A singular surge, cold and sharp, ignited within Elian’s chest. He stepped forward, his gaze drawn to the prone form of Lord Caelum, sprawled ungracefully upon the Arcane Infirmary cot. Caelum’s face, usually set in an expression of haughty disdain, was slack with the heavy slumber of sedatives. Viewing him thus, the emotion that stirred was a stark absence of empathy, a chilling void where compassion might reside. From the pouch at his belt, Elian withdrew a small, ornate vial, its contents a viscous, shimmering azure. This was not a weapon, but a low-tier alchemical solvent, harmless yet utterly defiling to fine fabrics. With a precise, almost surgical motion, he uncorked it, allowing a single, iridescent droplet to fall upon the pristine silk of Caelum’s ceremonial tunic, directly over the embroidered crest of his noble house. He truly hadn’t needed to act. He could have simply allowed the quiet hum of the infirmary to soothe his agitated nerves, maintained his usual façade of serene detachment. The ever-composed, intellectually revered Elian Thorne, untouched by base impulsions. But a raw, indignant fury had festered. Because why did Caelum have to constantly trivialise his contributions, to cast him into the shadow of his own privileged birth? Elian had never sought Caelum’s attention, never forced his intellect upon him. Yet, Caelum had, with careless indifference, crushed him underfoot, often by claiming the conceptual seeds of Elian’s own nascent designs as his own, watered down and simplified for common consumption. All because Caelum was obsessed with the superficial validations of his status, a cheap imitation of true merit. The bastard. The arrogant, insipid bastard. His deep, festering resentment and sense of betrayal crystallised in that single, staining drop, blossoming an almost invisible, yet indelible, blotch upon the fabric. Given an opportunity to act upon Lord Caelum, Elian had not offered a desperate, self-sacrificing gesture. Instead, he chose this—petty, vindictive vengeance. That meant he was no different from Kaelen. “A fascinating display.” A singular sound, like a clapped chime, broke the silence. Kaelen clapped his hands in a slow, deliberate rhythm, his dark eyes alight with a predatory glee. Elian, startled, snatched up the corner of Caelum’s pristine velvet blanket, frantically dabbing at the iridescent stain. It refused to yield, merely spreading a little further into the silk’s weave. Witnessing Elian’s hurried attempts, Kaelen clasped his cheeks between both hands, beaming with undisguised delight. “This—this must be what true liberation feels like, Elian!” “...What precise liberation?” Elian’s voice was a strained whisper. If Elian felt a nascent depravity in himself, Kaelen was an embodiment of gleeful, unburdened chaos. They departed the Arcane Infirmary precisely as the Archon’s decree announced the end of visiting hours. Kaelen hummed a discordant, unfamiliar tune under his breath. Elian walked beside him, his mind a turbulent sea of self-reproach and a strange, nascent satisfaction. Then, abruptly, Kaelen’s humming ceased. He turned to Elian, a glint in his eye. “Oh, right, Elian.” “...?” “Fancy a detour today? Just us?” So now he desired Elian’s company, did he? What an utterly capricious man. Elian took another step forward. His voice, when it came, was carefully neutral. “As you wish.” At that, Kaelen suddenly stepped ahead, his movement fluid as quicksilver. Elian looked up, surprised, only for Kaelen to turn around, placing a hand lightly on Elian’s shoulder. It felt as though he appraised a newly acquired familiar, a creature whose utility he had just discovered. “Elian.” “...What is it?” “I find I tolerate your presence more, of late.” His tone carried a subtle, almost imperceptible nuance of condescension, as if offering praise from an elevated vantage point. A cold tendril of discomfort wrapped around Elian’s heart. He hesitated. Should he confront Kaelen’s veiled insolence, challenge the implicit hierarchy? Or should he simply lower his head, feigning obliviousness to the slight? Such choices always presented themselves with sudden, jarring clarity. Just as now. What path would yield a more advantageous outcome for his complex ambitions? Elian considered it for a fleeting moment, then chose the easier, less confrontational route. Kaelen was a temporary variable, a wildcard in the grand design of his academic ascent. For the