A subtle puffiness clung to Lord Valerius’s face, a testament to a night spent wrestling court intrigues or perhaps indulging in some less savory pastime. With practiced ease, I nudged a chilled flask of potent cordial across his polished oak lectern. He’d barely glanced up, but a slight nod of acknowledgment tightened the air between us. On nights like these, when the shadows beneath his eyes deepened, the cordial was always met with the same silent gratitude. It kept the court’s gossips at bay, ensuring his visage remained unblemished by the rigors of his ambition.
“No need to wear the night’s toil so openly, my Lord.” My voice was a soft murmur, barely disturbing the quiet hum of the Grand Scriptorium.
“A small mercy, Kaelen.” His voice, though low, carried its usual resonance. “My father’s patience wears thin.”
He offered a tight-lipped smirk, a flicker of his characteristic arrogance. I merely pursed my own lips, turning to retrieve a forgotten scroll from my own small cubby. Then, my gaze snagged on a stack of administrative reports haphazardly splayed across the adjacent table. Lord Alaric’s space.
My height always kept me in the lower, more discreet stalls, closer to the archives. Lord Alaric, by contrast, was of a more imposing stature, easily commanding the prime tables with better light and air. His presence, often a quiet counterpoint to Valerius’s overt charisma, always pricked at a nameless jealousy within me. A small, ignoble discomfort that I habitually buried.
With a practiced indifference, I pointed a finger toward the sprawling documents. “When did he arrive?”
Valerius’s shoulder lifted in a dismissive shrug. “He was already there when I sought refuge from the dawn.”
“He departed early last night. Yet, he appears as though he’s battled the night watch.”
Just as the words left my lips, a faint rustle broke the silence. A heavy ledger slipped from its precarious perch, revealing Lord Alaric’s half-lidded eyes. His narrow gaze swept over Valerius and me, then he opened his mouth in a wide, unrestrained yawn. He seemed to stretch his entire frame, uncaring of our presence.
“...I told myself just one more hour with the Stellar Charts, then, well.”
Yawns, it seemed, were universally contagious. Valerius mirrored Alaric’s stretch, then scrunched his face into a wry, smug grin.
“The man looks like a street brawler, yet pores over celestial maps more diligently than some Imperial Astrologer.”
“A compliment, I take it?” Alaric’s voice was surprisingly melodic, a stark contrast to his rough-hewn appearance.
“Hardly. A simple observation of your peculiar habits.”
Alaric merely chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound, then leaned back, stretching his broad shoulders. Our eyes met across the dim space. His gaze, unreadable, drifted to the high, arched window, then back to me. A strange tickle prickled my skin. I scratched my wrist, feigning distraction, and redirected my attention to Valerius.
Morning in the Scriptorium often began this way, a slow unfurling of the day. Soon, other junior scribes and scholars would drift in, drawn by Valerius’s presence, eager to listen to his whispered anecdotes from the court. The ritual would unfold: murmured chatter, the rustle of parchments, and eventually, the arrival of the Head Archivist to commence the day’s work.
For men positioned as highly as Valerius and Alaric, it was a surprisingly unassuming start to the morning. But beneath the surface, we were all still, in essence, young and ambitious. Valerius’s tales of dalliances and political machinations from the previous night, though often amusing, sometimes left a metallic tang in my mouth. Still, I played along, offering the appropriate expressions of interest.
Despite the underlying currents, these mornings in the Scriptorium were, for a time, tolerable. Then, a cycle of the moon and a half past, everything shifted. The cause was entirely Seraphin.
“Seraphin approaches.” One of Valerius’s more eager acolytes, Lord Gareth, hissed, pointing with exaggerated distaste.
“By the Mother, what a wretched sight.” Another, Lady Isolde, wrinkled her nose.
“Does that creature truly believe he can show his face after last week’s debacle?”
Lord Gareth openly mocked Seraphin, who, head bowed, shuffled into the Scriptorium. He placed a threadbare satchel on his accustomed table in the front row and immediately slumped over it. Watching his hunched figure, a sigh, laden with something akin to irritation, escaped me.
