Lord Cassian Thorne had fallen. Not in a literal sense, for his breath still rattled in the healer’s ward, but the very essence of his elevated standing, the formidable presence known as Thorne, had been utterly annihilated within the gilded halls of the Imperial Academy. Chaos had erupted. Now, only the meticulously scrubbed marble floors and the lingering scent of cleansing salts hinted at the brutal disarray from mere hours past. Before the Collegium’s groundskeepers moved with swift, silent efficiency, faint, jagged crimson patterns had marred the pristine flagstones near the Fountain of Whispers. When the piercing, guttural alarm of the Imperial Wardens had rent the air, sharp enough to flay the senses, every young scion had instinctively surged towards the high, arched windows. Like a grotesque gallery of painted portraits, their pallid, hungry faces crowded the panes, eyes alight with morbid curiosity. A clamor of hushed, excited whispers filled the study halls, slipping through half-closed doors. “What transpired?” “Have you not heard? A fool, truly. A savage encounter in the main gallery.” “What! Who was involved?” “Lord Cassian Thorne, and Kaelen Varkos.” “By the Emperor’s Mercy… I cannot believe I missed it!” We were young, yet already steeped in the intricate, perilous dance of courtly influence. At this precipice of our coming of age, we shed the last remnants of juvenile self-absorption, feeling a fleeting shame for past naïvetés, only to embrace the raw, potent thrill of sudden, violent shifts in power. Such a reaction, in this place, was only natural. “Does anyone have a confederate among those who witnessed the initial spark? Were they not once aligned, Thorne and Varkos? How did such animosity ignite?” “Have you not been privy to the whispers concerning Lord Cassian?” Our own study hall became a micro-court of shifting allegiances: some reveling in the sudden notoriety, others quietly accepting the downfall of a rival, and a select few savoring the sweet taste of vindication. Beyond the tall windows, a carriage bearing the Imperial healers sat, its doors closed, its function evident. For the next half-hour, the most pressing gossip across the Academy revolved around the identity of those responsible for calling upon its services. We all understood the rapid, insidious spread of such narratives within our ancient, insular institution. But who had truly triumphed? Those who swiftly learned the true nature of the incident harbored no concern for the two scions who had been injured severely enough to require transport. Instead, they took a grim delight in the fulfillment of a long-held, if unvoiced, desire that had simmered since the first days of the session. Kaelen Varkos. Clashes such as these often yielded ambiguous outcomes. One-on-one duels, particularly, frequently ended in a shared disgrace. Yet, every aspect of today’s confrontation had conspired in Kaelen Varkos’s favor. The insidious rumors that had preceded the event had merely cemented Lord Cassian Thorne’s inevitable defeat. In the polished, yet morally grimy, corridors of this Academy, the whispers solidified into a narrative: “It appears Lord Cassian harbors an unnatural predilection.” “What? Was he not favored by several noble ladies?” “A farce! That was all a pretense! Apparently, he preferred the company of those beneath his station, manipulating lesser scions into illicit dalliances. It is a terrifying thought. And he is from a wealthy house, is he not? With coin, it seems, one can procure any depravity. One can simply visit the forbidden pleasure dens.” “By the Great Architect… I never perceived Lord Cassian as such; it seems he was a veritable wastrel.” “Heh-heh. Ah, to be born with a silver cradle. Even a libertine can indulge in such vice. But are the lesser districts not more economical? We journey to the Outer Provinces for our autumn expedition, do we not? Think we could slip away during the designated free time? Would you attend?” The conversation, like a viper, coiled away from Lord Cassian Thorne and settled upon some sordid, cheap district in the Outer Provinces. Yet, in that brief exchange, Cassian Thorne’s honor had been irrevocably sullied, gashed a dozen times, and ultimately murdered. This act of assassination multiplied with every student present in the Academy. After his defeat at the hands of Kaelen Varkos, Lord Cassian Thorne became nothing more than a discarded husk—almost as if everyone had been silently anticipating his downfall. The study hall, usually a bastion of quiet contemplation, now pulsed with a strange tension, a balance between enforced calm and seething excitement. Every eye flicked back and forth like a metronome, between the Magister’s stern gaze and the lingering echoes of the day’s scandal. The rear of the hall still felt tainted, the memory of that dark stain upon the stone an unpleasant residue. It must have been thoroughly cleansed by now, but one could almost feel the phantom dampness, as if blood might yet seep forth if pressed. Unexpected was the reaction of our usually timid Magister Seraphina, who appeared ready to dissolve into tears at the mere recounting of the incident. The subsequent period was designated for independent study. The hall, which had been buzzing with fervent excitement over this hot topic, instantly fell into an uneasy quiet when the Magister arrived. Upon her entrance, she cast a heavy scroll of parchment onto the polished stone floor, the sudden