Lord Caelum Vane was gone.
Not physically removed from the Lumina Ascendancy, but the essence, the formidable standing of the Vane scion, had been irrevocably shattered within the sacred halls of the Scholomance Arcana. An entity, once so assured of his station, had perished in the crucible of this ancient academy.
Chaos had erupted across the grand campus. Hundreds of scuff marks from hurried boots and the settling dust now obscured where, only hours prior, arcane energy had scorched the polished marble of the dueling grounds. Raw magic had gouged cruel furrows into the very earth.
A piercing alarm spell, a shrill, ear-splitting shriek, had echoed through the spires. Every student, a sea of startled faces, had pressed against the enchanted windows, eyes dull and expectant, like automatons awaiting command. A cacophony of whispers and excited shouts from neighboring dormitories filtered through the magically reinforced glass.
“What in the Obsidian Spires is happening?”
“Ignorant fool, you haven’t heard? A confrontation on the dueling grounds.”
“What? Who?”
“Lord Caelum Vane and Lord Kaelen Rhys.”
“By the Void… that’s unthinkable. How did I miss this?”
Young nobles, we stood on the cusp of true power, shedding the last vestiges of pampered youth. Yet, we embraced the raw, unrefined thrill of scandal and violent emotion, discarding our fragile individualities for the collective hysteria. Such a reaction was, in truth, inevitable.
“Does anyone know a soul in their House? Weren’t Vane and Rhys once cordial? How did it escalate to this?”
“Surely you’ve heard the whispers about Lord Caelum?”
Our own class divided. Some reveled in being conduits for the freshest rumors, others silently accepted the downfall of a peer, and a chilling few savored the pleasure of being on the ascendant side. Below, a pristine Aetherial Respite Carriage, its luminescent runes pulsing faintly, awaited. For the next half-hour, the most urgent query in the academy was not the condition of the injured, but the identity of the victor. Rumors traveled through the five-story, closed-off academic pyramid faster than a panicked blink-spell.
So, who had emerged triumphant?
Those privy to the true account of the confrontation felt no pity for the two young lords, both injured gravely enough to warrant the carriage’s deployment. Instead, a peculiar, almost primal satisfaction rippled through them. A hidden wish, kindled since the term’s inception, found its fulfillment.
Lord Kaelen Rhys.
Such contests often yielded ambiguous victors. One-on-one duels, especially, rarely offered a definitive resolution. Yet, today’s clash had worked entirely in Kaelen Rhys’s favor. The insidious rumors preceding the confrontation had guaranteed Lord Caelum Vane’s absolute ruin.
In the shadowed cloisters and opulent common rooms of this venerable institution, students murmured:
“Turns out Caelum Vane dabbled in forbidden blood-pacts.”
“What? He was lauded for his purity of lineage and arcane focus!”
“An utter fabrication! They say he consorted with… lesser mages, performing vile rituals for power. Disgusting. And from such a prominent House! With enough coin and influence, it seems even abomination can be cloaked.”
“By the Archons, I never would have suspected Caelum Vane of such depravity. A complete charlatan.”
“Hmph. Wish I were born with a Vane’s legacy. Imagine the illicit power one could wield. But is not the Shadowfell cheaper for such endeavors? We journey to the Blighted Lands for our Arcane Pilgrimage, yes? Think we could slip away during the free-study periods? Anyone daring?”
Discourse swiftly moved from Caelum Vane’s disgrace to the cheap thrills of forbidden arts in the Blighted Lands. Yet, in that short exchange, Lord Caelum Vane’s honor was not merely tarnished; it was utterly obliterated, a murder multiplied by every student in the Scholomance.
After his defeat by Kaelen Rhys, Caelum Vane became a mere husk, as if everyone had silently anticipated his downfall.
Suspense clung to the air in our lecture hall, a strange duality of calm observation and simmering excitement. Eyes flickered back and forth like metronomes between the crimson scorch marks on the classroom floor. Even now, hours later, the dried stains seemed to pulse, threatening to seep fresh blood if one dared to press upon them.
Quite unexpected was the reaction of Arch-Lector Lyra, our usually timid instructor, who had seemed on the verge of tears at the initial incident. Our next period was dedicated to independent study. The hall, previously abuzz with this scandalous topic, instantly stilled upon her arrival. Entering, she hurled a crystalline data-slate onto the floor, shattering it into glittering fragments, and let out a high-pitched shriek that pierced our very core.