Seraphin truly was pathetic. His voice was thin, his frame slight—a pitiful excuse for a man within the Veridian court. As the murmurs of the Scriptorium swelled, Valerius’s eyes, like twin daggers, bored into Seraphin’s back. He muttered a curse under his breath. I hated it. That particular intensity of his, when aimed at weakness—it grated on my nerves.
Snatching a half-read court gazette that lay nearby, Valerius balled it up in one hand. Then, with a casual flick, he tossed it at Seraphin’s head. *Thud*. With a soft sound, Seraphin’s head slumped further onto his desk, the gazette fluttering to the floor.
“Do not parade that doleful expression before the dawn has even fully broken.”
Seraphin placed his arms on the table, burying his face deeper. He did exactly as Valerius commanded. Yet, Valerius watched him with undisguised disdain, then kicked his own elegant lectern. A sharp *clack* echoed.
“Seraphin! Are you incapable of responding?”
When Valerius abruptly rose and raised his voice, Seraphin, still hunched, stammered a trembling reply.
“Y-yes, my Lord.”
“Lift your head. Look me in the eye. Speak with conviction.”
Did Valerius even hear the absurd demands he was making? The sheer irrationality of his command drew a bitter, internal laugh from me.
Whether he noticed my silent judgment or not, Valerius advanced. With every deliberate step he took, the unpleasant feelings within me grew sharper, more visceral. Valerius closed the distance between himself and Seraphin. That simple act alone made me feel as though I was losing control of the emotions I’d worked so diligently to suppress.
This wasn’t the same kind of vague discomfort I felt when Valerius and Alaric exchanged jests. Instinctively, I knew. Deep down, I harbored something just as sinister, just as volatile as Valerius did. That’s why watching Valerius with Alaric had eventually become bearable, a tolerable clash of ambition. But his interactions with Seraphin unsettled me more with each passing day. My hands began to tremble. I clenched them tightly, burying them in the voluminous sleeves of my scholar’s robe.
Valerius kicked Seraphin’s table, a sharp, resounding blow that sent parchments scattering. The table shook violently, almost toppling. Seraphin jolted upright, his face pale, his voice still unsteady.
“F-forgive me, my Lord.”
Valerius stood over him, silently looking down at Seraphin’s face. Seraphin’s eyes glistened, on the verge of spilling tears. Yet, in that moment, it felt as though I was the one who might break down.
Valerius never made Seraphin run pointless errands, but he always kept his eyes on him. If Seraphin ventured to the privy during a break in our studies, Valerius’s gaze would track his retreating figure, even as he conversed with us. I knew because I never stopped watching Valerius.
To be honest, my first impression of Seraphin had been unremarkable. His complexion wasn’t the clearest, yet his youthful features gave him a face that was easy on the eye. When he smiled, it felt genuinely guileless, and even his neutral expression carried a certain gentle brightness.
Before Valerius began tormenting him, no one harbored particular dislike for Seraphin. He seemed a scion raised in a warm, doting environment. While not overtly sociable, preferring the solitude of his books, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor.
Most considered Seraphin a decent, if quiet, fellow. Since he never flaunted the affection he’d received, he earned even more quiet praise. Humble, reserved, yet inexplicably pleasant to be near—that was Seraphin.
But I didn’t particularly like him from the start. I didn’t hate him either. More accurately, he simply wasn’t on my radar. Yet, whenever I spoke with Valerius, Alaric, or our small circle, and Seraphin’s name arose, I would find myself casually offering, “Oh, him? He’s quite agreeable. Harmless enough.” A polite, inconsequential lie.
Valerius, like me, hadn’t paid Seraphin much heed at first. Valerius was never one to concern himself with minor court officials. After Seraphin was assigned to the Scriptorium in the Month of Blossoms, he and Valerius didn’t exchange a single word until the Month of Sunlight. That was the natural order of things.
