Ser Lorian was not literally dead, of course. But the titled entity, the reputation he’d assiduously cultivated, had perished within the hallowed confines of the Academy. The news, far from being delivered by a piercing siren, traveled on the hushed, rapid currents of noble gossip, a more insidious sound than any alarm. It permeated the marble halls, slipped under carved oak doors, and clung to the velvet draperies of the private study chambers.
Just hours prior, the Grand Atrium had been a crucible of escalating tensions. Now, the polished stones, once scuffed by the furious pacing of agitated scions, were pristine, as if the very air had been scrubbed clean of discord. Yet the lingering scent of old parchment and expensive perfume could not mask the residue of social violence.
Young acolytes, usually stoic in their pursuit of arcane knowledge, pressed close to windows overlooking the Academy grounds. Not with dull, lifeless eyes, but with a predatory gleam, a mixture of fascination and morbid glee. Like a flock of predatory birds scenting carrion, they huddled, their whispers a collective hiss. The din was so pervasive that snippets of conversation from adjacent chambers bled into their own.
“What exactly transpired?”
“You haven’t heard? Fool, the Lord Regent’s censors are already investigating.”
“Investigating what? Who was involved?”
“That fool, Ser Lorian, and Lord Theron.”
“By the Mother! That’s… scandalous. How did I miss it?”
We were young nobles, perched precariously on the precipice of full adulthood. At this stage, we shed the last vestiges of naïve idealism, grappling with the burdensome weight of our inherited roles. We embraced the subtle cruelties of court politics, the explosive gratification of a rival’s fall. Such a reaction, Kaelen knew, was only natural.
“Did anyone witness the exchange? Weren’t those two once cordial?”
“Have you been deaf to the whispers surrounding Ser Lorian’s character?”
Kaelen’s chamber hummed with a mix of individuals. Some thrilled by the sudden vacancy at the top of the social hierarchy, some cautiously accepting the downfall, and others openly savoring the pleasure of being on the winning side. Already, a closed carriage, its crest obscured, waited by the western gate. For the next hour, the most delicious gossip in the Academy concerned not the precise details of the confrontation, but the identity of the noble house that would claim the disgraced Ser Lorian. Rumors, like poison, spread with chilling speed through the closed ecosystem of their ancient institution.
Who truly won?
Those privy to the true account concerned themselves little with Ser Lorian’s immediate fate. Instead, they delighted in the fulfillment of a small, strangely earnest wish many had harbored since the start of the term.
Lord Theron.
Confrontations of this nature often yielded ambiguous victors. One-on-one skirmishes, especially, tended to blur the lines of triumph. Yet, every aspect of today’s incident worked in Lord Theron’s favor. The calculated leaks, the carefully orchestrated whispers that preceded the public confrontation, only ensured Ser Lorian’s definitive defeat.
In the shadowy corners of the Academy, where status was currency and reputation lifeblood, the words spread:
“Turns out Ser Lorian was embroiled in some rather… unsavory dealings with commoners.”
“What? Wasn’t his family line impeccable?”
“Impeccable? By the Serpent’s Scales! That was all a pretense! Apparently, he was only after power. They say all the lesser houses he bullied into alliances ended up compromised. It’s terrifying. And he’s from an influential family, isn’t he? If you possess the lineage, there’s nothing you can’t manipulate. He could have simply offered patronage.”
“By the Weaver! I never imagined Ser Lorian capable of such base schemes; turns out he’s a total scoundrel.”
“Heh-heh. If only I were born with such a gilded name. Even a scoundrel can rise high. But aren’t the frontier provinces less scrutinizing? We’re touring the borderlands next season, aren’t we? Think we can slip away during free time? Perhaps find some… less restricted pursuits?”
The conversation drifted, not with Ser Lorian, but with some tawdry, distant pursuit. Yet in that brief exchange, Ser Lorian’s honor was slashed a dozen times and ultimately murdered. This act of social murder multiplied by the number of students in the Academy.
After his ignominious fall to Lord Theron, Ser Lorian became a tattered flag—almost as if everyone had been waiting for his collapse.
The seminar room, under the gaze of a junior Master Scholar, weighed quiet decorum against unrestrained passion. Everyone’s eyes flicked back and forth like a metronome between the red benchmarks of their scrolls and the source of the persistent murmurs. A dark stain, perhaps spilled ink, marred the back of the room. It must have dried by now, but it felt as if one pressed it, fresh revelations would seep out.
