Elian. My name is Elian Vance, though few beyond the household servants address me by my given name. Most others, particularly within the gilded halls of the Collegium, default to ‘Scribe Vance.’ It carries the weight of my station, a constant reminder of expectation. The first to defy this, to merely utter ‘Elian,’ was Kaelen Thorne, during our initial year of apprenticeship within the Cartographic Guild. He observed how the shorter designation seemed to settle easier on my tongue, and it simply... stuck. Some still insist upon the formality, but that tale belongs to a different rain-slicked afternoon.
Kaelen Thorne, new to my cohort that year, was conspicuously unlike me. His height surpassed mine by a handspan, his build broader, his skin tanned from exposure to the city’s exhaust and sun-starved upper districts. Academically, we stood at opposing ends; he comfortably navigated the Collegium’s social intricacies while barely meeting the minimum requirements for our shared cartography modules.
Did I immediately dismiss him upon sight? Usually, I believe every individual occupies a precisely mapped place in the city’s intricate hierarchy. Yes, that is precisely what my instincts dictated. Yet, I found myself unable to treat Kaelen Thorne with such conventional disdain. When our gazes first met across the sprawling blueprint tables, his amber eyes, flecked with strange, almost metallic lights, bore down with an intensity that defied easy categorization.
Kaelen Thorne possessed a singular scent. Not the metallic tang of arc-smoke common in the Lower Districts, nor the cloying perfume of the Spire Ward’s noble salons. It was something else—a faint, almost colorless aroma, like ozone clinging to damp stone after a lightning strike. Captivated by this inexplicable olfactory signature, like a moth drawn to a flickering lumen-lamp, I found myself initiating conversation.
Often, I sought superficial parallels between us, perhaps to justify my burgeoning fascination. We both moved in prominent social circles within the Collegium, despite our differing specializations. Both of our families held considerable sway.
Our institution, for instance, sat precisely at the nexus of two disparate Veridian districts: the affluent, ancient Spire Ward, and the burgeoning, smoke-choked Iron Quarter.
Fortuitously, my ancestral home lay within the Spire Ward. Not merely a respectable address, but one of the oldest, highest-vaulted manors in the entire district. Born an only child to parents whose lineage traced back to the city’s founding cartographers, I grew up surrounded by every conceivable privilege, albeit a quiet, meticulously curated one. My parents, though not overtly political, commanded significant respect, a subtle legacy passed into my small, careful hands. It’s no wonder a certain calculating prudence became part of my nature.
Because of these stark divisions, the Collegium was a curious amalgamation of students from noble Spire families and the children of powerful Iron Quarter industrialists, all sharing the same lecture halls. Kaelen Thorne belonged to the latter group. Once I discerned this, a strange exhilaration surged through me. Armed with this convenient justification, I approached him without hesitation. We naturally became... acquainted.
Just as my skill lay in the meticulous rendering of maps and the deciphering of ancient scripts, Kaelen Thorne excelled at navigating the city’s unspoken power structures. He quickly drew the most audacious and ambitious apprentices to his orbit. Within a lunar cycle, he had solidified his position at the apex of the Iron Quarter’s young elite. That was how Kaelen Thorne became the most notoriously influential young man in his generation.
---
The heavy oak door before me remained stubbornly shut. My stomach, tight with an unnamed discomfort, began to ache. Just as I reached to rub the knot of anxiety, the door finally yielded. Through the narrow gap, I caught a glimpse of Kaelen Thorne’s flushed skin. His hand, ruddy from some recent exertion, released the latch. It swung inward, then started to close again, threatening to conceal him. I slipped inside, a frantic, almost desperate movement.
Inside the opulent chamber, Kaelen Thorne already sat on a low divan, clad only in tailored breeches. A slender vapor-stick, unlit, was held casually between his teeth, gnawed with absentminded force.
“Damn it all. Elder Thorne is on my arse again. If the comm-link chimes, you answer. Tell him we were poring over ancient schematic diagrams, charting obsolete steam conduits.”
He flicked a polished brass ignition-charm open and closed, a restless gesture. He made no move to light the vapor-stick, but his expression carried the languid, sated air of someone who had just emerged from a particularly intense negotiation. My stomach felt raw, an acid burn, so I pressed a hand to it as I approached. Snatching the abused vapor-stick from his mouth, I responded with an irritation I barely kept in check.
“Why should I?”
“Because we are... aligned.”
‘Aligned.’ The way he stretched out the word, making it sound like a reluctant concession, always struck me with an odd pang. It felt like a subtle tearing within my own chest. But I maintained a serenely neutral expression.
“Just know I will exact repayment for this, one way or another.”
“Acknowledged.”
The room hummed with a heavy, sweet scent of night-bloom jasmine, overlaid with a faint, clean metallic note, subtly hinting at the recent presence of a woman. Frankly, the only reason I had learned to identify such nuances was due to Kaelen Thorne’s various, well-documented escapades.
