Two cycles after Lord Kaelan’s desk had been overturned, his personal codices were discovered amongst the discarded refuse of the Scriptorium’s incineration vault. Someone had torn pages, defaced marginalia, then tossed the lot. A subtle, public declaration.
Discernment of the orchestrator required little effort. After a few rotations of the court’s official duties, one of Lord Cassian’s newer acolytes, a scribe named Jorvan, smirked openly towards his patron. Whispers had already traveled through the antechambers, recounting Jorvan’s boast in the privies about consigning Kaelan’s works to the flames.
*Such audacity.* Elian’s hand tightened on the stylus he held. He looked at the heavy, scarred chest where the defaced codices lay, waiting for the burning. This chest, its lacquered edges chipped and its surface dull from countless transfers, held the silent testament of Kaelan’s fall.
Mere days past, Lord Kaelan had stumbled, oblivious to the deeper machinations.
The motive was stark. At first, Elian had dismissed Kaelan’s increasingly erratic behavior as mere eccentricity, a privileged noble’s folly. But a prickling sense, the nascent magic in his fingertips, had hinted at something darker. Kaelan’s animosity towards Seraphina had transcended mere rivalry, blooming into a volatile obsession. And his aggressive outbursts within the Scriptorium itself, once tolerated, had become undeniable. The day he saw Kaelan almost strike a junior scribe had sealed it. Even as the tide of court opinion turned decisively against Kaelan, Elian felt no urge to intervene, no guilt to assuage.
Foolishness was a luxury he could not afford. Defending Kaelan now would appear as weakness, as complicity. It might seem kind, even loyal. But in the labyrinthine Courts of Lyra, where reputations were fragile constructs, even one misstep could unravel everything.
*Why?* That chilling question echoed in his mind.
Elian rested his forehead on the cool, polished surface of his desk, closing his eyes. A brief reprieve. He wished, for a fleeting instant, that when he opened them, the oppressive weight of court politics might simply vanish. He was on the cusp of drifting into a shallow doze.
A sharp rap on his head jolted him upright. Elian rubbed the tender spot, his vision blurring for a moment. He saw Lord Cassian, who also touched his own brow, a slight frown marring his features.
“Gods below, that stings.” Elian’s voice was softer than he intended.
“Resting your eyes, Scribe Elian? In the very heart of the Scriptorium?” Cassian’s tone was dry.
“A momentary lapse, My Lord. And that… that was uncalled for.” Elian gestured to the object in Cassian’s hand.
“Oh, this?” Cassian grinned, unrepentant, lifting a heavy, iron-bound ledger. Its cover bore the intricate sigil of the Royal Treasury, a scroll Elian knew was never to leave the private vaults. “Found it in the archives’ discarded inventory bin. A curious thing.”
Elian’s face tightened. Lord Cassian delighted in such provocations.
The blow hadn't been severe, but Elian ran a hand through his hair, worried it might have dislodged the neatly tied queue he maintained. Cassian, meanwhile, shoved a stool aside with his foot, then settled onto it with an unsettling grace, leaning back until the legs creaked precariously. He flung his own heavy satchel onto the adjacent desk, using it as a pillow before dropping his head onto it.
“You rouse me from my contemplation just to indulge in your own?” Elian muttered.
“Concerned for your diligence, Scribe. Wouldn’t want you to miss a decree. My own… well, my own attention can wander. They say the finest ideas often bloom from idle minds.” Cassian’s muffled voice rumbled from behind the satchel.
“Blasphemy.”
Elian twisted, a low grumble in his throat. Cassian’s words often provoked a retort from him. Elian nudged Cassian’s boot with his own, and a faint smirk played on Cassian’s lips.
“Careful, Scribe. Attacking a Lord mid-slumber? Such ambition.” The playful sarcasm in Cassian’s voice made Elian scoff. He kicked at Cassian’s ledger, which lay beside him. It toppled towards the Lord, but without lifting his head, Cassian raised a hand and caught it with casual ease. Despite Elian’s interference, Cassian remained unflustered. A soundless laugh escaped him. Then, he spoke, his voice suddenly sharp.
“Something has been nagging at me.”
“My Lord?”
“That minor incident… it wasn’t merely a stumble, was it?”
*Damn.* Had it been that obvious? His cheek had not swollen excessively, he thought.
Elian paused, his breath catching, then brushed his hand over his face, feigning nonchalance. “An unfortunate collision, My Lord. A moment of distraction.”