sake of a peaceful existence within the Lumina Ascendancy’s cutthroat scholarly circles... He smirked faintly, shrugging his shoulders. Some shred of dignity, however small, he still clung to. “Perhaps our calculations aligned, for once.” “Aligned?” Kaelen repeated Elian’s words, then stretched his lips into a slow, unsettling grin under the fading light of the Arcane Spires. “So you hold Caelum in such profound contempt?” His voice dripped with mockery, yet Elian detected no genuine hostility. It was a cold, frostbitten expression. In the darkening reflection of a window, Elian saw Kaelen’s faintest smile. “My gratitude.” The reflection of Kaelen’s white teeth gleamed just slightly. For what, precisely? For hating Lord Caelum with such fervor? Or for the subtle, defiling mark Elian had placed upon his tunic, a quiet act of sabotage that might, in some intricate way, serve Kaelen’s own cryptic intentions? Kaelen never clarified the most important part. Elian had no idea what, exactly, Kaelen was thanking him for. “Let us proceed.” “...Indeed.” Still, from that moment on— A strange affinity for Kaelen began to coalesce within him. When had it truly started? Elian wasn’t sure. But if he had to pinpoint the moment he finally acknowledged it—it was now. --- Lately, Elian had been observing Kaelen. It was peculiar—Kaelen seemed to materialize wherever Elian’s gaze happened to drift. Elian wasn’t the strange one, though. Kaelen was. Kaelen was petty and narrow-minded, a connoisseur of slights. Despite his outwardly ascetic lifestyle, his fascination with primal impulses was unsettlingly acute. He spoke with a disarming candor about topics most high-born scions deemed beneath their notice. “Carnal enchantments are remarkably potent, if crude. My concubine often employs a minor glamour of allure. You novices wouldn’t comprehend. Hey, did you know? A forgotten text claims a certain essence is beneficial for skin regeneration.” “No wonder those acolytes last cycle spoke of merely… anointing a subject’s face.” “That’s your issue, not hers.” “No, that’s definitively your issue.” “Nonsense, the veiled courtesans of the Lower District perform it with far greater artistry. Their accumulated experience grants them unparalleled skill.” “Silence. A concubine offers affection. Affection.” “More like… unremunerated service.” “You impudent little scion, I’ll have you scourged.” The scions considered presentable within the Ascendancy circles usually engaged in discreet dalliances. Those of lesser birth or more coarse inclination often pooled coin to visit the veiled houses, boasting of their first experiences. Most young acolytes found their initial experiences in some forgotten parlor, making the tales of Lord Caelum’s conquests in high society the stuff of fantastical aspiration for those who couldn’t attain them. That’s why these sycophants were obsessed with his sordid narratives. To such young men, the number of successful seductions was like the number of arcane marks on a seasoned arch-magus’s arm. Whether with a concubine or a courtesan, it mattered little—the woman was merely a trophy to be collected. Even the most private, intimate moments ended up being reduced to the grainy, low-resolution projection-charms one could find in the illicit bazaars of the Outskirts. And they spoke of it like it was a grand achievement. Fucking moronic drones. By their shallow standards, Kaelen was merely another un-marked acolyte without a single “trophy.” But the difference was, he saw *them* as the true fools. “By the Lumina, what squalor. Are you all merely un-purified vessels?” Hearing this, Elian began to comprehend why Kaelen harbored such profound contempt for Lord Caelum. Perhaps, in his peculiar mind, Kaelen couldn’t abide the parasites of society flourishing unchecked. Whether it was casual dalliance or forbidden experimentation, it was all the same to him. “Cease reeking of poorly managed minor afflictions and depart.” Kaelen’s tone was always playful, yet unmistakably designed to mock and demean. Because of that, people who technically belonged to the same social stratum found him infuriating. Another hierarchy was revealed here. The lower-ranked acolytes simply laughed it off. But the ones on Kaelen’s perceived level fired back, half-joking, half-serious. Most of the time, Lord Seraph was the one leading the charge, his primary weapon Kaelen’s purported lack of intimate experience. “By the