A labyrinth of polished oak and ancient stone, this hushed expanse held the diligent presence of some thirty souls.
Here, within the High Court’s Great Hall of Records, every soul carved out its place, its niche in the grand, unspoken hierarchy. Each day stretched taut, a drawn bowstring, for nearly three weeks. Survival was not merely an act of breathing, but a delicate, intricate dance.
This unending tension had begun for Lysander at twelve, when he first grasped the brutal necessity of aligning himself. This daily negotiation, this careful calibration of his existence, had been his constant since—and, he suspected, everyone else’s too.
A cubic jungle, concealing a pyramid. That was the Great Hall of Records, home to its eighteen principal archivists.
“Ah…”
His wrist, cramped from hours of copying ancient script, throbbed as he flexed it. A light tap to his empty stomach brought a hollow resonance. Letting out a weak sigh, Lysander looked at the bent backs before him. Vellum scrolls, parchment-pale napes. At the Head Archivist’s dais, Archivist-Royal Elara sat, peering over a crumpled decree, half-forgotten. The junior scribes, meanwhile, wrestled with their assigned decipherments or, utterly defeated, slumped over their desks in weary repose.
“Rouse yourselves, you who slumber,” Archivist-Royal Elara called out, turning another page of the administrative missive.
It was already the fifth bell of the afternoon. Lysander had been grappling with the fifteenth obscure passage of the Royal Lineage Codex. He paused, raking an index finger through his hair, before setting down his quill. His eyes drifted to the empty seats.
Two, in particular, remained vacant.
As anticipated, neither Lord Kaelan Thorne nor Lady Seraphina had presented themselves in the Hall today. They likely would not return tomorrow, unless Kaelan’s mercurial temperament decreed otherwise, or some fresh discord had flared between the two. The specifics of that entanglement remained a frustrating mystery.
Lysander lowered his gaze, returning to the intricate glyphs dancing across the codex. His vision blurred with the precise, archaic strokes of Veridian script.
There was a time, not long ago, when he believed he understood everything about Lord Kaelan. He had convinced himself he held a unique insight into the nobleman’s complex mind, a deeper understanding than anyone else in the court. He had even fostered a quiet, bitter pride in that, even when comparing himself to Marquis Alaric Volkov, who stood far closer to Kaelan than Lysander ever had.
In truth, that very pride had been his silent companion, helping him endure the sight of Alaric and Kaelan’s easy camaraderie. Deep down, he’d savored the clandestine thought that he possessed a superior grasp of Kaelan’s true motivations.
Propping his chin on a hand, Lysander felt a wave of nausea. The very capability of such thought disgusted him.
What judgment would descend upon him if others knew these insidious reflections swirled within his mind? The answer was chillingly clear. He would be cast down to the lowest tier of the court’s intricate pyramid, occupying its widest, most despised plane.
A terrifying prospect. This kind of venomous desire, a unique blight upon a scheming courtier, had to remain utterly concealed. He needed to bury it so deep that not even the object of his yearning would sense its presence. Ultimately, he needed to hide it so thoroughly that even he forgot its existence.
But Lord Kaelan Thorne had never bothered with such discretion. Everyone in the High Court knew of his desires, his whims, his brazen indiscretions.
Lysander glanced around, a subtle shift of his head. All remained hunched over their desks. Pressing his lips tightly, he looked straight ahead.
Lying neglected between rows of scribes’ benches was a discarded decree, its vellum cover smudged with boot prints.
Suddenly, as if sensing an unseen observer, Lysander buried his head in his work, feigning intense concentration.
Then he turned his neck in a different direction. His gaze fell upon the far row of benches. There lay a face, partially hidden by an arm, as if the person had collapsed into sleep mid-task. The visage seemed delicate, almost sorrowful, hinting at profound weariness.
“...”
He found himself staring at Marquis Alaric Volkov’s profile before his gaze drifted to an exposed wrist. Had the already imposing Alaric grown even taller? The tunic that had fit him perfectly at the start of the season now left his wrists fully exposed. Around one of those wrists was a dark, carved stone amulet—a symbol of the Faith of the Crimson Star, a weighty, unmistakable mark, integral to Alaric’s formidable identity.