Rumors from his previous guild apprentices spoke of his dalliances beginning even before he reached his full majority. They whispered of his first encounter taking place in a hidden archive cubicle, with a fellow apprentice. That singular detail spoke volumes.
Apparently, even then, he possessed the bearing of a man years his senior. Kaelen Thorne’s mature appearance was atypical for a burgeoning apprentice. Most who encountered him for the first time assumed he was an established merchant lord or a seasoned guildmaster. His bold, defined features lent him a brooding, sophisticated aura.
Upon entering the Collegium, he openly frequented the veiled soirees of the Lower Districts whenever boredom set in. Money was never an object, and somehow, he always acquired the necessary forged seals and passes for entry. He displayed them with an arrogant confidence, as if they were his own. He captivated alluring women, transforming fleeting encounters into a regular pastime. His striking looks played a major role in obscuring the recklessness of his chosen lifestyle.
Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth were not, perhaps, masterpieces of composition. But assembled, they formed an inexplicably compelling visage. His aura was so potent that few could believe he was merely an apprentice; most presumed him to be at least twenty-five cycles of age.
I scanned the room, feigning a search for something, though it was a meaningless gesture. The heavy atmosphere, lingering in the aftermath of his indiscretion, made my gorge rise.
“Where is Seraphim Vane?”
“He departed.”
“...”
“That fool is truly insufferable. A complete waste of time.”
Kaelen Thorne propped his chin on a fisted hand, a mirthless laugh escaping him. I frowned, a familiar knot tightening in my chest.
Seraphim Vane ranked as the second person I found most intolerable.
He had only become closely associated with Kaelen Thorne during our second year. As much as I loathed to concede the point, they spent enough time together to warrant the term ‘compatriots.’ When Kaelen Thorne held sway over the Iron Quarter’s young guard, Seraphim Vane commanded his own reputation within the ancient, arcane circles of the Spire Ward.
Still, our paths rarely intersected. The only times I saw him were in the Grand Refectory, a sprawling hall shared by apprentices from both the Iron Quarter and the Spire Ward.
Once, while navigating the Refectory’s bustling aisles, someone nudged my shoulder. “That’s Seraphim Vane,” they whispered.
Curious despite myself, I stood on tiptoes to observe. Amidst a sea of Collegium blacks and grays, a tall, sharp-featured young man stood out. I knew instantly it was him.
“He possesses a singularly unpleasant demeanor,” I murmured, more to myself.
One of Kaelen Thorne’s usual hangers-on, standing nearby, replied, “Indeed. Rumors say he’s utterly self-absorbed, obsessed with his own archaic codes.”
A smirk touched my lips at the comment, but I offered only a half-hearted nod in response.
As much as I resented acknowledging it, I understood precisely why he and Kaelen Thorne had gravitated towards each other. That understanding only intensified my dislike, yet for some inexplicable reason, I found myself unable to look away.
A glittering darkness—that was my first, indelible impression of Seraphim Vane.
By chance, our eyes met. It was peculiar that he noticed my gaze, given the multitude of eyes that must have been upon him in the crowded Refectory. His long, narrow eyes and thin, almost reptilian pupils left a striking impression. Reflexively, I flinched, as if struck by an unseen force.
‘What are you scrutinizing?’
He must have read my lips, because he narrowed one eye at me. Honestly, I felt a flicker of intimidation, so I pretended the glance was meaningless and turned away. Then, loud enough for the apprentice next to me to hear, I stated:
“He looks like a viper.”
After that initial encounter, Seraphim Vane and I often exchanged glances, but we always maintained a cool, unspoken distance. Whenever our gazes crossed, he would lower his head, a subtle dismissal, only to look up again moments later, locking eyes with me once more. Nine times out of ten, he was the first to break eye contact, but I found myself following his lead on occasion. I stopped counting after the eighteenth such exchange.
---
As if by some strange twist of fate, Kaelen Thorne and I found ourselves assigned to the same advanced cartography cohort again for our second year. While secretly thrilled by this continuing proximity, I came across another, dreadfully familiar face. It was truly astonishing—and utterly maddening. For the first time, I got a proper look at the man behind the infamous Spire Ward reputation: Seraphim Vane.
It was Seraphim Vane who addressed me first, his voice a low, resonant murmur.
“Scribe. Perhaps we could share a table for the midday repast?”
Damn it all.
Just as everyone had anticipated, the two of them became... allies. Kaelen Thorne, a man who reveled in his own raw power, found Seraphim Vane, subtly regarded as his intellectual counterpoint, met his exacting standards. He was shrewd, respected among his own peers, and possessed a unique, unsettling charisma. Their alliance was inevitable.
