A timbered expanse, hushed and cavernous, housed a silent multitude. Here, within the Grand Scriptorium’s Upper Hall, nearly thirty young scholars gathered. Each day, unseen currents of ambition and fear pulsed through the heavy air, shaping every interaction into a delicate ballet of power. Like beasts in a forgotten forest, they formed their rigid hierarchies, gathering into fleeting constellations. Eighteen days had passed since the autumn term began, eighteen days of lives stretched taut, a string pulled to its snapping point. Tension, a cold, constant companion, defined this existence. My own dance with this exquisite tension began when I was twelve, when the intricate mechanics of 'forming a group' first revealed themselves. Since then, the daily balancing act has been my routine. Perhaps everyone else’s, too. This polished, cubic jungle, lined with ancient texts and hushed whispers, concealed a merciless pyramid. That was the truth of the Scriptorium’s Upper Hall, where eighteen students vied for unseen apexes. “Ah…” My forearm, heavy and pins-and-needles from poor circulation, thrummed as I shook it out. A fist pressed lightly against my stomach, a knot of unease tightening there. I let out a shallow breath, tracing the slumped shoulders of my peers. Ahead, the verdant chalk slate gleamed, beneath it, the pale napes of necks bowed in thought or surrender. At the raised rostrum, Professor Valerius, our tutor in Collegiate Ethics, sat hunched. He was engrossed in a yellowed gazette, folded precisely in half. The students, meanwhile, scratched away at the problems he’d assigned, or, having long since surrendered, lay sprawled in a shallow slumber. “Those who rest, awaken,” the Professor’s voice boomed, sharp despite his continued turning of the newspaper’s brittle page. This was the fifth period, and I was still wrestling with the fifteenth problem. My stylos rested, forgotten, beside a half-finished diagram. I raked an index finger through my hair, then glanced toward the empty seats. Two particular voids drew my gaze. As anticipated, Kaelen Thorne and his cousin, Valerius Thorne, were absent. They likely wouldn’t grace these halls tomorrow either, unless Kaelen’s capricious moods shifted, or some new, unknown friction ignited between them. The specifics of such a thing remained, as always, beyond my grasp. My eyes dropped back to the convoluted problem before me. Intricate glyphs of ancient Lumina script blurred, their complex strokes mocking my focus. A time existed when I believed I understood Kaelen Thorne entirely. I'd fostered the conviction that I, alone in this hall, truly *knew* him. A quiet pride had swelled in me then, a secret solace, even when measured against Lysander Vane, who walked closer to Kaelen than any other. That quiet pride had been a shield, allowing me to endure the easy camaraderie between Lysander and Kaelen. Deep down, I relished the hidden advantage, the private knowledge that my grasp of Kaelen ran deeper, truer. My chin settled into my palm. The very capacity for such thoughts curdled in my gut. Disgust. A bitter taste. What judgment would descend upon me, were these serpentine thoughts to be laid bare? The answer was chillingly clear. I would be cast down, not merely to the pyramid’s base, but to its trampled, unseen foundations. Such a prospect tightened my chest. Terrifying. This insidious, covetous desire, so endemic to the Machiavellian hearts of Lumina’s young scholars, demanded absolute concealment. It had to be buried so profoundly that not even the object of its gaze would sense its presence. Ultimately, I needed to bury it so deep that I, too, might forget its existence. But Kaelen Thorne had never bothered with such discretion. His desires, his ambitions, were an open secret. Everyone in this chamber knew. I lifted my head slightly, my gaze sweeping the room. All remained bent over their desks, intent on their tasks or feigning it. My lips pressed together into a thin line. Then, I looked forward, past the rows. Between the desks, forlorn and smudged, lay a textbook, its crimson cover marred by a distinct boot print. Evidence of a brutal, unseen dismissal. A tremor of unease passed through me. As if sensing my errant focus, I quickly lowered my head, burying my face against my forearms like the others. Then, I shifted, turning my neck in a different direction. My gaze found the back row. A face lay partially obscured by an arm, as if the scholar had simply collapsed into sleep. It looked delicate, sorrow-etched, almost like a death mask. “…” I found myself staring at Lysander Vane’s profile. My eyes drifted from his face to his