A labyrinth of polished marble and hushed whispers, this quiet expanse was home to thirty young nobles, each a predator in training.
Everywhere, nascent courtiers formed delicate hierarchies, gathering into fleeting constellations of power. In this gilded cage, every soul had navigated the treacherous currents of the Imperial Academy for exactly eighteen days of the new term, their lives stretched taut as a lute string on the verge of snapping. Tension, a perpetual companion, hummed beneath the opulent surface, making survival a dance on polished blades.
For Kaelen, this relentless tension had been a fixture since the age of twelve, when he first grasped the brutal artistry of alliance. This daily balancing act, a subtle choreography of deference and assertion, had been his routine ever since—and, he suspected, that of every other noble in this Hall.
A cubic jungle concealing a pyramid. That was the Great Hall of the eighteen-year-olds.
“Ah…”
My arm, numb from hours spent hunched over ancient scrolls, tingled as I shook out the sluggish circulation. I tapped my tightly wound stomach lightly with the side of my fist, a knot of unease perpetually residing there. Letting out a weak breath, I surveyed the slumped backs before me: the emerald silk of academic robes, the pale napes of young nobles. At the dais, Scribe-Master Thane, our Imperial Historian, sat immersed in a crumpled parchment, folded twice. The students, meanwhile, either diligently transcribed the ancient glyphs he’d assigned or, having long surrendered, were slouched in their gilded chairs, lost to slumber.
“A moment of vigilance, you slumbering scions of the Empire,” Thane’s voice boomed, turning another page of his worn document. “Even in repose, one must maintain the pretense of industry.”
It was already the fifth period of the day. I had been painstakingly deciphering the fifteenth decree of Emperor Xylos III, a particularly convoluted piece on land reforms, and paused to scratch my temple with an index finger before setting my quill-pen on the desk. My eyes drifted to the empty seats, two in particular.
As expected, neither Lord Lysander nor Lord Silas Thorne had graced the Hall with their presence. They would likely remain absent tomorrow as well, unless Lysander succumbed to one of his unpredictable shifts in whim, or some fresh complication arose between the two that eluded my keen, if always discreet, observation. Whatever that ‘something’ might be, its precise nature remained tantalizingly opaque.
I lowered my gaze back to the intricate problems, my eyes filling with the precise, elegant strokes of ancient Veridian glyphs.
There had been a time when I believed I understood everything about Lord Lysander. I had convinced myself that I was the one who knew him best in this entire Hall, perhaps even within the inner circles of the court. I had cultivated a quiet pride in that, even when comparing myself to Lord Valerius, who, to all appearances, seemed closer to Lysander than anyone else.
In truth, that clandestine pride had been a bitter salve, helping me endure the sight of Valerius and Lysander’s easy camaraderie. Deep down, I relished the quiet, insidious knowledge that I held the upper hand in truly comprehending Lysander, his complexities, his shadowed depths.
I propped my chin on my hand. The fact that I was capable of harboring such thoughts, such calculating affection, disgusted me. It felt like a stain, a festering wound beneath my meticulously composed exterior.
What would people think if they knew these treacherous desires swirled through my mind? The answer was chillingly obvious. I would be summarily cast from my precarious perch, pushed to the very bottom of the social pyramid, occupying its widest, most scorned plane. The thought of such social disgrace was a cold dread that squeezed my heart.
This kind of insidious desire, a twisted bloom nurtured in the shadowed corners of a scheming young noble’s heart, had to remain hidden at all costs. I had to bury it deep, so deep that not even the object of my desire, Lysander, would sense its faint tremor. Ultimately, I needed to hide it so thoroughly that even I, Kaelen, might eventually forget it existed.
But Lord Lysander, with his reckless abandon, had never harbored such caution. Everyone in the Hall, and indeed much of the Academy, knew of his unbridled desires, his brazen disregard for convention.
I glanced around, lifting my head barely perceptibly. Most of the young nobles were still hunched over their desks, lost in study or feigned sleep. Pressing my lips tightly together, I looked straight ahead.
Lying forlornly between the rows of polished desks, near the foot of the dais, was a discarded scroll of parchment, its intricate calligraphy smudged with muddy boot prints. A clear sign of disrespect, of something trampled underfoot.
Suddenly, as if sensing an unseen gaze, I buried my head in my arms, mimicking the posture of the other weary students.
Then I turned my neck, subtly, in a different direction. My gaze fell on the back row, a shadow-draped corner of the Hall. There lay a figure, a face partially obscured by an arm, as if the owner had collapsed in an instant of profound exhaustion. The face looked delicate and sorrowful, almost ethereal, as if carved from alabaster in a funerary mask.
“...”
I found myself staring at Lord Valerius’s face before my gaze drifted to his arm. Had the already tall Valerius grown even more? The Academy tunic that had fit him perfectly at the start of the term now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one of those wrists was an ancestral charm of woven crimson thread, knotted thrice—a heavy, unmistakable symbol, an integral part of Valerius’s identity, yet worn with an almost careless disregard.
