Veridian’s morning breath felt cool and gritty, tasting of rain-slicked steel and damp pavement. Elian Vance navigated the winding alleys leading to the Academy, his boots clicking a precise rhythm against the cobblestones. Within the city’s heart, a network of arcane conduits hummed beneath the streets, a subtle tremor he felt in the soles of his feet. His quiet artistic pride often felt like a secret burden in this place, a hidden current against the torrent of industrial ambition. Kaelan Thorne’s face always swelled after a night spent indulging his eccentric tinkering, a testament to too little sleep and too much potent alchemical brew. Elian, feigning an exasperated sigh, tossed a cool flask of nutrient broth onto Kaelan’s desk. It landed with a soft thump. Without fail, he brought Kaelan a chilled draught on these mornings, a practical remedy for the boy’s predictable puffiness. “Stop looking like a freshly puffed pufferfish and get rid of that swelling.” Kaelan grunted, already fumbling with the stopper. “Thanks, Elian.” “Did your father scold you this morning?” “Not thanks to your timely intervention.” Kaelan shrugged, a familiar smirk playing on his lips. He possessed an arrogance born of his family’s ancient name and the raw, untamed power he wielded in the Academy’s workshops. Elian merely pursed his lips, turning towards his own meticulously organized workspace. His gaze drifted to the desk beside Kaelan, where a sprawling arcane diagram lay half-crumpled. Lysander Croft, Kaelan’s usual seat-mate, lay sprawled across it, one arm dangling precariously. Lysander’s frame, a good handspan taller than Kaelan’s, meant he always occupied the farthest reaches of their row. Elian, ever aware of his own modest height, felt a faint, familiar prickle of envy. He often found small comforts in proximity, even this slight one. Elian suppressed the thought. He gestured subtly towards the unmoving form. “When did he arrive?” “No idea,” Kaelan mumbled, already halfway through his broth. “He was like that when I got here.” “Why does someone who departed early last night appear so utterly… undone?” Lysander stirred. The arcane diagram rustled as he shifted, revealing a pair of half-lidded eyes. His narrow gaze swept over Elian and Kaelan. He stretched his jaw, a wide, languid yawn escaping him. “…Told myself I’d just refine the circuit a bit more before sleeping. Well.” Yawns, truly, were contagious. Kaelan echoed the wide-mouthed stretch, then scrunched his face into a smug grin. “This grub. Looks like he frequents the Spire’s underbelly, but keeps hours purer than Seraphina’s prayer routine.” “Yeah, piss off, Kaelan.” Lysander’s voice was rough with sleep. “Got it, Lysander.” Lysander merely chuckled, leaning back into his slumped posture, seemingly unbothered by Kaelan’s jibe. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment. Lysander’s gaze flickered to the rain-streaked window, then back to Elian. An odd tickle stirred beneath Elian’s skin. He scratched his shoulder, then turned his attention fully to Kaelan. The workshop-scriptorium’s early morning buzz was, for the most part, a pleasant drone. Such easy banter set the day’s rhythm. Soon, figures like Corvan and Seraphina would gravitate towards Kaelan, listening raptly to his recounted exploits, their expressions full of admiration. It was a familiar, predictable dance: chatter, laughter, leading eventually to the Lead Archivist’s entrance, marking the true start of their studies. For boys deemed prominent within the Academy, it was a surprisingly benign beginning. But beneath the surface, a subtle unease gnawed at Elian. He often found Kaelan’s tales of late-night escapades and reckless indulgence distasteful, a sour note in the otherwise carefully orchestrated morning. Yet, he played his part, offering a muted smile, a knowing glance. He tolerated these mornings. Everything shifted, however, six weeks ago. The reason, entirely, was Finnian Raine. “Finnian Raine is here.” Corvan’s voice cut through the workshop’s hum, laced with open derision. “By the Void. Repulsive.” “Does that miserable wretch even consider staying home after his last humiliation?” Seraphina chimed in, her tone sharp. Corvan pointed with an exaggerated, disdainful flick of his wrist. Finnian Raine, a small, hunched figure, shuffled into the workshop. His dark hair fell across his face, attempting to conceal a bruised cheekbone. He moved towards a desk in the front row, deposited a worn satchel, and immediately slumped forward, burying his face in his arms. Observing his defeated posture, Elian felt a sigh, heavy with irritation, catch in his throat. Finnian Raine, in this moment, was utterly pathetic. His voice was thin, his