A clatter of bone dice against polished obsidian broke the hushed order of the Imperial Scriptorium. Lyraeus, a junior scribe with an ill-fitting tunic and an overabundance of bluster, had slapped the table. Before his arm could swing further in mock triumph, Cassian, another scribe, swatted Lyraeus’s wrist with a sharp, precise strike. It was a gesture of dismissal, not aggression, yet it quelled the brewing theatrics instantly.
Lyraeus’s bravado crumpled. A strange, choked sound, like a falcon caught in a snare, escaped him. Lysander and Septimus, always quick to amusement, erupted in hushed laughter, their eyes crinkling at the corners. Lyraeus whirled on them, a petulant sneer twisting his lips. “Oh, you find this amusing? Truly?” He jabbed a finger at Lysander’s arm, a feigned blow that still made the younger scribe flinch.
After that brief, muted commotion, the trio gathered their scrolls and parchment, sweeping out of the Scriptorium with a rustle of heavy fabric. Before passing through the carved archway, Lysander glanced back, offering Elian a casual wave. Elian, seated at his own meticulously organized desk, felt a flicker of surprise. He had no reason to refuse such a simple courtesy, so he lifted a hand in return, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. Then, he settled back into his high-backed chair, pulling a heavy imperial ledger closer.
His fingers had just closed around the cool, smooth bone of his stylus when, before dipping it into the inkwell, Elian’s gaze drifted upwards. He swept the polished, dark wood walls of the Scriptorium, then the high, vaulted ceiling painted with the constellations of Lyra, before lowering his head once more to the desk.
Elian was meticulously copying the third decree, his stylus tapping a quiet rhythm against the vellum, when he abruptly lifted his head. Beyond the tall, arched window, the Imperial Gardens stretched, ablaze with the late autumn’s vibrant marigolds and chrysanthemums. Their pungent, earthy scent, usually filtered by the thick glass, seemed to permeate the very air. In contrast, the sky above was an impossible, pristine azure.
“A convent scriptorium would be a balm compared to this,” the old Imperial Archivist, Master Thorne, often grumbled. He’d taught Elian the ancient script, his voice raspy with age and resignation.
“It’s like a serpent’s nest. A true serpent’s nest. Young courtiers always seek to establish their venom first. By the mid-season trials, things settle a little, the fangs are bared. But until then? It’s just veiled threats, subtle tests of influence, attempts to climb the social strata. By the Light, my head aches. And I must observe this dance anew with each fresh intake of acolytes. Let’s see… what celestial sign were they born under again?”
Master Thorne would then spread his palm, tracing the lines and counting the segments one by one, muttering arcane astrological terms. Elian tried to mimic the motion, stretching out his own hand, counting the joints on his fingers. He couldn’t quite decipher the intricate pattern. Giving up, he flipped his hand over, instead counting the faint ridges of bone on the back.
One, then four, seven, ten… Elian never would have guessed, back in the early spring, that late autumn would feel like the raw, uncertain tension of initiation all over again. “These young nobles are nothing but untamed beasts. Irrational, driven by raw emotion, impulsive fools.”
He stared at the slight knob of bone on his middle finger, absently tapping the desk like a silent metronome. The faint scratch of a quill from across the hall, punctuated by the rustle of turning parchment, was the only sound.
Elian glanced at the empty seat near the front, where Cassian usually sat. For a moment, he thought he saw a subtle shimmer on one side of the polished surface – a faint echo of pressure, the other side strangely untouched. His fingers stopped their tapping. He turned his head fully. Cassian was indeed there, hunched over a collection of scrolls, his face half-buried in the brittle pages. His eyes were half-closed, yet fixed on a particularly dense section of text as if he meant to absorb it whole. Then, with a sigh, he slumped forward, pressing his forehead against the ancient parchment. Elian watched as Cassian’s nose was gently squashed between the pages and his brow. Then, he turned away.
“…Had I drifted for a moment?” The thought felt disembodied. Elian marked the third decree with a small, neat star and moved on to the fourth.
---
Midday repast was a simple affair of spiced lentil stew and a cup of fermented fruit wine. Cassian finished his wine first, then abruptly asked, “Right, you’re first among the junior scribes, aren’t you?”
“Among the juniors, yes.”
“And among all acolytes in the Scriptorium?”
“Also first.”
“By the Light.” Cassian looked genuinely surprised.
“What?” Elian asked, a knot tightening in his stomach. He hated being the focus of such direct scrutiny.
“So that means the top acolyte in our cohort is the top acolyte in the entire Scriptorium?”