Before hearing the hushed whispers about his family, I’d always assumed Valerius resided in one of the grander estates on the opposite side of the Veridian capital, much like Lord Silas Thorne.
Despite his intimidating aura, Valerius didn’t exude the overt splendor of the truly wealthy. His sunken eyes were perpetually shadowed by heavy lids, and his faded irises gave him a perpetually haunted look, like an ancient ghost peering through thin curtains. The way his thin sclera showed beneath his pupils added to his sharp, gaunt appearance, almost skeletal.
Valerius’s overall presence was one of grim intimidation, though it lacked the refined, cultured elegance associated with old money and established power. Instead, his face seemed marked by a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a kind of melancholic heaviness. Combined with his imposing build—he was undoubtedly the tallest student in the Academy—it made him doubly formidable.
Fortunately, unlike the erratic Lysander, Valerius’s sharp features included a classically handsome symmetry, almost too perfect, too stark. Without that stark beauty, people might have actively shunned him. Even so, Valerius’s face was unsettling, intimidating, and perpetually charged with a nervous, unpredictable energy.
But Valerius’s personality couldn’t have been more different from his imposing facade.
It wasn’t just that he seemed indifferent to everything; it was as if he actively erased events from his memory, whether by intention or some peculiar detachment. He carried an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that ironically added to his mystique, making him an enigma even among the secretive nobles.
Most notably, Valerius seemed to care little for the true value of coin or status. He never paid attention to how much others spent or how much they sought in patronage. If the mood struck him, he’d casually toss a purse of silver to a nearby retainer without a second thought, as if the concept of currency held no meaning for him. Sometimes he’d lend favors or coin and forget about it entirely. There were even stories of nobles returning borrowed sums only for Valerius to ask, puzzled, why they were pressing money into his hand.
Still, he didn’t extend his casual generosity to just anyone. He’d indulge random requests when in a capricious mood but coldly refuse those who were truly desperate, their need laid bare.
Even with his nominal friends, Valerius could be harsh, his indifference cutting deeper than any insult. I once overheard a tale of how Lord Elian, upon seeing Valerius’s prized sable-maned courser—a magnificent beast he rarely allowed others near—excitedly tried to leap onto its back without permission. Valerius, without a word, kicked him off with a precision that sent Elian sprawling onto the cobblestones like a startled frog.
At the very apex of the social hierarchy, figures like Valerius and Lysander shared one chilling commonality: a complete, utter lack of concern for others’ opinions. This indifference, in its own way, was the very key that allowed them to sit, unchallenged, at the pyramid’s peak.
Why do we, with our own trembling hands, willingly hand over the keys to our world to these unpredictable predators? No matter how much I analyze it, I still cannot fully comprehend this collective folly.
And yet, Lord Valerius, with all his chilling pragmatism, often proclaimed himself a devout follower of the Sovereign Serpent, patron deity of the Empire.
He was the type of scion who slept with a tome of the Serpent’s Strictures under his head, yet still claimed to adhere to its sacred teachings. He abstained from strong spirits, from the noxious fumes of dried herbs, from illicit liaisons, and from the cruder forms of theft or extortion among students. Yet the doctrine he followed seemed flawed, at least in its interpretation—anyone familiar with the Serpent’s strictures knew they permitted certain ceremonial intoxicants and recognized the necessity of certain ‘exchanges’ among the powerful. I had heard whispers that the Faith viewed certain forms of affection, particularly those between men, as a grave transgression against the natural order. Was that why Lysander’s brazen actions disgusted Valerius so profoundly? I licked my dry lips, a sudden parchedness afflicting me.
I felt a strange, cold sense of relief that I hadn’t been caught in my quiet transgressions. If I had been, I would have ended up like that trampled parchment, my reputation sullied, my future ruined. And yet, even in that moment, a flicker of a treacherous thought ignited—if Lysander and I had remained close, as we were just a few months past, would he have shielded me from the resulting disgrace?
The thought surfaced against my will, dragging with it memories I desperately wanted to bury. I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in my chest, as though the bitter lunch I’d eaten earlier were threatening to resurface.
No. Of course not.
How laughable, that I had once been so arrogant as to believe he would. To Lysander, I was nothing. Just a convenient companion, a sharp mind to pass the Academy’s tedious hours with. I knew this now, truly, because of the way he had looked at me, his eyes devoid of recognition, when he had beaten me to the ground that day. His eyes had spoken everything. I hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had been staring me in the face, a brutal, undeniable clarity.
Lysander sinned openly, flagrantly. I, too, was a sinner, perhaps even a deeper one—but I hid it, buried it under layers of meticulous discretion. And so, Lysander was punished by the Serpent’s judgment, while I, by virtue of my concealment, was spared. The true sin was not the act, but the exposure.
A faint, self-deprecating laugh escaped my lips, so soft it was only audible to myself, a whisper of a broken spirit.
