Alistair Finch’s fist clenched, a performative gesture, before he could fully articulate his bluster. Before the words could truly take form, Silas Croft’s open palm struck Finch’s thigh with a crisp, dismissive sound, severing the argument before it could bloom. Finch’s half-hearted bravado dissolved into a strangled gasp, a sound like a pigeon caught in a chimney flue. Lysander Croft and Malcolm Price, observing from the periphery, let out a shared, condescending chuckle. Finch spun, a flush creeping up his neck.
“Amusing, is it? Finding sport in my misfortune?” he sneered, a sharp elbow catching Malcolm’s ribs.
With that minor commotion, the three departed the antechamber, leaving behind a lingering scent of stale pipe tobacco and ill-humour. Before crossing the threshold, Percy Blackwood glanced back. His hand, adorned with a signet ring, lifted in a quick, almost imperceptible wave toward Elias. There was no clear reason to ignore the gesture, so Elias offered a slight nod in return. He then settled back into the worn leather armchair, drawing a slim volume closer.
His fingers had just closed around the cool, polished agate of his letter opener when, before even turning the first page, he raised his head. His gaze swept over the cluttered shelves, the cubic iron grates covering the window, the faded tapestries depicting forgotten celestial charts. The chamber, nestled deep within the labyrinthine structure of the Athenaeum Occulta, felt both sanctuary and cage.
He lowered his head to the desk.
Elias was three paragraphs into a difficult translation, the agate opener tapping a rhythm against the vellum, when he abruptly looked up. Through the grimy window, beyond the soot-stained bricks, a patch of sky showed a bruised, vivid blue. Below, the distant murmur of the city, a ceaseless tide against the quiet stone.
“This place is a breeding ground for vipers,” Elias muttered under his breath. The thought was not new.
His former tutor, a rheumy-eyed academic with an obsession for Byzantine heresies, always spoke of it. “A veritable viper’s nest, Thorne. Always vying for prominence. By Michaelmas, things settle a fraction. But until then? It’s all posturing, whispered slanders, testing the bounds of propriety. My head aches from it. And I must endure it again with each new intake of initiates. Let me see… what year was that last cohort born under?”
Then, the old man would spread his palm, tracing the lines of fate upon his skin, murmuring, “Aries, Taurus, Gemini… Ah, yes. That means…”
Elias unconsciously mimicked the motion, his own hand splayed, fingers sifting through the layers of memory. But the specific sequence of constellations eluded him. He gave up, flipping his hand over, counting the raised bones along his knuckles instead.
Seven ancient orders, three significant rivalries, five ongoing feuds, one looming threat, and a dozen minor disputes.
He never would have predicted, that in the verdant heart of spring, late autumn would feel like the suffocating closure of winter all over again.
“They are nothing but savages. Irrational, emotional, impulsive dolts,” Elias thought, his mind echoing his tutor’s sentiments, but applied to the supposed intellectuals around him.
His gaze fell upon the prominent knuckle of his middle finger, and he tapped the desk, an absent piano refrain. The raspy voice of a junior acolyte, likely hoarse from a protracted cold, droned on from the main hall, accompanied by the scratching of a quill against parchment.
He glanced towards a table near the front, usually reserved for the more junior scholars. For a moment, a phantom impression seemed to cling to the surface – one side pressed down by a skull, the other floating free. His fingers stilled.
Elias turned his head.
Finnian O’Connell sat there, hunched over a stack of tattered ledgers, his face half-buried in the accounts. His eyes, heavy-lidded, seemed to fix upon a column of figures as if contemplating their immediate consumption, only to abruptly sag, his forehead pressing against the grimy page. Elias watched as the tip of Finn’s nose flattened between the paper and his brow. Then, Elias turned away.
“…Did I drift for a moment?” The question felt more like an observation. His mind did not feel entirely tethered.
He marked the third paragraph with a small, discreet asterisk and moved on to the fourth.
—
Luncheon was a meager affair: dry bread and watered-down broth. Finnian finished his portion first, then abruptly asked, “Right, you’re second in the Order, aren’t you?”
Elias blinked. “Within my section? Yes.”
“And among the entire chapter?”
“Also second.”
“By the Saints.”
“What?”
“So the top scholar in your section is the top scholar in the entire chapter?”
