A guttural snort escaped Quintus, his jaw jutting, the sound a ragged tear in the hushed reverence of the Grand Scriptorium. He’d cornered young Aric by the scroll cabinets, a half-inked page clutched in Aric’s trembling hand. Quintus’s fist, a knotted club of privilege and pique, flexed slightly, a silent promise. Aric’s breath hitched.
Then, a low, melodic chuckle drifted from the arched entryway. Theron Thorne, elegant as a rapier, leaned against the ancient oak frame. He didn't move, didn't raise a hand. He merely clapped twice, a soft, deliberate sound that echoed in the high-ceilinged room. The subtle gesture, a conductor’s cue, deflated Quintus’s aggression before it could fully ignite.
Quintus’s weak attempt at bravado dissolved. A raw, choked protest clawed its way from Aric’s throat – less a shout, more a pained squeak, like a crushed fledgling. Young Lord Bertram and Sir Kaelan, who had been observing with ill-concealed amusement, burst into stifled laughter. Quintus whirled on them, a flush rising on his neck.
“Amusing, is it? You find this amusing?” he snarled, a quick, resentful jab to Bertram’s arm. The trio then stomped out, their heavy boots thudding against the polished flagstones, leaving a lingering scent of expensive pomade and barely contained adolescent fury.
As Quintus passed, he glanced back, a sly, conspiratorial flicker in his eyes, and offered a faint wave to Elian. Elian, ever careful to maintain the fragile illusion of amiable neutrality, returned the gesture with a subtle dip of his quill. He watched them depart, then settled back onto the hard bench, pulling a fresh sheet of parchment towards him. The delicate scent of new ink, cold and metallic, filled his nostrils.
Before his hand could even fully encompass the finely carved stylus, before the first stroke of a complex glyph could be formed, Elian lifted his head. His gaze swept over the towering shelves, the rows upon rows of ancient tomes bound in faded leather and beaten copper, the cubic stone walls etched with symbols of forgotten lore. Lumina College breathed history, a palpable weight pressing down from the very stones.
He lowered his head to the desk, his focus ostensibly on the intricate illuminated manuscript before him. But his mind drifted.
He was midway through deciphering a particularly obscure passage of Aetheric script, his fingers absently tracing the texture of the parchment, when he looked up again. Outside the leaded panes of the high window, the ancient oaks of the college grounds were ablaze in their autumnal finery, their leaves a riot of amber and russet. The sharp, earthy tang of decaying foliage, mingling with the subtle magic in the air, permeated the cloistered quiet. Above, the sky stretched an impossibly vivid, aching blue.
“A convent, that’s what this institution needs,” Master Alden, the irascible Senior Scholar of Archaic Runes, often grumbled. “Not a college for these puffed-up princelings. It’s a godforsaken gladiatorial arena, I tell you. A brute jungle. These young lords, they arrive, and the first order of business? Establish the pecking order. By the Feast of Saint Giles, it settles, perhaps. But until then? Nothing but posturing, challenges, testing the masters, clawing their way up the social ladder. Saints, my head aches. And I’ll endure it all again when the next cohort of new acolytes arrives. Now, let’s see… what year of the celestial calendar were they born under again?”
Master Alden would spread out his gnarled hand, counting the joints one by one, a low murmur escaping his lips. “Serpent, Griffon, Wyvern, Phoenix, Lion, Stag…”
Elian absently mimicked the motion, stretching out his own hand, counting the elegant, slender joints of his fingers. He had never quite grasped Master Alden’s convoluted astrological reckoning. He gave up, flipping his hand over, counting the subtle bumps along the back of his knuckles instead.
First, thirty-first, second, twenty-eighth, third, thirty-first, fourth, thirtieth, fifth, thirty-first… ninth.
He wouldn’t have believed, back in the languid days of early summer, that late autumn would feel like the frantic, uncertain throes of spring’s initiation ceremonies all over again. A new dynamic was forming, a subtle shift in the social currents, and Elian felt the familiar, low thrum of anxiety deep in his gut. He was always braced for the next tremor.
“Young men,” Master Alden would sigh, his voice raspy from too many late nights with forgotten texts, “are nothing but untamed beasts. Irrational, emotional, impulsive, utterly oblivious.”