“Hah.” Still resting his chin on the satchel, Cassian let out a soft, knowing chuckle.
“Truly?”
Cassian’s eyes flicked to Elian, then he pointed a finger, as if singling him out. Elian felt a chill. “My Lord, your meaning escapes me.”
“You are a devious one, Elian.” The moment Cassian smiled, a flicker of something unsettling in his gaze, Elian felt his thoughts scatter.
*What in the Hells is he saying?*
“… Devious in what manner, My Lord?”
“I suspect your ‘stumble’ was more akin to a… hurried retreat.”
“…”
Cassian’s words were often veiled, but now they carried a quiet menace. His gaze was unnervingly still. Bright irises held dark pupils that pinned Elian in place. It was like watching the tip of a viper’s tongue, trying to guess its strike. And this time, it was aimed directly at him. His mind went blank. Two words repeated, a frantic drumbeat in his skull: *No, impossible. He couldn't have. No, impossible. He couldn't have.*
Then, Cassian’s eyes narrowed further.
“It looked more like you ran from something.” His long, snake-like eyes curved upward. Elian’s throat dried. His breath hitched. He swallowed, a loud gulp. Cassian parted his lips, and Elian found he couldn’t even blink.
“If certain others learned of this, it would be… quite the scandal for a diligent scribe, wouldn’t it?”
“…”
“I shall keep your secret.” Cassian raised the hand holding the ledger to his lips, whispering the words, then winked. The breath Elian had been holding slammed against his ribs like a trapped beast.
Cassian didn’t wait for a reaction. He ran a casual hand through his dark hair, then pointed a finger at Elian again.
“Did you, by chance, begin tidying your coiffure in my manner? It lacks your usual… precision.”
Elian was speechless. Cassian crinkled his nose in exaggerated disapproval.
“Regardless, I shall reclaim my repose.” He yawned, burying his face into his satchel. Staring at the back of Cassian’s head, Elian finally managed a murmur.
“I did not emulate your style, My Lord. And my hair remains as it was.”
“Ah, indeed?” Cassian’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his satchel.
---
“Great Serpent of Lyra, who absolves the sins of the worthy.” Cassian murmured a prayer, clutching a rolled scroll of quarterly assessments. Fourth rotation. After the morning’s decree readings, they had received the evaluations from the previous quarter. Cassian buried his head in the unrolled parchment, scanned the figures, then muttered his dramatic invocation. He threw his head back and let out a theatrical sigh.
“Ah, I am truly doomed.”
Elian glanced at his own assessment scroll, noted his satisfactory marks, then folded it precisely and slipped it into an inner pouch of his satchel. When he looked back, Cassian was still sighing, his head thrown so far back Elian could only see his prominent Adam’s apple. It bobbed heavily, almost chastising Elian for staring. Fixing his gaze on Cassian’s throat, Elian spoke.
“That particular petition is not for such mundane matters, My Lord.”
“Who cares? A prayer is a prayer, isn’t it?” Cassian straightened suddenly. “Tell me, Elian, is it ‘Serpent’ or ‘Dragon’ in the older texts?”
That was when Elian realized the peculiar nature of Lord Cassian’s reverence – it was utterly unconventional.
“Why ask me, My Lord? It is your patron deity.”
“Elian, you are the most learned scribe in these chambers. I thought you would know all manner of esoteric truths.”
“I do not. And I confess no deep adherence to any particular cult.”
Cassian, who had been leaning back, shot forward. Their eyes met. Instinctively, Elian averted his gaze, focusing on the polished window overlooking the Court gardens, pretending not to have seen. Yet, a sharp prickling sensation spread across his chest, as if he’d been caught in a transgression.
He stared absently at the distant gardens, then shifted his focus to the stiff, perfectly pressed collar of Cassian’s tunic. The crisp white fabric rested against his neck, but with every exaggerated movement, a sliver of Cassian’s collarbone flashed into view.
“So? Care to join me at the Temple this High Festival?”
“My Lord? No.”
“Ah, why not? Come. Attend the rites, contribute to the offerings, and on the feast days, they distribute gifts. Rare fruits, spiced sweets, even small vials of potent cordial…”
“Wait, My Lord, do you partake merely for the beneficence?”
“Of course.” Elian finally met his gaze. Cassian had a small, intricately carved bone stylus resting on his upper lip, held there by some peculiar muscle control. At first, Elian had refused to admit it out of sheer pride, but at that moment, he had to concede: Lord Cassian was undeniably handsome. A smug bastard.