arm. Lysander, already towering, seemed to have grown even more. His academy uniform, tailored precisely at the term’s start, now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one, a dark, braided cord, intricately strung with small, polished river stones, stood out. It was a heavy, unmistakable symbol of his adherence to the Old Riverine Faith, an integral part of Lysander’s identity. Before I learned more of him, I’d assumed Lysander hailed from the opulent estates on the far side of the Silverbridge, the same district as Valerius Thorne. Despite his intimidating aura, Lysander presented no outward signs of lavish wealth. His eyes, deep-set, perpetually shadowed by his lids, held faded irises that lent him a haunted aspect. The thin sliver of sclera visible beneath his pupils only sharpened his gaunt, almost predatory appearance. Lysander’s overall bearing was one of grim intimidation, yet it lacked the polished refinement typically associated with noble birth. Instead, his face seemed marked by a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a melancholic heaviness. Combined with his formidable build—he was, without doubt, the tallest student in the college—it rendered him doubly imposing. Fortunately, unlike Kaelen Thorne, Lysander’s sharp features possessed a classically handsome symmetry. Without it, people might have actively recoiled from him. Even so, Lysander’s face was unsettling, brimming with an unsettling, nervous energy. But Lysander’s true nature couldn’t have been more different from his visage. It wasn't merely indifference; it was as if he actively pruned events from his memory, whether by design or an innate forgetfulness. He carried an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a quality that, ironically, only deepened his mystique. Most notably, Lysander displayed a profound disinterest in coin. He never marked the expenditures of others, nor the sums they requested. If the mood seized him, he might casually toss a handful of silver to a nearby scholar without a second thought, as if the concept of currency itself was alien to him. Sometimes, he would lend funds and simply forget. Whispers claimed that students had attempted to return borrowed coin, only for Lysander to stare, puzzled, asking why they offered it to him. Still, his generosity was not universal. He indulged capricious requests when his humor was good, but coldly rebuffed those truly desperate. Even with his chosen companions, Lysander could be severe. I once heard how Seraph Alard, upon seeing Lysander’s prized gilded grimoire—a volume he rarely revealed—had eagerly reached for it without permission. Lysander had instantly struck Seraph’s hand, sending him stumbling back, sprawling onto the polished flagstones like a startled crow. At the pinnacle of the social order, individuals like Lysander Vane and Kaelen Thorne shared one defining characteristic: a complete disregard for others’ estimations. This very indifference, in its own paradoxical way, was the key to their dominion, allowing them to perch at the pyramid's apex. Why we, with our own hands, surrendered the keys to our world to these untamed predators, remained a mystery. No matter how deeply I pondered it, the answer eluded me. And yet, Lysander Vane professed to follow the Old Riverine Faith, an ancient, ascetic order. He was the sort of scholar who slept with a devotional scroll beneath his head, yet his actions often stood in stark contrast to its teachings. He abstained from strong spirits, from the pungent Leaf of Nar, and from physical intimacies. He never stole nor extorted coin from other students. Yet the doctrine he espoused felt flawed; anyone familiar with the Riverine strictures could attest to that, especially regarding the consumption of certain herbs and fermented nectars, which the texts permitted in moderation. They say the Old Riverine Faith views certain passions as sin. Was that why Kaelen Thorne’s more brazen displays so visibly unsettled Lysander Vane? I licked my dry lips, the taste of dust and apprehension. A strange relief washed over me that my own transgressions remained unobserved. Had I been caught, I would have ended up like that trampled textbook, lying broken on the floor. Yet, even in that moment, a insidious question surfaced: if Kaelen and I had remained close, as we were just months ago, would he have shielded me? The thought surfaced against my will, dragging with it memories I desperately wished to bury. I drew a deep breath, trying to suppress the rising nausea, as though the thin broth I’d eaten for lunch threatened to return. No. Of course not. How ludicrous, that I had once