Elian stared at the faint raised scar near his middle knuckle, an old ink stain, and absently tapped the desk, a silent rhythm. The scratch of a distant quill, the rustle of turning pages, the hum of the enchanted clockwork mechanisms in the observatory above – these were the only accompaniment to his thoughts.
He glanced towards a vacant carrel near the front. For a fleeting moment, he imagined a faint impression on the smooth, dark wood – the phantom curve of a head, a slight indent where an arm might have rested. His fingers stilled.
He turned his head. Theron sat hunched over his own workbook, his aristocratic profile half-buried in the pages. His eyes, usually so sharp and appraising, were narrowed to mere slits. He would fix his gaze on a problem in Celestial Algebra as if about to devour it whole, only to suddenly slump forward again, pressing his forehead against the ancient vellum. Elian watched as Theron’s nose got comically squashed between the pages and his brow. Then, Elian turned away.
“Did I lose focus for a second?” he murmured to himself, the question barely a whisper. He didn’t feel entirely himself. A peculiar lightness, a nervous energy, was buzzing beneath his skin.
He placed a small, silver star beside the third problem in his manuscript and moved on to the fourth.
---
Lunch in the Refectory was spiced quince stew and rich, tart sheep’s milk yogurt, served in heavy pewter bowls. Theron finished his yogurt first, then, without warning, posed a question.
“Right, you’re second in the Master’s Class, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I am.”
“And overall, across all disciplines?”
“Also second.”
Theron let out a soft, almost reverent whistle. “Aether’s Grace.”
“What?” Elian asked, a prickle of defensiveness rising.
“So that means the top scholar in your class… she’s also the top scholar in the entire College?”
“You weren’t aware? I’ve never attained the first rank in Ancient Languages, not while Lady Isolde attends.”
“She’s even more relentlessly driven than you, isn’t she?” Theron observed, a glint of grudging admiration in his eyes.
“She attends private tutelage until the clock strikes one after midnight.”
“Damn. That’s formidable.”
“Her dedication is unwavering,” Elian conceded, not wanting to betray any sense of rivalry, though the thought was a constant, dull ache.
He had no intention of extending this particular line of conversation. He scooped up a generous spoonful of the fragrant quince stew and lifted it to his lips, allowing the rich flavors to distract him. Luckily, Theron didn’t press. He merely nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Mmm-hmm,” Theron hummed, a drawn-out sound.
The timing felt off. The abrupt halt in their exchange left a discomfiting void. Elian debated what to say, what acceptable social gambit he could deploy. He loathed awkward silences; they were vast, gaping chasms in which his carefully constructed persona felt vulnerable. Without fully thinking, he blurted out, “And you? What rank do you hold?”
Theron’s polished silver spoon paused mid-air. Elian found his gaze drawn to Theron’s hand – long, slender fingers, surprisingly graceful. Theron, for all his boisterous charm, possessed impeccable table manners, a silent testament to his lineage. If there was one thing Theron Thorne did with unblemished propriety, it was handling his cutlery.
“In class…” Theron began slowly.
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
Elian blinked. “What?”
“Why are you looking at me with such incredulity?” Theron challenged, a hint of his usual sharp wit returning. Elian quickly averted his gaze from Theron’s hand.
Could he be serious? Was he not attempting some elaborate jest? Elian was so caught off guard that he almost asked aloud, but thankfully, he managed to clamp down on the impulse. *Hells*. That was close. If he slipped up, if he uttered the wrong word, he risked offending Theron, incurring the wrath of a young lord known for his cutting remarks and lingering grudges.
Elian hesitated, his mind a whirlwind of social calculations. Would Theron prefer overt praise? Or would he rather Elian adopt an indifferent, as-expected demeanor? His survival instincts, honed by years of navigating Lumina’s treacherous social waters, were already weighing the optimal response. Theron, for all his camaraderie, didn’t seem to truly respect many of his more boisterous companions.
The latter option, then. Safer.
“Hmph. You’re doing rather better than I would have anticipated.”
“What? Anticipated? How dim-witted did you take me for?”
“I didn’t assume you were dim-witted, not precisely. It’s merely… I thought you found Archaic Runes challenging?”
“Archaic Runes is my singular weakness. Only Archaic Runes.”
