A labyrinth of polished marble, this silent expanse held some thirty souls in thrall. Here, in the Grand Scriptorium, courtiers and scribes alike formed their brittle hierarchies, clinging to groups like desperate men to a spar. Eighteen cycles of the moon had marked their tenure, each day a taut string, stretched to its breaking point. Tension, a perpetual frost, coated every ornate surface, survival a perilous, gilded dance. For Lysander, this chilling ballet had begun in his twelfth year, when he first grasped the art of courtly alliance. A daily balancing act, it had become his very breath—and so it was, he surmised, for every other wretch within these palace walls. A gilded cage, a pyramid inverted, that was the Scriptorium’s cruel truth. “Ah…” His arm, numb from poor circulation after hours bent over parchment, tingled as he shook it, blood slowly reclaiming the limb. Lysander tapped his tightly wound stomach lightly with the side of a clenched fist. A weak breath escaped his lips, barely a whisper in the echoing hall, as he regarded the slumped backs before him. Green-veined malachite desks, peach-colored napes. Upon the Archon’s dais, Archon Callias, our esteemed supervisor, sat. He perused a crumpled decree, folded once, then again. Meanwhile, scribes either diligently wrestled with the daily assignments, petitions, and edicts, or, having utterly surrendered, slumped forward, feigning sleep. “Awaken, those of you who court slumber,” Archon Callias called out, his voice sharp despite its customary weariness, as he turned another page of the parchment. It was already the fifth hour of their day. Lysander had been meticulously copying the fifteenth petition, a complex land dispute, when he paused to scratch at his temple with an index finger. He set his meticulously crafted silver stylus upon the desk. His eyes, keen despite their weariness, drifted to the empty stations. Two, in particular, snagged his attention, like hooks. As anticipated, neither Kaelen Varr nor Elara had graced the Scriptorium with their presence. Tomorrow, too, their stations would likely remain vacant. Unless Kaelen had one of his unpredictable shifts in humor, or some new drama had ensnared the two, a drama Lysander knew nothing of. Whatever that 'something' might be, its nature remained a shadow. Lysander lowered his gaze, returning to the intricate glyphs of the Imperial Tongue spread before him. His vision filled with their elegant, yet demanding, strokes. Once, he had harbored the foolish notion of understanding Kaelen Varr completely. He had convinced himself that of all these courtiers, he alone possessed the deepest insight into Kaelen's mercurial spirit. Such pride, bitter and cold, had sustained him, even in the face of Lord Vesper's (who, Lysander knew, held Kaelen's ear more closely than anyone) evident rapport with Kaelen. Indeed, that pride had been his shield against the pangs of watching Vesper and Kaelen interact with such familiar ease. Deep down, Lysander had savored the quiet, corrosive knowledge that he held a secret advantage, a deeper grasp of Kaelen's true self. He propped his chin on his hand, the cool metal of his signet ring pressing against his jaw. The very capability of such thought disgusted him. A serpent coiled in his gut. What judgment would descend upon him, were these thoughts to be laid bare before the court? The answer, chillingly clear, painted itself across his mind. He would be cast down, pushed to the very bottom of the courtly pyramid, occupying its widest, most despised plane. Such a thought was a bitter draft. A terrifying prospect, indeed. This insidious desire, unique to a scheming young courtier, must remain hidden at all costs. He must bury it deep, so deep that even its object would never sense its tendrils. Ultimately, it needed to be interred so profoundly that even he, Lysander Thorne, would forget its foul existence. But Kaelen Varr had never learned such self-preservation. Everyone in court, it seemed, knew of Kaelen's raw, unbridled desires. Lysander glanced about, lifting his head ever so slightly. Every scribe remained hunched over their desks, heads bowed in feigned diligence or genuine weariness. Pressing his lips tightly together, he looked ahead. A discarded scroll, its vellum cover smudged with faint boot-marks, lay forlornly between the rows of desks. A small, silent testament to carelessness, or perhaps, disrespect. Suddenly, as if some unseen eye might have caught his quiet scrutiny, Lysander buried his head in his desk, mimicking the postures of his peers. His heart hammered a nervous rhythm against his ribs. Then, he turned his neck, subtly shifting his gaze to a different direction. His eyes fell upon the back row. A face, partially obscured by an arm, lay there, as if its owner had collapsed mid-task into a profound sleep. The face appeared delicate, almost sorrowful, etched with a stillness that bordered on the pallor of death. Lysander found himself staring at Lord Vesper’s face before his gaze drifted to the man's arm. Had the already towering Vesper grown yet further? The courtier’s robes, which