thud echoing sharply, and let out a high-pitched cry that seemed to tear at the very fabric of the air. “What in the Emperor’s name has possessed you! You, you, you scions! Do you believe me a mere jester? Why do you live your lives in such a manner? Cease this immediately. Cease it, I command you! Why do you disturb the sanctity of independent study? Is this a time for idle chatter? You will be Senior Scions next year! Senior Scions! Please, I implore you, listen to me and desist from causing further disruption! Do you comprehend that I bear responsibility for all your egregious actions! I never should have accepted a post within this noble Academy. I did not even desire to serve in such a place. I feel my sanity fraying. If you persist in this manner, your lives will be naught but refuse, do you not perceive this? Do you not feel shame before your illustrious parents? And how many times must I instruct you to maintain silence during independent study!” Most sensible individuals, upon witnessing someone so habitually reserved suddenly explode in such a fashion, would have instantly sealed their lips. But this was an Academy for noble scions, a place teeming with every conceivable imperfection of character. Some defied all logic, some had yet to shed the pathetic excesses of their early adolescence, and some, despite their elevated lineage, were so intellectually barren that they committed the most idiotic acts. Our study hall was a perfect microcosm of this. “Eh, eh—Magister is wroth. Wroth! Do not be wroth!” “It is amusing when the Magister loses her composure.” A young scion from the very back by the eastern exit spoke, and the individual two seats ahead of Elian whispered softly. “You insolent whelp! What? Do you presume I am a jester?! You, step forward. Present yourself at the podium!” “Magister—. Why do you react thus?” “I commanded you to present yourself, you wastrel!” The Magister, her hand trembling, threw the student roster. It arced wildly between the ornate desks, struck the corner of a polished mahogany lectern in the third row, then clattered to the floor. The heavy roster, having lost its momentum, made a surprisingly loud noise in the sudden silence. “My apologies. It shall not occur again. Please, extend your forgiveness. Agreed?” The scion, Lord Jareth, continued to smirk, displaying not an iota of remorse. It was always some middling figure, neither highly esteemed nor utterly ostracized, who perpetrated such stunts. The slovenly ones acted out. They postured, feigning a strength they did not possess. Yet, only they failed to perceive that this bravado was the most clumsy and pathetic display in the entire realm. “Present yourself. Or must I come to your station?” “Ah, Magister! Is that not excessive! Truly!” “Silence!” “Be silent, the Magister commanded you forward.” Elian could no longer abide it. Unable to endure the vulgar display, he spoke. The eyes of the entire hall turned to him, but Elian did not care, merely taking in that pathetic scene. Honestly, it was so preposterous that he nearly scoffed aloud. He found a peculiar satisfaction in situations such as this. Elian was not skilled in physical confrontation, nor did he adopt the mannerisms of a ruffian, pretending to be formidable. Yet, the reason he held a somewhat elevated, if subtle, position within this intricate social jungle was precisely because he understood how to dismantle fools such as Lord Jareth. “Scion Jareth. Why do you suddenly appear so grave?” “You are the one who misreads the mood of the hall.” Naturally, this unspoken authority had not materialized overnight. During the initial formation of hierarchies in the first year, there had been some resistance to Elian’s quiet presence, but now, it was as comforting as a spiral of respectful silence. “Indeed. Cease your clamor and present yourself. Ah, truly, can you not gauge the gravity of the situation? Do you not perceive the serious nature of this transgression?” “If you possess contrition, then step forward. Because of your antics, we are all subjected to censure. You mad fool.” “Ah, what is his affliction? Truly. What is his purpose?” Elian heard Lord Gareth muttering beneath his breath until the very end. The confident sneer he had worn while baiting the Magister gradually faded, like a dying ember. Under the silent pressure of the entire study hall, he finally stood and moved towards the podium. Now, he appeared utterly vanquished, like a dead rat. Elian allowed a subtle, twisted smile to touch his lips. Lord Cassian Thorne had fallen. And nothing could have pleased Elian more. Perhaps it stemmed from the lingering memory of Cassian’s dismissive gesture towards Elian, a subtle slight in a past encounter that had cut deeper than any physical blow. No, Elian was certain of it. He felt a profound sense of vindication. Honestly, he was a little surprised at the intensity of his own satisfaction. And he felt that electrifying thrill as a quiet, yet undeniable, power began to settle once more around him. “Go out into the antechamber immediately!” “…” After driving the insolent fool out, the Magister Seraphina placed one hand upon the podium, silently wrestling with her fury for a prolonged moment. Perhaps she had gathered her scattered thoughts, for it was fortunate in many ways that her tone calmed considerably. Then she announced she would summon each scion, one by one, to ascertain the true events that had transpired. “I pledge to uphold the