A whisper of parchment, crisp and dry, carried the scent of aged ink through the Scriptorium Annex. Lord Verius, his face flushed with an adolescent's bravado, clenched his hand into a fist, knuckles white against the ancient wooden table. Before he could unleash whatever poorly conceived threat brewed behind his narrowed eyes, Lord Theron's palm met his thigh with a sharp crack. The sound, sudden and definitive, stole the air from Verius’s lungs. His posturing deflated like a punctured bladder. Verius let out a sound somewhere between a squawk and a whine, a strangled protest against the casual dismissal. Across the polished oak, Lord Cassian and Lord Joric dissolved into snorts of laughter. Verius, stung, rounded on them, a flicker of genuine ire in his gaze. "Find this amusing, do you?" he hissed, striking Joric’s arm with a feigned punch that still carried enough sting to draw a yelp. A flurry of muttered curses and playful shoves followed. The three nobles, a whirlwind of youthful energy and inherited entitlement, then swept out of the chamber. Joric, pausing at the threshold, offered a hand in a loose, casual wave. My own hand, a creature of habit, lifted in return. No cause to refuse. The heavy door sighed shut behind them, leaving the Scriptorium to its hushed reverence. I settled into my seat, the weight of the moment pressing a familiar calm upon me. From my satchel, I withdrew a vellum-bound compendium of Imperial Law. My fingers, long and nimble, wrapped around the silver stylus. Before the first intricate script could capture my full attention, my gaze drifted upwards. The walls, meticulously carved from pale, crystalline marble, rose to an arched ceiling frescoed with the serene visages of forgotten Emperors. The very air seemed to hum with the accumulated knowledge of centuries. Then, I lowered my head, the scent of aged paper a comforting shroud against the anxieties of the day. I was deep into the third legal precedent, the stylus tapping a rhythmic counterpoint against the vellum, when I looked up again. Through the high, leaded window, the Academy Atrium Garden stretched, its ancient elder trees already shedding leaves like golden coins. A faint, earthy tang reached even this secluded annex, a stark contrast to the brilliant, unwavering azure of the sky. "This institution… it cultivates savages, I swear," old Maester Torvin, the history lecturer, used to lament. His voice, raspy from years of bellowing dusty facts, still echoed in my memory. "Every season, the same ritual. These young lords, fresh from their country estates, clawing at each other for position. By mid-term, the worst of the brawling subsides. But until then? A constant jostle for dominance, testing the tutors, challenging the established order. By the Gods, my head aches. And next year, the new crop. Let's see… what signs are they born under again?" He would unfurl his broad, calloused palm, counting the knuckles with a muttered incantation of celestial houses. *"The Serpent, the Lion, the Dragon, the Falcon…"* I found myself mirroring the gesture, my own slender fingers tracing the ridges of my knuckles. The pattern, a secret code of the firmament, eluded me. I turned my hand, counting instead the subtle protuberances along the back. *One, two, three, four…* Never, in the languid days of early summer, would I have imagined late September feeling so akin to the frantic beginning of term. *"Young nobles… all impulse, pride, and irrationality,"* Maester Torvin had sighed, his words heavy with resignation. I watched the bony prominence of my middle finger, absently tapping the table as if playing a silent harpsichord. The maester's voice, currently lecturing on the ancient trade routes to the Eastern Reaches, droned on, occasionally punctuated by the scratch of quill on slate. My eyes flickered to the empty seat near the front. For a fleeting moment, I imagined a faint indentation on the desk, as if a head had rested there, one side pressed, the other suspended. My fingers stilled. I turned my head. Lord Theron, slumped over his workbook, his face half-obscured by the pages, sat a few rows ahead. His eyes were half-lidded. He would fix his gaze on a problem, a predatory intensity in his focus, only to surrender moments later, his brow collapsing against the text. I watched his nose flatten between the pages and his skull. Then, I looked away. *Had I drifted for a moment?