Before hearing about him, Lysander had assumed Alaric hailed from the distant outer districts, the same impoverished areas as some of the minor noble families.
Despite his intimidating aura, Alaric didn’t exude the overt extravagance of the truly wealthy. His deep-set eyes were always shadowed by his heavy lids, and his faded irises gave him a perpetually haunted look. The way his thin sclera showed beneath his pupils added to his sharp and gaunt appearance.
Alaric’s overall atmosphere was one of grim intimidation, though it lacked the polished refinement associated with Veridia’s old money. Instead, his face seemed marked by a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a kind of melancholic heaviness. Combined with his large build—he was undoubtedly the tallest nobleman Lysander had ever encountered—it made him doubly imposing.
Fortunately, unlike Lord Kaelan, Alaric’s sharp features included a classically handsome symmetry. Without that, people might have actively recoiled from him. Even so, Alaric’s face was unsettling, intimidating, and vibrant with a nervous energy.
But Alaric’s character couldn’t have been more different from his visage.
It wasn’t just that he seemed indifferent to everything; it was as if he actively expunged events from his memory, whether by design or disinterest. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that ironically added to his mystique.
Most notably, Alaric held no regard for wealth. He never noted how much others spent or how much they sought. If the mood struck him, he’d casually toss a purse of coin to someone nearby without a second thought, as if the concept of currency held no meaning for him. Sometimes he would lend gold and forget about it entirely. There were even tales of supplicants returning borrowed sums only for Alaric to ask, genuinely puzzled, why they were pressing coin into his hand.
Still, he didn’t dispense favors to just anyone. He’d indulge random requests when in a good humor but coldly refuse those in genuine desperation.
Even with his chosen confidantes, Alaric could be harsh. Lysander once overheard a story about how Lord Valerius, upon seeing Alaric’s prized ceremonial hawk—a bird the Marquis rarely displayed—excitedly reached for its jesses without permission. Alaric cuffed him on the spot, sending Valerius sprawling onto the flagstones like a startled frog.
At the pinnacle of the court’s social strata, figures like Alaric and Kaelan shared one fundamental trait: a complete disregard for others’ opinions. This indifference, in its own way, was what allowed them to command the pyramid’s apex.
Why did they, with their own hands, yield the reins of their world to these unpredictable, dangerous predators? No matter how much Lysander pondered it, he still could not fathom it.
And yet, Marquis Alaric Volkov called himself a devout follower of the Faith of the Crimson Star.
He was the type of defiant noble who slept with a holy text under his head, yet still claimed to uphold the tenets. He abstained from strong spirits, from illicit poisons, from carnal indulgence, and from extortion. Yet the doctrine he supposedly followed seemed flawed—anyone could discern that from the rules on drink and vice alone. He had heard the Faith permitted both, in moderation.
They said the Faith viewed unholy passions as a grievous sin. Was that why Lord Kaelan’s scandalous actions so repulsed Alaric Volkov? Lysander licked his dry lips.
A strange sense of relief washed over him that he hadn’t been caught in Kaelan’s turbulent wake. If he had been, he would have ended up like that discarded decree, trampled on the floor of the Great Hall. And yet, even in that moment, he wondered—if Kaelan and he had remained close, as they were just a few months past, would Kaelan have offered protection?
That thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories he desperately wished to forget. He drew a deep breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the meager lunch he’d eaten earlier were threatening to return.
No. Of course not.
How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to believe Kaelan would. To Kaelan, Lysander was nothing. Merely a convenient, high-minded acquaintance to pass the time. He knew this now because of the way Kaelan had looked at him when he had been publicly dismissed, his reputation battered. Kaelan’s eyes had spoken everything. Lysander hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had been staring him in the face.
Kaelan sinned openly. Lysander, too, was a sinner—but he hid his transgressions. And so, Kaelan suffered the court’s judgment, while Lysander was spared.
