The gratitude, if it could be called that, was a brittle veneer. Lysander merely offered a faint, almost imperceptible curl of his lips, a gesture that brushed against Elian’s perception like a phantom touch. Elian, his fingers tracing the cool, smooth surface of a polished scrying orb, said nothing. A subtle tremor ran through his palm, a silent discord that threatened his composure. It was akin to the unease of a fledgling mage, grappling with the boundless expanse of raw aether. He understood the source of his discomfort, though his pride vehemently rejected the admission. It was an ethereal grasp, both palpable and elusive, like trying to hold smoke. He continued his absent caress of the orb.
Was Lysander truly allied with Lord Cygnus? Lord Cygnus, whose debauched reputation whispered through the Ascendancy’s undercurrents like a festering wound—a trajectory disturbingly mirrored by lesser scions, men like Lord Kael. Whether it was Cygnus, Kael, or even the most esteemed among them, their lives often converged on paths of grotesque predictability.
“Whoever disturbed my sanctum shall answer now! My alchemical reagents are scattered!”
Lord Kael’s voice ripped through the hushed antechamber, a jarring note against the subdued murmurs of junior scholars. He disregarded the few apprentices still poring over ancient texts. Their discomfort was palpable. Another minor noble, Lady Isolde, jabbed Kael’s arm, her tone sharp.
“Fool. The restitution you owe me could fund a hundred such paltry experiments.”
“Ah! My tinctures!”
The rear of the chamber erupted into a cacophony of Kael and Isolde’s petty squabble. They wrestled for a dropped vial, oblivious to the disdainful glances cast from the chamber’s more esteemed occupants.
“This one grows increasingly tiresome.”
Elian’s gaze, drawn by the quiet pronouncement, found Lysander. Their eyes met, a brief, unsettling flicker across the breadth of the room. Lysander sat with a languid grace in his high-backed chair, a slender crystalline stylus rotating between his fingers.
Without warning, Lysander extended his hand towards Elian. Elian watched, mesmerized, as those long, elegant fingers, tipped with perfectly manicured nails, drifted closer. They coiled around the scrying orb Elian still held, a serpentine caress. Lysander pulled gently. A cool, slick sensation grazed Elian’s thumb, then the orb was cleanly plucked from his grasp.
“I shall savor this.”
The orb, still warm from Elian’s touch, nestled in Lysander’s palm. A sly smile curved his lips. He ran his thumb over its polished surface, as if cleansing it, then chuckled.
“Why the sudden tremor, Elian?”
Lysander’s laughter was frequent, yet rarely a source of true mirth.
“It is… unseemly.”
“Do you not know? Shared intent strengthens the empathetic bond.”
“...That is a crude sophistry.”
Elian pressed his lips together, a tight line. Lysander settled back, his hand resting on his thigh, sweeping upwards to his knee as he arched his back. Elian curled his fingers into his palms, concealing them.
He knew. He knew he was a fool for allowing such proximity.
Lysander, perched askew, ran his thumb over the orb’s surface once more, then shrugged.
“You prefer the cool touch of void-iron, do you not?”
He idly spun the orb. A faint, almost imperceptible hum emanated from it. An ordinary gesture for Lysander’s hands.
“That is a divining crystal.”
“Then it is quite suitable. I enjoy such clairvoyance.”
“......”
Annoyingly, Lysander continued to toy with the crystal, an object imbued with Elian’s own nascent arcane energies, with practiced nonchalance.
---
Another day drew to a close. As the Lumina Ascendancy braced for the approaching winter’s arcane chill, the perfectly clear sky overhead seemed to sharpen, growing heavier with unspoken expectations. Master-scholars felt the weight of their instructional duties, and apprentices sensed a grave imperative to solidify their standing. Yet, exceptions always persisted.
Lord Kael, Baron Tyrus, Lady Isolde, and others, excluded from the hallowed ranks of the favored houses, were like discarded pawns, their failures meant to highlight the successes of the majority. As seasons passed, the repercussions for their transgressions softened, interest in their predicaments waned. The only difference was that Kael’s dwindling house still held a sliver of influence, making him an inconvenient stain.
