A chill, damp air clung to the Collegium's lower levels, smelling of brine and scorched metal. Two days had passed since the incident in the drafting hall. Now, in the communal waste processing chute, a plume of acrid smoke rose from where Tavis’s meticulously bound schematics had been flung. The crisp lines, the intricate annotations of his design proposals, now reduced to flitting ash. Someone had set the refuse ablaze. A trivial act, yet profoundly effective. It wasn't difficult to discern the architect of this small destruction. Later, in the lecture theatre, Vorian’s lean frame slouched in his usual seat. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips as he met the gaze of a few acolytes clustered near the aisle. Elian heard hushed whispers in the antechambers, a boast from Vorian about ‘cleansing’ the Collegium of ‘unworthy’ scribbles. “How… direct,” Elian murmured, the words barely audible. He looked at the tarnished brass bin by the corridor’s edge, where the last vestiges of Tavis’s work had likely been deposited. The frayed edges of the discarded papers spoke of effort, of frustration, and ultimately, of Tavis’s quiet capitulation. Two days prior, Tavis had been dismantled, piece by piece, without ever truly realizing it. Elian understood the motive with chilling clarity. He had initially dismissed Tavis’s recent outbursts as mere collegiate rivalry, but a deeper, unsettling current had begun to surface. Tavis’s circle, once fiercely loyal, had slowly started to eye his increasing paranoia, his agitated pronouncements against the Collegium’s structure, with wary discomfort. The shift had become undeniable when Elian witnessed Tavis’s public confrontation with an upper-year student, a flash of uncontrolled fury that spoke of more than just a bruised ego. Opinion had curdled. Tavis’s increasingly erratic behavior painted him not as a victim, but as a liability. Elian felt no compulsion to intercede, no flicker of guilt. He wasn’t so foolish as to tether his own carefully constructed future to a sinking vessel. He knew how such an act would be perceived – noble, perhaps, but ultimately naive. In the Collegium’s stratified jungle, where thirty different versions of the self fought for footing, even one stray act of altruism could invite a dangerous question. “Why?” That single word held the power to unravel everything. He rested his forehead against the cool, worn surface of his drafting table, closing his eyes. A brief, illicit longing for oblivion flickered. He wished, for a fleeting instant, that when his eyelids parted, the world would conform to the precise order he craved. A languid drowsiness began to claim him. Then, something sharp rapped against his temple, jolting him upright. Elian rubbed the tender spot, his vision blurring for a moment. Across the table, Vorian massaged his own forehead with a theatrical grimace. “Curse it, that stung.” “Why are you slumbering so early?” Elian asked, his voice tight with irritation. “Mind your own business. What is that?” Vorian grinned, utterly unrepentant. He held up a twisted length of copper wire, scavenged from some discarded mechanism. It was thick, almost blunt at the tip, its surface scored with grime. “This? Found it near the conduit shafts. Useful for prodding.” Elian’s expression tightened. Vorian perpetually unearthed the most unsettling curios. The tap hadn’t truly hurt, but he ran a hand over his carefully parted hair, a phantom worry about disarray. Vorian, meanwhile, shoved a chair aside with his foot, then executed a languid drop into it, catching himself just before it could topple. He tossed his satchel onto the desk, propped his head on it, and slumped forward. “You rouse me, only to sleep yourself?” Elian accused. “Just ensuring you didn’t miss the instructor’s drone. My own scores are already beneath the grime, so it matters little.” “Preposterous.” Elian shifted in his seat, a low grumble escaping him. Every utterance from Vorian seemed to ignite a spark of defiance. He nudged Vorian’s extended foot with his own, and Vorian’s smirk widened. “A low blow, Elian. Attacking an injured man? Truly base.” The playful malice in his tone made Elian scoff. He aimed a light kick at the copper wire resting against Vorian’s leg. It clattered towards the floor, but Vorian, without lifting his head, snatched it