A frigid condensation coated the phial of revitalization as I spun it across the polished oak of Lord Kaelen Varr's desk. It skittered to a halt, a small, satisfying clink against his quill pot. Kaelen’s face, a swollen testament to another sleepless night spent indulging his esoteric studies, barely twitched. My lips thinned. It was an involuntary ritual; I always offered him a cold restorative on mornings his features took on that peculiar, puffed-up look. “Cast off that blowfish mien, Kaelen,” I murmured, feigning impatience. “It hardly suits a scion of the Varr lineage.” “A timely offering, Julian,” Kaelen drawled, a faint smile playing on his lips. He picked up the phial, the chill seeping into his fingertips. “Did your father not rage this morning?” “Not with your timely intervention, cousin.” Kaelen shrugged, an air of nonchalant triumph about him. I merely smirked, a hollow gesture. Turning to claim my own seat, my gaze snagged on a sprawling Imperial Gazette spread across the desk beside Kaelen. My assigned seat was not adjacent to Kaelen's; that honor belonged to Seraphin Astra. Seraphin, with his lean frame and deceptive height, always managed to tower over Kaelen by half a handspan. I, unfortunately, remained a full handspan shorter than Kaelen. This dictated my unfortunate placement in the second-to-last row, a small consolation that Kaelen, at least, sat directly ahead. A bitter tang rose in my throat, swiftly swallowed. I buried the insidious tendrils of envy deep. Unabashed, I gestured towards Seraphin’s desk. “When did Astra arrive?” “Not the faintest idea. He was slumped there when I walked in.” Kaelen uncorked the phial, taking a long draft. “How does one who departed early last night appear so disheveled?” As my words trailed off, a rustling sound filled the momentary quiet. The Imperial Gazette slid to the floor, revealing Seraphin Astra’s half-lidded eyes. His narrow gaze swept over Kaelen and me, before he parted his lips wide in an extravagant yawn. A shiver of unease traced my spine. “...I told myself just a few more hours, and well.” His voice was rough with sleep. Yawns, as the common folk observed, were distressingly contagious. Kaelen echoed Seraphin’s grand display, stretching his mouth wide before his face crumpled into a smug grin. “This rogue. Appears a wastrel, yet conducts himself with more propriety than Acolyte Joris.” “Go quaff a vial of Veritaserum, Varr,” Seraphin grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Right, imbecile.” Seraphin, whether oblivious or simply unconcerned by Kaelen’s taunts, leaned back in his chair, a rich, booming laugh escaping him. My eyes lingered, caught by a strange pull. He met my gaze, then shifted his attention to the great arched windows, then back to me. A curious tickle beneath my skin made me subtly scratch my shoulder. My attention returned to Kaelen. The early morning hum of the Grand Lecture Hall was, usually, a pleasant precursor to the day. These exchanges often set the mood. Soon, Prefect Valerius and Acolyte Lysander would saunter over, their eyes alight with admiration, eager to listen to Kaelen’s embellished accounts. The familiar rhythm would unfold: chatter, laughter, and eventually, the arrival of Master Elara, signaling the commencement of lectures. For young men deemed the most popular in the Academy, it was a surprisingly wholesome start. Yet, beneath the veneer, we were still just in our late teens. Tales of illicit ventures, of wild, messy liaisons from the previous night—especially those involving Kaelen—often left a sour taste. Still, I played along, feigning amusement. Despite it all, I found these mornings tolerable. But then, a month and a half ago, the rhythm shattered. The reason was entirely Silas Thorne. “Look, Silas Thorne is here.” “By the Serpent’s Coil. Disgusting.” “Does that worm possess no shame, to return after such a public humiliation?” Prefect Valerius openly sneered, pointing with exaggerated disdain. At the tip of his finger, Silas Thorne shuffled into the Lecture Hall, his face obscured by a curtain of lank dark hair. He stumbled towards an unoccupied desk in the front row, deposited his tattered satchel, and immediately slumped forward. Watching his hunched figure, a sigh, laden with irritation, escaped me. Silas Thorne was utterly pathetic. His voice was thin, his frame small – a pitiful excuse for a scion of our noble house. As the