But one day, something changed. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane flow of events. It happened just after the midday meal. Looking back, I don’t think I’ve ever regretted an action as much as what transpired that afternoon.
Seraphin, as was his custom, had taken a secluded table during the afternoon recess, engrossed in a tome. He was the sort of scholar who loved to lose himself in ancient texts. On the other hand, I cultivated a habit of being overly congenial towards individuals with favorable reputations.
That’s why, when I happened upon Seraphin, I initiated conversation about the rare manuscript he was perusing. I wasn’t a true literary enthusiast myself; pretending to be cultured was more my style.
“You possess a considerable affinity for old texts, I observe.”
“Ah? Oh, yes, I suppose so.”
At the time, Seraphin and I were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made approaching him easier.
“Have you concluded that particular volume?”
“I am nearing its final passages.”
“Then perhaps set it aside. The ending will disappoint you. It is one of those narratives where the conclusion diminishes the entirety.”
“You have read it, then?”
“Indeed, some time ago.”
To satisfy my intellectual vanity, I always absorbed reviews and critiques of the texts I encountered, ensuring I had something insightful to offer. Drawing upon those memories, I delivered a critique—not a genuine one, merely enough to sound informed. Seraphin smiled then, brightly, genuinely pleased. It caught me off guard.
“You are the first person I’ve encountered who has read this text besides myself.”
“Oh… truly?”
“Yes, but I shall still finish it. Contemplating why the ending unfolded as it did, that is part of the enjoyment.”
“Of course. Interpretations vary.”
“Hearing you say that only heightens my anticipation.”
That smile still lingers in my memory, an uncomfortable shard. Was it some instinctive unease I felt even then? After that day, Seraphin began to seek me out more frequently. Though I found it mildly irritating, often wondering, *Why me?*, I never outright rejected him. Seraphin, with his unsullied reputation, was not the worst person to keep within one’s orbit.
After all, ancient texts—beyond official documents—were practically unheard of among our peers. Even if one had the leisure, such tomes were little more than curiosities. For Seraphin, I was likely the only individual who could speak of such things.
That day was one of those routine encounters, but it also proved to be one of the most ill-fated. Lord Alaric was to blame. To this day, I cannot fathom why I acted as I did. Why I, a man who seldom meddled in others’ affairs, chose to stick my nose where it did not belong. Why Alaric, of all people, had left a sensitive court petition, bearing his personal evaluation marks, wide open for any passerby to see.
I, who abhorred having my own evaluations revealed, naturally assumed Alaric would feel the same. So, I flipped the document over to conceal it. That’s when I saw it: his score. An 81. I blinked, disbelieving, and checked again. It was undeniably an 81. Considering the strict thresholds for advancement, it would barely scrape into the fourth tier. But still, it was on the higher end of that tier.
It was the first time one of my preconceptions was shattered. A small shock to realize Alaric wasn’t the lost cause I’d implicitly deemed him. Naturally, that made me consider Valerius’s own standing. He, in truth, was often far more cavalier, often dismissing official processes with a flick of his wrist. He rarely sought to achieve a respectable score.
Perhaps that’s why I felt such a strange mixture of emotions—like finding a rare, salvageable gem among the detritus. A man I’d once dismissed turned out to possess a surprising acumen. That strange realization must have unsettled my usual composure, for I did something I would never normally have done.
It was nothing grand. I simply retrieved a nearby quill and scribbled a short note at the top of Alaric’s petition.
*“Focus on the Veridian legal precedents. You will ascend to the third tier soon enough. A commendable effort. —Kaelen.*
*P.S. Forgive my presumption in viewing your evaluation. I merely sought to conceal it from prying eyes and inadvertently glimpsed the score.”*
The arrogance of evaluating someone’s work and offering unsolicited counsel made me feel a prick of embarrassment, so I rambled, attempting to justify myself. I cannot say why I even wrote it. At the time, I must have been momentarily dispossessed of my senses. Looking back, it was clear this was the first mistake in what would become a complex entanglement. Every mess begins with a poorly fastened button.
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