The saccharine sweetness of the fruit drop dissolved on Kaelen’s tongue. Its taste was a hollow echo of the discomfort settling in his gut, a familiar companion since Lord Theron’s unexpected confidences. Theron, leaning back against the Scriptorium’s carved oak, offered a languid hand gesture—a faint wave of fingers that might have been a dismissive flourish, or a parody of a kiss. Kaelen watched him, jaw tight, the remnants of his meticulous research on ancient Veridian seals scattering from his thoughts like dust motes. His thigh twitched. A nervous habit. The interaction with Theron often left him feeling like a fledgling noble caught in a seasoned diplomat’s web. He knew the precise source of his unease, though admitting it felt like an admission of weakness. It swirled around him, intangible yet suffocating, like a clammy mist clinging to the grand marble pillars of the Academy. Kaelen worked his jaw around the fruit drop. He wondered about Theron’s true intentions. He had heard the whispers, the veiled jokes among the Novices about Ser Lysander’s new lodgings with Maester Alaric, a man known for certain... predilections. Theron had, with startling frankness, implied a scandalous arrangement. Kaelen had no doubt Theron’s words were laced with truth, but he could never discern the motive behind such revelations. What game did Theron play? His pronouncements felt tangible, yet Kaelen only grasped a shifting haze. Lord Valerius, a junior scion from a minor house, stomped his foot in the main reading hall, voice booming. “My notes, you cur! I saw you with them yesterday!” “Quiet your bleating, Valerius!” Lord Evrard, another junior, retorted, shoving Valerius’s shoulder. “The sum you owe me for that borrowed cipher-key could procure a hundred rolls of your cheap parchment.” “You lie!” The front section of the vast reading hall descended into a petty squabble. Evrard and Valerius wrestled half-heartedly, oblivious to the sharp, disapproving glances cast their way by higher-ranked scholars, their brows furrowed in annoyance. Kaelen turned his head slightly, following a faint stir of air. Theron. He sat at a nearby alcove, a delicate porcelain pastry—a candied rosewater tart—resting on the scroll-strewn desk before Kaelen. Theron had approached quietly. Kaelen’s gaze snagged on Theron’s manicured fingers. He froze, a knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach, as Theron’s long digits reached out, tracing the edge of Kaelen’s lips. Theron's touch was light, almost imperceptible, yet it felt like a brand. Theron leaned in, his breath a warm whisper against Kaelen’s cheek. He gently plucked a stray crumb of pastry from Kaelen's lower lip. Kaelen’s entire body stiffened. Theron raised the small particle to his own lips, tasting it with a slow, deliberate motion. A subtle, almost predatory smile curved his mouth. “I shall acquire a taste for this, I think.” Theron’s voice was soft, silken. He licked his lips, a flash of tongue, as if cleaning them. Then, he chuckled. “Why the look of dismay, Kaelen?” Kaelen pressed his lips together, feeling them dry and cracked. “It… is unhygienic, Lord Theron.” “Do you not know? The sharing of essences cultivates a shared immunity.” Theron’s eyes glinted with amusement, or something darker. Kaelen could not tell. “That is… truly repellent.” Kaelen clamped his mouth shut, as if it were a rusted locket. Theron shifted, placing a hand on his thigh, sweeping upwards to his knee as he arched his back slightly, a picture of indolent grace. Kaelen curled his fingers, tucking them deep into his palms, burying them away. He knew his own foolishness, the inherent disadvantage of his quiet nature against Theron’s brazen charm. Theron, still perched askew on his chair, languidly popped the pastry crumb into his mouth and shrugged. “You said you disliked rosewater?” He sucked on the small, sugary morsel, air whistling between his lips. Kaelen swallowed hard. “That was a saffron tart. My preference remains for saffron.” “Then it is well. I prefer rosewater.” Theron licked his lips once more, a gesture of almost vulgar satisfaction. He savoured the pastry that had graced Kaelen’s lips with an unnerving proficiency. Another day passed, leaving a faint, sickly sweet residue. --- The Veridian autumn descended with a palpable chill, foreshadowing the relentless winter that would soon grip the empire. Within the Academy walls, a heightened sense of duty permeated the very stones. Maesters felt the weight of their instructional burdens; students sensed a grave obligation to carve their marks upon history. Yet, exceptions always existed, figures who drifted outside this solemn square of ambition. Disgraced Ser Lorian, once of promising lineage, had returned. His downfall had been gradual, a slow erosion of status due to indiscretion and scandal. Lord Torvin, his younger brother, once a brilliant Novice, had been forced to retreat from the Academy entirely, his own prospects ruined by association. They were pawns, perhaps, whose unfortunate wanderings served only to illuminate the path for others. Kaelen knew his own survival depended on ignoring their tragic orbit, maintaining his carefully constructed, almost invisible ‘square’ of acceptable obscurity. --- Kaelen had just finished cataloguing a collection of rare astronomical charts, his fingers tapping a quiet rhythm on the vellum. Through the half-open door to the outer cloister, he saw Ser Lorian. The disgraced noble was leaning against a weather-beaten stone archway, his shoulders hunched. It was barely two decades since Lorian’s family had been a fixture at court, but his dissipation had swiftly stripped him of that privilege. Kaelen had, in a past life, offered some minor analytical assistance to Lorian. The memory was now distant, blurred. He made a quiet decision. Better to let go of such lingering attachments. He turned away, preparing to descend the main stairwell. An encounter, especially alone, with Ser Lorian would invite ruinous speculation. Even a simple exchange of pleasantries would inevitably be twisted by the Academy’s insidious rumour mill. At best, Kaelen would be linked to a disgraced house. At