Kaelen’s fist, clenched and pale, hovered above the parchment scroll on Torvin’s desk. A silent challenge, poised to shatter the hushed calm of the Imperial Scriptoria’s antechamber. Before the blow could descend, Valerius’s hand, swift and precise, landed a feather-light tap on Kaelen’s wrist. A subtle, dismissive gesture, but potent enough to defuse the simmering tension.
Just like that, Kaelen’s weak attempt at bravado dissolved. His face, usually a mask of forced indifference, twisted into an undignified sputtering sound, like a rook suddenly deprived of breath. As Joric and Torvin snickered, low and guttural, Kaelen rounded on them, a flush creeping up his neck.
“Oh, you find this amusing? My efforts, a source of mirth?” he sneered, jabbing Torvin’s arm with a sharp elbow.
After their brief, undignified commotion, the three junior scriveners swaggered from the antechamber. Before passing through the carved archway, Torvin paused, turning to offer Lysander a languid wave. Lysander, caught off-guard, returned the gesture with a faint, almost imperceptible dip of his head. Then, he settled deeper into his high-backed chair, pulling a fresh sheet of vellum closer.
His fingers had just closed around his favored ink-dipped stylus when, before marking the first character, Lysander lifted his gaze. His eyes swept across the burnished bronze panels adorning the walls, catching the faint reflection of the morning light. A meticulous survey, habitual, seeking any anomaly. Then, he lowered his head, refocusing on the task.
Lysander was midway through deciphering a particularly dense legal codex, idly tapping the stylus against the vellum’s edge, when a flicker of movement drew his attention. Beyond the arched window, through a haze of morning mist, the ancient cypress trees in the palace gardens were beginning to shed their summer green, a faint ochre tint appearing at the tips of their needles. The crisp, earthy scent of damp loam and decay carried faintly on the breeze, a stark counterpoint to the vibrant, almost impossible blue of the autumn sky.
“A cloistered nunnery would be a blessing compared to this court,” Old Scholar Theon, their history tutor, often lamented, his voice a dry rustle like old leaves.
“It’s nothing short of a beast’s den. A wild domain. These young courtiers, they establish their pecking order first, always. By the spring festivals, things settle, a fragile peace descends. But until then? It’s a constant struggle, rivalries flaring, challenges issued, each grasping for a rung higher. Gods, my head aches. And I must endure this spectacle anew with each season’s intake of apprentices. Let’s see... what celestial sign were they born under this cycle?”
He would then spread his palm, tracing the lines and counting the segments of his fingers, muttering a forgotten ritual under his breath.
“Viper, Lion, Serpent, Drake, Phoenix, Griffin… Ah, yes, that would mean—”
Lysander found himself mimicking the motion, stretching out his own hand, tracing the faint veins beneath his pale skin. He couldn’t recall the ancient patterns, the complex interrelations of birth signs and courtly favor. He gave up, flipping his hand over, counting the raised bones on the back of his knuckles instead.
One, five, two, three, four, seven, eight, nine… He could never have predicted, back in the verdant heart of summer, that the cusp of autumn would feel so much like the brutal awakening of early spring.
“They are but untamed savages, these courtlings. Irrational, driven by base impulses, slaves to emotion.”
Lysander stared at the prominent knuckle of his middle finger, a faint callus from years of holding a stylus, and absently tapped the polished desk, a quiet, rhythmic beat. The raspy voice of the tutor, likely hoarse from too many pronouncements, droned on, accompanied by the faint scratch of quill on parchment.
His gaze drifted to a vacant seat near the front of the antechamber. For a fleeting moment, he imagined a faint sheen on the dark wood, a subtle indentation, as if a head had rested there, one side pressed down, the other hovering.
His fingers stilled. He turned his head slowly.
Valerius sat there, hunched over a thick, leather-bound ledger, his face half-buried in its pages. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, were half-closed, hooded. He would fix his gaze on a column of figures as though to devour them whole, only to suddenly slump forward again, pressing his brow against the intricate accounting. Lysander watched as Valerius’s nose became momentarily flattened between the heavy pages and his forehead. Then, Lysander turned away.
“...Did I drift for a moment?” He felt a strange disassociation, as if observing himself from a distance. He placed a small, neat star beside the complex legal passage and moved to the next.
—
Later, in the servants’ refectory, where Lysander often took his meals to avoid the more ostentatious dining halls, the midday fare was a spiced venison pasty and sweetened berries. Valerius, having finished his berries with uncharacteristic speed, turned to Lysander.
“Right, you’re second among the Imperial Scriveners, aren’t you?”
“Hm? Indeed.”
“Then what of the entire Court of Scholars?”
“Also second.”
“By the gods.” Valerius exhaled slowly.