“...So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that truly matters.”
Perhaps the Sovereign Serpent, in its inscrutable wisdom, possessed a personality not unlike Lord Valerius’s own.
My gaze shifted to the empty desk near the Scribe-Master’s dais. This was unusual, but today, I felt a pang of pity for Lord Silas Thorne. Poor soul, caught in the gleaming, seductive coils of Lysander, the devil of the court. You lacked the strength, the cunning, to resist that monstrous, alluring power. Fragile, helpless Silas, unlike the towering physical presence your family name implies. You should have fled the moment I offered my quiet, coded warning, you fool.
I knew I wasn’t a good person. I was selfish and self-serving, and that’s precisely why I had been punished. Sometimes, in the darkest hours, I even allowed this thought to surface: If you’re going to succumb to such affections, why not pick someone sly and deceitful like me? At least then life would be simpler, perhaps even survivable. Why fall for someone so transparently innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering for it, your reputation torn to shreds?
These days, I thought differently.
Yes. Of course no one could ever truly love someone like me, a shadow cloaked in polite smiles. I knew myself too well, saw every flaw, every treacherous thought, to ever believe otherwise.
There was a time when I thought I could have it all. Arrogant, conceited Kaelen. Kaelen, who at eighteen, believed he understood the world, its machinations, its secrets. Wicked, vile Kaelen. Pitiful Kaelen, who had no one to offer solace, so he endured everything alone, behind an impenetrable facade.
That day, I couldn’t bring myself to focus past the fifteenth decree. I used my supposed weariness as an excuse to lie slumped over my desk, thinking to myself: Well, at least I’m not as utterly ruined as Lysander or Silas.
Rumors about Lysander and Silas had already begun to spread like wildfire through the Academy’s hushed corridors. Whether they were exaggerated whispers or grounded in brutal truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to find out either. Lysander’s immediate circle had seemingly vanished from the Academy, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances, desperately clinging to any perceived advantage, inadvertently fueling the rumors even further with their desperate reshuffling.
“Scribe-Master Thane, forgive me, but who was closest to Lord Lysander before his… absence?”
“Lord… No, Lord Valerius.”
I overheard this exchange as I passed by a smaller tutor’s study on my way back to the Great Hall before dismissal. The Scribe-Master had asked, and a nervous classmate, Lord Corvin, had answered. Pretending I hadn’t heard, I walked into the room, my movements precise. Thane glanced nervously between me and the two empty chairs, drumming his fingers against the dais. Then, as if giving up on some unspoken, weighty thought, he announced:
“Let us conclude for the day.”
The moment dismissal was announced, I gathered my scrolls and instruments. As I slung my satchel over my shoulder, a hand tapped me lightly on the back. It was Lord Valerius.
“Kaelen. Let us walk the courtyards after lessons.”
I looked at his face, carefully masking my surprise. I knew. I had always watched Lysander and Valerius’s every move, every subtle interaction, so I knew that the person Valerius most frequently invited to ‘walk the courtyards’ was always Lysander. After a brief pause, I offered a dismissive gesture.
“Impossible. I have private tutoring for the imperial decrees.”
“What of after your studies?”
“Further research. You should seek out one of your companions, Valerius.”
“Unnecessary.”
“And why is that?”
“Aligning oneself with a lesser scion merely drags one down. It diminishes one’s own standing.”
“Ha.”
I let out a short, hollow laugh at the sheer absurdity, the brutal honesty of his words. Right. This was why I’d been able to navigate Valerius’s strange orbit better than most. Our twisted values, our cold pragmatism, seemed to align in unsettling ways.
“So, Lord Elian, Lord Corvin—they are lesser scions? Even Lord Theron?”
“If you choose to frame it thus, then yes, precisely. But you, Kaelen, you are different.”
The backhanded compliment, a calculated cruelty, left me feeling profoundly uncomfortable. It was a poison wrapped in silk.
“What precisely is that supposed to mean? You are quite awful.”
“No, I am not.” His tone was flat, unwavering.
“You are so awful, Valerius.”
“Hmm. It is etched into the Serpent’s Strictures: ‘Thou shalt not deceive.’ I am merely being honest, Kaelen. Honesty is a virtue, is it not?”
Honestly, Valerius was worse than I was. At least I didn’t blatantly treat my nominal companions, my carefully cultivated network of lesser nobles, like disposable refuse.
“That is why I am a good person, Kaelen.” A faint, unsettling smile played on his lips.
“...Certainly.”
“Since I am such a good person, as I have so clearly elucidated, may I accompany you to your residence?” Lord Valerius blinked twice, his pale irises fixed on mine. I looked at his face for a moment, weighing the implications, before offering a curt nod.
“Very well. Why not.”
As long as he didn’t interfere with my own meticulous plans, my carefully constructed existence, there was no immediate reason to refuse. To secure one’s place in the serpentine hierarchy, one must occasionally entertain the more dangerous creatures that slithered through its ranks.