A metallic tang lingered on Lord Kaelan Varis’s breath, a tell-tale sign of a night spent indulging in arcane excesses rather than restful slumber. His normally sharp features, now faintly bloated, spoke of channels over-exerted, a mage pushing past his limits. Affecting a dismissive sigh, I slid a chilled phial of calming alkahest across the polished obsidian desk. Without fail, I provided him a cooling draught on mornings he abandoned prudence for pleasure, ostensibly to diminish the puffiness that marred his aristocratic visage.
“Cease looking like a disgruntled owlbear, Kaelan, and allow that to settle your humours.”
He merely grunted, fingers closing around the cold crystal.
“Did the Head of House Varis not voice his displeasure this morning?” I inquired, though I already knew the answer.
“Not thanks to your timely intervention.” Kaelan shrugged, a languid, self-satisfied gesture. My lips thinned, a private acknowledgment of his unearned reprieve. As I turned towards my own workstation, a scroll of the day’s Arcane Gazette lay unfurled upon the adjacent desk. My gaze snagged there.
Lysander, not I, occupied the seat beside Kaelan. Kaelan possessed a formidable presence, but Lysander, with his lean frame and quiet energy, seemed to draw the very light from the air, appearing taller still. Consequently, Lysander always sat closest to Kaelan. My own stature, merely adequate, was a constant, subtle irritant, though I clutched to the small comfort of my position, knowing Kaelan was just a whisper away. It was my solitary, fragile solace.
Burying the familiar prickle of inadequacy, I gestured toward Lysander’s still form with feigned nonchalance.
“When did he arrive?”
“No idea. Found him like that.” Kaelan’s voice was a low murmur.
“Why does one who departed early still bear the marks of such profound exertion?”
A soft rustle answered me. The Arcane Gazette slipped, revealing Lysander’s half-lidded eyes. His gaze, narrowed and heavy, swept over Kaelan and then me before a wide, languid yawn stretched his mouth. “...I only intended to meditate a moment longer before truly resting, and… well.”
Yawns, it seemed, transcended all social standing. Kaelan mirrored the action, mouth agape, then scrunched his face into a wry, smug grin. “That fool. Appears so serious, yet channels more energy than most Archons in a single sitting.”
“Oh, hush.” Lysander’s voice was a low rumble, devoid of true irritation.
“Understood, you insufferable prodigy.”
Whether Lysander registered Kaelan’s light mockery, he simply leaned back, a low chuckle escaping him. I watched for a beat, and our eyes met. He turned his gaze towards the grand arched window overlooking the Academy gardens, then back to me. A strange chill skittered beneath my skin. I scratched my arm, shifting my attention back to Kaelan.
The atmosphere within the Grand Atheneum’s study chamber early in the morning was often deceptively pleasant. Such casual exchanges frequently set the day’s placid tone. Soon, acolytes of lesser houses, hopeful for Kaelan’s patronage, would drift closer, drawn to his aura like moths to a forbidden flame, eager to absorb his latest pronouncements. The established routine would unfold: idle chatter, forced laughter, and, eventually, the arrival of a senior magister to commence the day’s instruction.
For scions considered the most promising, or at least the most privileged, in the Academy, it was a surprisingly benign beginning. But beneath the veneer, we were still young, driven by primal desires. Whispers of Kaelan’s late-night excursions – illicit duels, clandestine magical experiments, or even more scandalous liaisons – left a faint, bitter taste. Still, I played my part, feigning mild amusement.
Despite it all, these mornings weren't entirely unbearable. Yet, everything had shifted a moon and a half ago. The catalyst, undoubtedly, had been Faelan.
“Ah, Faelan approaches.”
A low murmur rippled through the chamber. “By the Void. Disgusting.”
“Does that witless acolyte not possess the sense to absent himself after such a thorough humiliation?” A younger acolyte, a fawning sycophant named Lysander, openly mocked Faelan, his finger pointed with exaggerated disdain. At the tip of his trembling digit, Faelan entered, his posture a study in self-effacement, face obscured by lank strands of dark hair. He shuffled towards a solitary desk in the front row, deposited a frayed satchel, and immediately slumped over. Watching his hunched figure, I exhaled a quiet sigh, heavy with an irritation I couldn’t quite place.