The stylus, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted his voice into a slurred, disgruntled mumble. “But you say it as if I were stealing. If the Temple offers gifts, what offense is there in accepting them?”
“Can one truly call it devotion, My Lord, if the belief stems from such selfish intent?”
“That is how all belief begins, Elian. Mortals do not start with grand philosophies. They think, ‘Ah, the Temple offers fine food. That deity must be benevolent.’ And then, little by little, their appreciation for the ‘benevolent deity with pleasant gifts’ blossoms into absolute faith. The beginning and the process are inconsequential. What matters is that now, I believe.”
Lord Cassian often spouted such ridiculous pronouncements. Even Lord Kaelan had been known to get tangled in his sophistry.
Sometimes, it was pure nonsense. But sometimes, it was the kind of seductive logic that even Elian found himself tempted by. This was the latter.
Elian ran a hand through his dark hair, brushing it back from his forehead. But the strands kept falling into his eyes, so he shook his head, once, twice. His thin hair swayed. He gathered the errant strands near his temples, and finally, the persistent tickle subsided. So distracted had he been by recent events, he’d neglected his bi-weekly trim.
With Lord Kaelan absent from the Scriptorium, and Seraphina rarely gracing these chambers, the far end of the great hall felt unnervingly empty. There was no longer any reason for Elian to look in that direction.
Six days past, the Head Scribe had summoned him to his office, asking if he’d heard from Lord Kaelan.
Elian answered without hesitation, his voice carefully neutral. “No, Master Scribe. He has not sought my counsel.”
“You still have not reconciled with Lord Kaelan, then?”
Elian offered a small, bitter smile. A perfectly calculated smile, though in truth, he felt no desire to smile at all. “No. Lord Kaelan… he grew quite distant after our last discussion.”
“Lord Kaelan grew distant from *you*?” The Head Scribe’s brow furrowed.
“Indeed.”
Rumors had already circulated, so the Head Scribe was not entirely oblivious to the implications of Elian’s words. “Very well, Scribe Elian. You are dismissed.” Then, as he settled back into his high-backed chair, he muttered to himself, barely audible.
Judging by the snippets Elian caught, it was mostly complaints about Kaelan’s temperament and frustration over a reprimand he had received from Kaelan’s influential kinsman.
Elian pretended not to hear the pathetic monologue, turning away, but his ears remained acutely attuned. That was how he grasped the full, suffocating atmosphere within the Head Scribe’s office.
Later, after the evening’s studies, while Elian was preparing his personal record-keeping at his small apartment, Lord Kaelan’s kinsman called upon him. He asked the same question as the Head Scribe—if Elian knew of Lord Kaelan’s whereabouts.
Elian offered the same carefully constructed answer. “No, My Lord. Kaelan has ceased all contact with me.”
— *I see…*
“I am truly sorry I cannot be of more assistance.”
— *No, Scribe Elian, there is nothing for you to apologize for. You are blameless.* Elian sensed the deliberate inflection.
Lately, Lord Kaelan’s kinsman had been making inquiries with unsettling frequency. And each time, the conversation unfolded in an identical pattern. There was something oddly deliberate about his attempts to tie Elian to Kaelan. Elian hurried to conclude the audience.
Honestly, there was nothing to apologize for. But he offered his apologies anyway – to cultivate favor. It was the same instinct that compelled nobles to praise an undeniably ill-favored newborn as ‘blessed by the Serpent.’ A social convention. A form of etiquette that oiled the gears of this civilized, yet ruthless, society.
He knew adults did not perceive him as a pawn.
If anything, his politeness was more akin to a crude pantomime performed by a shrewd jester. He always understood his place. And since he exerted such meticulous effort to be liked, he was bound to become a well-loved jester.
Even if, one day, he made a mistake so blatant it caused the audience’s brows to furrow in displeasure, they would forgive him. That was the groundwork he was laying.
Unlike some fools, he was navigating his life with calculated wisdom.
Perhaps, from a high noble’s perspective, his way of thinking was nothing more than a narrow-minded, petty trick to escape inconvenience. But among his peers, it was undeniable—he was someone who knew how to manage unpredictable situations with a steady hand.
For proof, one only needed to observe Scribe Jorvan.
Scribe Jorvan was the most desperate among the junior scribes to ingratiate himself with Lord Cassian. Because of that, he now acted excessively cordial toward Elian, for in the eyes of the court, Elian had already aligned himself with Cassian’s rising influence.