had fit him perfectly at the start of the season, now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one of those powerful wrists was a dark, braided leather amulet—a sigil of the Veridian Creed, its polished stone an unmistakable symbol, an integral part of Vesper’s imposing identity. Before hearing the whispers of his true origins, Lysander had assumed Vesper hailed from the impoverished outer districts, perhaps the same shadowed alleys as Elara. Despite his intimidating aura, Vesper did not possess the typical gleam of inherited wealth. His sunken eyes were perpetually shadowed by heavy lids, and his faded irises lent him a haunted, weary mien. The thin white of his sclera, visible beneath his pupils, only enhanced his sharp, almost gaunt appearance. Vesper’s overall presence was one of grim intimidation, though it lacked the refined polish associated with the true nobility. Instead, his face seemed marked by a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a kind of melancholic gravitas. Combined with his immense stature—he was undoubtedly the tallest courtier in the Scriptorium—it rendered him doubly imposing. Fortunately, unlike Kaelen Varr, Vesper’s sharp features possessed a classically handsome symmetry. Without that, courtiers might have actively shied from his presence. Even so, Vesper’s face was unsettling, intimidating, imbued with a nervous, coiled energy. But Vesper’s true nature, Lysander knew, could not have been more different from his forbidding exterior. Not merely indifferent to the petty squabbles of the court, he seemed to actively erase events from his memory, whether by will or by some strange internal defect. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a peculiar trait that paradoxically added to his mystique. Lord Vesper, in essence, was a riddle etched in stone. Most notably, Vesper cared little for coin. He never paid heed to the extravagant sums others spent, nor the desperate pleas for more. If the mood struck him, he would casually toss a pouch of gold to a nearby scribe without a second thought, as if the concept of currency held no meaning. Sometimes he lent funds and forgot the transaction entirely. Whispers circulated of courtiers returning borrowed sums, only for Vesper to query, genuinely puzzled, why they offered him gold. Yet, he did not lend to just anyone. He would indulge random requests when in a benevolent humor, but coldly refuse those truly desperate, those whose need was clear and aching. Even with his closest confidantes, Vesper could be harsh, cruelly so. Lysander once overheard a story of how Scribe Alaric, upon seeing Vesper’s prized falcon—a bird the Lord rarely displayed—eagerly tried to take it upon his arm without permission. Vesper had simply struck the man’s hand, a sharp, clean blow, sending Alaric sprawling upon the polished floor like a startled frog. At the apex of the court’s brutal social hierarchy, figures like Vesper and Kaelen Varr shared one defining trait: a complete lack of concern for others’ opinions. This profound indifference, in its own twisted way, was precisely what permitted them to perch at the pyramid’s unforgiving summit. Why did we, with our own hands, hand over the keys to our very world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how many sleepless nights Lysander spent pondering, he still could not comprehend. And yet, Lord Vesper called himself a devout follower of the Veridian Creed. He was the type of courtier who carried a sacred text beneath his pillow, yet claimed adherence to the teachings. He abstained from spirits, from the sweet narcotic fumes of the Dragon’s Breath flower, from illicit liaisons, and from coercing gold from other courtiers. Yet the doctrine he followed seemed flawed—anyone could tell from the rules on spirits and stimulants alone. Lysander had heard the Veridian Creed permitted both, in moderation. They whispered the Creed viewed certain passions as anathema. Was that why Kaelen Varr’s open conduct disgusted Vesper so profoundly? Lysander licked his dry lips, a nervous habit. Lysander felt a strange, cold relief that he hadn’t been caught. If his own hidden desires had been exposed, he would have ended up like that trampled scroll, lying forgotten on the Scriptorium floor. And yet, even in that moment, a desperate query flickered: if Kaelen and he had remained close, as they were but a few moons past, would Kaelen have offered him protection? The thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories he desperately wanted to bury beneath the deepest earth. He took a deep breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the meager lunch he’d eaten earlier were threatening to return. No, of course not. How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to believe such a thing. To Kaelen, Lysander had been nothing. Just a convenient friend, a distraction to pass the oppressive courtly hours. Lysander understood this now, because of the way Kaelen had looked at him that day, the day he had been beaten to the ground. Kaelen’s eyes had spoken a truth too brutal to ignore. Lysander had not wanted to