Lord Torvin, his tunic of rough-spun wool stretched taut across his narrow chest, thrust a finger at Silas, a bluster escaping his lips like a poorly uncorked wine skin. His House, the Thornwood, held scant land and even less influence, yet Torvin carried himself with the swagger of a Volkov first-born. Silas, a retainer from a lesser cadet branch, merely snickered.
Before Torvin could escalate his posturing—perhaps even draw a decorative dagger from his belt—Kaelen, lounging beside him on a plush velvet bench, casually extended a hand. He landed a soft, almost imperceptible cuff on Torvin’s thigh. The gesture was swift, devoid of malice, yet it carried the weight of an unspoken command, a gentle hand guiding a runaway horse. The minor squabble withered.
Torvin’s bravado deflated, replaced by a frustrated squawk, a sound akin to a goose caught in a snare. When Brenn, another of Torvin’s sycophants, dared to chuckle, Torvin whirled, lashing out with a closed fist at Brenn’s arm.
“Amuses you, does it? My predicament?”
After their brief, undignified spectacle, the three stomped from the grand antechamber, their voices echoing down the polished stone corridor.
Brenn, ever the thoughtless one, glanced back, offering a clumsy wave. Aiel, ever aware of propriety, returned the gesture with a slight dip of his head. Then, he resettled himself at the heavy oak writing desk, the quill, already dipped in midnight ink, waiting between his fingers.
His fingers, slender and precise, smoothed a fresh sheet of parchment. The inkwell, a small ceramic toad, caught the pale morning light. Aiel's gaze lifted, sweeping over the unadorned limestone walls of the scriptorium. They rose, cool and imposing, reflecting the Volkov's stark, unwavering authority.
He lowered his head again, the quill poised.
He was meticulously copying the third stanza of the House Volkov's founding charter, the script intricate and ancient, when he suddenly paused, his gaze drawn to the arched window. Beyond, the ancient Silverwood oaks, usually a vibrant green, now displayed the first fiery blush of autumn. A faint scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke, carried on the crisp breeze, drifted into the room. A peculiar contrast to the sterile quiet of the scriptorium.
"They're always testing. Always," he murmured, a memory rising unbidden. Aiel recalled the old Maester Borin, a stooped, parchment-skinned man who had tutored him in the minor arts.
"A formal academy, Aiel, would be far less taxing than this infernal court," Borin would grumble, tapping his gnarly finger against a dusty tome. "It’s a tangled thicket. A wildwood. Young lords and ladies, they establish their pecking order first. By the mid-harvest festival, things settle. But until then? It’s just challenge after challenge, displays of 'Essence,' testing the patience of their mentors, clawing their way up the social ladder. Gods above, my head aches. And I must endure this spectacle anew with each generation. Now, let’s see... what year of the Serpent were they born under again?"
Borin would spread his palm, counting the knuckles, each digit a year, muttering the ancient cycle under his breath.
"Drake, Griffin, Wyrm, Basilisk, Viper, Asp, Hydra, Manticore..."
Then, Aiel, in that quiet moment in the scriptorium, mimicked the motion, stretching out his own hand, counting the joints of his fingers. But the precise pattern eluded him, as it always had. He gave up, flipping his hand over, counting the raised bones on the back instead.
First Lord Volkov, the Unifier. Second Lord Volkov, the Giver of Laws. Third Lord Volkov, the Peacemaker... The dates and reigns flowed through his mind with eidetic clarity, yet the abstract pattern of the cyclical calendar remained elusive.
He never would have predicted, in the lazy days of high summer, that the crisp air of early autumn would feel so much like the tense, uncertain days of spring, when the first new crop of ambitious youths arrived at court.
"Nobles, especially the young ones, are nothing but overgrown children. Irrational, emotional, impulsive, driven by perceived slights and imagined glory."
Aiel stared at the delicate bone structure of his middle finger, a testament to his House's lineage, and absently tapped the polished oak desk like a harpsichord. The low drone of the Head Maester’s voice, hoarse from chronic coughs, drifted from a nearby lecture hall, punctuated by the occasional scratch of a scholar's quill against vellum.
His gaze flickered to the empty seat near the front of the scriptorium, a place usually occupied by Lord Lysander. For a moment, Aiel imagined he saw the faint impression of a head on the desk—one side pressed down, the other floating in arrogant disregard.