Archon, why does a scholar devoid of direct experience even offer comment? Vanish, pure-blooded boy.” But Kaelen merely smirked, slithering like a serpent. “I only interject because your discussions resemble the babbling of uninitiated children.” “Oh, indeed? And what profound insights do you possess, scholar of theoretical experience?” “Look, listen. Since you all can’t cease your incessant prattling about crude enchantments, permit me to enlighten you poor, clueless acolytes.” Grinning, Kaelen opened his mouth. With a delicate finger, he pressed down on the center of his tongue. “This is a basic resonance pulse.” Then, he opened his mouth wider, shoving his finger deeper until it nearly reached his throat, before slowly withdrawing it. “That was a sustained harmonic resonance.” This time, he tilted his head slightly upward, withdrew his finger, and pointed at the space between his chin and neck. “And this, children, is a perfected arcanum of sensual inducement. If your resonance does not reach this depth, your art is merely… theoretical. But I comprehend. Your dowsing rods are but twigs, so you wouldn’t know anything beyond a simple resonance pulse. Seriously, witnessing you little shits obsess over the same rudimentary concept pains me. Is your focus so narrow it only reaches the superficial? If your arcane sensitivity is the same size as it was when your mothers powdered your infant forms, how precisely do you intend to wield true power? By the Lumina, if she saw your naked ambition now, she’d probably get nostalgic and try to swaddle you again.” “By the Archon? Where did you acquire such… precise knowledge? Don’t tell me you’ve been delving into forbidden texts behind our backs?” “No, imbecile. I read. Try it sometime. Read. Fucking ignoramus.” He punctuated each syllable by lightly smacking Lord Seraph’s face with a thin, leather-bound grimoire. “Fuh-uhh-ck—!” The hoarse laughter of post-puberty voices filled the Arcanum Lecture Hall. At the time, Elian had been near the front of the classroom, conversing with Lyraeus about a recent Arcane Theory quiz. Lyraeus, despite holding a slightly higher rank than Elian academically, always seemed wary of his performance. That’s why he invariably sought out Elian after examinations, scrutinizing his results. His entire mood soured whenever his grades slipped. Most of the time, he blamed the “cacophony” emanating from the back of the hall. “Ugh, their reverberations are quite disruptive….” He muttered under his breath, probably not even realizing he had voiced the thought. Then, suddenly aware of Elian’s presence, he shot a nervous glance. He knew Elian occasionally tolerated the company of that rowdy group, Kaelen among them. “The reverberations are indeed disruptive.” “Ah, no, it’s nothing… Oh, wait. How did you decipher Question 25?” Lyraeus craned his neck to peek at Elian’s test parchment. Elian reached out to point at the sigil, then bit his lip before responding in an intentionally generous, almost hesitant tone. “A most vexing sigil. I confess, my solution felt… wanting.” “Truly? Oh, well, I believe I comprehended its structure, though doubt lingers.” Lyraeus’s voice was laced with a subtle satisfaction, thinly veiled as concern. So what? You transparent fool. “Then wouldn’t it be better to consult the Magister? My confidence remains low.” “I just wanted to double-check before I approach him. Your analytical prowess is undeniable, Elian.” Lyraeus offered a cautious smile. Was it the kind of smile that formed naturally during a discourse? Or was he smiling because he delighted in the situation, in Elian’s apparent stumble? Elian had no way of knowing. But Lyraeus was astute. If Elian permitted even a flicker of jealousy to slip, he would feel like a dog that had lost a fight. So he pretended to listen to Lyraeus’s brilliant, painstaking explanation, even though he didn’t give a single damn. Long story short, both of them were performers in a delicate charade. “Acolyte Veridian! His form, robust as a ripe moonpetal!” The topic at the back had shifted again. “Alright, Veridian, are your channels clear?” “Affirmative!” Their giggles escalated from quiet snickers to full-blown cackles. “Holy Lumina, this one is unbound! Kaelen! Witness this! This acolyte is utterly depraved!” “This is utterly captivating. Kaelen, hasten and observe this crazed practitioner!” At the rising ruckus, Elian placed his hand on one of Lyraeus’s test