It was unexpected to see how the timid Master Lyra, who looked ready to burst into tears at the escalating gossip, actually reacted. The next period was a mandated self-study for ancient linguistics. The chamber had been bustling with excitement over this hot topic, but it instantly cooled when the Master arrived. Entering, she swept a stack of ancient lexicons off her lectern, sending them clattering to the floor, and let out a high-pitched exclamation that bordered on a shriek.
“By the Empress’s decree! What in the Void is wrong with you! You, you, you gilded fools! Do you think my authority is a jest? Why do you live your lives with such reckless disregard for the Order? Cease this! Cease this, I command! Why do you make such noise during self-study? Is this the time for idle chatter? You’ll be aspiring Privy Councilors next year! Privy Councilors! Please, heed my words and stop causing disruption! Do you know I bear responsibility for your every transgression? I never should have accepted a post in the Academy for Scions. I didn’t even desire to serve in a place such as this. I feel as though my mind is unraveling. If you conduct yourselves thus, your lives will be naught but ash, do you not comprehend? Do you feel no shame before your parents? And how many times must I instruct you to maintain quiet during self-study!”
Most sensible individuals, upon witnessing someone so timid suddenly erupt, would fall silent. But this was the Academy for Scions, a place crowded with all manner of self-absorbed human figures. Some defied common sense, some hadn’t outgrown their pathetic adolescent posturing, and some, though they studied the same texts, were so dim-witted that they committed idiotic acts. Kaelen’s seminar room was exactly like that.
“Eh, eh—Master is vexed. Vexed! Do not be vexed!”
“It’s amusing when the Master becomes agitated.”
A young Lord Alaric, perched in the very back by the entryway, spoke up. A youth two seats ahead of Kaelen whispered softly.
“You insolent whelp! What? Do you presume I am a jest?! You, step forward. Come to the lectern!”
“Master—! Why are you like this?”
“I said step forward, you rogue!”
The Master threw a heavy parchment ledger. It sailed between the desks, struck the corner of a meticulously carved desk in the third row, then fell to the floor. The ledger, losing its momentum, landed with a dull thud.
“My apologies. I shall not do it again. Please forgive me, Master. Very well?”
He kept a smirk playing on his lips, showing no remorse. It was always some mediocre lordling, neither popular nor a complete outcast, who pulled stunts such as this. The clumsy ones acted out. They showed off, pretending to be tough. But only they failed to see that this bluff was the clumsiest and most pathetic display in the world.
“Step forward. Or must I come over there?”
“Ah, Master! Is that not excessive! Truly!”
“Silence!”
“Quiet, the Master bade you step forward.”
Kaelen could not stand it any longer. Unable to bear the escalating buffoonery, he spoke. The chamber’s eyes turned to him, but Kaelen did not care and took in that pathetic scene. Honestly, it was so ridiculous that he nearly scoffed. He quite enjoyed situations such as this.
He was not skilled in dueling, nor did he put on a delinquent act, pretending to be tough. Yet the reason he held a fairly high, if quiet, position in this subtle jungle was because he fed on guys like that.
“Lord Alaric. Why such an unexpected display of insolence?”
“You are the one who misreads the room, Kaelen.”
Of course, this hadn’t happened overnight. During the hierarchy-setting period in the first year, there had been some resistance. But now it was as pleasant as a spiral of silence.
“Indeed. Cease your clamor and step forward. Ah, truly, can you not gauge the gravity? Do you not perceive the seriousness of this moment?”
“If you are truly apologetic, step forward. Because of your antics, we all suffer. You misguided fool.”
“Ah, what is with him? Truly. What is his deal?”
Kaelen could hear Lord Alaric muttering under his breath until the end. The confident look he had when teasing the Master gradually faded, like a dying ember. Under the pressure of the entire chamber, he finally stood up and went to the lectern. Look at him now, like a cornered rat.
Kaelen secretly let out a twisted smile. Ser Lorian had fallen. And nothing could make him happier. Perhaps it stemmed from the fact that Ser Lorian had once dismissed Kaelen’s counsel with such open contempt.
No, Kaelen was certain of it. He felt a sense of vindication. Honestly, he was a bit surprised at himself. And he felt that electrifying thrill as the subtle currents of power shifted back towards him.
“Get out into the corridor at once!”
“....”
After driving the noisy fool out, Master Lyra placed one hand on the lectern and silently held back her anger for a while. Perhaps she had gathered her thoughts, for it was fortunate in many ways that her tone calmed down considerably. Then she announced she would call each student one by one to ask about what truly happened.
