thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories Aiel desperately wanted to forget, to bury beneath layers of meticulously copied historical dates. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the bitter midday broth he’d consumed earlier were threatening to return. No, of course not. How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to think he would. To Kaelen, Aiel was nothing. Just a convenient, skilled hand, a useful friend to pass the time with. He knew this now because of the way Kaelen had looked at him the day he dismissed Aiel’s warnings so utterly. His eyes had said everything. Aiel hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had been staring him in the face, a raw, unyielding fact. Kaelen transgresses openly. Aiel, too, is a transgressor—but he hides it beneath layers of decorum and proper script. And so, Kaelen is punished by the Dominion, while Aiel is, for now, spared. A faint, bitter laugh escaped his lips, so soft it was audible only to himself. “…So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.” Perhaps the Dominion’s will, its inescapable calculus, had a personality like Lysander Thorne’s. Aiel’s gaze shifted to the desk near the Master’s podium. This was unusual, but today, he felt a pang of pity for Thane Elara. Poor soul, caught in the clutches of the devilish Volkov. You lacked the strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Elara, so unlike the formidable House she represented. You should have fled the moment Aiel’s subtle warning reached your ears, you fool. Aiel knew he wasn’t a good person. He was selfish and self-serving, and perhaps that’s why he had been cast aside. Sometimes, he even thought this: If one must find comfort in another of the same gender, why not pick someone sly and deceitful like Aiel? At least then the intricacies of power and desire might be simpler to navigate. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering for it? These days, Aiel thought differently. Yes. Of course, no one could ever truly love someone like him. He knew himself too well, knew the calculating currents that ran beneath his calm exterior, to believe otherwise. There was a time when he thought he could have it all—arrogant, conceited Aiel. Aiel, who thought he understood the Dominion’s intricacies at eighteen. Wicked, vile Aiel. Pitiful Aiel, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone. That day, he couldn’t get past the fifteenth question. He used his supposed illness—a genuine knot of tension in his gut—as an excuse to lie slumped over his desk, thinking to himself: Well, at least I’m not as ruined as Kaelen or Elara. Rumors about Kaelen and Elara spread like wildfire through the noble circles, infecting every whispered conversation. Whether they were exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to ascertain either. Kaelen’s retinue had vanished from the Scriptorium, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances to worry about anything else, inadvertently fueling the rumors even further. “Master Erling, forgive my impertinence, but who would be considered closest to Lord Kaelen, in terms of influence?” “Lord Kaelen… No, that would be Lord Lysander Thorne.” Aiel overheard this exchange as he passed by on his way back to the Scriptorium before dismissal. The Master of Lore had asked, and one of his classmates had answered with a hesitant certainty. Pretending he hadn’t heard, Aiel walked into the room. Master Erling glanced nervously between Aiel and the empty seats, drumming his fingers against the dais. Then, as if giving up on some unspoken thought, he announced: “Let us conclude for the day.” The moment dismissal ended, Aiel grabbed his bag, its leather straps groaning softly. As he slung it over his shoulder, Lord Lysander Thorne tapped him lightly on the back. “Aiel. Shall we confer after the evening meal?” Aiel looked at Lysander’s face, a placid mask of composed indifference. He knew. Aiel had always watched Kaelen and Lysander’s every move, meticulously cataloging their interactions. He knew that the person Lysander most frequently invited to ‘confer’ was always Kaelen Volkov. After a brief pause, Aiel offered a deferential shake of his head. “My apologies, Lord Thorne. I have extensive transcription duties at the Hall of Records.” “And after that?” Lysander’s tone was flat, unwavering. “Further study, my lord. Perhaps you could seek out one of your closer companions.” “Unnecessary.” “Why not, my lord?” “Life is a ledger, Aiel. Every entry must yield gain. To cling to lesser pages is to diminish the tome.” “Ha.” Aiel let out a short, hollow laugh at the stark, brutal clarity of it. Right. This was why Aiel had been able to navigate Lysander’s presence better than expected. Their twisted values, their pragmatic ruthlessness, seemed to align in strange, chilling ways. “So, Master Fenn, Scribe Roric—they are merely ‘lesser pages’? Even Master Eldrin?” “If you inscribe it thus, then yes, largely so. But you, Aiel, bear a different inscription.” The backhanded compliment, or perhaps observation, left Aiel feeling acutely uncomfortable, a prickling sensation beneath his skin. “What is that supposed to mean, my lord? You are remarkably harsh.” “No, Aiel. I am merely… precise.” “You are exceedingly harsh.” “Hmm. It is in the First Commandment of the Iron Path: ‘Speak only the unvarnished truth.’ I am merely upholding my tenets, Aiel.” Honestly, Lysander was worse than Aiel. At least Aiel didn’t overtly dismiss his acquaintances as worthless. “That is why I am a practitioner of the Path.” “…Indeed.” “Since I am such a devoted practitioner, may I accompany you to your private chamber, Aiel?” Lysander blinked twice, his expression unwavering. Aiel looked at his face for a moment, weighing the implications, before offering a measured nod. “As you wish, my lord.” As long as Lysander didn’t interfere with Aiel’s meticulous work, or challenge his precarious standing, there was no reason to refuse. Indeed, to secure one’s place in the delicate hierarchy of the Silverwood Dominion, one often had to allow the predators into one’s very den.

Chapter 3.1: The Calculus of Shadow