A perfect union, I always believed, unfolded with the precision of a well-copied manuscript. Shared lineage, parallel ambitions, an echoing intellect – these were the elegant ligatures binding souls. Like unto like. A child, rigorously schooled in the logic of the Collegium’s ancient texts, I understood this was the express route to the gilded cage of contentment. Then, the year I turned eighteen, a dissonant chord struck. I found myself ensnared in an extraordinary, unsettling devotion. Perhaps it had been a whispered enchantment, a subtle curse laid upon my spirit, and I was only now charting its insidious reach. But, as one who prized rational thought above all, I dismissed it as a fleeting distraction, an adolescent fancy to be cataloged and filed away. Yet, the feelings, coiled tight within my ribcage, pressed against my throat. They compressed my breath, eventually strangling my carefully cultivated calm. “Please, attend The Custodian’s Loft, East Archive.” Now, the cold dawn light bled through the leaded panes of my study. A summons, abrupt and unwelcome as a forgotten debt, had ripped away my fragile morning peace. The ink on the message was still damp, smelling faintly of alchemist’s iron gall and something else, something cloying and familiar. Sat on my bed, I watched the motes dance in the growing light. A silent curse caught in my throat. My room, usually a sanctuary of ordered stacks and meticulously preserved scrolls, felt suddenly hollow. The Collegium’s night watchmen would be making their final rounds. My absence would likely go unnoticed, a phantom in the echoing halls. I rose. Stepped into the chill air of the corridor, my footsteps barely disturbing the dust. Passed the rarely used annex, its oak door slightly ajar. A single, intricately carved wooden chess piece, a knight, lay abandoned on the threshold. Its polished surface reflected the pale light. The piece was exquisite, but carelessly discarded, forgotten by its master. Somehow, it reminded me of myself – either prominently displayed, a mere ornament, or tightly confined, a prisoner of circumstance. I gave it a brief, involuntary glance before quickening my pace. During my rapid transit, my gaze fixed on the soaring archways, the distant, frost-rimmed windows. But, ever susceptible to the slightest tremor, a churning unease began to stir in my gut. Closed my eyes, pressing a palm to my abdomen. My digestion, for the past year, had been a recalcitrant beast. A shallow breath escaped me, a futile attempt to ease the knot tightening in my chest. I had made a ritual of ignoring emotions that threatened to unravel me, constructing a flawless veneer of composure. Just as now, stepping into the dim light of the East Archive, my face a mask of serene detachment. Inside the antechamber, I bit down hard on my lower lip. My fist clenched at my side, then slowly relaxed. Found the number scribbled on the summons, a hastily penned cipher. Approached the corresponding iron-bound door. Knocked three precise taps. “Lord Kaelen. Open the door.” Silence from within, thick and unresponsive as old parchment. My jaw tightened. Stared into the void, a slow burn of irritation igniting in my chest. Exhaled sharply. Rapped again, this time with a sharp, resonant thud. “I said, open the damn door!” This entire scenario – it was utterly repellent. The very thought of what idle, depraved pursuits might have unfolded in this room overnight made my skin crawl. Yet, I could not stop the insistent drumming of my knuckles against the cold metal. Lord Kaelen had summoned me, and I was enduring this repulsive scene because he was the one who had infected me with this first, insidious *illness*. “Why in the Abyss are you calling me, when you’re squandering your mind on such meaningless dalliances, you insipid fool?” The sour taste of bile rose in my throat. This was unbearable. Such was the precipice of an eighteen-year-old’s sanity, teetering on the edge of Lumina’s ancient abyss.

A Stain on Ancient Parchment