murmurs swelled, Kaelen glared daggers at Silas’s back, muttering curses under his breath. I loathed it. That raw sensitivity of his—it drove me mad. The fact he was a Thorne, my own blood, made it worse. Kaelen snatched the Imperial Gazette that had fallen from Seraphin’s desk, balling it into a tight fist. Then, with a casual flick, he hurled it. Thud. A soft sound as it struck Silas’s head, making him slump further. His shoulders gave a minute tremor. “Confound it. Do not parade that repulsive visage first thing in the morning, Thorne.” Silas placed his arms on the desk, burying his face. He obeyed Kaelen’s command to the letter. Yet, Kaelen watched this with a disgusted frown, then kicked his own desk with a loud thud. “Hey! Are you deaf, Thorne? Answer me!” When Kaelen abruptly stood and bellowed, Silas, still hunched, stammered in a trembling voice. “Y-yes, Lord Varr.” “Lift your head, look me in the eye, and speak properly.” Did Kaelen even grasp the sheer absurdity of his demands? The blatant contradiction made a bitter laugh catch in my throat. Whether or not he noticed, Kaelen strode towards Silas. With every step he took, the unpleasant feelings within me grew sharper, more visceral. Kaelen closed the distance. That alone made me feel as if I were losing control over the carefully suppressed emotions within me. This wasn’t the same kind of jealousy I felt when Kaelen drew close to Seraphin Astra. Instinctively, I knew. Deep down, I harbored something just as sinister as Kaelen did, a cruel streak I fought to master. That was why watching Kaelen with Seraphin had eventually become bearable. But his interactions with Silas, a kinsman, unsettled me more and more. My hands began to tremble. I clenched them tightly, burying them under my desk, desperate to conceal their tell-tale tremor. Kaelen kicked Silas’s desk hard. The oak groaned, rattling violently, nearly toppling. Silas jolted upright in alarm, his voice still unsteady. “F-forgive me, Lord Varr.” Kaelen stood, silently looking down at Silas’s face. Silas’s eyes glistened, on the verge of breaking. Yet, in that moment, I felt like I was the one who might burst into tears. Kaelen never made Silas run pointless errands, but he always kept his eyes on him. If Silas slipped out to the privy during a break, Kaelen would still be watching his retreating figure, even as he conversed with us. I knew, because I never stopped watching Kaelen. To be honest, my first impression of Silas Thorne was unremarkable. His complexion wasn’t flawless, but his youthful features gave him an easily agreeable face. When he smiled, it felt genuinely happy. Even his neutral expression carried a certain brightness. Before Kaelen started his torment, no one particularly disliked Silas. He seemed like a boy who had grown up in a warm, loving environment. While not overtly sociable, preferring to spend his time alone, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor. Most considered Silas a decent sort. He never flaunted the affection he’d received, earning him quiet praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be around – that was Silas Thorne. But I hadn't particularly liked him from the start. Nor had I hated him. I simply didn't care. To say he wasn't even on my radar would be more accurate. Yet, whenever I spoke with my friends, with Kaelen, or Seraphin’s group, and Silas’s name came up, I would casually lie, saying, “Oh, him? He’s alright. Quite amiable, actually.” Kaelen, much like myself, hadn’t paid Silas much mind at first. Kaelen was never the type to care about mundane Academy affairs. After Silas transferred in May, he and Kaelen didn’t exchange a single word until early June. That was the natural order of things. But one day, something shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane flow of events. It happened right after luncheon, and looking back, I don’t believe I’ve ever regretted an action as much as what transpired that day. Silas, as was his habit, had taken a corner seat during break to read a worn volume on ancient cartography. He was the sort who loved burying himself in books, a true scholar of the obscure. I, on the other hand, possessed a habit of being overly affable towards those with sterling reputations. That was why, when I stumbled upon Silas by chance, I struck up a conversation about the tome he was engrossed in. I wasn’t much of a reader myself, preferring the