Aiel observed the faint puffiness around Roric Volkov’s eyes, a telling testament to another night of revelry. His meticulously proper posture wavered as he approached Roric’s preferred writing desk in the antechamber, a silver flask of chilled tonic clasped in his hand. This ritual, a quiet offering on mornings Roric’s indulgences left him visibly wan, had become an unspoken pact between them. “Suppress that weariness before the Patriarch arrives,” Aiel murmured, placing the cool flask on the polished oak. Roric’s gaze, though heavy-lidded, met his with a familiar, easy grin. “My father's temper often cools before it reaches me, thanks to your diligent reports.” Roric shrugged, a casual dismissal of familial authority that Aiel, from his own diminished House, could only envy. Aiel offered a tight, almost imperceptible curve of his lips in return, then turned, his movement deliberate, toward his own assigned seat. His eyes, however, snagged on a spread of parchment next to Roric. That space, directly beside Roric, was not Aiel’s. It belonged to Lord Kaelen Valerius, a man whose easy height and bearing always made Aiel feel a handspan too short, a breath too slight. Aiel clung to the small solace of his own seat, just behind Roric, a mere buffer against Kaelen’s imposing presence. Burying the familiar prickle of resentment, Aiel inclined his head towards Kaelen’s slumped form. “When did Valerius arrive?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral. “Impossible to say. He was like that when I entered.” Roric’s tone was light, dismissing Kaelen’s somnolence. “And yet, he was among the first to depart last night. How can he appear so… disheveled?” Aiel’s rhetorical question hung in the air. A faint rustle followed Aiel’s words. A heavy, bound ledger, previously covering Kaelen’s face, slipped to the floor. Kaelen’s eyes, half-lidded and distant, swept over Aiel and Roric before he yawned, a wide, unhurried gesture. “Told myself, ‘Just a few more turns of the whetstone’… then the sun was up.” Kaelen’s voice was a low rumble. Yawns, truly, were contagious. Roric mirrored Kaelen’s expansive stretch, then scrunched his face into a smug grin. “This man. Presents as a rough mercenary, yet keeps a scholar’s hours when no one watches.” “Then watch less, Volkov.” Kaelen’s retort was unbothered. “As you wish, crude brute.” Kaelen, whether he perceived Roric’s playful mockery or not, leaned back with a hearty, uninhibited laugh. Aiel watched him, the sudden meeting of their eyes a strange current under his skin. He scratched his shoulder, an involuntary gesture, then returned his focus to Roric. This early hour in the antechamber often carried a deceptive serenity. Such exchanges, light and casual, frequently dictated the day’s mood. Soon, minor nobles, perhaps young Lord Varek or Lady Lyra, would drift in, drawn by Roric’s charisma, eager to listen to his embellished tales of the previous night’s exploits. The familiar cadence of chatter, laughter, and eventually, the appearance of a court elder to commence the day’s official duties, would unfold. For men regarded as the most influential in Volkov’s immediate circle, these were surprisingly wholesome starts. But they were still just ambitious, powerful youths. Stories of the previous night’s brazen affairs, particularly Roric’s, left a sour residue in Aiel’s mind. Still, he played his part, feigning amusement. Despite it all, Aiel had once considered these mornings acceptable. Yet, everything had fractured, shifted, a month and a half prior. The catalyst, Aiel knew, was entirely Lord Theron Vance. “Theron Vance is here.” Varek’s voice, sharp with open disdain, sliced through the morning calm. He pointed with an exaggerated, sneering gesture. “By the Mother’s grace. That miserable wretch. After such a public humiliation, does he truly believe he can show his face?” At the tip of Varek’s finger, Lord Theron shuffled into the antechamber. He hugged a worn satchel close, his gaze downcast, hidden behind a curtain of dark hair. Theron moved towards a secluded desk in the furthest corner, set down his meager belongings, and promptly slumped over. Watching his hunched figure, Aiel felt a familiar irritation twist in his gut. Theron, Aiel thought, was utterly pathetic. His voice was thin, his frame small – a pitiful excuse for a man of even diminished noble blood. As the whispers swelled around the room, Roric Volkov’s eyes narrowed, glaring daggers at Theron’s bowed back. He muttered a low curse. Aiel loathed it. That raw, visceral sensitivity in Roric — it gnawed at Aiel. Snatching a heavy, rolled parchment from the desk, Roric balled it in one hand. With a quick, almost casual toss, he