A cathedral of polished oak and hushed whispers, the Grand Scriptorium stretched before Elian. Thirty scribes occupied its expanse, each a careful beast navigating the court’s intricate, unseen trails. Here, every breath was a calculation, every stroke of a quill a potential misstep. Survival was a delicate dance, a performance of deference and quiet ambition. For Elian, this constant tension had been a fixture since his induction into the Lyra Courts, a brutal reality that had only sharpened in the wake of Lord Kaelan’s disdain.
His arm, cramped from hours of painstaking script, throbbed as he flexed it. A dull ache resided in his stomach, a physical manifestation of the shame he carried. Releasing a shallow breath, Elian glanced at the bent backs around him. Parchment-yellow tunics, neatly shorn napes. At the high lectern, Master Vorian, the head archivist, sat immersed in a stack of imperial decrees, his spectacles glinting. Most acolytes copied diligently, though a few, defeated by the day’s relentless pace, had slumped over their desks.
“Acolytes, maintain your posture,” Master Vorian called out, his voice sharp enough to cut through the silence, without ever looking up from his papers.
It was late afternoon. Elian had been meticulously transcribing the fifteenth clause of a land treaty, his stylus hovering over a particularly complex legal phrasing. He paused, rubbing a tired eye with his index finger. His gaze drifted to the empty seats at the far end of the hall. Two, in particular, stood out.
As anticipated, neither Lord Kaelan nor Seraphina had presented themselves today. Elian doubted they would grace the Scriptorium tomorrow either. Not unless Kaelan’s volatile humors shifted or some fresh drama unfolded between them, the details of which Elian could only guess.
He lowered his gaze to the dense script before him. The intricate curves and lines of the ancient Lyran tongue swam before his eyes. He recalled a time, not long ago, when he believed he understood Lord Kaelan better than anyone. He’d secretly preened in that false intimacy, even when observing Kaelan’s easy camaraderie with others, especially Seraphina. He had thought himself uniquely privy to Kaelan’s nuances.
Elian propped his chin on his hand. The bitter taste of that arrogance still clung to his palate. Such thoughts now disgusted him.
What would others think if they knew the tangled desires swirling in his mind? The answer was chillingly clear. He’d be cast down, not merely disgraced, but utterly ruined. This insidious ambition, this yearning for recognition despite his crippling fear, had to remain hidden. Buried so deep, not even Kaelan—the object of so much complicated sentiment—could sense it. It needed to be forgotten, even by Elian himself.
But Kaelan, in his own way, had broadcast his desires for all to see. His anger, his pride, his scorn—all laid bare in that ritual shaming.
Elian lifted his head subtly, surveying the hunched figures. They remained oblivious, engrossed in their work. He pressed his lips together, turning his attention forward. Between rows of desks, near a shadowed pillar, lay a discarded scroll, its pristine parchment marred by a dark, smeared footprint. A chill snaked down Elian’s spine. He quickly lowered his head, feigning concentration.
Then, he shifted his neck, his gaze drawn to the back row. Lord Cassian sat there, his face partially obscured by a forearm, as if asleep mid-collapse. His expression, even in repose, seemed etched with a delicate, almost sorrowful weight, like an ancient statue left to weather.
Elian found himself staring at Cassian’s profile before his eyes drifted to his hand. Had Cassian, already towering, grown even taller? The finely tailored acolyte’s tunic, which had fit perfectly at the year’s start, now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one of them, a heavy, dark onyx bracelet caught the light—a distinct, unmistakable symbol of his House, a testament to its ancient lineage.
Before hearing the rumors that solidified Cassian’s formidable reputation, Elian had assumed he hailed from one of the newer, opulent districts. Yet, despite his high status, Cassian exuded no outward flash of wealth. His deep-set eyes, perpetually shadowed, and faded irises lent him a haunted aspect. The thin sliver of sclera visible beneath his pupils only enhanced his gaunt, sharp features.
Cassian’s presence was one of grim intimidation, devoid of the polished refinement associated with the capital’s merchant princes. Instead, his face spoke of profound, almost ancestral deprivation, an inherited melancholic heaviness. Combined with his immense height, he was doubly imposing.
Fortunately, unlike Kaelan’s mercurial charm, Cassian possessed a classically symmetrical handsomeness. Without it, Elian suspected people would actively recoil from him. Even so, Cassian’s visage was unsettling, radiating an intense, nervous energy.
Yet, Cassian’s demeanor couldn’t have been more contrary to his appearance.
He wasn’t merely indifferent to the daily machinations of court; it was as if he deliberately expunged events from his memory, whether by will or accident. He had an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that paradoxically added to his mystique.
Most notably, Cassian seemed to care little for coin or favor. He never noted how much others spent or what they sought. If the mood struck him, he’d casually dispatch a handful of silver to an acolyte nearby, as if currency held no meaning. He often lent sums and simply forgot them. There were even tales of acolytes attempting to return borrowed coin, only for Cassian to regard them with a puzzled expression, asking why they offered him money.
Still, he didn’t aid just anyone. He’d indulge trivial requests on a whim but coldly dismiss those truly desperate for his patronage.
Even with his favored companions, Cassian could be severe. Elian once overheard a story about Acolyte Thorne, who, upon spotting Cassian’s prized hunting hawk—a beast rarely seen outside its aviary—had excitedly attempted to pet it without permission. Cassian had simply cuffed Thorne, sending him sprawling amidst a stack of scrolls like a startled cur.