His fingers stopped tapping.
He turned his head.
Kaelen sat there, hunched over a heavy tome of ancient treaties, his face half-buried in the brittle pages. His eyes were half-closed, hooded. He would fix his gaze on an intricate paragraph as if to devour its meaning, only to suddenly sag forward again, pressing his forehead against the binding. Aiel watched as Kaelen's nose was squished between the pages and his brow. He seemed to wrestle with the text rather than read it.
Aiel turned away, a faint sigh escaping his lips.
"...Did I lose myself in thought for a moment?" He felt a strange detachment, as if his mind floated just above his body. He placed a small, elegant mark of completion next to the third stanza and moved on to the fourth.
---
The noon meal arrived: a simple but hearty stew of root vegetables and venison, served with a small, tart fruit compote.
Kaelen finished his compote first, then, without preamble, spoke. "Tell me, Aiel, you stand second in your cohort, do you not?"
"Indeed, my lord," Aiel replied, ever mindful of Kaelen's Volkov lineage, however distant.
"And within the wider junior court, among all the Houses?"
"Again, second, my lord."
"By the Serpent's scales." Kaelen let out a low whistle.
"Is something amiss, my lord?" Aiel inquired, his brow furrowing slightly.
"Then it stands to reason the most skilled scholar in your cohort is also the most skilled in the junior court as a whole?"
"You were unaware, my lord? Lady Lyra of House Thornebrook has always held the first position, due to her singular dedication and prodigious Essence."
"She is even more consumed by her studies than you, if that is possible." Kaelen observed, a knowing glint in his eye.
"Her Maester speaks of her returning to her chambers only after the last bell of the midnight watch has rung."
"By the Ancestors, that is relentless."
"She possesses an admirable drive."
Aiel had no desire to pursue this topic further. He scooped a generous portion of stew onto his spoon and brought it to his mouth. Fortunately, Kaelen did not press. He merely nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"Hmph—" Kaelen grunted, a sound that felt oddly out of place. The conversation had stalled too abruptly, leaving an uncomfortable void. Aiel, ever averse to such social lacunae, blurted out, "And yourself, my lord? What is your standing?"
Kaelen's spoon, laden with stew, halted mid-air. Aiel found his gaze drawn to Kaelen's hand. He held his spoon with a practiced grace, a surprising finesse for one who often seemed so... unrefined. If there was one thing Kaelen did with impeccable form, it was the handling of dining implements.
"Within my own cohort..." Kaelen began, his voice lowered.
"Yes, my lord?"
"Ninth."
"...What?" Aiel felt a jolt of disbelief. He quickly averted his eyes from Kaelen's hands, fearful of betraying his shock. Was he serious? Not merely jesting to gauge Aiel's reaction? He was so taken aback he almost asked aloud, but prudence, that ever-present companion, clamped down on his tongue. *By the Serpent, that was close.* If he stumbled, if he uttered an ill-advised remark, Kaelen's temper, though rarely unleashed, was a force to be avoided. Aiel hesitated, his mind racing. Would Kaelen prefer genuine praise, however surprising, or a mask of indifference, as if such a standing were to be expected? His brain, finely tuned to the delicate dance of courtly survival, swiftly weighed the options. Kaelen did not seem overly fond of his boisterous companions, Lord Torvin and his ilk. Then, the latter option, tempered with a touch of unexpected compliment, would be safer.
"My lord, that is... certainly a higher standing than I might have anticipated."
"What? Anticipated? How dull-witted did you take me for, Aiel?" Kaelen's brow furrowed.
"Not dull-witted at all, my lord, it is merely... I understood that the study of ancient tongues presented a particular challenge for you?"
"Ancient tongues are my singular weakness. The only subject where my understanding falters."
"Yet, you attend no private tutors, no special lectures."
"A lack of formal instruction does not equate to an inability to learn. By the Ancestors, Aiel, did you truly believe me an imbecile?"
"No, no, not at all, my lord." Aiel quickly waved a dismissive hand, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. "It is truly commendable, your Lordship's standing, achieved without such assistance."
"...Commendable, you say?" A hint of surprise softened Kaelen’s expression.
"Indeed, my lord. Remarkably commendable."