The truly pitiable one was Master Alaric. Had he not become entangled with Lord Kael, he might have ascended to a respectable position, graduated from the Academy, and joined a House he wouldn’t be ashamed to serve. Or, if only his grandmother hadn’t succumbed to the arcane blight.
Still, Elian chose to ignore everything beyond his meticulously crafted intellectual pursuits. That was the most prudent decision for his precarious life.
So he lived, until the day he had to face something inevitable.
Every potentiality holds a seed of manifestation. Especially for a fool like Lord Kael, who seemed to accelerate his own downfall with reckless abandon.
Lord Kael returned to the grand hall.
---
Elian clicked his tongue softly. He could see Lord Kael slumped over a low plinth near the ceremonial entrance, through the slightly ajar oak doors. Kael’s father, a minor Baron from a faded house, had finally brought him back. Elian had heard the whispers.
It was an awkward return, nearly twenty days after Kael had abruptly vanished from court. If one intended to abscond, surely a secluded manor in the outer provinces would be more discreet. Why he lingered about the capital, practically begging for discovery, remained a baffling question.
Elian tapped his fingers on the ornate carving of the archway. Entering felt profoundly uncomfortable.
As he pondered, his gaze fell upon the back of Kael’s head. A few strands of his coarse, dark hair stood rebelliously upright. There was a time when Elian might have, under the guise of an idle gesture, subtly smoothed them down, perhaps offering a quiet correction to a clumsy rune or an ill-phrased incantation. That memory now felt distant, hazy. Elian decided to release any lingering attachment. He turned, intending to descend to the lower archives. He knew an encounter with Lord Kael, especially with so few witnesses, promised only aggravation.
Court was a place rife with watchful eyes. Even a simple exchange with Kael would undoubtedly spark rumors: ‘Master Thorne seen conversing alone with the disgraced Lord Kael.’ These whispers would inevitably inflate into damaging fabrications. The worst scenario? Kael lashing out, perhaps with an uncontrolled burst of minor sorcery. The thought of such a public display, brought about by Kael, was deeply humiliating.
The best possible outcome would be if Kael simply ignored him, but Elian was no fool to rely on such slim probabilities. The wisest choice was to preempt any potentially ruinous situation when no one was yet privy to it.
So, Elian returned to the ground floor, lingering near the cloak-racks until, ten minutes before the great gates closed, he blended into the usual throng of departing scholars. Only then did he make his way to the quiet alcove where he should have already been poring over his arcane equations.
He tried to feign disinterest in the turmoil surrounding Lord Kael. More accurately, he tried to prevent others from discerning his significant private concern. His consistent efforts seemed to be yielding fruit.
Yet, Lord Kael remained his greatest variable. Frustration and a creeping disgust washed over him. Damn it. Discomfort and anxiety gnawed at his composure, a phenomenon that only intensified after Lysander’s arrival at court.
Lysander approached Lord Kael as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired, even offering a casual greeting.
“It has been some time, Lord Kael?”
His friendly tone struck Elian as utterly absurd. For a moment, curiosity overcame his pervasive anxiety. Looking up, Elian saw Lysander, his satchel slung over one shoulder, a broad, unsettling smile playing on his lips. Kael merely nodded, offering no verbal reply.
“Such a cold reception. Where is the usual fire, Lord Kael?”
Pushing away Kael’s low plinth with his foot seemed a deliberate affront, especially given Lysander’s known role in orchestrating Kael’s current ignominy within the court’s intricate hierarchy. However, unwilling to involve himself in such petty matters, Elian attempted to refocus on the ‘true’ problems laid out on his desk: the intricate schematics of a new arcane construct. This effort was disrupted as the House Elder, tasked with the morning roll call, entered.
The Elder seemed genuinely pleased that Kael had returned, though a clear undercurrent of guilt regarding Master Alaric’s continued absence permeated his words. Such a timid, fragile soul.
“Master Alaric is not with us today either.”
He murmured this to himself, clearly intending to imply more with his words. Then he finished with a slight tap of his finger on the attendance scroll upon his desk.
The incident occurred quicker than expected.
As Lord Kael rummaged through his desk drawer to pull out a specific ritual component, grimacing at its defiled state, a couple of junior scholars who had left their own components in the secure House lockers raised their hands and exited. Kael’s expression darkened further as they departed.