“You weren’t aware? I’ve never attained first place because of Lady Cordelia Ashworth.”
“That woman is even busier than you, isn’t she?”
“Indeed. Her studies and social engagements extend well past midnight.”
“Bloody hell. That’s devotion.”
“She is diligent.” Elias had no inclination to prolong the conversation. He scooped a spoonful of the watery broth and raised it to his lips.
Fortunately, Finnian did not press. He merely nodded.
“Aah—” The timing felt awkward. The exchange had ceased too abruptly. Elias debated whether to offer another remark. He detested uncomfortable silences, so, without conscious thought, he blurted, “And you? What is your standing?”
“……” Finnian’s spoon halted midway to his mouth. Elias found his gaze fixed on the man’s hand. He held his utensils with a certain rough grace. If there was one thing Finnian O’Connell did with unexpected competence, it was his table manners.
“Within the archives…”
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
“…What?”
“Why that look, Thorne?”
Elias quickly averted his gaze from Finnian’s hands. Was he serious? Not prone to exaggeration? He was so taken aback he almost asked aloud, but managed to catch himself. *Damn it. That was close.* If he slipped and offended the man, he would have to endure his unpredictable temper. He hesitated. Would Finnian prefer commendation? Or feigned indifference, as if it were entirely expected? His intellect, honed for survival in the cutthroat academic world, swiftly weighed the social calculus. Finnian rarely seemed to hold much affection for his usual companions. The latter option, then, was safer.
“Hmm. You perform better than I might have anticipated.”
“What? Anticipated? How dim-witted did you take me for?”
“I did not deem you dim-witted, merely… I thought you found the historical Latin troublesome?”
“Latin is my only true weakness. Only Latin.”
“You do not attend any private tutelage.”
“A lack of private tutelage does not equate to an inability to study. Good God, Thorne, did you truly believe I was an imbecile?”
“No, no, not at all.” Elias quickly waved a hand. “It is impressive, though, considering your self-reliance.”
“…Truly?”
“Yes. It is impressive.”
For some inexplicable reason, Finnian began to mash his spoon into the remnants of his broth. And—was he blushing? Elias caught a fleeting glimpse of crimson touching the tips of his ears. Now that he considered it, Lysander Croft had ranked thirty-second. And that was only because there were others who performed even worse. Thirty-second out of thirty-six in their section. Reflecting, Elias realized he rarely paid attention to anything about Lysander outside of matters directly involving his own research. And with that realization, a chilling truth struck him. He had been drowning in precisely the kind of pathetic, obsessive infatuation with academic standing he used to despise.
Meanwhile, Finnian O’Connell, utterly oblivious to Elias’s internal crisis, had clearly received a notable boost to his confidence. His tone was utterly transformed – brimming with self-satisfaction. “Oh, right! You likely wouldn’t know – I excel at Ciphers.”
“Indeed? To what degree?”
“Perfect scores. I have never lost a single mark in Ciphers.”
“Ckhh!” Elias choked. The moment Finnian spoke, he expelled a mouthful of water. Finnian scowled, yanking his tray away from Elias. “What in the blazes? What sort of reaction is that?”
“I merely… was not expecting such a declaration.”
“It’s that surprising?” Finnian frowned, a slight pout to his lips. “Aye. My Latin scores are abysmal, but what of it?”
There was an odd undercurrent of self-deprecation in his voice. So Elias, in turn, offered a jest. “Perhaps try perusing a proper codex once in a while.”
“What nonsense are you spouting? I am entirely a devotee of the printed word.”
“A devotee? I have never observed you with a book.”
“That is because I read in secret, within my chambers.”
“Why in God’s name would you need to conceal such an activity?”
Finnian O’Connell’s eyes, which had curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of food into his mouth. Then, he casually pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something about that image unsettled Elias. He bit the inside of his cheek. Finnian met his eyes as he pulled the spoon away, then lowered his gaze and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the tip of it.
“Forbidden lore is still literature.”
That was undeniably a crude jest. *Son of a bitch.* Elias felt a flush creep up his face. To conceal it, he snatched a crumpled napkin from beside his tray and threw it at Finnian. It struck just beneath his long, narrow eyes and dropped harmlessly onto the table. One of Finnian’s eyes twitched slightly. Not that Elias cared, but in case the man was genuinely offended, he feigned a pang of remorse. “Do not perpetrate such vulgarity. Especially within these hallowed halls. It is utterly disgusting.”
