A tremor of arcane energy hummed through the Grand Archives, a low thrum that rattled the ancient scrolls lining the colossal shelves. Lord Cygnus, all bluster and ill-concealed ambition, had attempted a display of minor ward-weaving, a flash of sickly green light intended to impress. It sputtered, failing to even etch itself onto the air before dissipating into a wisp of smoke that smelled vaguely of burnt parchment.
He swore, a guttural sound utterly out of place amidst the hushed reverence of the sanctum. Before he could unleash further vulgarity, Lord Cassian, a lesser scion with a perpetual smirk, delivered a swift, stinging rap against Cygnus’s gauntleted forearm. The feigned attack ended the spectacle before it could truly begin.
Cygnus shrieked, a reedy, undignified sound like a trapped banshee. When Cassian and a few nearby scholars chuckled, Cygnus rounded on them, face blotchy crimson. “Amuse yourselves, do you? Think this a jape?” He aimed a punch at Cassian’s shoulder, a clumsy, ineffective gesture of bruised pride.
The three of them, Cygnus still seething, departed the Archives, their noisy exit leaving a temporary vacuum in the air. Cassian, pausing at the threshold, offered a casual wave in my direction. Having no cause for overt disdain, I mirrored the gesture, then resettled myself at the polished obsidian table, pulling a sheaf of schematic vellum closer.
My fingers closed around a stylus of polished dragonbone. Before inscribing the first delicate glyph, I lifted my gaze, letting it sweep over the vast, soaring vaults of the Archives, the silent sentinels of millennia of arcane knowledge. Each column, each archway, spoke of enduring power, of the Lumina Ascendancy’s unyielding might.
Then, I lowered my head, the weight of the moment pressing upon me.
I traced the third problem on the vellum, the stylus hovering, a silver point against the intricate diagrams. My thoughts, however, drifted. Outside the soaring arched window, the ginkgo trees in the Ascendancy’s gardens blazed gold, their pungent autumn scent filtering even into these hermetic halls. The sky above, though, was a startling, vibrant azure.
“A cloister of maidens, now that would be a different sort of challenge.”
The Arch-Magister, a wizened old man who taught Scholastic Lore, often muttered this, his voice raspy with age and a perpetual disdain for the younger nobility.
“It’s a wilderness, I tell you. A wilderness. These young lords, they establish their dominance first. By the time the summer solstice passes, things quiet, a little easier. But until then? Constant skirmishes, displays, testing their mentors, jostling for a higher perch. By the Stars, my head aches. And I endure this every cycle with the new crop of initiates. Let me see… which celestial house rules their birth year again?”
He would unfurl a gnarled hand, counting the segments of his fingers, mumbling under his breath. “The Serpent, the Lion, the Griffin, the Wyrm… Let’s see, that means—”
I mimicked the motion, stretching out my own hand beneath the table, counting the subtle ridges on my knuckles. Yet, the pattern of the celestial houses remained elusive to me, a social code I had never quite mastered. I gave up, flipping my hand over, tracing the raised bones along the back instead.
One, thirty-one, two, twenty-eight, three, thirty-one, four, thirty… nine.
I never would have conceived, in the burgeoning warmth of early summer, that late autumn would feel like the brutal initiation season all over again.
“Young lords are nothing but beasts. Irrational, emotional, impulsive fools.”
I stared at the prominent bone of my middle finger, absently tapping the obsidian desk like a harpsichord key. The Arch-Magister’s voice, raw from a perpetual cough, still echoed in my memory, accompanied by the imaginary scrape of chalk on a scrying slate.
My gaze drifted to a vacant chair near the front of the lecture hall, usually reserved for the most promising of acolytes. For a fleeting instant, I imagined the impression of a head against its polished back – one side pressed deep, the other hovering, a ghost of presence.
My fingers stilled.
I turned my head. Lord Lysander sat nearby, hunched over an illuminated codex, his face half-buried in the ancient pages. His eyes seemed half-closed.
He would fix his gaze upon an arcane riddle like a hungry predator, only to suddenly abandon it, slumping forward, his brow pressed against the aged vellum. I watched as his nose was squashed between the pages and his skull.
Then, I looked away.
“…Did I lapse for a moment?”
A strange disquiet settled within me, a sense of not being entirely present. I marked the third problem with a silver star and moved on to the fourth.