flung it. The parchment struck Theron’s head with a soft thud. Theron’s head slumped further onto his desk. “By the Blighted Grove. Do not parade that pathetic countenance before us at the dawn of day.” Theron placed his arms over his head, burying his face in them, doing precisely as Roric commanded. Yet, Roric watched with an expression of pure disgust, then kicked his own desk with a loud thud. “Hear me, Vance! Will you not answer?” Roric abruptly stood, his voice rising, and Theron, still hunched, stammered a trembling reply. “Y-yes, Lord Roric.” “Lift your head, look me in the eye, and speak with clarity.” Did Roric even comprehend the utter absurdity of his demands? The sheer, unvarnished cruelty of it all made Aiel’s throat tighten with a bitter, internal laugh. Whether Roric noticed Aiel’s silent scorn or not, he rose and began to cross the room towards Theron. With each measured step Roric took, the unpleasant feelings coiling within Aiel intensified, growing more vivid, more raw. Roric closed the distance between them. That simple act alone made Aiel feel the fragile reins on his carefully suppressed emotions fraying, threatening to snap. This was not the same shade of unease he felt when Roric drew close to Kaelen Valerius. Instinctively, Aiel knew this. Deep down, he harbored something just as sinister, just as dark as Roric’s own impulses. That was why, eventually, watching Roric with Kaelen became bearable, a familiar pang. But Roric’s interactions with Theron unsettled him more and more. Aiel’s hands began to tremble. He clenched them tightly under his robes, hiding the betraying tremor. Roric delivered a hard kick to Theron’s desk. The heavy oak shuddered violently, almost toppling, and Theron jolted upright in alarm, his voice still a fractured whisper. “F-forgive me.” Roric stood there, silently looking down at Theron’s pale, sweat-slicked face. Theron’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, on the precipice of breaking. Yet, in that harrowing moment, Aiel felt as though he himself might burst into tears. Roric never compelled Theron to run errands, to fetch things like some common servant. But his gaze, that lingering, predatory scrutiny, never left Theron. If Theron excused himself to the latrines during a short recess, Roric would still watch his retreating figure, even as he conversed with Aiel and others. Aiel knew this because he never stopped watching Roric. Truth be told, Aiel’s first impression of Lord Theron had been unremarkable. His skin wasn’t flawless, but his youthful features bore an agreeable cast. When Theron smiled, it seemed genuinely warm, and even his neutral expression carried a certain gentle brightness. Before Roric began his torment, no one held particular ill will toward Theron. He seemed like a quiet man, one who had grown in a warm, sheltered corner of a distant manor. While not overtly sociable, preferring to spend his time alone with scrolls, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor. Most, in those early days, considered Theron a decent sort. Since he never flaunted the comfortable life he’d known, he earned even more quiet praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be near—that had been Lord Theron Vance. But Aiel had never particularly liked him. Nor did he hate him—he simply did not care. To say Theron wasn’t even a shadow in Aiel’s peripheral vision would be more accurate. Yet, whenever Aiel conversed with his companions, Roric, or Kaelen’s circle, and Theron’s name arose, Aiel would find himself casually offering a dismissive falsehood, saying, “Oh, him? He’s acceptable. Courteous enough.” Roric, much like Aiel, had initially paid scant attention to Theron. Roric was never one to concern himself with the quiet affairs of lesser nobles. After Theron’s House had been reassigned its new, diminished holdings in the Fifthmonth, he and Roric hadn’t exchanged a single word until the Sixthmonth. Such was the initial, indifferent state of affairs. But one day, the delicate balance shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane current of events. It happened immediately after the midday repast. Looking back, Aiel doubted he had ever regretted an action as profoundly as he regretted what transpired that afternoon. Theron, as was his habit, had retreated to a quiet corner with a book during the brief afternoon recess. He was the solitary sort, happiest when immersed in ancient texts. Aiel, conversely, possessed a habit of cultivating an overly cordial demeanor towards those with unblemished reputations. That was why, when Aiel chanced upon Theron, he initiated a conversation about the tome Theron held. Aiel was not truly a reader of