harbored such arrogance, to believe he ever would. To Kaelen, I was nothing. A convenient school acquaintance to while away the tedious hours. I knew this now, solidified by the distant, dispassionate look in his eyes the day he cast me aside. His gaze had spoken volumes. I hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had stared me in the face. Kaelen sins openly. I, too, am a sinner, but I conceal my nature. And so, Kaelen is punished, while I am, by some grace, spared. A faint, dry laugh escaped my lips, so soft it was audible only to myself. "…So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters." Perhaps the Architect, creator of our world, possessed a personality akin to Lysander Vane’s. My gaze drifted to the desk near the Professor’s rostrum. This was unusual, but today, a pang of pity pierced me for Valerius Thorne. Poor soul, ensnared by Kaelen’s shadow. You lacked the strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Valerius, despite your family name. You should have fled the moment I offered my warning, fool. I knew I was no virtuous scholar. Selfish, self-serving, these were my true colors. And that was why I’d been, in my own way, punished. Sometimes, a darker thought surfaced: *If you must be drawn to such passions, why not choose someone sly and calculating like me? At least then life would be simpler.* Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to be crushed by it? These days, my thoughts had altered. Yes. Of course, no one could ever truly love someone like me. I knew myself too intimately to believe otherwise. There was a time when I thought I could command it all. Arrogant, conceited Elian Vance, who, at eighteen, believed he held the world’s true measure. Wicked, vile Elian Vance. Pitiful Elian Vance, who had no solace, no comfort, and so endured everything alone. That day, I never surmounted the fifteenth problem. I used a feigned malaise as an excuse, slumping over my desk, thinking: *Well, at least I’m not as utterly ruined as Kaelen or Valerius.* Whispers about Kaelen and Valerius spread like wildfire through the college. Whether exaggerated or rooted in stark truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to ascertain it either. Kaelen’s chosen circle had vanished from the Scriptorium, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied forming new alliances to fret over old tales, inadvertently fueling the rumors further. “Elian, pardon me, but who amongst the scholars was closest to Kaelen?” “Kaelen… No. Lysander Vane.” I overheard this exchange as I passed the threshold on my way back to the hall before dismissal. Professor Valerius had inquired, and a classmate, Alaric, had answered. Feigning ignorance, I walked to my seat. The Professor’s gaze darted nervously between me and the empty places, his fingers drumming against the rostrum. Then, as if abandoning some unspoken thought, he announced: “Let us conclude.” The chime of dismissal had barely faded when I seized my satchel. As I swung it over my shoulder, a hand tapped my back. Lysander Vane. “Elian. Let’s spend the eve together.” My eyes met his. I knew. I had always tracked Kaelen and Lysander’s every movement, so I knew that the person Lysander most frequently invited to share an eve was always Kaelen. After a brief pause, I shook my head. “Cannot. I have a scriptorium appointment.” “What of after that?” “Research. Go join one of your companions.” “No.” “Why not?” “Proximity to lesser scholars only draws one down.” “Ha.” A short laugh, hollow and sharp, escaped me at the sheer audacity. Right. This was precisely why I’d found a strange accord with Lysander. Our twisted values, it seemed, aligned in uncanny ways. “So, Seraph, Alaric, Cassian—they are all ‘lesser scholars’? Even Cassian Mire?” “If you phrase it thusly, then yes, largely so. But you, Elian, you are different.” The backhanded compliment left a cold, uncomfortable prickle on my skin. “What is that meant to signify? You are dreadful.” “I am not.” “You are truly dreadful.” “Hmm. The Ancient Commandments forbid deceit. ‘Thou shalt not lie.’ I am merely being honest, Elian.” Honestly, Lysander Vane was worse than I. At least I didn’t openly treat my acquaintances like refuse. “Therefore, I am a scholar of virtue.” “…Indeed.” “Since I am such a virtuous scholar, may I accompany you to your rooms?” Lysander blinked twice, his gaze unwavering. I held his stare for a moment, then gave a slight nod. “Very well. As you wish.” As long as he did not interfere with my solitary pursuits, there was no valid reason to refuse. To solidify one’s place in the hierarchy, there was no

The Scriptorium's Pyramid