Lord Cassian of House Veridian, ever the hot-headed fool, raised a clenched fist, a pathetic display of bravado that withered under Kaelen Vance’s swift, authoritative slap across his thigh. The gesture was both a warning and an end, silencing the impending squabble before it could blossom into proper academy-sanctioned violence.
Cassian’s short-lived bluster dissolved into a strangled, indignant squawk, like a rook caught in a snare. Lords Reynard and Torvin, perpetually amused by Cassian’s predicaments, erupted in unrefined snickers. Cassian, predictably, whirled on them, a petulant sneer twisting his lips. “Oh, you find this droll? Truly?” He punctuated his question with a cuff to Torvin’s arm, a blow softened by camaraderie, yet sharp enough to sting.
With that minor fracas concluded, the trio stormed from the arcane theory lecture hall. Before disappearing through the arched doorway, Torvin offered a casual wave in my direction. I responded in kind, a perfunctory gesture devoid of genuine sentiment. Alone once more, I settled back into my seat, retrieving a sheaf of vellum and a stylus of polished dragonbone.
My fingers had just closed around the cool, smooth shaft of the stylus when, before parsing the first line of the complex runic sequence, I lifted my gaze. My eyes swept over the polished obsidian walls, etched with ancient protective wards and faint, shimmering arcane currents. Then, I lowered my head, the weight of academic expectation pressing down.
I was midway through the third problem, a challenge of spatial transposition, my stylus tapping an absent rhythm against the vellum, when I looked up again. Beyond the towering, arched windows, the verdant Elderwood saplings that lined the academy grounds had begun their slow, autumnal shift, their leaves now a shimmering gold. A sharp, almost metallic tang, reminiscent of iron and crushed leaves, wafted faintly through the open panes, a stark contrast to the crisp, cerulean expanse of the sky above.
“A female-exclusive institution would offer far greater tranquility than this den of aspiring Archons,” Master Elara, the Arcane Historian, often lamented. Her voice, usually resonant with the weight of forgotten epochs, would take on a weary, almost pained timbre during these pronouncements.
“It is a wilderness. A brutal, untamed wilderness. These young lords, they must always establish their pecking order first. By the mid-term evaluations, things typically settle, a modicum of civility returns. But until then? It is endless posturing, challenges, veiled threats, a constant scramble for ascendancy. By the Serpent’s Scales, my head aches. And I must endure this cycle anew when the next cohort arrives. Let me see... under which Zodiacal Sign were they born again?”
She would then extend her palm, counting the knuckles with a gnarled finger, muttering cryptic phrases beneath her breath. “The Serpent, the Gryphon, the Wyrm, the Phoenix…”
I attempted to mimic the motion, stretching out my own hand, tracing the elegant lines of my fingers. Yet, the precise mnemonic pattern eluded my recall. My eidetic memory, so adept at theoretical arcana, sometimes faltered on such mundane, observational sequences. I relinquished the attempt, flipping my hand to count the raised bones along the back of my knuckles instead. One, eight, two, seven…
I never would have surmised, in the languid embrace of early summer, that the crisp air of late September would feel so akin to the tumultuous first days of the academic year.
“Young noblemen are nothing more than untamed beasts. Irrational, emotional, impulsively driven by base instincts.”
I stared at the prominent joint of my middle finger, absently tapping the polished obsidian surface of my desk as one might a sonorous instrument.
From the front of the hall, the rasping voice of the Arcane Theory instructor, likely hoarse from a perpetual cold, droned on, punctuated by the faint, shimmering resonance of a chalk-룬 against the black-slate teaching board.
My gaze drifted to the empty desk near the front, directly before the instructor’s podium. For a fleeting instant, I imagined an indentation upon its surface—one side pressed low, the other subtly elevated. My tapping ceased.
I turned my head.
Kaelen Vance sat a few rows ahead, hunched over his grimoire, his face half-buried in the yellowed vellum pages. His eyes, partially obscured by the shadow of his brow, were half-closed. He would fix his gaze upon a complex schematic, as if intent on devouring its secrets whole, only to abruptly slump forward, pressing his forehead against the ancient text. I watched, a flicker of detached curiosity, as his nose became somewhat flattened between the pages and his skull.
Then, I turned away.
“...Did a moment of slumber claim me?” A peculiar detachment settled upon my senses. I marked the third problem with a faint, almost invisible, arcane glyph, and moved on to the fourth.
—
Luncheon consisted of a rich, essence-infused broth and a bowl of crystallized fruit, shimmering with residual arcane energy. Kaelen Vance, having quickly dispatched his portion of the crystallized fruit, unexpectedly posed a question.
“Thorne, you stand second in our class, do you not?”
“Indeed,” I confirmed, a flicker of internal discomfort at the direct inquiry.
“And across the entire academy?”
“Also second.”
“By the Serpent’s Scales.” Kaelen’s lips parted in a soft whistle.
