A sickly pallor clung to Kaelen’s visage, a testament to his nocturnal revelry. His eyes, though bright, were rimmed with the raw stain of sleeplessness. With a feigned sigh of exasperation, I slid a chilled vial of elderflower essence across the polished mahogany of his desk. Its delicate scent, meant to mask the lingering aroma of spiced wine, mingled faintly with the heavy musk of ancient parchment and dust.
He indulged his whims with a frightening regularity. Always, after one of his prolonged, boisterous nights, I offered some small remedy to mitigate the visible consequences. His constitution, for all its vigor, betrayed him with tell-tale swelling.
“Cast off that unseemly puffiness, Kaelen. It ill-suits a scion of House Valerius.”
“My thanks, Lysander.” A low rumble of amusement in his chest.
“Did your father, the High Chancellor, not scold your late return?”
“Not thanks to your foresight.” Kaelen straightened, a flicker of pride in his gaze. He ran a hand over his freshly shaven jaw. I merely offered a tight, unreadable smile, then turned to reclaim my own seat.
Something caught my eye. A large, unfurled Imperial Gazette lay draped across the adjacent desk, its proclamations of new tariffs and distant skirmishes obscured. This desk, ordinarily, was not mine.
Kaelen, with his towering frame and expansive gestures, commanded more space than I. Valerius, taller still, naturally occupied the seat beside him. I, cursed with a modest stature, found small comfort in the second-to-last position, close enough to Kaelen to observe, yet far enough to remain largely overlooked. It was my solitary solace, this proximity without entanglement.
Burying the familiar prickle of vexation, I gestured toward the shrouded desk.
“When did he arrive?”
“No idea. He was thus when I came.” Kaelen shrugged, already half-immersed in the elderflower essence.
“How does one who departed early last night appear so undone?”
A rustling sound answered me. The Imperial Gazette slid to the floor, revealing Valerius’s half-lidded eyes. His narrow gaze swept over Kaelen and me, devoid of malice, before he opened his mouth wide in a prodigious yawn.
“...I vowed to sleep, after just a little more study. Alas.”
They say yawns are contagious. Kaelen followed suit, stretching his jaw before scrunching his face into a smug grin.
“Look at this rogue. More studious than some of the Scribe-Master’s pupils, yet he feigns sloth.”
“Cease your prattling, Kaelen.” Valerius’s voice was a soft growl.
“As you wish, lout.”
Valerius, oblivious or uncaring of Kaelen’s jests, simply leaned back and let out a hearty laugh. I watched him, and our eyes met. He glanced toward the high, arched windows of the Scriptorium, then back to me. A strange tickle beneath my skin made me rub my shoulder, before forcing my attention back to Kaelen.
Morning in the Scriptorium Prime often began thus: an almost pleasant hum of casual conversation, a preamble to the day’s duties. Soon, lesser nobles like Aethelburg and Lord Ashworth would drift closer, drawn to Kaelen’s orbit, eager to hear tales of his exploits. The customary rituals would unfold: chatter, laughter, and eventually, the arrival of the High Scrivener to inaugurate the day’s lessons.
For youths considered the most celebrated in the Imperial Academy, it was a surprisingly benign beginning to the day.
Yet, we were still just on the cusp of true manhood. The wild, entangled sagas of the previous night’s dalliances, particularly those involving Kaelen, often left a sour taste in my mouth. Still, I played along, affecting an air of detached amusement.
Despite it all, these mornings were not entirely unpleasant. But everything shifted a month and a half past. The cause, unequivocally, was Elara.
“Look, Elara has arrived.”
Aethelburg's voice was a low hiss.
“By the Emperor’s beard. Ghastly.”
“Does that creature lack the shame to absent herself after such a public humiliation?”
Aethelburg openly mocked Elara, pointing a finger of exaggerated disdain. Across the chamber, Elara shuffled, her small frame almost lost amidst the larger desks. She clutched a worn satchel to her chest, her face obscured by a curtain of pale, lank hair. Reaching a desk in the front row, she placed her bag upon it and immediately slumped forward. Watching her hunched figure, a sigh, heavy with irritation, escaped my lips.