frame slight—a pitiful excuse for a person in this demanding city. As the murmurs of the workshop swelled, Kaelan glared daggers at Finnian’s back, muttering curses beneath his breath. Elian despised it. That raw, unchecked aggression from Kaelan, that sensitivity to weakness—it frayed Elian’s nerves. Kaelan snatched the arcane diagram that had moments ago covered Lysander’s face. He balled it tightly in one hand. Then, with a casual, precise flick of the wrist, he hurled it at Finnian’s head. *Thud*. A soft sound. Finnian’s head jolted, then slumped further onto his desk. “By the Lord Regent’s will, don’t parade that repulsive face around first thing in the morning.” Finnian placed his arms on the desk, pressing his face into them, doing exactly as Kaelan had commanded. Yet, Kaelan watched this with a tightening jaw, then kicked his own desk with a loud *thwack*. “Hey! Are you not going to answer me?” Kaelan stood abruptly, his voice rising to a shout. Finnian, still hunched, stammered a response, his voice trembling. “Y-yes.” “Lift your head. Look at me. Speak properly.” Did Kaelan even perceive the absurdity of his demands? The sheer nonsense of it all made Elian’s lips twitch into a bitter, silent laugh. Whether Kaelan noticed, he moved from his desk, approaching Finnian. With each step Kaelan took, an unpleasant coldness spread through Elian’s chest, vivid and raw. Kaelan closed the distance. Just that, the simple act of Kaelan nearing Finnian, made Elian feel a terrifying loss of control over the emotions he had so carefully suppressed. This wasn’t the same kind of jealousy he felt when Kaelan engaged with Lysander. Instinctively, Elian understood. Deep down, he harbored something just as sinister as Kaelan did, a dormant seed of malice. That’s why watching Kaelan and Lysander could eventually be tolerated, but Kaelan’s interactions with Finnian unsettled Elian with increasing intensity. His hands began to tremble. He clenched them, pressing his fingernails into his palms, to hide the tremor. Kaelan kicked Finnian’s desk hard. The ancient wooden surface shook violently, almost toppling, and Finnian jolted upright in alarm, his voice still unsteady. “S-sorry.” Kaelan stood over him, silently looking down at Finnian’s face. Finnian’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, on the verge of breaking. Yet, in that moment, Elian felt like he was the one who might burst into tears. Kaelan never made Finnian run pointless errands or scrub arcane grime from the workshops. Instead, he kept his eyes on him, a constant, unsettling surveillance. If Finnian walked to the ablution chambers during a break, Kaelan’s gaze would track his retreating figure, even while speaking with his friends. Elian knew because he never stopped watching Kaelan. Truthfully, Elian’s first impression of Finnian Raine had been unremarkable. His skin wasn’t flawless, but his youthful features made his face easy to observe. When he smiled, it felt genuinely open, and even his neutral expression carried a certain brightness. Before Kaelan began his torment, no one held any particular dislike for Finnian. He seemed like a ward nurtured in a warm, loving home. While not overtly sociable, preferring quiet solitude, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor. Most considered Finnian a decent sort. Since he never flaunted the affection he’d received, he earned quiet praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be near—that was Finnian Raine. But Elian hadn’t particularly liked him from the start. He didn’t hate him either—he simply didn’t care. To say Finnian wasn’t even on his internal maps would be more accurate. Yet, whenever he spoke with Kaelan, Lysander, or their acquaintances, and Finnian’s name arose, Elian would find himself casually offering a lie, saying, “Oh, Finnian? He’s quite alright. Decent enough.” Kaelan, like Elian, hadn’t paid much attention to Finnian at first. Kaelan was never one to concern himself with the lesser affairs of the Academy. After Finnian’s transfer six months prior, he and Kaelan hadn’t exchanged a single word until last month. That was the original course of things. One day, a subtle tremor, a sharp deviation, formed in the mundane flow of events. It happened right after the mid-day meal. Looking back, Elian regretted few things as profoundly as what transpired that day. Finnian, as was his habit, had taken a corner seat in the Grand Library, immersed in a lexicon. He was the kind of person who found solace in the quiet rustle of ancient vellum and the scent of aged ink. Elian, on the other hand, possessed a habit of cultivating an overly friendly demeanor towards individuals of good standing. That’s why, when