“What in the name of the Prime Conduit is wrong with you all! You… you insolent children! Do you deem me a mere jester? Why do you live your lives with such reckless abandon? Cease this! Cease it, I command! Why is there noise during independent study? Is this a time for idle chatter? You ascend to senior ranks next cycle! Seniors! Please, heed my words and desist from causing such turmoil! Do you comprehend the burden of responsibility I bear for your actions! I should never have accepted this posting to an all-male house. I never desired such a place. I feel my sanity fraying. If you continue thus, your lives will be naught but corrupted ash, do you not see? Have you no shame before your noble parents? And how many times must I implore you for silence during independent study!”
Most sensible individuals, witnessing such a sudden explosion from a typically reserved elder, would fall silent. Yet, this was an all-male house within the Scholomance, a realm crowded with all manner of flawed aristocratic scions. Some defied common sense, some clung to the pathetic immaturity of their formative years, and some, despite their privileged education, were so intellectually dim that they committed acts of shocking idiocy. Our lecture hall, precisely so.
“Hear that, boys—Lector’s incensed. Quite incensed! Do not be incensed!”
“Amusing, isn’t it, when the Arch-Lector loses her composure.”
Someone in the very back, near the arcane conduit, spoke aloud. Two seats ahead of me, a whisper carried softly.
“You! Insolent wretch! What did you say? Do you deem me a mere jester?! You, step forward. Come to the front!”
“Why, Lector… what is this about?”
“I said, step forward, you wretched boy!”
Arch-Lector Lyra flung the House Ledger. It soared between desks, struck the corner of a meticulously carved table in the third row, then clattered to the floor. Its momentum spent, the heavy tome made a surprisingly loud thud.
“My apologies, Arch-Lector. I shan’t repeat the offense. Forgive me, if you please?”
Still, a smirk played on his lips, devoid of genuine remorse. It was always some mediocre scion, neither truly prominent nor utterly outcast, who attempted such stunts. The slovenly ones, eager to posture. They put on airs of defiance, pretending strength. Yet, they alone failed to perceive the clumsy, pathetic bluff of their own performance.
“Step forward. Or must I come to you?”
“Ah, Arch-Lector! Is this not excessive? Truly!”
“Silence!”
“Hold your tongue. The Lector commanded you to the front.”
I could bear it no longer. My voice, calm and measured, cut through the tension. Every eye in the class turned to me, but I paid them no mind, absorbing the pathetic scene. Honestly, it was so utterly ridiculous I nearly scoffed. I quite relished such predicaments.
I possessed no skill in physical confrontation, nor did I feign the brute strength of a ruffian. Yet, the reason I occupied a position of subtle authority in this academic jungle was my inherent ability to dismantle and feed upon the weaknesses of boys such as this.
“Elian, why the sudden gravitas?”
“You are the one who misjudges the current.”
This ascent had not been instantaneous, of course. During the hierarchy-setting rituals of our first cycle, I had faced some resistance. But now, my influence unfolded as pleasantly as a silent, creeping spiral.
“Indeed. Cease your bluster and present yourself. Truly, can you not perceive the gravity of this moment?”
“If contrition is genuine, then obey. Because of your folly, we all suffer the Lector’s wrath. You insufferable fool.”
“Ah, what is his concern? Truly. What is his objective?”
Young Lord Torvin muttered under his breath until the very end. The confident sneer he had worn while provoking the Arch-Lector gradually faded, like a dying ember. Under the silent, collective pressure of the entire class, he finally rose and moved to the front. A defeated creature, a rat caught in a trap.
A twisted smile, unseen, touched my lips. Caelum Vane had fallen. Nothing could bring me greater satisfaction. Perhaps it stemmed from that day, a cycle ago, when Caelum Vane had so carelessly dismissed my arcane theories, his cutting words a physical blow.
No, I knew it. A profound sense of vindication coursed through me. Honestly, I found myself somewhat surprised by this intensity. An electrifying thrill, as if a long-dormant conduit of power had reawakened within my very being.
“Depart into the outer corridor, immediately!”
“...”
Having dispatched the noisy fool, Arch-Lector Lyra gripped the podium, silently wrestling with her rage for a prolonged moment. Perhaps she had gathered her scattered thoughts, for her tone, to my relief, calmed considerably. She then announced her intent to summon each student individually, to inquire into the true events.
“I pledge utmost secrecy. Therefore, I implore you, speak the truth. Do not disappoint me further. Please, I beg of you.”