For some inexplicable reason, Kaelen suddenly began to mash his spoon into his stew with a vigorous, almost aggressive motion. And—was it Aiel's imagination?—he caught a fleeting glimpse of crimson creeping up the tips of Kaelen's ears.
Now that Aiel considered it, Lord Lysander, for all his swagger and supposed charm, had ranked thirty-second in their own cohort. And that was only because there were a handful of retainers who performed even worse. Thirty-second out of thirty-six. Aiel realized with a jolt that he had scarcely ever paid attention to anything about Lord Lysander beyond the immediate, unsettling impression the man left upon him. And with that realization, a wave of self-recrimination washed over him. He had been drowning in precisely the kind of pathetic, obsessive preoccupation he used to despise in others, allowing his focus to be consumed by an unworthy distraction.
Meanwhile, Kaelen, entirely oblivious to Aiel's internal crisis, had clearly received a potent surge of confidence. His tone was entirely altered now, brimming with a quiet self-satisfaction.
"Ah, yes! There is something you likely do not know, Aiel—I possess a keen grasp of the Silverwood dialects."
"Indeed, my lord? How keen?"
"A perfect command. I have never faltered in a single recitation or translation."
"Khhkk!" Aiel choked, caught completely off guard. The moment Kaelen uttered those words, Aiel inadvertently spat a fine mist of water from his lips. Kaelen scowled, yanking his tray further away.
"What in the Serpent's breath was that reaction, Aiel?"
"My apologies, my lord. I was merely... unprepared for such an admission."
"Is it so shocking, then?" Kaelen frowned, a slight pout on his lips. "My knowledge of ancient tongues may be lacking, but the dialects are different." There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice, despite his earlier boasting. Aiel, momentarily emboldened by the camaraderie, risked a jest in return.
"Perhaps, my lord, you might consider perusing a few more scrolls, a few more texts, when not engaged in such recitations."
"What nonsense are you speaking? I am, in truth, a connoisseur of literature, Aiel."
"A connoisseur? I have never witnessed your Lordship with a scroll of verse in hand."
"That is because I indulge in my readings in the privacy of my chambers, in secret."
"And why, my lord, would you deem such a pursuit worthy of secrecy?"
Kaelen’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of stew into his mouth. Then, he casually pressed his lips over the edge of the spoon. Something in that languid, almost provocative gesture unsettled Aiel. He bit the inside of his cheek. Kaelen met Aiel's eyes as he withdrew the spoon, then lowered his gaze and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the tip of it, a gesture of exaggerated, almost theatrical sensuality.
"For, Aiel," Kaelen purred, his voice a low drawl, "even tales of courtly indiscretion and whispered intimacies, hold a certain literary merit."
That was undoubtedly a jest, a deliberate provocation. *Son of a Viper.* Aiel felt a furious blush creep up his neck. To conceal it, he snatched a crumpled napkin from beside his tray and, with feigned exasperation, tossed it at Kaelen’s face. It struck just below Kaelen’s long, narrow eyes and dropped harmlessly onto the table. One of Kaelen’s eyes twitched slightly. Not that Aiel truly cared for Kaelen’s offense, but just in case, he feigned an air of contrite annoyance.
"Desist from such crude displays, my lord. Especially within these hallowed halls. It is... distasteful."
"Oh? You mean this? This little flourish? This... little affectation of Lord Lysander's?"
"I care not whose affectation it is. Simply cease."
"But is this not, Aiel, quite the fashion among us now?" Kaelen asked, a sly smirk playing on his lips.
Aiel merely stared, attempting to discern whether Kaelen's query was genuine or merely another facet of his elaborate jest. He found himself unable to tell.
---
He found himself sleeping less. That, Aiel knew, was an undeniable sign that his spirit, if not his body, had found a precarious comfort, a brief respite from constant vigilance. Mornings, which had often begun with a dry throat and a sluggish spirit, now felt strangely crisp, almost invigorating. It was a welcome shift—after all, in Aiel's estimation, the gravest sins for a young man of noble birth, nearing his majority, were complacency and prolonged slumber.
"Ah, by the Serpent's fangs—" Aiel’s jaw clicked painfully as he brushed his teeth, the bristles stiff against his gums. Ever since that unpleasant encounter with Lord Lysander in the stables weeks ago, his jaw emitted an odd grinding noise whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Other than that minor affliction, this day had begun with a promising air of tranquility. Yet, even in this newfound peace, sudden stings of irritation would flare. The origin was invariably Lord Lysander. Or rather, the unwelcome ripples that emanated from him. Most of these incidents seemed to transpire within the confines of the Volkov estate.