Elara was utterly pathetic. Her voice was thin, her presence slight — a pitiable excuse for a scholar. As the murmurs in the Scriptorium swelled, Kaelen’s eyes fixed on Elara’s back, curses muttered beneath his breath. I loathed it. That acute sensitivity of his, that visceral reaction — it drove me to distraction.
Kaelen snatched the discarded Imperial Gazette, which had earlier covered Valerius’s face, and crumpled it in one hand. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he hurled it at Elara’s head. *Thud.* A soft sound as it struck, and Elara’s head slumped further onto her desk.
“By the Fates, do not parade that wretched face before us first thing in the morning.”
Elara braced her arms on the desk, burying her face within them, doing precisely as Kaelen commanded. Yet, Kaelen watched this with palpable disdain, and kicked his own desk with a resounding thud.
“Hark! Will you not answer me?”
Kaelen rose abruptly, his voice ringing through the chamber. Elara, still hunched, stammered a reply, her voice trembling.
“Y-yes.”
“Lift your head, look upon me, and speak with clarity.”
Did Kaelen truly not hear the absurdity of his demands? The sheer unreasonableness of it twisted a bitter laugh in my throat.
Unaware of my silent derision, Kaelen strode toward Elara. With each deliberate step, the unpleasantness within me intensified, raw and vivid.
Kaelen closed the distance. That alone was enough to make me feel a tremor beneath the meticulous control I typically exerted over my emotions.
This was not the same shade of disquiet I felt when Kaelen jested with Valerius. Instinctively, I knew it. Deep down, I harbored a darkness as potent as Kaelen’s own. Thus, watching Kaelen with Valerius became bearable, a tolerable annoyance. But his interactions with Elara stirred something far more unsettling. My hands began to tremble, and I clenched them tightly beneath the desk to conceal it.
Kaelen kicked Elara’s desk with force. The heavy oak shuddered violently, almost toppling, and Elara jolted upright in alarm, her voice still unsteady.
“F-forgive me.”
Kaelen stood over her, silently surveying her face. Elara’s eyes glistened, brimming with unshed tears, on the precipice of breaking. Yet, in that moment, I felt as though *I* might burst into tears.
Kaelen never bade Elara perform pointless errands, but his gaze, like an invisible tether, never left her. If Elara sought the privy during a recess, Kaelen would still watch her retreating figure, even whilst engaged in banter with us. I knew this, for my own gaze never strayed from Kaelen.
To be truthful, my first impression of Elara had been one of utter inconsequence. Her complexion was not flawless, but her youthful features rendered her face amiable enough. When she smiled, it seemed genuinely radiant, and even her neutral expression carried a certain brightness.
Before Kaelen’s relentless torment began, no one truly disliked Elara. She seemed a scholar nurtured in a gentle, warm environment. Though not outwardly sociable, preferring quiet contemplation, there was no trace of apprehension or unease in her demeanor.
Most considered Elara a decent, unassuming soul. As she never boasted of the favor she had received in her upbringing, she garnered even more quiet praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant — such was the common perception of Elara.
But I, personally, had never particularly cared for her. Nor did I harbor hatred; a profound indifference was more accurate. To say she occupied no space in my awareness would be closer to the truth. Yet, whenever her name arose in discourse among Kaelen, Valerius, and their peers, I found myself casually offering a polite falsehood, “Oh, Elara? She seems well enough. Pleasant company.”
Kaelen, like myself, had initially paid Elara scant heed. He was never one to concern himself with the lesser scholars’ affairs. After Elara’s transfer to the Scriptorium a few months prior, not a single word had passed between them until recently. Such was the unremarkable state of things.
Then, one day, something shifted. A small, yet sharp deviation in the mundane flow of events. It transpired after the midday meal, and reflecting upon it now, I doubt I have ever known such profound regret for an action of my own volition.
Elara, as was her custom, had sought a secluded corner during the recess, immersed in a book. She possessed a singular devotion to printed lore. I, on the other hand, cultivated a habit of feigning intellectual interest in individuals of good repute.