She seemed resolute in seeking an unbiased account. Yet, as a female Lector, she still failed to grasp the intricate, brutal pyramid-world of an all-male aristocratic House. Once independent study concluded, and the Arch-Lector, her face still flushed with indignation, caught her breath and departed, Lord Theron closed the enchanted windows and sealed the classroom door. His gaze swept over us all, a warning in his eyes.
“Listen, all of you. Guard your tongues. Judge wisely who truly holds sway here—Lord Kaelen Rhys, or that disgraced wretch.”
“Caelum Vane initiated the assault. You understand, yes?”
Lord Torvin chimed in, his voice suddenly eager. Such admirable, if expedient, loyalty, wouldn’t you agree?
---
Less than a week later, Lord Kaelen Rhys returned to the Scholomance.
Kaelen Rhys strode back, his jaw still visibly swollen, a tapestry of bruising across his face. His nose, clearly fractured, bore a square patch of shimmering arcane tape. Yet, in stark contrast to his battered countenance, the energy radiating from him was more imposing, more arrogant, than ever before. He grinned, a wide, predatory flash, then tapped his now perfectly reattached canine with an index finger. In return, I offered a subtle, almost imperceptible nod.
Immediately following the confrontation, Kaelen Rhys had risen casually to his feet, walking unaided into the waiting Aetherial Respite Carriage. It was bizarre, an act of sheer bravado that dominated every conversation for days. I had hurried after him. Just before he ascended into the carriage’s shimmering interior, I pressed a small, stoppered phial into his hand.
“This is yours. Claim it fell from your sash. And tell them you require immediate preventative cleansing, lest residual dark-arcana fester in your wounds.”
At that precise moment, Kaelen Rhys wiped a hand across his face, his gaze fixing on me. But the blood, already dried stiff, remained stubbornly caked. Honestly, seeing half his face encrusted in crimson, rusted to a dark hue, was hardly a pleasant sight. My focus, however, remained on the unusually small pupils locked onto my extended hand. In that grotesque state, he spoke, and I strained to listen, caught off guard.
“...I shall contact you.”
His hand, crusted with dried gore, brushed my cheek. An abrupt, unexpected gesture.
“...What?”
I could only stand there, utterly dumbfounded.
Soon after, a coded missive arrived, confirming most of his arcane nerves were intact, and the Healers had successfully reattached everything. As soon as he returned to the Scholomance, Kaelen Rhys claimed the empty seat directly beside mine. When my previous seatmate, Lord Gideon, appeared, Kaelen, without even glancing his way, simply gestured with a thumb towards another vacant chair. Gideon quietly moved.
Without my full comprehension, that powerful young lord now occupied the space beside me. He tapped my shoulder twice, a quick rhythm of index and middle fingers. Then, abruptly, he spoke.
“A token for you.”
“What? What do you mean, from nowhere?”
“Silence, and extend your hand.”
I lowered my arcane stylus and opened my palm. Simultaneously, he carefully placed something upon it. A peculiar, crinkling sensation settled in the center of my hand, unsettling my composure. As his large hand lifted from mine, I saw two objects: a fractured component from an arcane focus, its core crystal visibly rent, and beside it, a perfect, blood-stained ancestral sigil, its intricate runes still fully intact.
What in the Prime Conduit was this? Confused by the crystal’s strange, yellowish hue and the dark red stains clinging to the sigil, I glanced at Kaelen Rhys. He leaned back against the ornate chair, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Caelum Vane will spend the remainder of his days weaving his spells through a shattered conduit.”
Heh-heh-heh. A low, guttural chuckle rumbled from him, his shoulders twisting with genuine amusement, like a child delighting in a new, dangerous toy.
“Did you observe it?”
“...”
“I won.”
This arrogant, dangerous lord.
Utterly devoid of remorse, Kaelen Rhys stared at me. For a moment, a wild urge seized me to hurl that gruesome 'token' against the wall, to reject his brutal offering.
Kaelen Rhys’s return caused another tremor through the academy. He was, after all, the first central figure to reappear. His face, though marked, was not as utterly ruined as whispers had suggested, and he carried none of the defeated aura of a vanquished man. Instead, he radiated raw, undeniable power.
Rumors of who had truly triumphed spread like wildfire among the second-year students. Most who knew the truth belonged to our own year. For the younger, first-year novices, the drama of the second-years was a distant, intriguing spectacle.