“What troubles you?” Lysander asked, a faint frown creasing his brow.
“So that means the most accomplished scholar in our ranks is also the foremost in the whole court?”
“You were unaware? I have never attained first rank, not with Elara’s formidable intellect opposing me.”
“She’s even more relentless in her studies than you, is she not?”
“She is. She often concludes her supplemental lessons with the court’s elder scholars past the first hour of morning.”
“By the Emperor’s beard. That’s arduous.”
“She is dedicated.” Lysander had no intention of prolonging this particular conversation. He scooped a generous portion of the pasty into his mouth, chewing slowly. Luckily, Valerius did not press. He merely nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“Ah…” A quiet sigh. The timing felt off. The conversational thread had snapped too abruptly. Lysander debated whether to offer another remark. He detested the suffocating weight of awkward silence. Without thinking, he blurted out, “And you? What is your standing?”
Valerius’s silver fork, poised mid-air, froze. Lysander found his gaze fixed on Valerius’s hand. He held his utensil with an impressive grace, a refined grip betraying careful upbringing. If there was one thing Valerius executed with faultless precision, it was the etiquette of the dining table.
“Among the scriveners…” Valerius began slowly.
“Yes?” Lysander prompted.
“Ninth.”
“…Ninth?” Lysander’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Why do you gaze at me so?” Valerius’s tone sharpened. Lysander quickly averted his eyes from the elegant hand. Was he earnest? Not fabricating the truth? Lysander was so taken aback he nearly voiced his disbelief aloud. Mercifully, he managed to swallow the impulsive question. *By the Empress, that was close.* If he slipped, if he caused offense, he would have to contend with Valerius’s unpredictable temper. He hesitated, his thoughts racing. Would Valerius prefer praise? Or would he rather Lysander maintain an air of indifferent expectation? His mind, meticulously wired for self-preservation, already weighed the optimal social response. Valerius did not seem particularly fond of flattery from his peers. The latter course, then, was safer.
“Indeed. You perform better than I might have anticipated.”
“What? Anticipated? How dim-witted did you take me for?” Valerius’s voice rose slightly.
“I harbored no such thought,” Lysander corrected smoothly. “It was merely… I believed your struggles lay with Imperial Lore?”
“Imperial Lore is my solitary weakness. Only that.”
“You do not even attend the private institutes.” Lysander observed.
“A lack of private tutelage does not equate to a lack of study. By the Saints, did you truly deem me an imbecile?”
“No, no, not at all,” Lysander quickly clarified, waving a placating hand. “It is impressive, however, considering you achieve such without additional instruction.”
“…Truly?” Valerius’s voice had softened. “It is impressive.” For some reason, Valerius suddenly began to mash his fork into the remnants of his pasty. And—was that a faint blush? Lysander caught a fleeting glimpse of crimson touching the tips of Valerius’s ears.
Now that Lysander considered it, Lord Hadrian, before his disgrace, had ranked thirty-second. And that was only because there were others who performed even worse, thirty-second out of thirty-six. Thinking back, Lysander realized he had rarely paid attention to anything about Hadrian beyond what directly pertained to him. And with that stark realization, it struck him. He had been drowning in precisely the kind of pathetic, obsessive preoccupation he used to despise. Meanwhile, Valerius, completely oblivious to Lysander’s internal crisis, had clearly received a boost to his self-regard. His tone had shifted entirely now, brimming with a quiet self-satisfaction.
“Oh, yes! You likely would not know—I am quite adept at Foreign Tongues.”
“Indeed? How adept?”
“A perfect score. I have never lost a single mark in the studies of foreign tongues.”
“Khhkk!” Lysander choked. The moment Valerius spoke, Lysander sprayed a fine mist of water from his lips. Valerius scowled, yanking his tray further away.
“What in the Empress’s name? What manner of reaction is that?”
“I simply… did not anticipate such.”
“Is it truly that astonishing?” Valerius frowned, a slight pout to his lips. “My Imperial Lore score is abysmal, but that is of little consequence.” There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice. Lysander offered a light retort.
“Perhaps you should peruse a few more scrolls, then.”
“What nonsense do you speak? I am entirely a scholar of ancient tales!”
“An ancient tales scholar? I have never witnessed you with such a tome.”
“That is because I read in secret, within my chambers.”
“Why, by the gods, would you need to conceal such a pursuit?”
Valerius’s eyes, which had curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a mouthful of spiced pasty. Then, he casually pressed his lips to the edge of the fork. Something about that image unsettled Lysander. He bit the inside of his cheek. Valerius met his eyes as he pulled the fork away, then lowered his gaze and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the very tip of it.