he chanced upon Finnian, he initiated a conversation about the lexicon in his hands. Elian was not, by nature, a scholar of obscure texts; pretending to be cultured suited his intellectual vanity more. “You must truly appreciate such texts, Finnian?” “Oh? Yes, I suppose I do.” At the time, Finnian and Elian were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made the approach easier. “Have you concluded that particular volume?” “Well, I’m almost at the final passage.” “Then close it now. The ending will disappoint you. It’s one of those tomes where the final resolution utterly diminishes the preceding journey.” “You’ve… read it before?” Finnian’s eyes widened slightly. “Indeed, a while ago.” To satisfy his own subtle arrogance, Elian always sought out reviews and critiques of works he merely skimmed, ensuring he possessed enough conversational currency. Drawing on those remembered opinions, he offered a critique—not a genuine one, just enough to sound informed. Finnian smiled brightly, looking genuinely pleased. It caught Elian off guard, a sudden, unfamiliar warmth in his chest. “You’re the first person I’ve encountered who’s read this besides me.” “Oh… truly?” “Yes. But I shall still finish it. Contemplating why the conclusion unfolded as it did is part of the allure.” “Well, certainly. Perspectives diverge.” “Hearing you say that makes me anticipate it even more.” That smile lingered, an uncomfortable memory. Was it some instinctive unease he felt, even then? After that day, Finnian Raine began seeking Elian out with increasing frequency. Though Elian found it mildly irksome, often wondering, *Why me?*, he didn’t outright reject him. Finnian, with his respectable reputation, wasn’t the worst person to keep within one’s social orbit. After all, complex lexicons—outside of mandated texts—were practically off-limits for students their age. Even if someone had the leisure, such volumes were little more than glorified doorstops. For Finnian, Elian was likely the sole individual who could converse on such intricate subjects. That day was one of those routine encounters, yet it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated. Lysander Croft was to blame, indirectly. To this day, Elian could not fathom why he acted as he did. Why he, a person who never meddled in others’ affairs, chose to extend his influence where it didn’t belong. Why Lysander, of all people, had left his Glyphwork Scrutiny Report wide open for everyone passing by to see. Elian, who detested having his own scores revealed, naturally assumed Lysander desired similar discretion. He flipped the parchment over to obscure it. That’s when he saw it: the score. Eighty-one points. He blinked, checking again. It was undeniably eighty-one. Considering the exacting thresholds for this particular assessment, it would barely scrape into the fourth tier. But still, it was at the higher end of that tier. This was the first time one of Elian’s carefully constructed preconceptions had been shattered. It was a small shock, realizing Lysander wasn’t as much of a lost cause as he’d assumed. Naturally, that led his thoughts to Kaelan’s grades. Now, *he* was the true academic derelict. A student who would mark every question with a “Beta” and slumber through the remainder of the assessment, Kaelan had never once managed a respectable score. Perhaps that’s why Elian felt such a mix of emotions—like he’d unearthed a flawed but salvageable component amidst a pile of refuse. A person he’d once dismissed turned out to be more capable than the one he admired. That strange realization must have unsettled him, because he performed an action he would normally never have considered. It wasn’t anything grand. He simply grasped a nearby stylus and scribbled a short note at the top of Lysander’s report. *“Focus on the Structural Logic problems. You’ll reach the third tier soon. Good effort. —Elian Vance.* *P.S. Apologies for viewing your score without permission. I merely flipped it to cover it and chanced to see.”* Evaluating someone’s grade and offering unsolicited advice, the arrogance of it, made Elian feel a prickle of embarrassment. He rambled, trying to justify his intervention. He couldn’t say why he even wrote it in the first place. At the time, he must have been momentarily unmoored. Looking back, it was clear this was the very first deviation, a poorly fastened button, in what would become a series of complex entanglements. Had he not written that note, he wouldn’t have run into Finnian Raine carrying a lexicon down the hall. That solitary act, a misplaced compassion, had shifted the very trajectory of their lives, drawing lines on his unmarked map he could never erase. ---

A Misplaced Compass