* My mind felt disconnected, floating above the rigid decorum of the Scriptorium. I marked the third precedent with a small, neat star and moved to the fourth. --- The midday meal, spiced game pie and buttermilk cordial, was served in the grand refectory. Lord Theron, having swiftly dispatched his cordial, turned to me without preamble. "You're second in our cohort, yes?" "Indeed," I replied, a spoon pausing halfway to my mouth. "And among the entire Academy?" "Still second." "By the Ancestors!" "Is something amiss?" "So, the top student in our cohort also holds the highest rank in the entire Academy?" "Did you not know? I have never surpassed Lady Lyra." "She's even more consumed by her studies than you are, isn't she?" "She keeps a rigorous schedule. Her private tutors conclude their sessions well past the midnight bell." "Damnation. That's… formidable." "She is diligent." I had no desire to prolong this discussion. I scooped a generous portion of pie onto my spoon and ate. Fortunately, Theron merely nodded, leaving the matter settled. "Ah—" The abrupt cessation of conversation felt jarring. An awkward silence, a vacuum of polite exchange, began to form. I loathed such voids. Without considering the words, they simply emerged. "And your own standing, Lord Theron?" His spoon, laden with pie, froze mid-air. My gaze, against my will, fixed upon his hand. He possessed excellent table manners for one so boisterous. His grip on the spoon, firm and elegant, was beyond reproach. "In the cohort…" "Yes?" "Ninth." "…Pardon?" "Why do you look at me thus?" I quickly averted my eyes from his hand. Was he earnest? Or was this some elaborate jest? The surprise was so absolute I nearly uttered the question aloud. A surge of relief washed over me as I bit back the words. A careless remark could easily ignite his volatile temper. I hesitated. Would he prefer praise? Or would an indifferent acceptance, as if his rank were expected, be the safer path? My mind, ever vigilant for social pitfalls, rapidly assessed the options. He seemed to hold his immediate companions in rather low esteem. The latter, then. Calculated indifference. "Ninth. One performs better than anticipated." "Better than anticipated? What abysmal estimation did you hold of me?" "I harbored no low estimation, Lord Theron. It was merely… I believed you found the Imperial Dialects a particular challenge?" "The Dialects are my solitary weakness. Only the Dialects." "You do not attend private tutoring." "Absence from private tutoring does not preclude study. By the Gods, did you truly believe me an imbecile?" "No, no, not at all," I assured him, waving a hand in a placating gesture. "It is rather impressive, in fact, to achieve such a rank without supplementary instruction." "…Truly?" "Indeed. Quite impressive." For some reason, Theron began to mash his spoon into the remnants of his pie. And—was he blushing? The tips of his ears, I noticed, had taken on a distinct crimson hue. I recalled Lord Silas's recent score, a dismal thirty-second. And that was only because a handful of others performed even worse. Thirty-second out of thirty-six. The realization struck me: I had paid scant attention to anything concerning Lord Silas beyond his direct interactions with me. I had been adrift in that same pathetic, obsessive infatuation I once so scorned. Lord Theron, oblivious to my quiet existential crisis, now radiated a palpable surge of confidence. His tone, when he spoke again, was entirely transformed, brimming with self-satisfaction. "Ah, you would not know—my skill in Ancient Draconic is unparalleled." "Is it so? To what degree?" "A perfect score. I have never yielded a single mark in Ancient Draconic." "*Cough—!*" The words, so utterly unexpected, caught me off guard. My cordial, swallowed too hastily, erupted in a violent choke. Theron scowled, yanking his tray further away. "What in the Empress's name was that reaction?" "I… was merely surprised." "Is it so shocking?" He frowned, a slight pout on his lips. "My Imperial Dialect score is wretched, I grant you, but—" An odd note of self-deprecation entered his voice. I offered a jape in return. "Perhaps you might endeavor to peruse a book occasionally." "What nonsense is this? I am a connoisseur of literature!" "A connoisseur? I have never observed you reading a volume." "That is because I read in the strictest secrecy within my chambers." "Why in the Twelve Hells would one need to conceal such an act?" Lord Theron's eyes, which had curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped food onto his spoon. He casually pressed his lips to the spoon's edge, a slow, deliberate gesture. Something about the image unsettled me. I bit the inside of my cheek. Theron met my gaze as he withdrew the spoon, then lowered his eyes and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to its very tip. "The Imperial Sagas are still literature." It was unmistakably a jest. A crude, unsettling one. My face burned. To mask the heat, I seized a crumpled linen napkin