“Oh? You mean this? You mean Thaddeus’s little flourish?”
“I care not whose ‘flourish’ it is. Simply cease.”
“Is this not, like, *au courant* among us now?”
“……” Elias stared at him, attempting to discern if the man was jesting or entirely serious.
—
He was sleeping less. That was a sure indicator that his body had found some measure of comfort, or perhaps, simply a new equilibrium. Mornings, which had often been dry and sluggish, now held a strange, crisp refreshment. It was a welcome shift – after all, in his mind, the greatest sins for a scholar of twenty-eight were complacency and sloth.
“Ah, damnation—” His jaw clicked painfully as he brushed his teeth. Ever since his encounter with Thaddeus, his jaw produced an odd grinding sound whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Beyond that minor irritation, today was proving to be a remarkably productive day. Yet even in this newfound clarity, sudden moments of prickling annoyance would surface. The cause was invariably Thaddeus. Or rather, the incidents that stemmed from him.
Most of these transpired within the formal society of the Order.
“Oh, right. I observed Thaddeus last night,” Lysander Croft remarked, biting into a convenience-store meat pie, the kind rumored to contain unspeakable offal.
Malcolm Price, who had been idly jabbing at Lysander’s ankle with a fork, suddenly perked up. “By the infernal! That’s right! You completely jogged my memory! I was just about to raise this topic. I heard something through the grapevine – you all know Silas the Shadow-broker, yes? Right? That wandering queer who deals in secrets? I heard Thaddeus is lodging at his place.”
“Silas? That addle-pated Silas?” Finnian O’Connell, rummaging through a paper bag, asked casually. When he withdrew his hand, he held two small, wrapped boiled sweets. And for some reason, he handed one to Elias.
“……?” Elias stared at it, confused. “……What is this?” He looked at Finnian expectantly, but the man merely offered a slight nod, as if that alone sufficed for an explanation. The most pronounced reaction came from Malcolm, whose bag of sweets had been plundered. “Bloody hell. I purchased those! Why in the devil’s name are you ruffians consuming all my provisions?”
“Oh, as if you’ve never pilfered from mine, you glutton.” Lysander made another feigned lunge with his fork towards Malcolm’s throat. Malcolm instantly spun, seized Lysander’s collar, and swung a mock punch at his face. Of course, he had no intention of actually striking him. That was simply their peculiar dynamic. Elias ignored their idiotic bickering and looked down at the boiled sweet in his hand. The wrapper bore a print of a segmented lemon. He peeled the paper, popped the candy into his mouth, and lifted his head.
“What do you think? The flavour of first affection?” Finnian grinned.
“I do not care for lemon,” Elias stated. His answer was not merely about the sweet – it was his evaluation of the jest, too. And more than anything, he found the notion of ‘first affection’ utterly unamusing. That cloying, bitter sensation clung to the back of his throat. It quite killed his appetite. In the end, he could not even finish the candy. He tossed it into a nearby refuse bin.
“Oh no, such profligacy,” Finnian mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, Elias reached into Malcolm’s bag to find a different sweet. It was all lemon or lime. Lime was the lesser evil. He unwrapped one and put it in his mouth.
“Anyway, Silas the Shadow-broker, eh? Sounds just like Thaddeus.”
“What, because they’re both debauched?” Finnian’s words were sharp. Uncomfortable, Elias turned to look at him. Finnian was sucking on his own sweet expressionlessly, twirling the white stick between his lips. Elias pulled his out of his mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong. Finnian didn’t seem to care. He tilted his sweet in the air like a tiny rapier and began making random, jabbing motions.
“He traffics in clients – doesn’t matter if they’re men or women, titled or pauper. And when he finds someone suitably pliable, he sends them straight to Thaddeus. It’s a vile rotation. Corrupting each other, passing victims around.”
“So Silas is a queer too?” Malcolm Price suddenly cut in. Whether he had finished his playful scuffle with Lysander or had simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, Elias was unsure. Malcolm rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if actually processing the sordid revelation.