Thus, when I chanced upon Elara, I initiated a conversation regarding the tome she held. I was no prodigious reader myself; pretending to a cultured air was more my style.
“You must possess a deep affection for books, yes?”
“Oh? Yes, I suppose so.”
At that time, Elara and I were but distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made my approach easier, less burdened by expectation.
“Have you reached its conclusion?”
“Almost at the final chapters.”
“Then close it now. The ending will disappoint you. It is one of those tomes where the final revelation diminishes all that precedes it.”
“You have read it then?” A spark of surprise in her eyes.
“Indeed, some time ago.”
To sate my intellectual vanity, I habitually sought out scholarly critiques and reviews of books I merely skimmed, ensuring I possessed ready pronouncements for future discourse. Drawing upon those dim memories, I offered a facile critique — not a genuine one, merely enough to sound informed. Elara smiled brightly, a look of genuine pleasure illuminating her features. It startled me.
“You are the first soul I have encountered who has read this book, save for myself.”
“Oh… truly?”
“Yes, but I shall still finish it. Contemplating *why* the ending unfolded as it did is part of the joy.”
“Well, of course. All opinions vary.”
“Hearing you say that makes me anticipate it all the more.”
That smile lingers still, an uncomfortable memory. Was it some instinctive unease I felt even then?
After that day, Elara began to seek me out with greater frequency. Though I found it a mild vexation, often wondering, *Why me?*, I never outright rebuffed her. Elara, with her pristine reputation, was not the worst person to cultivate proximity to.
Books — beyond official edicts and mandatory scrolls — were practically forbidden diversions for youths of our standing. Even if one found the leisure, most regarded books as little more than glorified doorstops. For Elara, I was likely the sole individual in the Scriptorium capable of discussing such matters.
That particular day was one of these routine encounters, yet it also proved to be among the most ill-fated of them all.
Valerius was to blame, in part. To this very day, I cannot fathom the impulse that seized me. Why I, a soul who meticulously avoided meddling in the affairs of others, chose to insert myself where I did not belong. Why Valerius, of all people, had left his mock decree analysis scroll wide open for any passing eye to peruse.
I, who abhorred the exposure of my own scholastic tiers, naturally assumed Valerius would share this sentiment. So, I turned the parchment over to conceal it. That was when I saw it: his score. Eighty-one marks.
I blinked, disbelieving, and checked again. Indeed, eighty-one. Considering the rigorous thresholds for this examination, it would barely scrape the fourth tier. Yet, it stood on the higher end of that ranking.
It was the first time one of my preconceptions had shattered. A small shock to realize Valerius was not the lost cause I had presumed. Naturally, my thoughts drifted to Kaelen’s own academic standing. Now, *he* was the veritable waste. A scion who would mark every question with a ‘two’ and sleep through the remainder of an examination, Kaelen had never once managed a respectable score.
Perhaps that was why I felt such a medley of emotions — as though I had found a recyclable fragment amidst a pile of rubbish. A youth I had once loathed proved more salvageable than the one I held in high regard. That strange realization must have unsettled me, for I did something I would ordinarily never contemplate.
It was nothing grand. I simply retrieved a nearby stylus and inscribed a short missive at the top of Valerius’s parchment.
“Focus upon the Edicts of the Old Dynasties. You shall attain the third tier soon enough. A commendable effort. — Lysander Thorne.
P.S. My apologies for observing your score without leave. I merely turned the scroll to cover it and chanced to see.”
The arrogance of evaluating another’s grade and offering unsolicited counsel pricked at me, so I rambled to justify myself, an unusual lapse in my carefully curated composure.
I cannot say precisely why I wrote it in the first place. At the time, I must have been quite out of my senses. In retrospect, it was undeniably the first misstep in what would become a series of irrevocable entanglements. Every unraveling begins with a poorly fastened first button.
Had I not written that note, I would not have encountered Elara, clutching her book, descending the very corridor that day, her eyes searching for me. The weight of that regret is a chilling burden.