papers and turned around. He heard Lyraeus shift as he followed Elian’s gaze. “Uugh, ugh—!” Acolyte Veridian was shoving the neck of an empty vitae flask into his mouth. Lips sealed around it, one hand gripping the ornate crystal body, he moved it in and out in slow, deliberate strokes. Elian frowned. “What debased ritual is this?” “No idea.” Lyraeus shook his head, his face a mask of bewildered disgust. But it wasn’t that they didn’t understand what was happening. They were just too stunned to fully process it. “Seriously, what profane act is this…?” The crystalline flask slid in and out of Veridian’s mouth at an increasingly rapid pace. It went deeper and deeper, the wet slosh of residual liquid against polished crystal growing more pronounced. The boys surrounding him erupted in louder cheers. “Veridian, you wild adept!” “That practitioner’s mastery is… unconventional!” The flask tilted and curved, sometimes pulling all the way out before being shoved back in. His tongue completely sealed the flask’s opening, making it perfectly visible as he demonstrated his technique. The pace quickened. Acolyte Veridian spread his legs apart in the chair, bending at the waist to look down at the floor. Foamy white bubbles streamed from his lips. The residual vitae fizzed, rolling down his chin, dripping onto the polished arcane floorboards beneath him. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” The gasping chants grew in rhythm, echoing through the lecture hall. Bent in half, Veridian suddenly straightened up. At the same time, he yanked the flask out of his mouth. As soon as the crystal parted from his tongue, the trapped foam burst out, spilling freely down his chin. “He achieves culmination! He achieves culmination!” Acolyte Veridian lowered his arm, positioning the vitae flask near his crotch, and shook it vigorously. The boys around him recoiled, throwing up their arms in defense, but it was useless. Their uniform sleeves still ended up splattered with sticky, foamy residue. “By the Archon! That’s abhorrent!” Hahahahahaha! --- Kaelen’s laughter, sharp and clear, cut through the vulgar din. He was leaning against a lecture table, his eyes fixed on Veridian with an expression of profound, almost intellectual amusement. His gaze drifted to Elian, then back to the spectacle at the rear of the hall. “Such… primitive displays of power, wouldn’t you agree, Elian? And yet, they achieve a certain… visceral impact. Don’t you think?” Elian’s stomach churned, a knot of revulsion tightening with each passing moment. He had never witnessed such a crude, public exhibition within the hallowed halls of the Lumina Ascendancy. It was a stark reminder of the raw, untamed aspects of humanity, even within a society ostensibly governed by arcane grace and refined intellect. His carefully constructed world of elegant theories and precise schematics felt momentarily fractured, tainted by the vulgarity. The shame of his own petty act in the infirmary resurfaced, a bitter aftertaste. He truly was no different from them. No different from Kaelen. Lyraeus, his face pale with disgust, turned back to his quiz parchment, his hand trembling slightly as he clutched his quill. The cacophony from the back continued, though a new undercurrent of unease had begun to settle over the laughter. Elian closed his eyes for a brief moment, picturing the intricate lines of an arcane schematic, seeking refuge in the ordered beauty of his intellect. But even there, the image of the frothing vitae flask, the sticky residue, seemed to intrude, an ugly, insistent stain upon his mental landscape. He opened his eyes. Kaelen was still watching him, a knowing, almost sympathetic glint in his dark eyes. As if he understood the profound, unsettling disruption Veridian’s crude act had wrought within Elian’s carefully guarded inner world. As if he knew the fragile mask of composure had almost slipped entirely. “Come, Elian,” Kaelen murmured, his voice softer now, a subtle invitation. “Let us discuss true power, away from such… base expressions.” Elian nodded, a silent acknowledgment. He had little choice. The world, it seemed, was far messier, far more vulgar, than his carefully cultivated intellect had ever prepared him for. And Kaelen, in his disturbing brilliance, seemed to navigate its filth with an unsettling ease. Perhaps, Elian thought, a flicker of that pragmatic brutality might serve him well.

A Resonance of Defilement