“You weren’t aware? Seraphina has always held the highest honors overall.” Elian felt a familiar pang of inadequacy, even in success. Seraphina was a legend, impossibly brilliant.
“She’s even more dedicated than you, isn’t she?”
“She dedicates herself to her studies until the deepest hours of the night,” Elian confirmed.
“Ancestors. That’s relentless.”
“She strives for perfection.”
Elian had no intention of prolonging the conversation. He scooped a spoonful of stew and brought it to his lips, hoping the action would signal an end. Mercifully, Cassian did not press further. He simply nodded.
“Ah…” The silence stretched, feeling awkward and abrupt. Elian, ever averse to lingering discomfort, blurted out, “What about you? Your standing among the acolytes?”
Cassian’s spoon halted midway to his mouth. Elian found his gaze drawn to the hand holding it. Cassian held his utensil with a surprising elegance, a stark contrast to his often-blunt demeanor. If there was one thing Cassian did with unexpected grace, it was his table manners.
“Among the cohort…?”
“Yes?” Elian prompted.
“Fifth.”
“…Fifth?” Elian felt his breath catch. He quickly averted his eyes from Cassian’s hand, the question almost escaping his lips: *Was he serious? Not lying?* The nascent magical sense that lay dormant within him, usually a gentle hum, stirred with a faint uncertainty. But it didn't scream deceit. He swallowed the question, narrowly avoiding giving offense. *Gods. That was close.*
If he slipped, he would surely face Cassian’s sharp tongue, perhaps even worse. Elian hesitated. Would Cassian prefer praise? Or would an indifferent, knowing nod be safer, implying it was expected? His mind, always calculating, weighed the optimal social response. Cassian didn’t seem to hold his usual companions in particularly high regard. The latter, then, was the safer course.
“Hm. That’s… more formidable than I would have presumed.”
Cassian’s brow furrowed. “Presumed? How bereft of sense did you think I was?”
“I did not think you bereft of sense, it’s simply… I thought you found the ancient languages challenging?”
“The ancient scripts are my only true difficulty. Only them.”
“You do not attend private tutoring.”
“Not attending a master’s tutelage does not imply an inability to study. By the Ancestors, did you truly take me for a dullard?”
“No, no, not at all.” Elian quickly waved his hand, a small, placating gesture. “It is impressive, however, to achieve such a standing without private instruction.”
“…Truly?” Cassian’s voice held a curious softness. He suddenly began mashing his spoon into the remnants of his stew. And… was he blushing? Elian caught a glimpse of the tips of his ears, faintly pink. Now that he thought about it, Aerion, another junior scribe, had ranked twenty-first among the cohort. And that was only because there were others who fared even worse. Twenty-first out of twenty-four. Thinking back, Elian realized he rarely paid attention to anything about Aerion outside of the required reports. With that realization, a cold clarity struck him. He had been drowning in exactly the kind of pathetic, obsessive infatuation he used to despise.
Meanwhile, Cassian, completely oblivious to Elian’s internal turmoil, had clearly received a boost to his self-regard. His tone was entirely different now, brimming with quiet satisfaction. “Oh, right! You likely wouldn’t know – I excel at deciphering Lyran ciphers.”
“Indeed? To what extent?”
“A flawless record. I have never lost a single mark in cipher analysis.”
“Kkhhkk!” Elian choked. The second the words left Cassian’s lips, Elian spluttered the fruit wine from his mouth. Cassian scowled, jerking his tray away. “By the Light! What kind of reaction is that?”
“I merely… was not expecting such an accomplishment.”
“It is that shocking?” Cassian frowned, a slight pout to his lips. “Yes, my ancient script scores are lamentable, but that matters little.” There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice, almost as if fishing for reassurance. Elian, emboldened by the unexpected dynamic, offered a joke in return. “Perhaps spend less time on frivolous ledgers and more on the sacred texts.”
“What are you implying? I am entirely a scholar of ancient lore.”
“A scholar? I have never witnessed you with a tome of lore.”
“That is because I read in secret, within my chambers.”
“Why, in the Ancestors’ names, would you need to conceal such an admirable pursuit?”
Cassian’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of stew into his mouth. Then, he casually pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something about the languid gesture unsettled Elian. He bit the inside of his cheek. Cassian met his eyes as he pulled the spoon away, then lowered his gaze and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to its very tip. “Forbidden scrolls are still lore.” That was undeniably a jest. A rogue, audacious jest. Elian’s face burned. To conceal his reaction, he snatched a crumpled napkin from beside his tray and flicked it at Cassian’s face. It struck just below his long, narrow eyes and dropped harmlessly onto the table. One of Cassian’s eyes twitched slightly.