leisure—his purpose was to appear cultured, his intellect on display. “You possess a deep affection for scrolls, do you not?” “Oh? Yes, I suppose so.” At that time, Theron and Aiel were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made the approach easier. “Have you concluded that particular volume?” “I am nearing the final pages.” “Then close it now. The ending will disappoint you. It is one of those works where the denouement sullies the entire experience.” “You have read it before?” Theron asked, surprised. “Indeed, some time ago.” To satisfy his intellectual vanity, Aiel diligently sought out reviews and critiques of texts he might encounter, ensuring he possessed an informed opinion for future conversations. Drawing on those memories, he offered a polished critique—not truly his own, but enough to sound erudite. Theron smiled, a bright, genuine expression of pleasure that caught Aiel off guard. “You are the first person I have met who has read this text, save for myself.” “Oh… truly?” Aiel felt a strange, uncomfortable flicker. “Yes, but I shall still finish it. Contemplating the reasoning behind such an ending is part of the engagement.” “Well, of course. All minds interpret differently.” “Hearing you say that only intensifies my anticipation.” That smile, so innocent, still lingered in Aiel’s memory, an unsettling ghost. Was it some instinctive unease he had felt even then? After that day, Lord Theron began to seek Aiel out with increasing frequency. Though Aiel found it a touch irksome, often wondering, *Why me?*, he never outright rejected Theron. Theron, with his quiet good standing, was not the worst person to keep within one’s orbit. After all, outside of court records and tactical schematics, books of leisure were practically forbidden for men of their station. Even if one had the time, such texts were little more than glorified doorstops to most. For Theron, Aiel was likely the only individual who could speak of such things. That particular day was one of those routine encounters, but it was also among the most ill-fated of their exchanges. Lord Kaelen Valerius was to blame. To this very moment, Aiel could not fathom why he had acted as he did. Why he, a man who never meddled in another’s affairs, chose to insert his own judgment. Why Kaelen, of all people, had left a meticulous administrative ledger, brimming with complex financial projections, wide open for any passing eye. Aiel, who abhorred having his own precise analyses exposed, naturally assumed Kaelen would desire his private work concealed. So, Aiel flipped the heavy parchment over to hide it. That was when he saw it: the final tally, a complex projection. Eighty-one units. Considering the intricate variables and the sheer audacity of Kaelen’s methodology, it was an astute, if not perfectly accurate, calculation. A solid, commendable effort. Aiel blinked in disbelief and checked again. Eighty-one. It was the first time one of his preconceptions was shattered. It was a small shock to realize Kaelen wasn’t as dismissive of such intricacies as Aiel had once believed, far more salvageable than the casual brute he presented himself as. Naturally, that thought led Aiel to Roric’s own dismal attempts at similar calculations—Roric, who would mark every column with a wild guess and dismiss the rest of the figures with a wave of his hand. Roric had never once managed a respectable projection. Perhaps that was why Aiel felt such a disorienting mix of emotions—like he had discovered a valuable relic among discarded debris. A man he’d once begrudgingly admired for his physical prowess now showed a mind more capable than the man he served. That strange realization must have thrown Aiel off balance, for he did something he normally would never have dared. It was nothing grand. He simply dipped a quill in a nearby inkwell and scribbled a short note at the top of Kaelen’s ledger. *“Focus on the market fluxes, Lord Valerius. Your projections on the eastern trade routes will reach higher accuracy soon enough. Well done. —Aiel. P.S. Forgive my trespass in observing your figures. I merely sought to conceal the ledger and chanced upon your work.”* The arrogance of evaluating another’s projections and offering unsolicited counsel made Aiel feel a prickle of embarrassment, so he rambled slightly, seeking justification. He could not say why he had even written it in the first place. At the time, he must have been utterly out of his mind. Looking back, it was clear this was the first mistake in what would become a series of entanglements. Every mess, Aiel knew, began with a poorly fastened first button. New novel chapters are published on freewёbn૦νeɭ.com.

The Scrutiny of Scrolls