Faelan was utterly pathetic. His arcane resonance was faint, his frame slight—a pitiful excuse for an acolyte. As the hushed murmurs of the chamber swelled, Kaelan’s gaze, sharp as a honed blade, impaled Faelan’s back. A low curse, a sound like grinding stone, escaped him. I hated it. That raw, untamed sensitivity of his—it ignited a peculiar dread within me.
Kaelan snatched the Arcane Gazette, which had moments earlier veiled Lysander’s face, crushing it into a tight ball. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he hurled it. The crumpled paper struck Faelan’s head with a soft thud. Faelan’s already bowed head slumped further onto his desk.
“By the Lumina. Do not parade that dismal countenance within these hallowed halls first thing in the morning.”
Faelan pressed his arms against the desk, burying his face deeper. He obeyed, yet Kaelan watched with an expression of pure contempt, kicking his own desk with a harsh crack.
“Hey! Are you deaf? Do you not hear my words?”
When Kaelan abruptly rose and his voice resonated with cold command, Faelan, still hunched, stammered a response, his voice thin and trembling.
“Y-yes, Lord Kaelan.”
“Lift your head. Look at me. Speak with the respect due to your betters.”
Did Kaelan even comprehend the cruel absurdity of his demands? The sheer, unadulterated malice of it all pricked a bitter laugh from my throat, though it was little more than a whisper, lost in the echoing silence of the room.
Unaware or uncaring of my quiet protest, Kaelan advanced on Faelan. With every deliberate step he took, the unpleasant feelings within me grew sharper, more vivid, a raw, exposed nerve.
Kaelan closed the distance. That alone felt like a subtle violation, a tearing at the fragile threads of control I had so painstakingly woven over my emotions. This wasn’t the familiar sting of inadequacy I felt when Kaelan engaged in easy camaraderie with Lysander. Instinctively, I knew. Deep down, I harbored something just as sinister, just as capable of cruelty, as Kaelan did. That’s why watching Kaelan with Lysander eventually became a bearable ache, but his interactions with Faelan unsettled me, eroding my composure, leaving me raw. My hands began to tremble. I clenched them tightly, burying the physical betrayal deep within the folds of my robes.
Kaelan kicked Faelan’s desk. The heavy oak groaned, shaking violently, nearly toppling. Faelan jolted upright, eyes wide with alarm, his voice still unsteady.
“F-forgive me.”
Kaelan stood over him, silently, his gaze burning into Faelan’s face. Faelan’s eyes glistened, unshed tears hovering on the brink. Yet, in that charged moment, I felt as though I was the one on the verge of shattering.
Kaelan never made Faelan run pointless errands, but his eyes never strayed from him. If Faelan sought the privacy of the ablution chambers during a break, Kaelan would still watch his retreating figure, even mid-conversation with us. I knew, because I never stopped watching Kaelan.
To be honest, my first impression of Faelan was unremarkable. His arcane aura was faint, but his youthful features held a certain unblemished quality. When he smiled, it seemed genuinely unburdened, and even his neutral expression carried an inexplicable brightness.
Before Kaelan began his torment, no one held particular disdain for Faelan. He seemed like a verdant sprout nurtured in a warm, loving conservatory, untouched by the harsh currents of the Ascendancy. While he wasn't overtly sociable, preferring the quiet company of ancient scrolls, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanor.
Most considered Faelan a decent acolyte. Since he never flaunted the inherent affection he’d received, he garnered even more casual praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be around—that was Faelan.
But I didn’t particularly like him from the start. Nor did I harbor any animosity—I simply did not care. To say he wasn’t even a shadow upon my perception would be more accurate. Yet, whenever I conversed with my peers, with Kaelan, or Lysander’s circle, and Faelan’s name surfaced, I would find myself casually fabricating, saying, “Oh, him? He’s acceptable. Quite civil.”
Kaelan, like me, had initially paid Faelan no mind. Kaelan was never one to concern himself with the lesser acolytes. After Faelan transferred into our wing in late spring, he and Kaelan didn’t exchange a single word for an entire month. That was the natural order of things.
But then, one day, something shifted. A small, sharp deviation tore through the mundane flow of our lives. It happened just after the midday meal, and looking back, I don’t believe I have ever regretted an action as profoundly as what transpired that afternoon.
Faelan, as was his habit, had claimed a secluded corner in the common study, absorbed in an ancient text. He was the rare sort who truly loved burying himself in books, in the intricate logic of old glyphs and forgotten lore. I, on the other hand, possessed a chronic habit of cultivating a reputation for intellectual curiosity, particularly amongst those deemed respectable.