worst, Lorian’s temper, notorious even in his diminished state, might flare, leading to a public scene. Kaelen had experienced Lorian's brusque anger before, an experience humiliating enough to avoid at all costs. The wisest course was to vanish. He would return when the cloister bustled with evening activity, blending into the crowd like a shadow. So, Kaelen made his way to the first-floor archives, feigning deep engrossment until the bells for the evening meal summoned a throng of students, allowing him to slip back to his workstation unobserved. He forced himself to feign disinterest in the subtle seismic shifts caused by Lorian’s return. His continued survival depended on it. Yet, Lorian remained an unpredictable variable, an open wound in the Academy’s carefully maintained facade. A dull frustration throbbed in Kaelen’s temples. The gnawing discomfort, the anxiety that seemed to consume his very breath, had intensified sharply since Theron’s recent, unnervingly intimate attentions. Theron approached Lorian in the Scriptorium’s central atrium, a casual disregard for social niceties in his stride. He offered a wide, easy smile. “It has been a long time, Ser Lorian, has it not?” Lorian merely nodded, a curt, almost dismissive gesture. He offered no response. “Such a chilly reception,” Theron mused, nudging Lorian’s desk with his boot. The casual disrespect was stark, especially considering Theron’s own indirect role in Lorian’s social decline. Kaelen, not wishing to involve himself in such petty squabbles, attempted to redirect his focus to the ‘real’ problems on his desk: a stack of undeciphered ledgers. The Academy Provost’s entrance for the evening roll call disrupted that effort. Maester Provost seemed genuinely pleased by Lorian’s return, though a visible shadow of guilt flickered across his face as he murmured, “Lord Torvin is not with us today either.” His words hung in the air, laden with unspoken meaning. He concluded the roll call with a soft tap of the attendance book. The incident unfolded with disquieting swiftness. Lorian grimaced, pulling out a stained, crumpled codex from his desk drawer. Its filthy state bespoke months of neglect. Two other students, who had stored their own texts in the communal lockers, rose to retrieve them. Lorian’s scowl deepened as they left. He rarely consulted such volumes, but the implication of disrespect, the casual defilement of his property, would sting. His keen sensitivity to hierarchy, animalistic in its instinct, would not allow it to pass. Everyone present understood what had happened. An unspoken agreement settled over the hall. No one spoke a word, neither of who had defiled Lorian’s codices, nor of who might have instigated such an act. “Who did this?” As the Provost’s final words echoed, the moment everyone had unconsciously anticipated began. “I said, who did this?” Lorian’s hands were stuffed into the pockets of his tunic, chin lifted, eyes narrowed. Some students, eager to avoid the escalating tension, slipped silently from the hall. Others, drawn by morbid curiosity, glanced nervously around. Theron, meanwhile, calmly scribbled in a well-worn textbook with a grimy, finger-stained stylus. He did not look up. “What are you speaking of, Ser Lorian?” “Who?” Lorian demanded, his voice taut. “Who what? You must articulate your thoughts, my friend, if you wish to be understood.” Theron’s audacity was breathtaking. Truly brazen. “The bastard who defiled my codices.” Lorian knew his property had not simply vanished or become soiled by chance. Theron’s feigned ignorance was, in itself, an admission. Even a fool would understand this. Yet, Theron continued his jest, as if oblivious to the gravity of the slight. “Did you even possess codices, Lorian? You were always prone to sprawling across your desk, dreaming.” Theron let out a short, hollow laugh. There was no way Lorian would tolerate such blatant disrespect. “Enough. Was it you, Kaelen?” Lorian turned, his gaze fixing on Kaelen. “You and Theron?” Kaelen’s breath hitched. He had been implicated, as he always was. Any fool could have predicted this. “No.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Come now, would our meticulous Kaelen ever treat his beloved texts with such disregard?” Theron chimed in, his tone falsely helpful. “Lord Theron—blast it, why do you keep interfering?” Lorian snarled. “Interfering? If a fellow scholar faces injustice, it is only right to assist him.” Theron’s expression was innocent, a practiced mask. “What nonsense are you spouting, you insipid fool?” “Insipid? That is a trifle harsh.” “Cease your empty words. Who else could have so thoroughly poisoned the atmosphere while I was away, if not the two of you?” Lorian scoffed. Only then did Theron lay his stylus down. A faint smirk still played on his lips. Lorian’s face twisted in displeasure. Unable to contain his rage, Lorian swept his arm across a nearby table. Scrolls, inks, and a heavy wooden ruler scattered, some striking Kaelen’s shins. “Ah!” The impact was sharp, though not truly painful. Kaelen frowned, watching the ruler clatter to his feet. His skin prickled with humiliation. “This madman simply hurls objects now,” Theron remarked, his voice already laced with a subtle irritation. Lorian, at that moment, slowly lifted the corners of his mouth. “Ah, I see.” It was the look of someone who believed he had won. Kaelen’s furrowed brow refused to relax. What did Lorian think he understood? “Lord Theron. Kaelen. Are you two collaborating?” “What?” Kaelen was at a loss for words. Theron’s playful smirk vanished instantly. Kaelen felt more bewildered than Lorian, who had lost his property. Theron’s reaction mirrored his own. “Ser Lorian, forgive me, but your pronouncements are so utterly nonsensical I fail to grasp their meaning.” Despite clearly hearing every word, Theron cupped a hand to his ear—a blatant mockery. From Kaelen’s past observations, Theron rarely stopped at a single jest. This was merely the overture. Kaelen, sensing the uneasy air thicken, slowly rose to his feet. Theron, meanwhile, continued his calculated provocations, a thin, cruel smile returning to his lips.

A Taste of Ill-Omen