“I promise I shall keep it secret. So please, tell me the truth. Do not make me disappointed in you. Please, I am begging you.”
She seemed determined to hear an unbiased account, but as a female Master Scholar, she still didn’t appear to grasp the all-male pyramid world of the Academy. Once self-study time ended and the Master—her face still flushed—finished catching her breath and left, Lord Gareth closed the windows and the chamber door and gave everyone a warning.
“Hear me. Watch what you say. Make the right judgment about who will hold sway here—Lord Theron or that disgraced fool.”
“Ser Lorian brought this upon himself. You understand, do you not?”
Lord Alaric chimed in. Such admirable loyalty, was it not?
And less than a week later, Lord Theron returned to the Academy.
Lord Theron came back flaunting a subtle bruise along his jawline, a faint blue shadow. His temple must have taken a glancing blow, for there was a small, perfectly square patch of medicated gauze secured by clear adhesive. In stark contrast to these minor marks, though, the energy radiating from him was more imposing and arrogant than ever. He grinned wide, then tapped his now perfectly re-positioned signet ring with his index finger. Kaelen let out a light, almost imperceptible chuckle in return.
Right after the confrontation, Lord Theron had casually walked away, dismissing any need for assistance. It was bizarre, but in a flashy, attention-grabbing way that dominated everyone’s chatter for days. Kaelen had observed him leave. And just before Theron had disappeared into his private carriage, Kaelen had handed him a carefully folded, weighted piece of parchment, a copy of a crucial court document Kaelen had decrypted for him weeks prior.
“This is the transcription, Lord Theron. Say it was found on the ground and tell them its contents might have led to further complications if not immediately secured.”
At that moment, Lord Theron wiped his face with his left hand and looked at Kaelen. But the faint dust and residual exertion, already dried stiff, wouldn’t come off entirely. Honestly, seeing half his face smudged, a faint rusty hue, wasn’t exactly a pleasant sight. Kaelen’s focus was on how his unusually sharp eyes were locked on Kaelen’s hand. In that state, Theron spoke, and Kaelen strained to listen, caught off guard.
“...I shall send for you.”
His hand, still faintly smudged, brushed Kaelen’s cheek. It was an abrupt, almost possessive gesture.
“...My Lord?”
All Kaelen could do was stand there, momentarily dumbfounded.
Soon after, a missive reached Kaelen, stating that the situation had been contained, and the information had been successfully leveraged. And as soon as he came back to the Academy, Lord Theron took the seat next to Kaelen’s in the Grand Archive. When Kaelen’s original seatmate, a minor Viscount, showed up, without even looking at him, Theron pointed his thumb to another empty chair across the hall. The Viscount quietly took his place elsewhere.
Before Kaelen realized it, that formidable man was sitting beside him, tapping Kaelen’s shoulder twice with his index and middle fingers in quick succession. Then Theron suddenly said,
“Here is a token.”
“A… token? What do you mean, out of nowhere, My Lord?”
“Hold out your hand, Kaelen.”
Kaelen put down his meticulously sharpened quill and opened his palm. At the same time, Theron carefully placed something on it. Kaelen felt a cold, smooth weight in the center of his hand that left him a bit unsettled. When Theron lifted his large hand from Kaelen’s, Kaelen saw one small, perfectly polished shard of obsidian. Its edges were unnaturally smooth, its surface gleaming like captured night. He recognized it: a fragment from the ceremonial dagger Ser Lorian always wore, now shattered, a testament to a broken pledge or a disgraced oath.
What in the Serpent’s Coil is this? Confused by the shard’s unsettling perfection and the lingering chill it imparted, Kaelen glanced at Lord Theron. Theron leaned back against his chair, a faint, knowing smirk on his lips.
“I ensured Ser Lorian would remember this humiliation for the rest of his life.”
A low chuckle escaped Theron’s throat, a sound of genuine, almost pure amusement—like a child delighted by a clever trick.
“Did you observe it?”
“...”
“I won.”
This formidable man. This intricate player.
The one showing absolutely no remorse was Lord Theron. For a moment, Kaelen nearly dropped that obsidian shard.
Lord Theron’s return caused another stir in the Academy. After all, he was the first main player to reappear, his face not as battered as people had expected, and he showed none of the gloomy aura of a defeated man.
Rumors about who won spread quickly among the senior students. Most of the people who truly knew what happened were in Kaelen’s year. For the junior acolytes, senior drama was too far removed—something interesting to observe, but not yet their burden.