"Oh, speaking of—I observed Lord Lysander just last night, by the northern gate." Joric of House Ashwood spoke, biting into a convenience-store-equivalent pastry—a rather dubious concoction, rumored to contain less-than-noble cuts of meat.
Lord Torvin, who had been playfully jabbing Joric’s ankle with a pretend dagger-hand, suddenly perked up, his eyes widening. "By the Ancestors, that is right! You’ve sparked my memory! I was just about to reveal this morsel of gossip. I heard through the steward's grapevine—you all know Maester Alaric, yes? That wandering scholar, known for his... peculiar associations? I heard Lord Lysander is currently lodging at his secluded cottage."
"Maester Alaric? That blustering fool of a scholar?" Kaelen asked casually, rummaging through a small leather pouch. When he withdrew his hand, he held two small, elegantly wrapped sugar plums, candied fruits. For some inexplicable reason, he offered one to Aiel.
"............?" Aiel stared at the delicate confection, utterly confused. "............What is this, my lord?" He looked at Kaelen questioningly, but Kaelen merely offered a slight nod, as if the gesture were its own explanation.
The one who reacted most vehemently was Lord Torvin, whose pouch of dried berries had clearly been raided. "By the Serpent's breath! Those were mine! Why in the Ancestors are you ravening wolves consuming all my provisions?"
"Oh, as if you have never pilfered from mine, you glutton," Joric retorted, making another exaggerated dagger-hand strike towards Torvin’s throat. Torvin instantly spun, grabbing Joric’s tunic collar, and swung a mock punch at his face. Of course, he wouldn’t actually strike him. That was simply the crude ritual of their rough-and-tumble camaraderie.
Aiel ignored their boorish squabbling and looked down at the sugar plum in his hand. The delicate wrapper depicted a stylized, half-peeled lemon. He carefully unwrapped the confection, popped it into his mouth, and lifted his head, a slight frown creasing his brow.
"So, Aiel," Kaelen grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. "The very taste of first courtship, perhaps?"
"My lord, I confess, I find the flavor of citrus... unappealing." Aiel's answer was not merely a comment on the candy; it was his unspoken evaluation of Kaelen's jest, and of the concept of 'first courtship' altogether. That sticky, cloying sweetness, coupled with a faint bitterness, clung to the back of his throat, killing his appetite. In the end, he could not even finish the confection. With a quiet sigh, he tossed the remainder into a waste bin.
"Oh, such a tragic waste of sweetness," Kaelen mocked, dramatically cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, Aiel reached into Lord Torvin’s ransacked pouch to find a different candied fruit. They were all lemon or lime. Lime, he decided, was the lesser of two evils. He unwrapped one and placed it in his mouth.
"In any case," Joric continued, his voice lowered conspiratorially, "Maester Alaric, you say? Sounds remarkably like Lord Lysander."
"What, because they are both so... utterly devoid of decorum?" Kaelen's words, though delivered casually, were sharp, edged with a dismissive contempt. Aiel, made uncomfortable by the sudden shift in tone, turned to look at him. Kaelen was sucking on his own sugar plum, an expressionless mask on his face, idly twirling the white stick between his lips. Aiel pulled his own lime candy from his mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong. Kaelen, however, did not seem to notice, or perhaps did not care. He tilted his sugar plum in the air like a tiny, ornate sword and began making random, jabbing motions.
"Alaric plays games with clients—no matter if they are of noble blood or commoner, male or female. And when he finds someone suitably pliable, he directs them straight to Lysander. It’s a sordid little circuit they run. Using each other, passing others around like favors."
"So Maester Alaric, then, also partakes in these... unorthodox preferences?" Lord Torvin suddenly cut in. Whether he had finished his playful scuffle with Joric, or had simply halted mid-feud to eavesdrop, Aiel was not sure. Torvin rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely contemplating the implications of what he had just heard. Aiel felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. The casual nature of the revelation, the crude imagery, the implied debasement—it all pricked at his deep-seated sense of propriety, and a chilling reminder of the precariousness of his own House's standing. He swallowed, the lime candy suddenly tasting like ash.