“What troubles you?”
“Does that imply that the paramount student in our cohort is also the paramount student within the entire Imperial Arcane Academy?”
“You were unaware? I have never attained the first position, due to Lady Isolde’s consistent preeminence.”
“She is even more burdened with obligations than yourself, is she not?”
“Significantly so. Her advanced conjuration seminars often extend until the first hour of the morning.”
“By the Obscured Moon, that is an arduous regimen.”
“She is diligent in her pursuits.”
I had no inclination to prolong the conversation. I scooped a generous portion of the essence-infused rice into my mouth, allowing the act to serve as a subtle deterrent. Fortunately, Kaelen did not press further, merely offering a curt nod.
“Aaah—”
The timing felt abrupt, the conversational thread severed too sharply. I debated whether to offer another remark. Awkward silences, especially amongst peers, were anathema to my carefully constructed composure. Without conscious thought, the words escaped me. “And what of your own standing, Vance? What is your rank?”
Kaelen’s silver eating implements paused midway to his lips. My gaze found his hand, noting the precise, almost elegant manner in which he handled the utensils. If there was one aspect of Kaelen Vance’s conduct that bordered on impeccable, it was his table etiquette.
“Within the class…”
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
“...Ninth?”
“Why do you regard me thus?”
I swiftly averted my gaze from his hands. Could he be serious? Was this not some elaborate jest? The unexpectedness of the revelation almost prompted an audible query, but I managed, just barely, to suppress it. By the ancient rites, that was a narrow escape. To unintentionally offend him would necessitate navigating the tumultuous waters of his temper.
I hesitated. Would he prefer praise? Or would he rather I affect an air of indifference, as if such a standing were simply expected? My mind, ever attuned to survival within the academy’s subtle hierarchies, swiftly weighed the optimal social response. He seemed to hold his immediate companions in a peculiar, almost disdainful, regard. The latter option, I concluded, presented less risk.
“Indeed. Your performance is more... robust than I had anticipated.”
“What? Anticipated? How lacking in intellect did you perceive me to be, Thorne?”
“I harbored no such estimations of your intellect, Vance. It was merely… I believed you struggled with Runic Linguistics?”
“Runic Linguistics is my sole weakness. Only that.”
“You do not partake in supplementary arcane tutoring.”
“The absence of a tutor does not preclude diligence in study. By the Serpent’s Eye, did you truly deem me an imbecile?”
“No, no, not at all.” I waved my hands in a swift, dismissive motion. “It is impressive, however, considering your lack of formal supplemental guidance.”
“…Truly?”
“Indeed. It is quite impressive.”
For reasons beyond my immediate comprehension, Kaelen began to mash his spoon into the remaining rice within his bowl. And—was he… blushing? I caught a fleeting glimpse of the tips of his ears, tinged a faint crimson.
Now that the thought surfaced, Lord Rhys, who occupied a position of peculiar irritation in my mind, had ranked thirty-second. And even that was only due to the performance of others whose academic aptitude was, frankly, abysmal. Thirty-second out of thirty-six.
Reflecting upon it, I realized I had never truly paid attention to anything concerning Lord Rhys beyond matters directly impacting my own carefully structured world. And with that realization, a cold clarity washed over me. I had been drowning in precisely the sort of pathetic, obsessive preoccupation I once despised.
Meanwhile, Kaelen Vance, utterly oblivious to my internal existential crisis, had clearly experienced a surge of confidence. His tone, when he next spoke, was utterly transformed, brimming with self-satisfaction. “Ah, you likely would not be aware—I excel in Arcane Script Decipherment.”
“Indeed? To what extent?”
“A flawless score. I have never yielded a single point in Decipherment.”
“Khhkk!” I choked. The words had barely left his lips when I spat out a mouthful of broth, narrowly missing my tray.
Kaelen scowled, yanking his tray further from my vicinity. “What in the Hells was that reaction, Thorne?”
“I merely… was not anticipating such an admission.”
“Is it truly so astonishing?” He frowned, a slight pout forming on his lips. “My Runic Linguistics score is deplorable, but that is inconsequential.” There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice, almost as if fishing for further compliments.
I responded with a jest. “Perhaps you should peruse an ancient treatise once in a while, Vance.”
“What precisely do you imply? I consider myself a man of letters.”
“A man of letters? I have never observed you with a book in hand.”
“That is because I read in clandestine solitude at my estate.”
“Why, by the Serpent’s Teeth, would such an act necessitate secrecy?”
Kaelen Vance’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of his meal into his mouth. Then, with an unnerving casualness, he pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something about that image unsettled me. I bit the inside of my cheek.
Kaelen met my eyes as he withdrew the spoon, then lowered his gaze, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to its tip. “Erotic sagas are still literature, Thorne.” That was undoubtedly a jest, the impertinent scion. My face burned.
