Two days had passed since the incident in the Grand Archives. Lord Valerius’s meticulously bound folios, his entire collection of research notes, had been found scattered across the marble floor of the Collegium’s eastern courtyard, then swept into the ornamental braziers typically reserved for ceremonial offerings. A faint plume of acrid smoke had risen from the ashes, an unspoken dismissal. Discernment of the perpetrator was hardly arduous. A scion of House Fenris, scowling with a peculiar glee, had been observed in the company of Lord Cassian in the hours following. Later, hushed reports circulated that the Fenris youth had boasted in the student antechambers of his decisive act against Valerius. “A bold maneuver,” Elian murmured, observing the scorched remnants. A simple, ornate coffer, once containing Valerius’s scholastic efforts, now rested beside the Collegium’s main refuse bin. Its tarnished bronze edges and smoke-stained surface spoke volumes of Valerius’s complete capitulation. Valerius had been vanquished without a single countermeasure. His defeat had unfolded two days prior, an invisible blade striking at his very standing. Motivation for the slight was starkly evident. Initially, Elian had interpreted the mounting pressure against Valerius as mere academic rivalry, but a disquieting undercurrent suggested something deeper. Even Valerius’s closest associates had begun to remark upon his increasingly erratic conduct. His animosity toward certain powerful figures, once merely distaste, had spiraled into something akin to obsession. Elian recalled witnessing a public altercation between Valerius and a more established noble, which cemented his understanding. He watched the tide of opinion turn, a slow, inevitable current against Valerius. Elian felt no compunction to intervene, no guilt to assuage. Explaining the nuances of Valerius’s descent would only serve to entangle him. Such an act could portray him as compassionate, even loyal. Yet, within the gilded cage of the Collegium, where one’s reputation was a mutable, many-faceted thing, such kindness would inevitably invite scrutiny. *Why* That chilling question, unspoken yet ever-present, was a terror Elian dared not confront. Elian lowered his head onto the polished surface of his desk, closing his eyes. A fleeting desire surfaced: to awaken into a world precisely as he wished it to be. He was on the cusp of slumber. Left undisturbed, he might have drifted away. A sharp tap struck the crown of his head, jolting him alert. He sat upright, rubbing the tender spot. Across from him, Lord Cassian also touched his forehead, a mischievous glint in his silver eyes. “A surprising impact,” Cassian commented, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Why do you invite slumber during morning lessons?” Elian inquired, his voice carefully level. “My academic diligence is my own concern. What is that object?” “Ah, this?” Cassian offered a roguish grin, lifting the slim, silver-capped walking cane he had tucked beneath his arm. “Acquired it en route. A curious relic from the Collegium’s reclamation vaults.” Elian’s expression tightened with a flicker of irritation. Lord Cassian’s proclivity for the unconventional was ceaseless. The strike had been light, yet Elian ran his fingers through his dark hair, a private worry that his careful coiffure had been disturbed. Cassian, meanwhile, spun a vacated chair with an effortless kick, settling into it just before it could topple. He executed the movement with graceful nonchalance. His satchel landed with a soft thump on the desk, serving as an improvised pillow as he leaned forward. “You rouse me from rest, only to seek it yourself?” Elian stated, a dryness in his tone. “My concern for your scholastic standing led me to ensure your wakefulness. My own academic record is beyond repair, so my rest is inconsequential.” “An absurd rationale.” Elian twisted in his seat, a low grumble escaping him. Lord Cassian possessed an uncanny ability to provoke Elian’s argumentative nature. Elian nudged Cassian’s foot with his own, a small gesture of annoyance. Cassian’s smirk widened. “Tell me, is it permissible to assault one afflicted? You, scoundrel.” Cassian’s blend of playful sarcasm and veiled challenge made Elian scoff. This time, Elian nudged the silver cane. It tipped towards Cassian, but without raising his head, Cassian extended a hand and caught it with casual ease. Despite Elian’s interference, Cassian remained reclined, his face still obscured by his satchel. He chuckled, a soft, internal sound, then spoke suddenly. “I have a question for you.” “Speak it.” “That did not transpire accidentally, did it?” A jolt went through Elian. Was his composure so transparent? He had thought the faint discoloration on his cheekbone was barely perceptible. He paused for but a breath, then smoothed a hand over his cheek, answering with feigned indifference. “It was an inadvertent collision.” “Indeed.” Still resting his chin upon his satchel, Cassian