---
Mid-day repast was served in the Lesser Refectory: spiced game stew and sweetened cream. Lord Lysander finished his cream first, then abruptly asked,
“Tell me, Thorne, you’re second in our cohort, aren’t you?”
“Indeed.”
“And school-wide?”
“Also second.”
“By the Stars.”
“Is there a concern?”
“So, the Arch-Scholar of our cohort is the Arch-Scholar of the entire Ascendancy?”
“You were unaware? I have never claimed the first rank, Lady Seraphina holds that distinction.”
“She’s even more relentlessly dedicated than you, is she not?”
“She concludes her advanced arcane studies past the midnight hour.”
“Damnation. That’s absolute devotion.”
“Her industry is considerable.”
I had no desire to prolong this discussion. I scooped a spoonful of stewed pheasant and raised it to my mouth. Fortunately, Lysander did not press. He merely nodded.
“Ah…” The timing felt off, the conversation halted too abruptly. I debated whether to offer another remark. I abhorred awkward silences, so, without conscious thought, I blurted,
“And you? What is your standing?”
“…………” His spoon froze mid-air. I found myself staring at his hand. He held his utensils with impeccable grace. If there was one thing Lysander executed with flawless precision, it was this – the proper handling of silverware.
“Within the cohort…”
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
“…What?”
“Why that look?”
I quickly averted my gaze from his hands. Was he serious? No deception? I was so caught off guard that the incredulous question almost escaped my lips, but I managed to restrain myself. By the Void, that was a near slip. If I offended him, I would have to contend with his peculiar temperament. I hesitated. Would he prefer my praise? Or indifference, as if it were expected? My mind, a labyrinth of social algorithms, immediately began calculating the optimal response. He did not seem particularly fond of his companions.
Thus, the latter course was safer.
“Ninth. That is… better than I might have anticipated.”
“Anticipated? How foolish did you presume me?”
“I did not deem you foolish, merely… I recall you struggled with foundational Runecasting?”
“Runecasting is my sole weakness. Only Runecasting.”
“You attend no additional academies.”
“The absence of academies does not preclude scholarship. By the Stars, did you truly consider me an imbecile?”
“No, no, not in the least.” I waved a dismissive hand quickly. “It is impressive, however, to achieve such a standing without supplementary instruction.”
“…Truly?”
“Indeed. It is impressive.”
For some inexplicable reason, Lysander began mashing his spoon into his stew. And—was he blushing? I caught a glimpse of the tips of his ears, faintly tinged crimson.
Now that I reflected, young Lord Cygnus, the instigator of the earlier ruckus, had ranked thirty-second. And that was only because there were others who performed even worse. Thirty-second out of thirty-six. Revisiting my memories, I realized I rarely paid attention to anything concerning Cygnus beyond his immediate proximity. With that sudden realization, a chilling thought struck me. I had been adrift in precisely the kind of pathetic, obsessive infatuation I once disdained.
Meanwhile, Lord Lysander, entirely oblivious to my existential crisis, had clearly received a boost to his confidence. His tone was utterly altered now—brimming with self-satisfaction. “Ah, yes! You likely didn’t know – I excel at Arcanum Symbolism.”
“Indeed? To what extent?”
“Perfect scores. I have never lost a single point in Arcanum Symbolism.”
“Khhkk!” I choked. The instant those words left his lips, I nearly spat out my spiced wine. Lysander scowled, yanking his tray further from my reach.
“What in the Void? What manner of reaction is that?”
“I merely… was not expecting that.”
“It is that shocking?” He frowned, a slight pout on his lips. “My Runecasting score is abysmal, but that is inconsequential.” There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice. So, I offered a jest in return.
“Perhaps consult a primer on glyphs, occasionally.”
“What nonsense do you utter? I am an ardent scholar of esoterica.”
“A scholar of esoterica? I have never witnessed you consult anything beyond the requisites.”
“That is because I delve into forbidden lore in the solitude of my chambers.”
“Why, in the name of the Silent Watchers, would you conceal such a pursuit?”
Lord Lysander’s eyes, which had curved with amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of food into his mouth. Then, he casually pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge, a slow, deliberate gesture. Something about that image unsettled me. I bit the inside of my cheek. Lysander met my gaze as he pulled the spoon away, then lowered his eyes and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to its very tip.
“Indiscreet texts are still literature.”