To mask the sudden heat, I snatched a crumpled napkin from beside my tray and flung it at his face. It struck just beneath his long, narrow eyes, dropping harmlessly onto the polished obsidian table. A faint twitch disturbed the corner of one of his eyes. Not that I genuinely cared, but in case he was genuinely piqued, I adopted an expression of feigned remorse.
“Desist from such foul provocations, Vance. Especially within these halls, amongst gentlemen. It is utterly repugnant.”
“Oh? You refer to this? You refer to Lord Rhys’s favored gesture?”
“I care not whose gesture it is. Simply cease.”
“Is this not, by arcane decree, a prevailing trend amongst our cohort now?”
I stared at him, attempting to discern the sincerity of his query. My sleep had grown lighter these days, a sure sign that my body, accustomed to a quiet routine, found itself in a state of unnatural ease. Mornings, which had once felt leaden and sluggish, now arrived with a strange crispness, a refreshing clarity. It was a welcome transformation—for in my mind, the gravest transgressions at eighteen were complacency and excessive slumber.
“Ah, by the Serpent’s Fangs—” My jaw clicked painfully as I brushed my teeth. Ever since that… encounter with Lord Rhys, a peculiar grinding sound accompanied any attempt to open my mouth too wide. Beyond that minor irritation, this day had unfolded rather favorably.
Yet, even amidst my newfound, fragile peace, sudden surges of vexation would pierce through. The genesis of such discomfort invariably lay with Lord Rhys. Or, more precisely, the incidents that radiated from him. Most of those, alas, transpired within the academy’s hallowed grounds.
“Ah, indeed. I observed Lord Rhys just last night.” Lord Reynard spoke, biting into a hastily procured ration wafer, the kind rumored to contain questionable alchemical compounds and processed meat scraps.
Lord Cassian, who had been playfully jabbing Reynard’s ankle with mock arcane strikes, suddenly perked up. “By the Whispering Glyphs—that is right! You have just illuminated my memory! I was on the verge of introducing this very topic. I overheard through the ley lines—you are acquainted with Master Alderon, yes? That wandering dilettante? I am told Rhys is currently a guest at his residence.”
“Master Alderon? That fop?” Kaelen Vance inquired casually, rummaging through a small leather pouch. When he withdrew his hand, he held two small, crystalline lozenges. For some inexplicable reason, he offered one to me.
“...?” I stared at it, a flicker of confusion. “...What is this?” I regarded him with a questioning gaze, but Kaelen merely offered a slight nod, as if that singular motion sufficed as explanation. The most pronounced reaction came from Cassian, whose pouch of procured rations had clearly been raided.
“By the Void! I acquired those! Why, by the Shadowed Stars, do you all consume my provisions, you wretched Archons?”
“Oh, as if you have never purloined my sustenance, you glutton.” Reynard executed another mock arcane strike towards Cassian’s throat. Cassian instantly spun, grabbing Reynard’s tunic collar, and swung a feigned fist at his face. Of course, he possessed no actual intent to strike him. Such were the peculiar dynamics of their camaraderie.
Ignoring their juvenile bickering, I examined the crystalline lozenge in my hand. Its wrapper depicted a segmented, tart citrus fruit. I peeled away the shimmering film, popped the candy into my mouth, and lifted my head.
“What do you surmise? The taste of a nascent romance, perhaps?” Kaelen Vance grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“I find citrus… uninspiring.” My response was not merely a critique of the confection, but also a quiet dismissal of his jest. And more than any other sentiment, I found the concept of a ‘nascent romance’ wholly unamusing. That cloying, almost bitter, sensation clung to the back of my throat. It stifled my appetite. In the end, I could not even finish the candy. I tossed it into the refuse bin.
“Oh, such a tragic waste,” Kaelen mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands, feigning distress. Ignoring him, I reached into Cassian’s pouch to locate a different lozenge. All were either citrus or a variant of lime. Lime, I decided, was the lesser of two evils. I unwrapped one and placed it on my tongue.
“At any rate, Master Alderon, hm? Sounds entirely typical of Rhys.”
“What, because they are both libertines?” Kaelen’s words were sharp, cutting through the casual banter.
An uncomfortable tension pricked at my composure. I turned to observe him. He sucked on his crystalline lozenge with an unnerving, expressionless mien, twirling the slender white stick between his lips. I pulled mine from my mouth. Something about this felt distinctly… wrong.
Kaelen appeared unconcerned. He tilted his lozenge in the air like a miniature arcane blade, making random, jabbing motions. “He plays games with patrons – regardless of their station, be they men or women. And when he finds one with a certain… appeal, he directs them straight to Rhys. A cycle of shared dalliances, a sordid rotation.”
“So Master Alderon… indulges in such company as well?” Lord Cassian abruptly interjected. Whether he had concluded his playful skirmish with Reynard, or simply paused mid-fight to eavesdrop, I could not be certain. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing the implications of Kaelen’s words.