from beside my tray and tossed it. It landed just beneath his long, narrow eyes, fluttering harmlessly to the table. One of his eyes twitched. Though I cared little for his offense, I feigned contrition. "Desist from such vulgarity. Especially within these hallowed halls. It is quite… uncivilized." "Oh? You refer to this? Ser Lysander's peculiar habit?" "I care not whose habit it is. Simply cease." "Is this not, pray tell, becoming somewhat of a trend amongst us now?" "…" I stared at him, trying to discern jest from earnestness. Sleep came less readily these days. A subtle indicator, perhaps, that my spirit had found a precarious comfort. Mornings, once a sluggish, burdensome ritual, now possessed a peculiar, crisp clarity. A welcome alteration—for in my estimation, complacency and oversleeping were the gravest sins of a young man on the cusp of his station. "Ah, damnation—" My jaw clicked, a sharp, painful protest as I brushed my teeth. Ever since Ser Lysander's incident, a peculiar grinding sound accompanied any wide opening of my mouth. Beyond that minor irritation, it was a tolerable day. Yet, even in this fragile peace, sudden bursts of annoyance would surface. The source, invariably, was Ser Lysander. Or rather, the ripples that emanated from his dissolute life. Most of those, alas, began within the Academy grounds. --- "Ah, Kaelen. I saw Ser Lysander last night," Lord Silas remarked, tearing into a commoner's meat pie, the kind rumored to contain ground bone and other refuse. Lord Verius, who had been playfully kicking Silas’s shin and executing feigned sword thrusts with his hand, instantly perked up. "By the Emperor’s beard—that reminds me! I was on the very cusp of mentioning this! Word trickled through the servants’ quarters—you know Maester Alaric, yes? That… eccentric wanderer? I hear Lysander is lodging with him." "Maester Alaric? That disreputable fool Alaric?" Lord Theron, rummaging through a small silken pouch, asked casually. His hand emerged, clutching two small, shimmering crystallized fruit drops. For some obscure reason, he offered one to me. "…?" I stared at it, utterly perplexed. "…What is this?" I looked at him with an unspoken question, but Theron simply offered a slight nod, as if that alone sufficed as explanation. The most vehement reaction came from Verius, whose pouch of confectioneries had been pilfered. "By the Ancestors! Those were mine! Why in the pits of the Underworld do you perpetually consume my provisions, you wretched gluttons?" "Oh, as if you have never plundered my stores, you hog!" Silas aimed another mock sword thrust at Verius’s throat. Verius instantly spun, seized Silas’s tunic collar, and swung a theatrical punch towards his face. Naturally, no true blow would land. Such was the peculiar custom of their camaraderie. I ignored their puerile squabble, lowering my gaze to the crystallized drop in my hand. The delicate wrapper depicted a stylized lemon, halved. I peeled the paper, placed the sweet into my mouth, and lifted my head. "What say you? The very taste of first devotion?" Lord Theron grinned, a flash of white teeth. "I find lemon rather disagreeable," I replied. My answer encompassed not merely the confection, but also my assessment of his jest. More than anything, I found no amusement in the notion of first devotion. That cloying, bitter sensation still clung to the back of my throat, spoiling my appetite. In the end, I could not finish the sweet. I discarded it into a nearby refuse bin. "Oh, such a waste," Theron mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, I reached into Verius’s pouch, seeking a different flavor. All were either lemon or lime. Lime was the lesser of two evils. I unwrapped one and placed it on my tongue. "Still, Maester Alaric, you say? It sounds precisely like Lysander." "What, because they're both dissolute wastrels?" Theron’s words were sharp, cutting through the casual chatter. Uncomfortable, I turned to observe him. He sucked on his own sweet expressionlessly, twirling the slender stick between his lips. I pulled mine from my mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong. Theron, however, seemed unconcerned. He tilted his sweet stick in the air like a tiny sword, making idle jabbing motions. "He procures… patrons for his acquaintances—be they noblemen or ladies. And when he finds someone of… suitable temperament, he sends them directly to Lysander. A veritable rotation. Consorting with each other, exchanging partners." "So Maester Alaric is also… thus inclined?" Lord Verius interjected, his playful skirmish with Silas seemingly forgotten. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely pondering this new revelation.

The Weight of a Rank