A faint laugh escaped his lips, so soft it was only audible to himself.
“...So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that truly matters.”
Perhaps the Court, in its inscrutable justice, had a personality much like Marquis Alaric’s.
His gaze shifted to the desk near the Head Archivist’s dais. This was unusual, but today, he felt a pang of pity for Lady Seraphina. Poor soul, caught in the clutches of that serpent, Kaelan. She lacked the strength to resist his monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Seraphina, unlike her family’s towering ancestral legacy. She should have fled the moment Lysander had subtly warned her, fool that she was.
Lysander knew he was not a good person. He was selfish and self-serving, and perhaps that was his penance. Sometimes, a darker thought surfaced: If Kaelan was determined to pursue such forbidden paths, why not choose someone sly and deceitful like Lysander? At least then life would be simpler, less tragic. Why ensnare someone so innocent and earnest, only to guarantee their suffering?
These days, his thoughts had shifted.
Yes. Of course no one could ever truly love someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise.
There was a time when he thought he could possess it all. Arrogant, conceited Lysander. Lysander, who thought he understood the entire political landscape at eighteen. Wicked, vile Lysander. Pitiful Lysander, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone.
That day, he couldn’t decipher past the fifteenth passage. He used a supposed migraine as an excuse to lie slumped over his desk, thinking to himself: *Well, at least I am not as publicly ruined as Kaelan or Seraphina.*
Whispers about Kaelan and Seraphina spread like wildfire through the noble houses. Whether they were exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to ascertain either. Kaelan’s immediate circle had vanished from court life, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances to fret over anything else, inadvertently fueling the rumors further.
“Archivist Kaelan Thorne, forgive me, but who was closest to him?”
“Lord… No, Marquis Alaric Volkov.”
Lysander overheard this as he passed by on his way back to the Great Hall before the final bell. The Head Archivist had inquired, and a junior scribe had answered. Pretending he hadn’t heard, Lysander walked into the room. Archivist-Royal Elara glanced nervously between Lysander and the vacant seats, drumming her fingers against the dais. Then, as if abandoning some unspoken thought, she announced:
“Let us conclude.”
The moment dismissal ended, Lysander grabbed his satchel. As he slung it over his shoulder, Marquis Alaric tapped him on the back.
“Lysander. Join me after duties.”
Lysander looked at his face.
He knew. He had always watched Kaelan and Alaric’s every move, so he knew that the person Alaric most frequently invited to accompany him was always Kaelan. After a brief pause, Lysander waved him off.
“Cannot. I have late-night decipherments.”
“And after that?”
“Further study. Go, seek out one of your companions.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Aligning too closely with a lesser mind only drains one’s vitality.”
“Ha.”
Lysander let out a short, incredulous laugh at the blatant absurdity.
Right. This was precisely why he had been able to tolerate Alaric better than expected. Their twisted philosophies seemed to intersect in strange, unsettling ways.
“So, Lord Valerius, Lady Isolde—they are all ‘lesser minds’? Even Baroness Lyra?”
“If you insist on such terms, then yes, largely so. You, however, are different.”
That backhanded compliment left Lysander with a prickle of discomfort.
“What is that supposed to mean? You are dreadful.”
“No, I am not.”
“You are truly awful.”
“Hmm. It is in the Tenets of the Crimson Star. ‘Thou shalt speaketh only truth.’ I am merely being honest, Lysander.”
Honestly, Alaric was worse than Lysander. At least Lysander didn’t so openly dismiss his nominal companions as mere dross.
“That is why I am a good man.”
“...Indeed.”
“Since I am such an honorable man, may I accompany you to your personal study?”
Marquis Alaric Volkov blinked twice. Lysander looked into his shadowed eyes for a moment before nodding.
“Very well. Why not.”
As long as Alaric did not directly impede his secret ambitions, there was no reason to refuse. To secure one’s place in the court’s intricate hierarchy, one had to sometimes allow predators into one's den.