Not that Elian truly cared, but just in case Cassian was genuinely annoyed, he feigned remorse. “Do not make such crude gestures. Especially not within the Scriptorium. It is unbecoming.”
“Oh? You refer to this? You refer to Aerion’s little affectation?”
“I care not whose affectation it is. Cease it.”
“Is this not, like, a common display among our generation now?”
Elian stared at him, trying to discern if he was jesting or entirely serious. He had been sleeping less these past weeks. That, in the peculiar logic of the courts, was a sure sign that his spirit was growing accustomed to the relentless currents. Mornings, which had once felt leaden and sluggish, now held a strange crispness. It was a welcome change – after all, in Elian’s mind, the gravest sins for a junior acolyte were complacency and lingering inertia.
---
“Ah, by the Light—” His jaw clicked painfully as he cleansed his teeth. Ever since that incident with Aerion, his jaw made an odd grinding noise whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Other than that, today felt… promising. But even in this newfound, fragile peace, there were sudden surges of irritation. The cause was always Aerion. Or rather, the ripple effects that stemmed from him. Most of those incidents played out within the very walls of the court.
“Oh, right. I saw Aerion last night,” Torvin spoke, biting into a spiced meat pie – the kind rumored to be made from whatever refuse the kitchen deemed unworthy of the nobles’ tables. Lyraeus, who had been idly jabbing Torvin’s ankle with a stick, suddenly perked up. “By the Serpent’s Scales! You just reminded me! I was entirely about to mention this. I heard something through the whispers – you all know Lord Valerius, yes? Yes? That… *libertine* nobleman? I heard Aerion is lodging at his estate.”
“Lord Valerius? That debauched Lord Valerius?” Cassian, rummaging through a small leather pouch, asked casually. When he pulled his hand out, he held two small, gilded fruit pastilles. And for some inexplicable reason, he offered one to Elian.
Elian stared at it, bewildered. “…What is this?” He looked at Cassian with a questioning gaze, but Cassian merely gave a slight nod, as if that was explanation enough. The one who reacted most vociferously was Lyraeus, whose pouch of sweets had just been raided. “By the gods! I purchased those! Why, in the hells, are you all devouring my provisions, you leeches?”
“Oh, as if you’ve never plundered mine, pig.” Torvin made another mock thrust at Lyraeus’s throat. Lyraeus instantly spun, grabbed Torvin’s collar, and swung a feigned punch at his face. Of course, he wasn’t actually going to strike him. That was merely their way.
Elian ignored their juvenile squabble and looked down at the pastille in his hand. The gilded wrapper depicted a small, halved citra fruit. He peeled the wrapper, popped the sweet into his mouth, and lifted his head.
“What do you think? The taste of first fascination?” Cassian grinned.
“I have no affinity for citra,” Elian replied. His answer wasn’t merely about the candy; it was his unspoken critique of Cassian’s jest. And more than anything, he did not find such ‘fascinations’ amusing. That sticky, bitter feeling clung to the back of his throat, killing his appetite. In the end, he couldn’t even finish the pastille. He tossed it into a nearby refuse bin.
“Oh no, such a waste,” Cassian mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, Elian reached into Lyraeus’s pouch to find a different pastille. It was all citra or verdant lime. Lime was the lesser evil. He unwrapped one and put it in his mouth.
“Anyway, Lord Valerius, hm? Sounds entirely like Aerion.” Torvin mused.
“What, because they’re both… *indulgent*?” Cassian’s words were sharp, tinged with a subtle venom that made Elian deeply uncomfortable. He turned to look at Cassian. Cassian was sucking on his pastille, his expression unreadable, twirling the white stick between his lips. Elian pulled his own from his mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong. Cassian didn’t seem to care. He tilted his pastille in the air like a tiny, symbolic dagger and started making random jabbing motions.
“He entertains clients – it matters not if they are nobles or commoners, men or women. And when he finds someone suitably… *pliable*, he sends them directly to Aerion. It’s a whole circuit. Indulging in each other, passing each other around, like favors among merchants.”
“So Lord Valerius is also… *indulgent*?” Lyraeus suddenly cut in. Whether he had finished his playful scuffle with Torvin or had simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, Elian wasn’t sure. Lyraeus rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if actually processing the scandalous implications of what he’d just heard. Elian felt a chill creep up his spine. This was the kind of dangerous gossip that could unravel careers, and worse, lives, in the Courts of Lyra. And he was standing right in the middle of it.