Since he rarely engaged in serious study, possessing or lacking the component likely mattered little to him. The true issue for Kael was probably the affront of an item marked with his House sigil having disappeared.
Everyone in the chamber knew the truth, but as if by unspoken oath, no one uttered a single word. Not about who had discarded Lord Kael’s components, nor about who had instigated it.
“Who was it?”
As soon as the Elder concluded his announcements, the moment everyone had unconsciously anticipated began.
“I demand to know, who was it?”
Lord Kael, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his fine velvet trousers, chin lifted defiantly, demanded answers. Those who disliked the brewing confrontation slipped out of the chamber, while those intrigued exchanged knowing glances. In that charged atmosphere, Lysander, holding a thoroughly grimy, almost unrecognizable focus crystal covered in smudges, meticulously scribbled something into a tome and nonchalantly said,
“What discourse are you pursuing, Lord Kael?”
“Who?”
“What meaning does that hold? You must articulate your grievance if you desire comprehension.”
The audacity was staggering. Truly brazen.
“The scoundrel who desecrated my ritual components.”
It was clear to Lord Kael that his components hadn’t just vanished by chance, especially for someone as attuned to perceived slights as him, akin to a territorial beast. Moreover, Lysander’s failure to answer ‘who’ implicitly acknowledged complicity. Even a fool would discern this. Yet, Lysander continued to jest, feigning ignorance of the gravity of the situation.
“Did you even possess components worthy of such concern? You were perpetually sprawled across the plinth, snoring through your lessons.”
There he went again, laughing needlessly. There was no conceivable way Lord Kael would let that slide.
“Enough. Was it you, Master Thorne?”
And naturally, Elian was also implicated. This was a predictable turn; any astute observer could have foreseen it.
“...No.”
In this chamber, no one was more volatile and less refined than Lord Kael, whose reckless acts consistently led him into foolish errors. He must have felt his downfall acutely, as every glance and every space held echoes of past ambitions and present humiliations. Yet, those sharing the same space pretended as if nothing untoward had occurred.
“Come now, would our esteemed Master Thorne truly treat his beloved ritual components with such disregard?”
“Lysander—damn you, why do you constantly interject?”
“Interject? If a friend faces an injustice, it is only proper to lend aid.”
“What in the Outer Spheres are you babbling about, you witless charlatan?”
“Witless? That is rather harsh, Lord Kael.”
“Stop your obfuscation. Who else here could have so thoroughly poisoned the atmosphere during my absence, if not you two?”
Lord Kael scoffed. Only then did Lysander set his focus crystal down upon the plinth. His lips still held that faint, unsettling smirk. Kael’s face twisted in displeasure. Unable to contain his simmering anger, Kael conjured a minor, uncontrolled burst of raw aether, a crackling discharge that struck a nearby satchel. Unfortunately, the satchel, filled with parchments, tumbled from its hook and landed squarely on Elian’s chest.
“Ah!”
It wasn’t particularly painful, as it was lightly packed, but it was startling. Elian frowned as he watched the satchel fall to his knees.
“This madman merely flings uncontrolled magic now.”
Before Elian could speak, Lysander interjected. His voice was already laced with a calculated annoyance. At that moment, Lord Kael slowly lifted the corners of his mouth.
“Ah, I comprehend.”
It was the look of someone who believed he had achieved a minor victory. What did he imagine he understood? Elian’s furrowed brow refused to relax.
“Lysander. Master Thorne. You two conspire?”
“What?”
Elian was at a loss for words, and Lysander’s playful smirk vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp glint. Elian was more bewildered than Lord Kael, who had lost his ritual components. It seemed Lysander felt precisely the same, though for vastly different reasons.
“Lord Kael, I apologize, but your words are so utterly disjointed I fail to grasp their meaning.”
Despite clearly hearing every syllable, Lysander placed his palm near his ear—a blatant mockery. And from what Elian had observed, Lysander rarely stopped at a single jest. This was merely the overture to his provocation. Sensing the uneasy tension in the air, Elian stood. Meanwhile, Lysander extended his pinky finger towards Kael in a gesture of dismissive contempt.