utmost discretion. Therefore, please, speak the unvarnished truth. Do not allow me to be disappointed in your character. Please, I beg of you.” She seemed determined to hear an unbiased account, but as a scholar, she still did not appear to grasp the brutal, pyramidal structure of our all-male noble world. Once the independent study period ended, and the Magister—her face still flushed with residual anger—finished composing herself and departed, Lord Alaric, a senior scion, closed the heavy windows and the study hall door, then issued a low, cautionary address to everyone. “Attend closely. Choose your words with care. Make a judicious assessment of who will continue to hold sway here—Kaelen Varkos, or that degenerate whelp.” “Lord Cassian initiated the physical altercation. You comprehend, do you not?” Lord Gareth, now returned from his brief exile, chimed in, his voice strangely eager. Such admirable, if self-serving, loyalty, was it not? --- Less than a week later, Kaelen Varkos returned to the Academy. Kaelen Varkos strode back into the main hall, his jaw still swollen, a tableau of mottled blue and purple bruising. His nose must have been severely injured, for a square bandage, secured with layers of medical tape, was stark against his face. In stark contrast to his still-battered countenance, however, the aura radiating from him was more imposing, more arrogant, than ever before. He grinned wide, then tapped his now perfectly reattached, prominent incisor with his index finger. Elian offered a slight, almost imperceptible, nod in return. Immediately after the confrontation, Kaelen Varkos had casually risen to his feet, seemingly under his own power, and walked towards the waiting carriage of healers. It was a bizarre display, but one executed with a flashy, attention-grabbing flourish that dominated everyone’s chatter for days. Elian had hurried after him. And just before Kaelen ascended into the healer’s conveyance, Elian had pressed a small, dark glass vial into his hand. “This is a potent restorative, infused with the essence of Lunarbloom. Apply it with discretion. Should they question your rapid recovery, state that you feared a lingering infection from the polluted fountain water and desired to expedite your return, or perhaps to exaggerate your perceived weakness, depending on your intent.” At that moment, Kaelen Varkos wiped a hand across his bloodied face and looked at Elian. The crimson, already dried stiff, would not easily dislodge. Honestly, seeing half his face caked in that rusty hue was not a pleasant sight. Elian’s focus was on how Kaelen’s unusually small, intense pupils were locked onto his hand. In that gory state, Kaelen spoke, and Elian strained to listen, caught slightly off guard. “...I shall remember this.” His hand, crusted with dried blood, brushed Elian’s cheek in an abrupt, unsettling gesture. “...Indeed?” All Elian could do was stand there, momentarily disconcerted. Soon after, Kaelen’s trusted aide delivered a coded message to Elian, confirming the potent restorative’s efficacy and the successful rejoining of all necessary tissues. And as soon as he returned to the Academy, Kaelen Varkos took the seat adjacent to Elian’s. When Elian’s original seatmate, a young scion from a lesser house, appeared, Kaelen, without even glancing at him, merely gestured with his thumb towards another vacant chair. The scion quietly retreated and found a different place. Before Elian truly comprehended the shift, that brazen scion, Kaelen, was seated beside him, tapping Elian’s shoulder twice with his index and middle fingers in quick succession. Then he spoke, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Here is a token of appreciation.” “What? What do you imply, so abruptly?” “Be silent and extend your hand.” Elian carefully set down his quill and opened his palm. At the same instant, Kaelen carefully placed something upon it. Elian felt a strange, rough object settle in the center of his hand, leaving him somewhat unsettled. When Kaelen lifted his large hand from Elian’s, Elian saw two small, fossilized fang shards. One was jagged and incomplete, its root clearly severed. The other was surprisingly intact, its ancient root still fully present. They were pale, almost translucent, but stained with dark, nearly black residue. What in the Emperor’s name was this? Confused by the fangs’ strange, yellowish tips and the dark crimson stains clinging to them, Elian glanced at Kaelen Varkos. Kaelen leaned back against the high-backed chair, a smirk playing on his lips. “I ensured Lord Cassian would forever remember the taste of defeat.” Hee-hee-hee. Then he twisted his shoulders, a low, guttural laugh rumbling from his chest, as if he were genuinely enjoying a childhood game. A pure, unadulterated delight. “Did you observe?” “…” “I triumphed.” This damnable scion. For a moment, Elian nearly hurled those grotesque fangs against the wall. Kaelen Varkos’s return caused another significant stir within the Academy. After all, he was the first of the main figures to reappear, his face not as utterly ravaged as many had anticipated, and he displayed none of the gloomy aura of a vanquished man. Rather, he radiated dominance. Whispers about the true victor spread like wildfire among the second-year scions. Most of those who truly understood the subtle shifts were in our own year. For the first-years, the drama of the second-years was a distant, yet fascinating, spectacle.

A Serpent's Descent