“Unexpurgated histories are still histories.” That was most certainly a jest. The scoundrel. Lysander felt his face grow warm. To hide it, he snatched the crumpled linen napkin beside his tray and tossed it, aiming for Valerius’s face. It struck just below his long, narrow eyes and dropped harmlessly onto the table. One of Valerius’s eyes twitched slightly. Not that Lysander truly cared, but in case Valerius was actually piqued, he feigned a moment of regret.
“Cease such unsavory displays. Especially within the palace. It is utterly uncouth.”
“Oh? You refer to this? Is this perhaps Lord Hadrian’s affectation?”
“I care not whose affectation it is. Simply desist.”
“Is this not, pray tell, the prevailing custom among us now?”
Lysander stared at him, attempting to discern if he jested or spoke in earnest.
—
Lysander slept less these days. That was a sure sign that his body, long accustomed to chronic tension, now found a strange, precarious ease. Mornings, which had once felt leaden and sluggish, now held a strangely crisp, invigorating quality. It was a welcome shift—for in Lysander’s mind, the gravest failings in a courtier were complacency and sloth.
“Ah, damnation—” His jaw clicked painfully as he cleansed his teeth. Ever since Lord Hadrian had struck him, his jaw made an odd, grinding noise whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Other than that, today was a good day. Yet even in his newfound, fragile peace, there were sudden, sharp moments of irritation. The cause was always Lord Hadrian. Or rather, the repercussions that stemmed from him.
Most of those unfortunate incidents unfolded within the court’s less formal spaces. “Oh, indeed. I glimpsed Lord Hadrian last eve.” Alden spoke, biting into a thick, savory loaf, the kind rumored to contain lesser fowl and offal.
Kaelen, who had been idly jabbing Alden’s ankle with mock thrusts, suddenly perked up. “By the Serpent! That’s right! You just sparked my memory! I was entirely about to mention this. I heard whispers through the stablehands—you know Master Seraphim, do you not? That infamous aesthete? I heard Hadrian is seeking refuge at his manor.”
“Master Seraphim? That dissolute Seraphim?” Valerius, rummaging through a small leather pouch, asked casually. When he pulled his hand out, he held two small, sugared berries. And for some reason, he offered one to Lysander.
“……?” Lysander stared at it, bewildered. “……What is this?” He looked at Valerius with a questioning gaze, but Valerius merely offered a slight nod, as if that alone sufficed as explanation. The most vocal reaction came from Kaelen, whose pouch of dried fruit had clearly been raided.
“By the gods! I purchased those! Why, by the Emperor’s holy writ, do you all consume my provisions, you rogues?”
“Oh, as if you’ve never pilfered from mine, you glutton.” Alden made another mock thrust at Kaelen’s throat. Kaelen instantly spun around, seized Alden’s tunic collar, and swung a mock punch at his face. Of course, he harbored no true intention of connecting. That was simply their custom.
Lysander ignored their foolish bickering and looked down at the sugared berry in his hand. Its candied skin held the faint, tart scent of wild forest fruit. He peeled the slightly sticky skin, popped the confection into his mouth, and lifted his head.
“What do you think? The very essence of first love?” Valerius grinned.
“I find tartness unappealing,” Lysander replied. His answer was not solely for the candied berry—it was his subtle assessment of Valerius’s jibe, too. And more than anything, Lysander found no amusement in the notion of first love. That sticky, cloying bitterness clung to the back of his throat. It quite ruined his appetite. In the end, he could not even finish the confection. He tossed it into a nearby refuse bin.
“Oh no, such a deplorable waste,” Valerius mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands, feigning distress. Ignoring him, Lysander reached into Kaelen’s pouch to find a different dried fruit. All were tart berries or sour plums. Sour plum was the lesser evil. He unwrapped one, placed it in his mouth.
“Anyway, Master Seraphim, hm? Sounds precisely like Hadrian.”
“What, because they are both unprincipled hedonists?” Valerius’s words were sharp, cutting through the low hum of the refectory. Uncomfortable, Lysander turned to look at him. Valerius was sucking on his sugared berry expressionlessly, twirling the small wooden stem between his lips. Lysander pulled his own sour plum from his mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong. Valerius did not seem to care. He tilted his berry stem in the air like a miniature blade and began making random jabbing motions.
“He traffics in affections—cares not if they are men or women. And when he finds someone of decent, shall we say, pliability, he sends them directly to Hadrian. It is a continuous rotation. Consorting with one another, passing each other about like common coin.”
“So Master Seraphim is also… unconventional in his tastes?” Kaelen suddenly cut in. Whether he had finished his playful scuffle with Alden or had simply halted mid-feint to eavesdrop, Lysander wasn’t sure. Kaelen rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing the scandalous revelation.