That was undeniably a provocation. The rogue. My face burned. To conceal it, I snatched the crumpled linen napkin beside my tray and flung it at his face. It struck just below his long, narrow eyes and dropped harmlessly onto the table. One of his eyes twitched almost imperceptibly. Not that I cared, but just in case he was genuinely angered, I feigned contrition.
“Cease that vulgar display. Especially within these sacred halls. It is utterly uncouth.”
“Oh? You refer to this? You mean the gesture of Kaelen Vane?”
“I care not whose affectation it is. Simply desist.”
“Is this not, by now, an accepted eccentricity among us?”
“…………”
I stared at him, attempting to discern if he jested or spoke with intent.
---
I slept less. A sure sign my vigilance was heightened, my senses sharpened. Mornings, once a sluggish, dry affair, now held a strange crispness, a refreshing clarity. It was a welcome transformation – after all, in my estimation, the gravest sins at my age were complacency and excessive slumber.
“Ah, damnation—” My jaw clicked painfully as I cleaned my teeth. Ever since the… incident, a dull grinding sound accompanied any wide opening of my mouth. Other than that, this day possessed a fragile sense of calm. Yet, even in this newfound semblance of peace, sudden irritations arose. The cause was always… connected to the periphery of Lord Cygnus.
Or rather, the ripples that emanated from his orbit. Most of those incidents manifested here, within the Ascendancy’s scholastic environs.
“Ah, yes. I encountered young Lord Cygnus last night.” Lord Cassian spoke, biting into a spiced meat pastry, the kind rumored to be made from whatever discarded scraps the kitchens found palatable.
Lord Cygnus, who had been mock-sparring with Cassian, pretending to parry blade-strikes with his empty hand, suddenly perked up. “By the Serpent’s Scales—that’s right! You just sparked my memory! I was entirely about to mention this. I heard something whispered through the scullery staff – you know Lord Varrin, yes? That peculiar, reclusive arcanist? I heard Cygnus is sheltering at his estate.”
“Lord Varrin? That doddering fool, Varrin?” Lord Lysander, rummaging through a silken satchel, asked casually. When he withdrew his hand, he held two small, iridescent candied fruits. And for some reason, he offered one to me.
“……?” I stared at it, bewildered. “……What is this?” I looked at him questioningly, but Lysander merely offered a subtle nod, as if that alone constituted sufficient explanation. The most vocal reaction came from Cygnus, whose satchel of treats had evidently been raided.
“By the Void! I procured those! Why in the name of the Silent Watchers are you pilfering my provisions, you miscreants?”
“Oh, as if you’ve never liberated mine, you glutton.” Cassian made another feigned knife-hand strike at Cygnus’s throat. Cygnus instantly spun, seized Cassian’s collar, and swung a mock punch at his face. Of course, he harbored no genuine intention of striking him. That was simply their peculiar dynamic. I ignored their puerile squabbling and looked down at the candied fruit in my hand. The wrapper bore the image of a split citrus, a vibrant lemon.
I peeled the delicate wrapper, placed the candy in my mouth, and lifted my head. “What say you? The very essence of first affection?” Lysander grinned. “I find lemon unpalatable.” My response pertained not solely to the confectionery – it was my judgment of his jest, as well. And more than anything, I found the notion of 'first affection' utterly devoid of amusement. That sticky, bitter sensation clung to the back of my throat. It quite dulled my appetite. In the end, I could not even finish the candy. I tossed it into a nearby refuse bin.
“Oh no, what a lamentable waste,” Lysander mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, I reached into Cygnus’s satchel for a different candied fruit. They were all lemon or lime. Lime was the lesser of the two evils. I unwrapped one and placed it in my mouth.
“Anyway, Lord Varrin, yes? Sounds entirely like Cygnus.”
“What, because they are both… libertines?” Lysander’s words held a sharp edge. Uncomfortable, I turned to look at him. He sucked on his iridescent candy expressionlessly, twirling the slender stick between his lips. I removed mine from my mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong.
Lysander seemed unconcerned. He tilted his candy-stick in the air like a miniature rapier and began making random, jabbing motions. “He dallies with patrons—regardless of gender or station. And when he finds someone sufficiently… pliable, he directs them straight to Cygnus. It’s a perpetual rotation. Intersecting with each other, passing each other along.”
“So Lord Varrin is also… inclined towards all manner of dalliance?” Lord Cygnus suddenly interjected. Whether he had concluded his playful skirmish with Cassian or had simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, I could not ascertain. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing the implications of what he had just overheard.