know, but it had stared him in the face, undeniable. Kaelen Varr sinned openly. Lysander, too, was a sinner—but he hid it. And so, Kaelen was, perhaps, punished by the Emperor’s unspoken will, while Lysander was, for now, spared. A faint, bitter laugh escaped his lips, so soft it was audible only to himself. “…So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that truly matters.” Perhaps the Emperor’s will, or the divine, had a personality much like Lord Vesper’s. His gaze shifted to the desk near the Archon’s dais. Most unusual, but today, Lysander felt a pang of genuine pity for Elara. Poor soul, caught in the clutches of that devil Kaelen. She lacked the inner strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Elara, despite the towering reputation of her family. She should have fled the moment Lysander had warned her, fool. Lysander knew he was not a good person. He was selfish, self-serving, and perhaps that was his own punishment. Sometimes, in the darkest hours, he even harbored this thought: If one must love another of their own sex, why not pick someone sly and deceitful like me? At least then life would be simpler, less fraught. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering so profoundly for it? These days, his thoughts had shifted. Yes. Of course no one could ever truly love someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise. There had been a time when he thought he could have it all. Arrogant, conceited Lysander Thorne. Lysander, who thought he understood the vast, treacherous court at eighteen. Wicked, vile Lysander. Pitiful Lysander, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone. That day, he couldn’t bring himself to finish the fifteenth petition. He feigned a sudden illness, collapsing slumped over his desk, thinking to himself: Well, at least I’m not as ruined as Kaelen or Elara. Rumors regarding Kaelen Varr and Elara spread through the court like wildfire. Whether they were exaggerated tales or grounded in brutal truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to ascertain the facts either. Kaelen’s usual coterie had vanished from court, as if ripped out by the very roots of their alliances. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new bonds to worry about anything else, inadvertently fueling the whispers even further. “Master Thorne, forgive my intrusion, but who holds closest counsel with Kaelen Varr?” “Kaelen… No, Lord Vesper.” Lysander overheard this exchange as he passed by on his way back to the Scriptorium before formal dismissal. The Archon Callias had asked, and one of the older scribes had answered. Pretending he hadn’t heard, Lysander walked into the echoing room. Archon Callias glanced nervously between Lysander and the empty stations, drumming his fingers against the dais. Then, as if abandoning some unspoken, weary thought, he announced: “Let us conclude our duties for the day.” The moment formal dismissal ended, Lysander seized his satchel of quills and parchments. As he slung it over his shoulder, a strong hand tapped him on the back. Lord Vesper. “Lysander. Attend me after our duties.” Lysander looked at Vesper’s impassive face. He knew. He had always watched Kaelen and Vesper’s every interaction, so he knew that the person Vesper most frequently invited to attend him was always Kaelen. After a brief, calculated pause, Lysander waved him off. “Cannot, my Lord. I have additional duties at the Hall of Records.” “What of after those duties?” “Further study, my Lord. Pray, attend one of your usual companions.” “No.” “Why not?” “Drawing too near a lesser light only diminishes my own brilliance.” “Ha.” Lysander let out a short, incredulous laugh at the sheer absurdity, the brutal honesty of it. Right. This was why he had been able to endure Vesper’s presence better than expected. Their twisted values, it seemed, aligned in strange, uncomfortable ways. “So, Scribe Jorin, Master Roric—they are lesser lights? Even Lady Seraphina?” “If you choose to phrase it so, then yes, precisely. But you are… different.” The backhanded compliment left Lysander feeling a peculiar mixture of unease and a strange, cold validation. “What is that supposed to mean, my Lord? You are truly awful.” “No, Lysander. I am not.” “You are so awful, my Lord.” “Hmm. It is in the Imperial Doctrine. ‘Thou shalt not lie.’ I am merely being honest, Lysander.” Honestly, Vesper was worse than Lysander. At least Lysander did not blatantly dismiss his supposed companions as mere dross. “That is why I am a righteous man, Lysander.” “…Indeed, my Lord.” “Since I am such a righteous man, may I accompany you to your chambers?” Lord Vesper blinked, his faded irises unblinking. Lysander looked at that imposing face for a moment, weighing the implications, before offering a slow, deliberate nod. “Yes, my Lord. As you wish.” As long as Vesper did not interfere with Lysander’s precarious existence, there was no logical reason to refuse. To secure one’s place in the court’s perilous hierarchy, one often had to make such calculated concessions. A small price for a larger game. ---

The Weight of Gold-Leafed Silence