A heated murmur rippled through the Apprentice’s Atelier, a clash of opinions over the merits of oil versus tempera in capturing the light of the morning sun. Young Silas, usually quick to jest, had raised his hand, not in argument, but in a feigned challenge, his fist hovering inches from Tobias’s jaw. Before the childish bravado could escalate into a proper squabble, Caspian’s quill, held with languid grace, tapped Silas’s forearm. The crisp *click* of ivory on bone was enough. The tension snapped. The duel dissolved.
Silas’s exaggerated outrage was a strangled squawk, his face twisting in mock indignation. Roric and Tobias, relieved from their own part in the theatrical spat, erupted into boisterous laughter. Silas spun on them, jabbing Roric’s shoulder with a playful, yet sharp, elbow. The trio, a whirlwind of restless energy, then spilled from the atelier, their voices echoing down the arched corridor.
Tobias, before disappearing around the corner, turned and offered a jaunty wave. Lysander, hunched over a preliminary sketch for a ceiling fresco, offered a polite, almost imperceptible nod in return. The silence that settled in the wake of their departure was a balm, allowing Lysander’s thoughts to unfurl. His fingers, stained with cerulean and umber, curled around a stick of charcoal. He paused before adding a single stroke to the canvas.
His gaze drifted across the workshop’s familiar expanse – the towering plaster busts, the draped canvases like sleeping giants, the scattered palettes a riot of drying hues. The walls, once a soothing cream, bore the scars of countless artistic ambitions, smudged with pigment, scraped by tools, marked by forgotten inspiration.
Lysander lowered his head, pressing his temple against the cool, smooth oak of his work desk.
He had just finished shading the third cherub’s wing, the charcoal a soft whisper against the rough paper, when he lifted his head again. Outside the tall, arched window, the Veritas River shimmered, reflecting the gold of the autumn leaves clinging to the ancient sycamores along its banks. A sharp, almost acrid tang of decay and river mist permeated the crisp air, a stark contrast to the brilliant sapphire sky.
“A convent scriptorium would be a quieter place.”
Master Valerius, the gruff old master of illumination, often grumbled such things. “This Grand Atelier is a godforsaken menagerie. A wilderness, I tell you. These young lions always jostle for position. By mid-spring, the pecking order solidifies, and we find a semblance of peace. But until then? It’s all posturing, challenging, testing the very patience of the muses. My temples throb. And I must endure this spectacle anew with each fresh intake of apprentices. Let’s see… under which celestial house were this year’s lot born?”
Then he would spread his gnarled hand, counting the joints one by one, a low murmur escaping his lips.
“Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio…”
Lysander, mimicking the motion, stretched out his own hand, tracing the delicate ridges of his knuckles. He couldn’t quite recall the astrological cycles, so he simply flipped his hand over, counting the raised bones on the back instead.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…
He never would have imagined, in the gentle warmth of early summer, that late autumn would feel like the turbulent beginnings of spring all over again.
“Artists are nothing but savages. Irrational, emotional, impulsive fools, all of them.”
Lysander stared at the prominent bone of his middle finger, absently tapping his desk like a muted harpsichord. The raspy voice of a distant master, likely hoarse from too much lecturing, droned on, accompanied by the faint scrape of a graver against copper plate.
His gaze drifted to a vacant easel near the front. For a fleeting moment, he imagined seeing the faint imprint of a head on the work table beneath it – one side pressed deep, the other hovering, expectant.
His fingers stilled.
Lysander turned his head. Caspian sat there, hunched over a meticulous blueprint for a new court ornament, his face half-buried in the intricate schematics. His eyes were half-closed, narrowed in concentration. He would fix his gaze on a problem as if to devour it, only to suddenly sag, pressing his forehead against the vellum. Lysander watched as Caspian’s nose became squished between the pages and his head. Then, he turned away. “…Had he drifted for a moment?”
Lysander felt a strange dislodge from reality. He marked the third cherub with a tiny star and moved on to the fourth.
---
Midday supper was a rich venison stew and a small bowl of curds with honey. Caspian, having quickly devoured his curds, abruptly spoke. “Right, you’re second in the Grand Atelier for commissions, aren’t you?”
“Is that so? Yes.”
“Then what about across all the Noble Houses’ patronage?”