At the apex of the Scriptorium’s subtle hierarchy, individuals like Cassian and Kaelan shared one fundamental trait: a complete disregard for others’ opinions. This indifference, in its own peculiar way, was what anchored them at the pyramid’s peak.
Why did Elian and others, with their own hands, grant the keys to their precarious world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how much he pondered it, he still couldn’t understand.
And yet, Lord Cassian professed strict adherence to the Lyran tenets of Balance and Harmony. He was the sort of noble who slept with a holy text—perhaps the Canticle of Whispers—beneath his head, yet his actions often belied the teachings. He abstained from fermented spirits, ignored the common pleasure-houses, and never extorted from junior scribes. But his interpretation of doctrine seemed flawed; Elian knew the Canticle offered grace for many human failings. They said the Lyran faith viewed unseemly magical practices, like Kaelan’s public shaming, as a grave imbalance. Was that why Kaelan’s public display had so profoundly disgusted Lord Cassian? Elian licked his dry lips.
A strange sense of relief washed over him, a cold comfort that he hadn’t been caught in Kaelan’s direct wrath. Had he been, he’d be like that trampled scroll, discarded and forgotten. Yet, even now, a treacherous thought surfaced: if Kaelan and he had remained close, as they were just a moon ago, would Kaelan have protected him?
The thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories he desperately wanted to bury. He took a deep breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the thin broth he’d eaten earlier were threatening to resurface.
No, of course not.
How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to think he would. To Kaelan, Elian was nothing. Just a convenient, diligent acolyte to occasionally flatter him. He knew this now, because of the look in Kaelan’s eyes when he had struck him down. His gaze had spoken a truth Elian hadn’t wanted to know, but which had been staring him in the face.
Kaelan sinned openly. Elian, too, nursed secret ambitions—but he hid them. And so, Kaelan was openly condemned by the court, while Elian, for now, was spared.
A faint, bitter laugh escaped his lips, so soft it was only audible to himself.
“...So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.”
Perhaps the Court of Lyra, in its detached judgment, had a personality much like Lord Cassian’s.
His gaze shifted to the desk near Master Vorian’s lectern. An unusual pang of pity struck Elian for Seraphina. Poor soul, caught in the clutches of a predator. She had lacked the fortitude to resist Kaelan’s monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Seraphina, despite her noble bearing. She should have fled the moment Elian—in his own small, fearful way—had warned her, fool that she was.
Elian knew he was not a good person. He was selfish and self-serving, and perhaps that was his true punishment. Sometimes, he even thought this: If one must involve oneself with dangerous power, why not pick someone sly and deceitful like me? At least then the terms would be clear. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering for it?
These days, Elian thought differently.
Yes. Of course no one could ever truly value someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise.
There was a time when he thought he could have it all. Arrogant, conceited Elian. Elian, who thought he understood the Courts at barely twenty years old. Wicked, vile Elian. Pitiful Elian, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone.
That day, he couldn’t bring himself to finish the fifteenth clause. He used his still-bruised arm as an excuse to lie slumped over his desk, thinking to himself: *Well, at least I am not as ruined as Kaelan or Seraphina.*
Rumors about Kaelan and Seraphina spread through the court like wildfire. Whether they were exaggerated whispers or grounded in bitter truth, no one could say for certain. There was no direct way to ascertain the facts. Kaelan’s inner circle had vanished from the Scriptorium, as if torn out by the roots. The few acolytes who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances to fret over old loyalties, inadvertently fueling the rumors even further.
“Acolyte Elian, forgive me, but who was closest to Lord Kaelan?”
“Lord… No, Lord Cassian.”
Elian overheard this exchange as he passed by on his way back to his desk, just before dismissal. Master Vorian had asked, and a nervous senior acolyte had answered. Pretending he hadn’t heard, Elian walked into the room. Master Vorian glanced anxiously between Elian and the empty seats, tapping his stylus against the lectern. Then, as if abandoning some unspoken thought, he announced:
“Session concluded.”
The moment dismissal was official, Elian gathered his materials. As he slung his satchel over his shoulder, Lord Cassian tapped him lightly on the back.
“Acolyte. Join me after hours.”
Elian looked at his face. He knew. He had always observed Kaelan and Cassian’s every interaction, so he knew that the person Cassian most frequently invited to join him was always Kaelan. After a brief pause, Elian gestured a dismissal.
“I cannot. I have duties at the Exchequer.”
“And after that?”
“Further studies. Go with one of your usual companions.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Why not?”
“To align too closely with a losing hand only jeopardizes one’s own standing.”
“Ha.”
Elian let out a short, sharp laugh at the bluntness of it.
Right. This was precisely why he had found an unexpected kinship with Cassian. Their twisted values seemed to align in unsettling ways.
“So, Acolyte Thorne, Master Arkon—they are losing hands? Even Seraphina?”
“If you wish to put it so directly, then yes, largely. But you are different.”
The backhanded compliment left Elian feeling a strange discomfort.
“What is that meant to mean? You are… awful.”
“No, I am not.”
“You are so awful.”
“Hmm. It is in the Lyran tenets. ‘Speak truth without adornment.’ I am merely being honest, Elian.”
Honestly, Cassian was worse than Elian. At least Elian didn’t openly dismiss his peers as worthless.
“That is why I am a practical man.”
“...Indeed.”
“Since I am such a practical man, may I accompany you to your chambers?”
Lord Cassian blinked twice. Elian met his gaze for a moment before nodding.
“Yes, why not.”
As long as he did not directly interfere with Elian’s quiet routines, there was no reason to refuse. To secure one’s place in the hierarchy, there was n