That’s why, when I chanced upon Faelan, I struck up a conversation about the esoteric volume he held. I was no true scholar of such texts—my pretense of erudition was merely a carefully crafted arcane glamour.
“You possess a deep affection for such tomes, I perceive?”
“Huh? Oh, yes, I suppose.” At the time, Faelan and I were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made the approach less daunting.
“Have you reached its conclusion?”
“Well, I am nearly at the final chapter.”
“Then close it now. The ending will disappoint you. It is one of those works where the final revelations mar the entire experience.”
“You have read it before?”
“Indeed, some time ago.” To satisfy my intellectual vanity, I always sought out critical analyses and scholarly reviews of the volumes I feigned familiarity with, ensuring I possessed a suitable commentary for future conversations. Drawing upon those fabricated memories, I offered a critique—not a genuine one, merely enough to sound informed—and Faelan smiled brightly, looking genuinely pleased. It caught me off guard, a strange warmth blooming within my chest.
“You are the first person I have encountered who has read this particular tome, besides myself.”
“Oh… truly?” The unexpected validation was a subtle intoxicant.
“Yes, but I shall still finish it. Pondering the reasons behind its disappointing conclusion is part of the intellectual journey, would you not agree?”
“Well, naturally. Each mind perceives truth differently.”
“Hearing you say that makes me anticipate it even more.”
That smile still lingers, an uncomfortable, almost painful memory. Was it some instinctive unease, a premonition I felt back then, that warned me to step away?
After that day, Faelan began to seek me out with increasing frequency. Though I found it a slight annoyance, often wondering, *Why me?*, I never outright rebuffed him. Faelan, with his unblemished reputation, was not the worst acquaintance to cultivate. After all, ancient scrolls—outside of required curricula—were practically anathema to most acolytes our age. Even if one had the leisure, such tomes were little more than glorified footrests. For Faelan, I was likely the sole individual capable of discussing such refined intellectual pursuits.
That particular day was one of those routine encounters, but it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days amongst them all.
Lysander was to blame. To this day, I cannot fathom why I acted with such reckless abandon. Why I, a creature of meticulous observation who never meddled in others’ affairs, chose to stick my nose where it did not belong. Why Lysander, of all people, had left his preliminary Arcanum Appraisal wide open, its glyphs exposed for all passersby to see.
I, one who detested having my own academic standing revealed, naturally assumed Lysander harbored a similar discretion. So, I flipped the parchment over to shield it. That’s when I saw it: his score. Eighty-one points. I blinked in disbelief and checked again. It was undeniably eighty-one. Considering the notoriously high thresholds for this particular assessment, it would barely scrape into the fourth tier. But still, it represented the higher end of that tier, a respectable, if not exemplary, achievement.
It was the first time one of my carefully constructed preconceptions had been shattered. It was a minor jolt to realize Lysander wasn’t as much of a lost cause as I’d presumed, possessing a deeper understanding than his reserved demeanor suggested. Naturally, that led my thoughts to Kaelan’s abysmal scores. Now, *he* was the true academic derelict, a scion who would simply mark every answer with a ‘Gamma’ and drift into a meditative slumber through the rest of the examination. Kaelan had never once achieved a score of any merit.
Perhaps that’s why I felt such a strange cocktail of emotions—like I’d unearthed a salvageable artifact amongst a heap of refuse. An acolyte I had once dismissed as merely competent turned out to possess more raw potential than the one I constantly sought to validate. That peculiar realization must have disoriented me, for I did something I normally never would have contemplated.
It was nothing grand, nothing overtly treacherous. I merely grabbed a nearby stylus and scribbled a brief note at the top of Lysander’s appraisal.
“Focus on the foundational sigils. You will ascend to the third tier soon. Well done. —E. Thorne.
P.S. Forgive my presumption in viewing your score; I merely sought to shield it from prying eyes and found it inadvertently.”
The sheer arrogance of evaluating another’s academic achievement and offering unsolicited advice pricked at my conscience, so I rambled to justify myself, to soften the undeniable intrusion.
I cannot say why I even wrote it in the first place. At the time, I must have been utterly beyond reason, caught in a fleeting desire to display my own brilliance, my own discerning eye. Looking back, it was clear this was the very first mistake in what would become a series of dangerous entanglements. Every tragic unraveling begins with a poorly fastened first button.