let out a low, knowing chuckle. “Is that so?” His eyes, bright and piercing, flickered to Elian, then a finger pointed with deliberate emphasis. Elian failed to grasp his intent. “What is your meaning?” “You possess an undeniable audacity.” At Cassian’s smile, his cane now leaning casually against his shoulder, Elian’s thoughts momentarily ceased to flow. What precisely did he imply? “...What audacity?” “I find it improbable that you merely stumbled…” “…………” Lord Cassian’s pronouncements often held a cryptic quality, but this instance carried a subtle, unsettling menace. His gaze was unsettlingly unwavering. Bright irises held dark pupils that fixed upon Elian intently. It was akin to observing the fletching of an arrow, anticipating its trajectory. This one aimed directly at him. His mind went blank. Two phrases repeated, an insistent rhythm: *Impossible. He could not know. Impossible. He could not know.* Then, Lord Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “It appeared more as if you encountered something with considerable force.” His long, serpentine eyes curved upward at the corners. Elian’s throat constricted. Breath caught in his chest. A dry swallow. Cassian parted his lips, and Elian found himself unable to blink. “Should this fact be widely known, it would cause considerable embarrassment, would it not?” “…………” “I shall observe discretion.” Cassian raised the hand holding his cane to his lips, whispering the words, then offered a conspiratorial wink. The breath Elian had been holding slammed against his ribs, a frantic, caged thing. Cassian did not await a reaction. This time, he casually ran a hand through his dark hair, then pointed a finger at Elian once more. “However, have you adopted my particular style of coiffure? It strikes me as rather uninspired.” Elian was rendered speechless. Lord Cassian crinkled his nose in an exaggerated display of disapproval. “In any event, I shall now partake of my slumber.” He yawned, burying his face back into his satchel. Staring at the back of his head, Elian finally managed a response. “I have not emulated your style, nor have I altered my hair.” “Is that so?” Cassian’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his satchel. --- “O Lamb of the Grand Synod, who absolves the failings of the world.” Lord Cassian intoned, clutching his academic decree of standing in one hand. Fourth period. With the conclusion of Oratory and Rhetoric, they had received their midterm assessments from the preceding month. Cassian buried his head in his opened parchment, scanned his marks, then uttered that particular supplication. He then threw his head back dramatically, releasing a profound sigh. “Ah, my fate is sealed.” Elian glanced at his own decree, affirmed his scores, then folded it precisely and slipped it into the inner pocket of his satchel. He looked back at Cassian, who was still sighing with exaggerated despair. Cassian had tilted his head so far back that only his prominent Adam’s apple was visible. It bobbed heavily, almost as if chastising Elian’s gaze. Fixing his attention on Cassian’s throat, Elian offered, “That particular invocation does not pertain to such matters.” “What difference does it make? A prayer is a prayer.” Then, abruptly, Cassian inquired, “Tell me, is it God or the Imperial Divinities?” It was then Elian acknowledged a peculiar facet of Lord Cassian – his adherence to the faith was undeniably singular. “Why do you pose this question to me? It is your creed.” “Elian, do not be so reticent. You possess such vast knowledge, I assumed you would be omniscient.” “I am not. My adherence to faith is merely observational.” Cassian, who had been leaning back with utmost abandon, suddenly straightened. Their eyes met. Before conscious thought, Elian instinctively averted his gaze toward the leaded glass window, feigning disinterest. Yet, an uncomfortable prickle arose in his chest, as if he had been discovered in an indiscretion. He stared absently out the window, then redirected his focus to the stiff collar of Cassian’s impeccably tailored tunic. The crisp, white fabric rested against his neck. With every exaggerated movement, the elegant line of his collarbone briefly presented itself. “So? Will you accompany me to the Synod on the next holy day?” “What? No.” “Ah, why not? Let us go. Observance on the holy days and at the Solstice yields gifts. Fine fruits, sweetened preserves, freshly baked breads…” “Wait, do you imply you attend solely for these offerings?” “Naturally, I do.” Elian finally met Cassian’s gaze, his eyes settling on the stylus Cassian had resting on his upper lip. At first, pride dictated a denial, but in that moment, Elian conceded: Lord Cassian possessed striking features. A truly self-satisfied scoundrel. The stylus, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted Cassian’s voice into a slurred, faintly disgruntled mumble. “The manner in which you phrase it suggests I am pilfering. If offerings are freely bestowed, what transgression lies in accepting them?” “Can one truly call it faith if one believes for such self-serving motives?” “That is the inception for all. Belief does not commence with grand theological constructs. Individuals perceive, ‘Ah, delightful provisions are offered. This individual must be benevolent.’ Then, gradually, that initial conviction in the ‘benevolent provider of sustenance’ transforms into absolute faith in the Imperial Divinities. The genesis and the process are inconsequential. What holds import is that now, I believe.” Lord Cassian sometimes expounded upon sheer nonsense. Even Lord Valerius, in his time, had been occasionally swayed by it. Sometimes, it was simply bluster. But at other times, it was the sort of audacious reasoning that Elian himself found subtly persuasive. This instance fell into the latter category. Elian ran a hand through his bangs, sweeping them back from his forehead. They persistently fell back into his eyes, so this time, he shook his head from side to side. His fine strands of hair swayed before him. He gathered them near his temples, and finally, the faint tickling sensation receded. He had been so preoccupied of late that he had neglected to visit the Collegium barber. With Lord Valerius and his former companion gone, the fore of their lecture hall remained conspicuously empty. There was no longer any compulsion for Elian to cast his gaze in that direction. Six days prior, Prefect Oris, their instructor, had summoned Elian to the magisters’ chambers, inquiring if he had received any communication from Valerius. Elian answered with measured honesty, without hesitation. “No, I have not.” “You have yet to reconcile with Valerius, then?” Elian offered a small, carefully practiced, bitter smile. A perfectly calculated affectation. In truth, he felt no inclination toward levity. “No. Valerius… became rather incensed with me.” “Valerius became incensed with *you*?” Prefect Oris repeated, a note of surprise. “Yes.” Rumors had, of course, already circulated, so the Prefect was not entirely oblivious to the unspoken implications of Elian’s words. “Very well, I comprehend,” Prefect Oris conceded, dismissing Elian. Then, as he settled back into his chair, he muttered beneath his breath. From the snippets Elian caught, the monologue consisted primarily of complaints regarding Valerius and vexation over a recent reprimand from Baron Valerius, the boy’s father. Elian feigned deafness to the Prefect’s pathetic soliloquy, turning away, yet he listened still. Thus, he absorbed the prevailing atmosphere within the magisters’ office. Later, after the day’s lessons, while Elian prepared his materials for his private tutoring at home, Baron Valerius called him as well. The Baron posed the identical question as Prefect Oris — if Elian knew of his son’s whereabouts. Elian offered the same carefully constructed response. “No, Lord Valerius has ceased all communication with me.” “—I see…” “I am truly regretful that I cannot offer assistance.” “—No, there is nothing for you to apologize for. It is quite alright.” Recently, Baron Valerius had initiated calls with increasing frequency. And each time, the discourse unfolded in precisely the same manner. There was an oddly persistent quality to his attempts to link Lord Valerius and Elian. Elian hastened to conclude the call. Truthfully, there was no cause for apology. Yet he offered one nonetheless – to cultivate favor. It was the same innate social instinct that compelled individuals to label an uncomely newborn as ‘charming.’ A form of societal expectation. An element of etiquette essential to a civilized court. Therefore, Elian surmised, adults would not perceive him as a mere pawn. Indeed, his politeness was more akin to a subtle, refined pantomime performed by a skilled court jester. Elian always understood his position within the intricate hierarchy. And since he assiduously cultivated goodwill, he was destined to become a favored jester, admired for his grace. Even should he, one day, commit an indiscretion so egregious it caused the most formidable nobles to frown, they would extend forgiveness. This was the foundation he painstakingly laid. Unlike some ill-advised individual, Elian navigated his existence with astute discernment. Perhaps, from an adult’s elevated perspective, his methodology was nothing more than a circumscribed, petty stratagem to evade discomfort. But among his contemporaries, it was undeniable — Elian was an individual who commanded unpredictable circumstances with sagacity. Should proof be required, one needed only to observe Master Orin. --- Master Orin was now the most zealous in his efforts to garner Lord Cassian’s favor. Consequently, he extended a cordiality to Elian, for in the perception of others, Elian had already aligned himself with Lord Cassian at an early juncture. Though Orin had once been among Lord Valerius’s closest companions, he now made it conspicuously clear that his allegiance had shifted.

A Calculated Silence