A labyrinth of polished marble, this quiet expanse held perhaps thirty souls. Each, in their own way, a predator or prey in the Grand Ducal court.
Here, figures formed hierarchies, gathering in tight, self-serving constellations. Every courtier navigated a daily precipice, their lives suspended by silken threads. Tension hummed, a low vibration beneath the polished floors, and survival was a delicate, often brutal, ballet.
This exquisite pressure had become my constant since twelve, when I learned the intricate dance of allegiance and calculated distance. The constant balancing act had been my routine since—and undoubtedly, everyone else’s too.
A gilded cage concealing a pyramid. Such was the ducal salon.
“Ah…”
My ribs, a dull throb beneath my formal tunic, reminded me of their recent acquaintance with the courtyard stones. A tremor ran through my arm as I subtly flexed it. A tight, empty knot clenched in my stomach. I breathed shallowly, letting my gaze drift over the bowed heads before me. Green damask chairs, the stiff, embroidered collars of my peers.
At the head of the chamber, Lord Commander Valerius sat, a parchment dispatch half-folded in his hands. He read, a faint frown etching lines between his brows. Junior courtiers, meanwhile, either meticulously reviewed their ledgers or, having surrendered to the drone of the Commander’s voice, slumped in slumber.
“Attend, those whose thoughts stray,” Commander Valerius called, his voice a dry rasp, turning a page of the official report.
It was already late afternoon. I had been poring over the fifteenth ducal decree, its archaic script blurring before my eyes. Setting my quill aside, I rubbed my temple. My gaze wandered to the empty seats, two in particular.
As expected, neither Prince Caelen nor Lord Kaelan graced the salon. They likely would not appear tomorrow, unless Caelen’s unpredictable humors shifted or some fresh drama unfolded between them—a drama I would, by necessity, remain ignorant of.
I lowered my eyes to the dense script before me. The intricate sigils of House Veridian blurred into abstract patterns.
There had been a time when I believed I understood Prince Caelen entirely. I had convinced myself I knew him best in this entire court. A secret pride had swelled in my chest, even when comparing myself to Lord Vesper Thorne, Caelen’s closest confidante.
That hidden arrogance, I now realized, had merely helped me endure watching Vesper and Caelen’s easy camaraderie. Deep down, I relished the quiet certainty that I possessed a superior grasp of Caelen’s true nature.
I propped my chin on my hand. That I was capable of such base thought disgusted me.
What would my peers think if they knew these insidious thoughts coiled within my mind? The answer was chillingly obvious. I would be cast down, pushed to the very bottom of the courtly pyramid, occupying its widest, lowest plane. A terrifying prospect.
Such a dangerous desire, unique to a scheming courtier, had to remain buried. So deep that not even its object could sense it. Ultimately, I needed to hide it so thoroughly that even I forgot its existence.
But Prince Caelen, he had not done that. Everyone in court knew of his desires.
I glanced around, lifting my head subtly. All were still hunched over their work. Pressing my lips together, I looked ahead.
Lying forlornly beneath a vacant chair, half-hidden by a discarded silken scarf, was a single, mud-stained ceremonial glove. Its owner, surely, was already forgotten.
Then, as if someone might have noticed my prolonged stare, I buried my head in my own hands, feigning exhaustion.
I shifted my posture. My gaze fell upon a figure in the back row, a face partially obscured by an arm, as if he had fallen asleep mid-collapse. The face seemed delicate and shadowed, almost ethereal in its stillness.
“...”
I found myself staring at Lord Vesper Thorne’s profile. Then my gaze drifted to his arm. Had the already tall Vesper grown even more? The ducal uniform that had fit him perfectly at the start of the season now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one of those wrists was a heavy, unadorned silver signet ring—a symbol of ancient lineage, distinct and unmistakable.
Before knowing him, I had assumed Vesper lived on the distant marches, far from the capital’s wealth, much like Lord Kaelan’s family.
Despite his imposing aura, Vesper rarely displayed overt signs of opulence. His eyes were often shadowed, giving him a perpetually haunted, almost weary look. The way his thin lips often drew into a taut line added to his sharp, austere appearance.
Vesper’s overall demeanor was one of grim intimidation, though it lacked the refined flourish of established wealth. Instead, his face seemed etched by a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a melancholic, almost monastic severity. Combined with his formidable build—he was undoubtedly the tallest courtier—it made him doubly imposing.
But Vesper’s temperament could not have been more different.
It wasn’t just that he seemed indifferent to everything; it was as if he actively erased inconvenient events from his memory, whether intentionally or not. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that ironically added to his mystique.
Most notably, Vesper cared little for coin. He never paid attention to how much others spent or how much they coveted. If the mood struck him, he’d casually dismiss a substantial debt or present an unexpected gift, as if the concept of currency held no meaning. Sometimes he granted favors and forgot them entirely. There were even stories of courtiers attempting to repay a kindness only for Vesper to ask, puzzled, why they sought to trouble him.
Still, he granted favors only to those he deemed worthy. He’d indulge random requests when in a good mood but coldly refuse those truly desperate.
Even with allies, Vesper could be harsh. I once heard a story about how young Lord Alaric, upon seeing Vesper’s prized falcon—a bird Vesper rarely displayed—excitedly tried to take its leash without permission. Vesper struck his hand on the spot, sending Alaric sprawling to the ground like a startled heron.