from the air with one hand. He laughed, a low, rumbling sound, then spoke, his voice muffled. “There was something I meant to ask.” “What?” “That wasn’t an accident, was it?” Damn it. Had it been so obvious? The bruise on his jaw had faded, but perhaps not entirely. Elian hesitated, barely a second, before smoothing a hand over his face. “A clumsy misstep.” “Hah.” Vorian chuckled, chin still resting on his satchel. “Is that so?” His eyes, bright and unnervingly still, flicked to Elian. He pointed the copper wire at him, a silent accusation. Elian’s brow furrowed. “What?” “You are… audacious.” The word, delivered with a slow, deliberate smile, seized Elian’s thoughts. Audacious? Him? His carefully constructed diffidence? “What is audacious?” “I suspect you didn’t merely… fall.” Vorian’s words, often cryptic, now carried a quiet, unsettling menace. His gaze was fixed. His irises, usually quick to dance, were now a dark, unmoving point, like an arrow poised. It was aimed directly at Elian. His mind blanked. *Impossible. He couldn’t know.* The thought pulsed behind his eyes. *No way. He couldn’t have.* Vorian’s eyes narrowed. “It seemed more like you were propelled.” His long, fox-like eyes curved upward. Elian’s throat constricted. His breath hitched in his chest. A dry swallow. Vorian parted his lips, and Elian found he couldn’t blink. “If the others were to discover this, it would be… embarrassing, wouldn’t it?” Silence stretched, taut. “I shall keep your secret.” Vorian raised the hand holding the copper wire to his lips, a silent gesture. He winked. The breath Elian had been holding exploded from his lungs, a trapped animal struggling for release. Vorian didn’t wait for a reply. He ran a hand through his dark hair, then pointed the wire at Elian again. “Though, did you perhaps mimic my chosen style? That is… rather uninspired.” Elian found no words. Vorian crinkled his nose in an exaggerated display of disapproval. “Anyway, I intend to sleep now.” He yawned, burying his face deeper into his satchel. Elian stared at the back of his head. “I did not mimic you, and my hair is simply as it grows.” “Oh, is that so?” Vorian’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his bag. --- “By the Grand Architects, whose unseen hand guides the Great Current,” Vorian intoned, clutching a parchment in one hand. It was the Fourth Period, following the Collegium’s weekly assessment review. He had just received his score for the intricate hydraulic schematics. Vorian buried his face in the offending document, muttered the prayer, then threw his head back with a dramatic sigh. “Ah, I am thoroughly ruined.” Elian glanced at his own report, noted the precisely calculated percentile, then folded the parchment in half and slipped it into an inner pocket of his satchel. Vorian was still sighing. All Elian could see was the prominent bob of his Adam’s apple. It seemed to pulse, a silent admonition for his scrutiny. Elian fixed his gaze on Vorian’s throat. “That is not the traditional supplication.” “Who cares? A prayer is a prayer.” Vorian then asked, “Tell me, is it ‘Architects’ or ‘Engineers’?” Elian, though not overtly devout, observed the peculiar pragmatism of Vorian’s faith. “Why ask me? It is your reverence.” “Elian, do not be so obtuse. You are the meticulous one, I thought you knew all the proper forms.” “I do not. I hold no such reverence.” Vorian, who had been leaning back precariously, shot forward. His eyes met Elian’s, and Elian instinctively averted his gaze, focusing on the rain-streaked window. A sharp prickle spread across his chest, as if he’d been caught pilfering. He stared absently at the blurred city outside, then shifted his attention to the stiff, perfectly starched collar of Vorian’s tunic. The crisp white fabric framed his neck, but with every exaggerated motion, the sharp line of his collarbone momentarily flashed. “So? Will you join me at the Assembly of the Current?” “What? No.” “Ah, why not? Come. They offer sustenance on the Grand Solstices and the Deep Tide. Candied nuts, spiced bread, fortified teas…” “Hold. You attend for such base provisions?” “Naturally.” Elian finally met Vorian’s gaze, his eyes landing on a discarded stylus Vorian had balanced on his upper lip. He wouldn’t admit it, not out of pride, but at that moment, he acknowledged it: Vorian possessed a striking visage. What a smug bastard. The stylus, wedged between his nose and lip, distorted his voice into a slurred, disgruntled mumble. “But the way you phrase it, it implies theft. If it is offered, what is wrong with partaking?” “Can one truly call it faith if it is cultivated for such selfish reasons?” “That is how all belief begins. No one commences with grand convictions. They think, ‘Ah, the spiced bread is pleasing. The orator is kind.’ And then, little by little, their belief in that ‘kind orator with good bread’ blossoms into absolute faith in the Grand Architects. The beginning and the process are immaterial. What matters is that now, I believe.” Vorian, at times, spouted utter nonsense. Yet, sometimes, his cynical rationale held a seductive logic, a dangerous truth Elian found himself tempted by. This was one of those times. Elian ran a hand through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. It kept falling into his eyes, so he shook his head, the fine strands swaying. He gathered them near his temples; the persistent tickle finally receded. He’d been so preoccupied, he’d neglected a trim. With Tavis and his ilk no longer present, the front of the lecture hall remained conspicuously empty. There was no longer a reason to direct his gaze there. Six days prior, the Collegium Instructor had summoned Elian to his office, inquiring after Tavis. Elian had responded honestly, without a moment’s hesitation. “No, Instructor. Tavis has not contacted me.” “You still haven’t reconciled with Tavis, have you?” Elian offered a small, bitter smile, a perfectly calculated display of polite regret. The truth was, he felt no inclination to smile. “No, Instructor. Tavis… he grew quite vexed with me.” “Tavis grew vexed with *you*?” The Instructor’s voice held a note of surprise. “Yes, Instructor.” Rumors already swirled through the Collegium; the Instructor was not entirely ignorant of the implications. “Very well, Elian. You may go.” As the Instructor settled back into his chair, Elian caught snippets of his muttered complaints – Tavis’s erratic behavior, the scolding he’d received from Tavis’s influential guardian. Elian pretended not to hear the pathetic monologue, turning away, but his ears remained acutely attuned. Thus, he had gleaned the precise atmosphere of the Instructor’s office. Later that day, preparing for his private cartography lessons at home, Tavis’s guardian had called. The question was identical: did Elian know of Tavis’s whereabouts? His answer, too, was the same. “No, revered sir. Tavis has ceased all contact with me.” —*I see…* “I am truly sorry I cannot be of assistance.” —*No, there is nothing for you to apologize for, Elian. It is quite alright.* Tavis’s guardian had been calling with increasing frequency. Each conversation followed the same, peculiar cadence, a subtle attempt to re-establish a link between Tavis and Elian. Elian had hastened to end the call. In truth, there was nothing to apologize for. Yet he did, offering it as a carefully dispensed courtesy, a social lubricant. It was the same instinct that compelled observers to declare an ugly newborn ‘charming.’ A social convention. A form of etiquette in a civilized society. Elian didn’t believe the adults saw through his performance. If anything, his politeness was a crude pantomime, enacted by a diligent apprentice. He always knew his place. And because he invested effort in being agreeable, he was destined to become a favored apprentice. Even if, one day, he made a blunder so glaring it etched worry lines on their brows, they would forgive him. Such was the foundation he meticulously laid. Unlike some short-sighted fools, he was navigating his life with calculated wisdom. Perhaps, from an adult’s perspective, his thinking was a petty, narrow-minded trick to wriggle free from trouble. But among his peers, it was undeniable: Elian Vance was someone who knew how to handle unpredictable situations with calm precision. For proof, one only needed to observe Orrin. Orrin, desperately eager to enter Vorian’s inner circle, now extended an exaggerated cordiality to Elian. In the eyes of their peers, Elian had, after all, aligned himself early with Vorian. Though Orrin had once been one of Tavis’s closest confidents, he now made it conspicuously clear that his loyalties had shifted.

The Price of Pragmatism