“Still second.”
“By the Saints above.”
“Why the surprise?”
“So, the top artist in our atelier is also the top among all patrons?”
“You didn’t know? Seraphina has always held the primary position.”
“She’s even more relentless than you, isn’t she?”
“Her academy classes conclude at one past midnight.”
“Gods. That’s devotion.”
“She is exceptionally diligent.”
Lysander had no desire to prolong the conversation. He scooped a generous spoonful of stew and raised it to his lips. Mercifully, Caspian didn’t press. He merely nodded, a thoughtful glint in his eye. “Ah—.” The timing felt off. The conversational thread had frayed too soon. Lysander debated whether to offer another remark. He detested awkward silences, and so, without conscious thought, he blurted out, “And you? What is your standing?”
“.......” His spoon, laden with venison, paused midway to his mouth. Lysander found his gaze fixed on Caspian’s hand. He held his utensils with admirable precision, a subtle elegance. If there was one thing Caspian executed with flawless precision, it was this – the proper handling of a spoon.
“In the Atelier…”
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
“…What?”
“Why do you look at me thus?”
Lysander quickly averted his eyes from Caspian’s hand. Could he be serious? Not dissembling? Lysander was so taken aback he nearly voiced his disbelief, but mercifully, he managed to swallow the impulse. *By the heavens. That was close.* If he had slipped, if he had given offense, he would have had to contend with Caspian’s notoriously quick temper. He hesitated. Would Caspian prefer a commendation? Or would indifference, a feigned expectation, be the safer approach?
Lysander’s mind, ever calculating for self-preservation, swiftly weighed the social currents. Caspian did not seem particularly fond of most of his companions. The latter option, then, offered a more secure passage. “Hmm. You surpass my expectation.”
“What? Expectation? How dim did you deem me?”
“I did not deem you dim, merely… I thought you found the intricacies of heraldry a struggle?”
“Heraldry is my solitary weakness. Only heraldry.”
“Yet you attend no specialized academy.”
“The absence of an academy does not preclude diligence. By the Saints, did you truly imagine me an imbecile?”
“No, no, not in the slightest.” Lysander waved his hand dismissively, almost defensively. “It is impressive, nonetheless, to achieve such a standing without formal instruction.”
“…Truly?”
“Indeed. It is impressive.” For some reason, Caspian began to mash his spoon into the remaining stew. And – was he blushing? Lysander caught a fleeting glimpse of crimson on the tips of his ears.
Now that he considered it, Julian had ranked thirty-second. And that was only because there were those who performed even worse. Thirty-second out of thirty-six. Reflected Lysander, realizing he rarely paid attention to anything about Julian beyond matters directly concerning himself. And with that realization, a cold clarity washed over him. He had been drowning in precisely the sort of pathetic, obsessive infatuation he had once disdained.
Meanwhile, Caspian, utterly oblivious to Lysander’s internal crisis, had clearly gained a measure of confidence. His tone shifted now, brimming with self-satisfaction. “Oh, right! You likely didn’t know – I am rather skilled with ancient tongues.”
“Are you? How skilled?”
“Flawless recitation. I have never faltered a single vowel in classical Gallaecian.”
“Khhkk!” Lysander choked. The moment Caspian spoke, Lysander spat a mouthful of water. Caspian scowled, yanking his tray further away. “What in the Abyss? What kind of reaction is that?”
“I merely… was not expecting that.”
“Is it truly so shocking?” Caspian frowned, his lower lip protruding slightly. “Yes. My heraldry scores are wretched, but what matter?” There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice. So Lysander offered a light retort. “Perhaps peruse a treatise now and then.”
“What nonsense do you utter? I am an avid scholar of the arcane.”
“A scholar? I have never witnessed you with such a tome.”
“That is because I read in clandestine secrecy at my dwelling.”
“Why in the nine hells would such a pursuit require concealment?”
Caspian’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of food into his mouth. Then, he casually pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something about that image unsettled Lysander. He bit the inside of his cheek. Caspian met Lysander’s gaze as he withdrew the spoon, then lowered his eyes and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to its tip. “Esoteric lore is still knowledge.”