“And you don’t even employ a private tutor.”
“Absence of a private tutor does not preclude diligence. By the Light, did you truly imagine I was some unlettered oaf?”
“No, no, not at all!” Elian quickly waved a dismissive hand, a forced smile on his lips. “It’s impressive, certainly, to achieve such a standing without external aid.”
“…Indeed?” Theron’s indignation seemed to falter, replaced by a subtle shift in his expression.
“Indeed,” Elian affirmed, leaning into the performance. “Remarkably impressive.”
For some inexplicable reason, Theron abruptly began mashing his spoon into the remainder of his quince stew. And – was he blushing? Elian caught a glimpse of the tips of Theron’s ears, a faint rose blooming beneath his dark hair.
Now that the thought surfaced, young Lord Quintus, for all his bluster, had ranked thirty-second in Ancient History. And that was only because there were several others who had performed even worse. Thirty-second out of thirty-six. Thinking back, Elian realized he had never truly paid attention to anything about Quintus outside of the things directly impacting his own social standing. And with that stark realization, it hit him. He had been drowning in precisely the kind of pathetic, self-absorbed obsession he used to despise in others.
Meanwhile, Theron Thorne, utterly oblivious to Elian’s internal existential crisis, had clearly received a profound boost to his vanity. His tone was utterly transformed now – brimming with an almost childish self-satisfaction.
“Oh, right! You likely wouldn’t know this, but I excel at Logical Divinations.”
“Oh? To what extent?”
“A flawless score. I’ve never ceded a single point in Logical Divinations.”
“Hmph!” Elian choked. The instant Theron uttered the words, Elian sputtered, a fine spray of spiced cider escaping his lips. Theron scowled, yanking his pewter bowl away from the immediate splash zone.
“What in the Aether? What kind of reaction is that?”
“I merely… wasn’t anticipating such an admission.”
“Is it truly so shocking?” Theron frowned, a delicate pout forming on his lips. “Yes, my Archaic Runes score is lamentable, but that’s an anomaly.” There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice, almost as if he were fishing for more praise. So Elian, playing along, joked back.
“Perhaps consult a proper lexicon, occasionally.”
“What are you speaking of? I am absolutely a devotee of literary pursuits.”
“A devotee? I have never observed you with a volume of verse or drama.”
“That is because I indulge in my readings in secret, within my chambers.”
“And why, by all the saints, would you need to conceal such a thing?”
Theron’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped another spoonful of stew to his mouth. Then, with a casual, almost languid gesture, he pressed his lips to the very edge of the spoon, a slow, sensual motion. Something about that image, so deliberately provocative, unsettled Elian. He bit the inside of his cheek.
Theron met Elian’s eyes as he drew the spoon away, then lowered his gaze and pressed another slow, deliberate kiss to the very tip of it. “Forbidden texts,” he drawled, his voice a low purr, “are still literature, are they not?”
It was definitely a jest. The scoundrel. Elian felt a blush ignite across his cheeks, a searing heat. To conceal it, he snatched the neatly folded linen napkin beside his tray and, with a swift, irritated flick of his wrist, tossed it at Theron’s face. It hit just below his long, narrow eyes and dropped harmlessly onto the table. One of Theron’s dark brows twitched slightly. Not that Elian truly cared, but just in case Theron was genuinely vexed, he feigned an apologetic grimace.
“Do not deploy such uncouth affectations. Especially not within these hallowed halls. It is utterly beyond the pale.”
“Oh? You mean this? You mean Lysander’s peculiar affectation?”
“I care not whose affectation it is. Cease and desist.”
“But is this not, dare I say, quite… fashionable amongst us now?”
Elian merely stared at him, trying to discern if Theron was truly jesting or subtly probing for a reaction. His stomach tightened. The lingering dread, momentarily forgotten, resurfaced. He found himself sleeping less, though the restless nights made his mornings, once dry and sluggish, feel strangely crisp and invigorating. It was a welcome, if unsettling, change – after all, in his carefully cultivated philosophy, the worst sins for a noble of eighteen were complacency and languid indulgence.