At the apex of the social hierarchy, figures like Vesper and Prince Caelen shared one common trait: a complete disregard for others’ opinions. This indifference, in its own way, was what allowed them to sit at the pyramid’s peak.
Why do we, with our own hands, hand over the keys to our world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how much I pondered it, I still could not understand.
And yet, Lord Vesper Thorne professed a strict adherence to the Old Faith.
He was the type of severe courtier who slept with a holy text under his pillow, yet still claimed to follow its teachings. He abstained from frivolities, from gluttony, from base pleasures, and never engaged in overt thievery or extortion. Yet the doctrine he followed seemed flawed—anyone could tell from his severe interpretations of piety. The Old Faith permitted reasonable indulgence, not austere denial. They said the religion viewed unnatural affections as a grave sin. Was that why Prince Caelen’s actions disgusted Vesper so profoundly? I licked my dry lips.
I felt a strange sense of relief that I hadn’t been caught. If I had been, I would have ended up like that discarded glove, lying trampled on the floor. And yet, even in that moment, I wondered—if Caelen and I had remained close, as we were just a few months past, would Caelen have protected me?
The thought surfaced against my will, dragging with it memories I desperately wanted to forget. I took a deep breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in my chest, as though the bitter draught I had taken for my ailments threatened to come back up.
No, of course not.
How laughable, that I had once been so arrogant as to think he would. To Caelen, I was nothing. Just a convenient companion to pass the time. I knew this now because of the way he looked at me when he struck me to the ground. His eyes said everything. I hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had been staring me in the face.
Caelen sinned openly. I, too, was a sinner—but I hid it. And so, Caelen invited the Serpent’s judgment, while I, by careful concealment, might be spared.
A faint laugh escaped my lips, so soft it was only audible to myself.
“...So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.”
Perhaps the Serpent of Veridian, the ancient patron spirit of our duchy, possessed a personality akin to Lord Vesper Thorne’s.
My gaze shifted to the empty desk near the Commander’s podium. This was unusual, but today, I felt a pang of pity for Lord Kaelan. Poor soul, caught in the coils of the viper. You lacked the strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Kaelan, unlike the towering figure of your family line. You should have fled the moment I warned you, fool.
I knew I was not a good person. I was selfish and self-serving, and perhaps that was why I had been punished. Sometimes, I even thought this: If you were to give yourself to base desires, why not choose someone sly and deceitful like me? At least then life would be simpler. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering for it?
These days, I thought differently.
Yes. Of course no one could ever love someone like me. I knew myself too well to believe otherwise.
There had been a time when I thought I could have it all. Arrogant, conceited Elian Thorne. Elian, who thought he understood the world at eighteen. Wicked, vile Elian. Pitiful Elian, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone.
That day, I couldn’t get past the fifteenth decree. I used my supposed illness as an excuse to lie slumped over my desk, thinking to myself: Well, at least I am not as ruined as Caelen or Kaelan.
Rumors about Caelen and Kaelan spread like wildfire through the court. Whether they were exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to find out either. Caelen’s usual retinue had vanished from the palace, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances to worry about anything else, inadvertently fueling the whispers even further.
“Elian, forgive me, but who has most frequent audience with Prince Caelen?”
“Prince… No, Lord Vesper Thorne.”
I overheard this as I passed by on my way back to the salon before dismissal. Commander Valerius had asked, and one of my younger cousins had answered. Pretending I hadn’t heard, I walked into the room. The Commander glanced nervously between me and the empty seats, drumming his fingers against the podium. Then, as if giving up on some unspoken thought, he announced:
“We conclude for today.”
The moment dismissal ended, I gathered my papers. As I rose, Lord Vesper Thorne tapped me on the shoulder.
“Elian. Attend to matters with me after this.”
I looked at his face. I knew. I had always watched Caelen and Vesper’s every move, so I knew that the person Vesper most frequently invited to attend to matters was always Caelen. After a brief pause, I waved him off.
“Cannot. I have private tutors.”
“And after that?”
“Archival research. Seek out one of your more amenable allies.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Proximity to lesser talents only drags one down.”
“Ha.”
I let out a short, hollow laugh at the sheer audacity.
Right. This was why I’d been able to navigate Vesper’s presence better than expected. Our twisted values seemed to align in strange ways.
“So, Lords Alden, Seraph, even your own House’s Septimus—they are lesser talents?”
“If you put it so plainly, then yes, largely. But you are… different.”
The backhanded compliment left a sour taste.
“What is that supposed to mean? You are quite awful.”
“No, I am not.”
“You are so very awful.”
“Hmm. It is in the Grand Ducal Edicts. ‘Thou shalt not speak falsehoods.’ I am merely being honest, Elian.”
Honestly, Vesper was worse than I. At least I didn’t blatantly treat my supposed allies like dross.
“That is why I am a good person.”
“...Indeed.”
“Since I am such a good person, may I call upon your private chambers?”
Lord Vesper Thorne blinked twice. I held his gaze for a moment before giving a faint nod.
“Yes, why not.”
As long as he did not directly interfere with my own tenuous standing, there was no reason to refuse. To secure one’s place in the hierarchy, one sometimes had to embrace the serpent closest at hand.