That was certainly a jest. The scoundrel. Lysander’s face burned. To conceal it, he snatched a crumpled piece of discarded parchment from beside his tray and flicked it at Caspian’s face. It struck just below Caspian’s long, narrow eyes and drifted harmlessly onto the table. One of Caspian’s eyes twitched slightly. Not that Lysander cared, but just in case Caspian was truly angered, he feigned mild regret. “Desist from such crude displays. Especially within the Atelier. It is utterly uncouth.”
“Oh? You refer to this? Julian’s particular mannerism?”
“I care not whose mannerism it is. Simply cease.”
“Is this not, pray tell, rather à la mode among us now?”
“.......” Lysander stared at him, attempting to discern if he was jesting or earnest. He found he was sleeping less. That was a sure sign that his spirit, if not his body, had found a precarious comfort. Mornings, which had been dry and sluggish, now held a strange, crisp refreshment. It was a welcome change – for in his mind, the gravest sins for an apprentice were complacency and sloth. “Ah, curse it—.” His jaw clicked painfully as he cleaned his palette knife. Ever since the incident with Julian, his jaw made an odd grinding noise whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Other than that, today held a fragile promise.
Yet, even in his newfound peace, there were sudden, sharp surges of irritation. The cause was invariably Julian. Or rather, the incidents that stemmed from him. Most of those happened within the unforgiving confines of the court.
“Oh, by the way. I saw Julian last night.” Silas spoke, biting into a spiced pastry, the kind rumored to contain questionable meat scraps. Roric, who had been idly jabbing Silas’s ankle with a playful, imaginary dagger, suddenly perked up. “Holy Saints—that’s right! You just reminded me! I was entirely about to mention this. I heard whispers through the grapevine – you know Lord Alaric, yes? Yes? That… *collector* of curiosities? I heard Julian is lodging at his residence.”
“Lord Alaric? That feckless Park Alaric?” Caspian, rummaging through a small satchel, asked casually. When he withdrew his hand, he held two small, exquisite candied citrons. And for some inexplicable reason, he offered one to Lysander. “……..?”
Lysander stared at it, bewildered. “……..What is this?” He looked at Caspian questioningly, but Caspian merely offered a slight nod, as if that alone sufficed as explanation. The one who reacted most vehemently was Silas, whose satchel of pastries had been raided. “By the Abyss. I purchased those! Why in the name of the nine hells are you all consuming my provisions, you rogues?”
“Oh, as if you’ve never pilfered mine, you glutton.” Roric made another feigned knife-hand strike at Silas’s throat. Silas instantly spun around, grabbed Roric’s tunic, and swung a mock punch at his face. Of course, he harbored no true intention of striking him. That was simply their customary dynamic. Lysander ignored their puerile squabble and looked down at the candied citron in his hand. The wrapper depicted a small lemon, split neatly in half. He peeled the delicate paper, popped the sweet into his mouth, and lifted his head.
“What do you surmise? The taste of first ardor?” Caspian grinned. “I do not care for citron.” Lysander’s answer was not solely about the confectionery – it was his evaluation of Caspian’s jest, too. And more than anything, he found little amusement in first ardor. That sticky, bitter feeling clung to the back of his throat. It quite killed his appetite. In the end, he could not even finish the candy. He tossed it into the refuse bin. “Oh, what a lamentable waste,” Caspian mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands.
Ignoring him, Lysander reached into Silas’s satchel to find a different confection. It was all citron or lime. Lime was the lesser blight. He unwrapped one and placed it in his mouth. “Anyway, Lord Alaric, then? Sounds exactly like Julian.”
“What, because they are both… *accommodating*?” Caspian’s words were sharp, cutting. Uncomfortable, Lysander turned to look at him. Caspian was sucking on his candied fruit expressionlessly, twirling the white stick between his lips. Lysander pulled his own from his mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong. Caspian did not seem to care. He tilted his candied fruit in the air like a tiny rapier, making random jabbing motions. “He dallies with supplicants – be they men or women. And when he discovers someone of… particular interest, he dispatches them directly to Julian. It’s a perpetual rotation. A mutual exchange of… *favors*.”
“So Lord Alaric is also… thus inclined?” Silas suddenly interjected. Whether he had concluded his playful skirmish with Roric or had merely halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, Lysander could not tell. Silas rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing what he had just heard.