“Ah, damn—” A sharp click echoed in the quiet refectory. His jaw, still sensitive, protested painfully as he stretched it. Ever since that altercation with Lysander weeks ago, his jaw made an odd grinding noise whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Other than that, today felt like a triumph, a small victory in the ongoing campaign of self-preservation. Yet, even in this newfound, fragile peace, there were sudden, jarring moments of irritation, of unease. The source, invariably, was Lysander Thorne. Or, more precisely, the incidents that stemmed from his erratic behavior.
Most of those, Elian mused, unfolded within the College grounds, beneath the watchful, silent eyes of the ancient stones.
---
“Oh, by the Saints. I saw Lysander Thorne last night,” Aric remarked, biting into a dense, spiced pastry purchased from a vendor outside the college gates, the kind rumored to contain lesser cuts of meat and forgotten spices.
Quintus, who had been playfully jabbing Aric’s ankle with his toe and making feigned sword-thrusts, suddenly perked up. “By the Aether! You just reminded me! I was absolutely about to mention this! I heard through the servant’s whispers – you know Lord Caspian Vane, don’t you? That… unconventional patron? I heard Thorne is taking refuge at his estate.”
“Lord Caspian? That eccentric Lord Vane?” Theron asked casually, rummaging through a small, embroidered pouch at his waist. When he pulled his hand out, he held two small, candied quinces. And for some inexplicable reason, he offered one to Elian.
Elian stared at it, confused. “What… is this?” He looked at Theron questioningly, but Theron merely gave a slight, enigmatic nod, as if that was explanation enough. The one who reacted most vociferously was Quintus, whose pouch of pastries had been plundered.
“Hells above! Those were mine! Why in the names of the Thirteen Heralds are you all consuming my provisions, you swine?”
“Oh, as if you’ve never pilfered from mine, glutton,” Aric retorted, making another playful, mock sword-thrust at Quintus’s throat. Quintus instantly spun around, grabbed Aric’s collar, and swung a mock punch at his face. Of course, he wasn’t actually going to strike him. That was merely their peculiar mode of interaction.
Elian ignored their juvenile bickering and looked down at the candied quince in his hand. The confection was wrapped in a delicate parchment, adorned with a tiny, stylized lemon split cleanly in half. He peeled the wrapper, popped the sweet into his mouth, and lifted his head.
“What do you think? The taste of first ardor?” Theron grinned, a flash of white teeth.
“I do not care for lemon,” Elian replied, his voice flat. His answer wasn’t merely about the confection – it was his unvarnished evaluation of Theron’s jest, too. And more than anything, he did not find first ardor amusing. That sticky, cloying sweetness, mingled with a bitter undertone, clung unpleasantly to the back of his throat. It quite killed his appetite.
In the end, he couldn’t even finish the candied quince. He tossed it into a nearby refuse bin. “Oh, such a tragic waste,” Theron mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands in an exaggerated gesture of dismay. Ignoring him, Elian reached into Quintus’s pilfered pouch, searching for a different sweet. They were all lemon or lime flavored. Lime was the lesser evil. He unwrapped one and put it in his mouth, the tartness a bracing contrast to the cloying sweetness.
“Anyway, Lord Caspian, you say? Sounds precisely like young Thorne.”
“What, because they are both unrepentant libertines?” Theron’s words were sharp, cutting through the banter like a poisoned blade. Elian, suddenly uncomfortable, turned to look at him. Theron was sucking on his own candied quince, expressionless, twirling the slender wooden stick between his lips. Elian pulled his own confection from his mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong.
Theron didn’t seem to care. He tilted his candied quince in the air like a tiny sword and began making random, jabbing motions, as if warding off an unseen foe.
“He preys upon clients – men and women alike, it matters not. And when he discovers someone of suitable comeliness or influence, he directs them straight to Thorne. It’s a whole cycle. Trading patronage, trading flesh, passing each other around like common courtesans.”
“So Lord Caspian is… of that persuasion too?” Quintus cut in suddenly, his own boisterous mirth entirely gone. Whether he had finished his playful scuffle with Aric or had simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, Elian wasn’t sure. Quintus rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if actually processing the scandalous implications of what he’d just heard. The air in the Refectory suddenly felt cold, charged with a subtle, predatory tension. Elian’s hand, still clutching the half-eaten lime quince, tightened almost imperceptibly. The bitterness in his mouth intensified.