In our advanced lectures, the topic often arose: if Kaelen Thorne and Seraphim Vane were to engage in open conflict, who would prevail? From my perspective, the two would never truly clash. While Kaelen Thorne and I were opposites in many overt ways, Kaelen Thorne and Seraphim Vane shared remarkable similarities beneath their surface differences.
Yet, a singular distinction existed between them.
Seraphim Vane possessed a strange, almost rigid adherence to certain codes. Despite the numerous, often jagged, piercings adorning his ears—marks of ancient oaths, some whispered—he sometimes conducted himself with an almost puritanical rectitude.
For example, when Kaelen Thorne sought carnal indulgence, he would simply choose a favored companion and spend the night in one of his family’s secluded pleasure-domes. When asked about his nocturnal adventures, he would proudly recount his steamy, early morning departures. In stark contrast, Seraphim Vane would merely scoff at the typical, boorish jests about desiring to fondle a courtesan’s breast. Sometimes, he would openly mock them by grabbing the chest of a particularly corpulent industrialist’s son sitting nearby, squeezing hard enough to elicit a shriek.
“This oaf possesses more ample flesh than most tavern wenches. Perhaps you should grope him instead. And truly, man, you present a sorry sight. Consider a restrictive chest-wrap, would you? Cease parading such offensive displays.”
Even his crude remarks were laced with an acidic sarcasm.
Yet, when the opportunity arose, Seraphim Vane would utter something baffling, like, “My inner sanctum remains inviolate, reserved only for the Sacred Flame of my sworn oath.” That was the profound difference.
Kaelen Thorne once offered to procure him a forged comm-seal—a favor he had never extended to me—but Seraphim Vane dismissed it as a pointless contrivance and refused.
Kaelen Thorne’s other acquaintances found Seraphim Vane’s eccentricities amusing, but I did not. My reason was simple: he was close to Kaelen Thorne. And they moved through the Collegium like two halves of a formidable whole. That alone was sufficient cause for my simmering resentment. It was a poison, seeping into my every thought.
Still, I managed to maintain a civil façade with Seraphim Vane. One of my ingrained strengths was the ability to conceal my true sentiments, regardless of the situation. Besides, his proximity to Kaelen Thorne was undeniable. Yes, every facet of my carefully constructed social orbit seemed to revolve around Kaelen Thorne.
To be honest, there were more days when I felt a profound frustration with myself for this unspoken dependence than there were days I spent contemplating Kaelen Thorne himself. Often, I felt like a complete imbecile. Yet, despite this gnawing self-awareness, I remained unchanged.
Kaelen Thorne tossed a few casual instructions my way before disappearing into the adjoining ablution chamber. I sat in quiet contemplation, the hum of the city a distant thrum. Moments later, his comm-link began to chime, a discreet, melodic ping. Fresh from his shower, Kaelen Thorne emerged, snatching the device from the divan and tossing it to me. I caught it reflexively. On the other end, I heard Elder Thorne’s gruff, unmistakable voice.
Clearing my throat, I answered, an odd sense of composure settling over me. Why was I even trying to sound so unruffled?
“Yes, Scribe Vance speaking.”
“Vance? Are you presently with Kaelen?”
“Yes, Elder Thorne, I am.”
“Ah, I see. My concern was unfounded. I feared Kaelen might be out indulging his usual vices again. You possess a most agreeable timbre, Scribe Vance.”
“Thank you, Elder Thorne.”
“No, truly. How fares your work?”
“It progresses well, thank you. And your own endeavors?”
“Likewise. You express yourself with such refined elegance. If only Kaelen would adopt such manners. The boy has the grace of a steam-golem. So, you were studying together?”
“Indeed. Kaelen must have neglected to inform you. He has been deeply engrossed in preparing for the advanced cartography review.”
“So, you have been at this pursuit the entire duration?”
“Yes. He has remained with me throughout.”
“Well, that is a relief. If he is with you, I can rest assured he remains out of mischief.”
“It is nothing, truly, Elder Thorne.”
“No, it is something. With you, he avoids temptation.”
“Rest assured, Elder. I shall ensure his safe return to the Collegium tomorrow.”
“Good. Watch over him. Maintain your association, and avoid unnecessary friction.”
“Yes, of course. Farewell, Elder Thorne.”
Lies, carefully crafted, flowed from my lips with disquieting ease.
After terminating the call, I tossed the comm-link back to Kaelen Thorne, who muttered a perfunctory “My thanks” while fastening his tunic. Without another word, I turned to leave. Kaelen Thorne made no attempt to detain me.
“Till the next charting session,” he offered, his voice flat. That was all he said.
It was precisely as expected. This was the precise measure of our fragile connection. The vast, unmapped chasm between us was agonizingly clear. Perhaps that is why I quickened my pace, eager to escape the suffocating air of his presence.
On my way back, a peculiar dryness afflicted my throat. I hurried out of the industrial district, away from the lingering scent of ozone and the oppressive weight of unseen expectations.