illusion of erudition. “You truly enjoy these dusty tomes, do you not, Silas?” “Huh? Oh, yes, I suppose I do.” At the time, Silas and I were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made approaching him easier. “Are you near its conclusion?” “Indeed, almost to the final chapter.” “Then cease your reading now. The ending will disappoint you. It is one of those works where the denouement ruins the entire narrative.” “You have read it before, Julian?” His eyes widened slightly. “Yes, some time ago.” To satisfy my intellectual vanity, I always sought out reviews and critiques of any notable work, ensuring I had something insightful to contribute. Drawing on those distant memories, I offered a summary, more critique than true appreciation, just enough to sound informed. Silas smiled brightly, a look of genuine pleasure illuminating his face. It caught me off guard. “You are the first person I have met who has read this particular volume besides myself, Julian.” “Oh… truly?” “Yes, but I shall still finish it. Pondering why the ending transpired as it did is part of the enjoyment.” “Well, of course. All opinions differ.” “Hearing you say that makes me anticipate it even more.” That smile still lingers, an uncomfortable memory. Was it some instinctive unease I felt even then? After that day, Silas Thorne began seeking me out with increasing frequency. Though I found it a touch annoying, often wondering, *Why me?*, I never outright rejected him. Silas, with his good reputation, was not the worst person to keep close. After all, books—outside of textbooks and arcane workbooks—were practically taboo for most students. Even if one had the time, physical volumes were little more than glorified doorstops. For Silas, I was likely the only individual around who shared such a peculiar interest. That day was one of those routine encounters, but it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days among them. Seraphin Astra was to blame. To this day, I cannot fathom why I acted as I did. Why I, Julian Thorne, who never meddled in others’ affairs, chose to stick my nose where it did not belong. Why Seraphin, of all things, had left his theoretical arcane calculus scroll wide open for every passing acolyte to see. I, who detested having my own grades revealed, naturally assumed Seraphin would desire similar discretion. So, I flipped the scroll over to obscure its contents. That was when I saw it: his score. Eighty-one points. I blinked in disbelief, checking again. It was undeniably eighty-one. Considering the notoriously high grade thresholds for these exams, it would barely scrape into the fourth tier. But still, it was at the higher end of that tier. It was the first time one of my preconceptions shattered. A small shock to realize Seraphin wasn’t as much of a lost cause as I’d presumed. Naturally, that made me think of Kaelen’s practical scores. Now, *he* was the true academic refuse. A student who would mark every question with a ‘2’ and succumb to slumber through the rest of the examination. Kaelen had never once managed a respectable score in any practical application. Perhaps that was why I felt such a strange mixture of emotions—like I’d unearthed something salvageable among the waste. A student I’d once dismissed turned out to be more capable than the one I frequented. That peculiar realization must have unsettled me, for I did something I normally never would have done. It was nothing grand. I merely grabbed a nearby charcoal pen and scribbled a short note at the top of Seraphin’s scroll. “Focus on the ley-line flux equations. You’ll hit the third tier soon enough. Good work. —J. Thorne. P.S. My apologies for viewing your score without permission. I merely flipped it over to cover it and happened to see it.” The sheer arrogance of evaluating someone’s performance and offering unsolicited advice made me feel a prickle of embarrassment. So, I rambled, attempting to justify my intrusive gesture. I cannot say why I even wrote it in the first place. At the time, I must have been utterly out of my mind. Looking back, it was clear this was the first mistake in what would become a series of agonizing entanglements. Every mess, every tragedy, starts with a poorly fastened first button. If I hadn’t penned that foolish note, I wouldn’t have encountered Silas Thorne, book in hand, just moments later, his face alight with a new, unsettling interest.

A Scholar's Folly