Zephyrin yanked out and ransacked the drawer above, then the one below, before returning to the first with a sinking feeling… until his scrabbling fingers stopped upon a familiar, leather-bound tome.

Withdrawing the journal from its hiding place, he had to resist the urge to fling it across the room. He felt no relief seeing the slim volume, only an irateness that threatened to spill over into self-directed wrath.

Fool! How could he have misremembered a location chosen by him not two weeks past? Had he left half his wits with the palace’s tea-sipping nobles? Though suspecting irrationality in this anger-induced line of thinking, Zephyrin suddenly found himself regretting to have written the thing at all; it was right where he had left it, true, and flipping through it revealed that it was untouched, but now its very existence seemed a liability, one that offered more risk than gain.

What was it that truly mattered? Remembering his father’s battles and how to win them, and which inventions and technologies to invest in when he became of age. Though the rest could prove helpful in securing minor advantages it was ultimately superfluous, especially now that it seemed history would diverge to a greater degree, and much sooner than expected.

Gradually, Zephyrin’s breathing settled. Why had he reacted like that? For a moment he attributed it to his unease over his father’s departure, but he knew it more than that. His meddling at the palace… now he was coming to regret it. He had offered a lifeline to the queen with the expectation that he and Narcissin would remain side by side over the years to come; if that wasn’t the case and events progressed differently, then hadn’t he needlessly jeopardized his father’s rise to power? Zephyrin felt a sickening sensation spread through him at the thought that events were spiraling out of his control…

A click sounded from the room’s entrance. The knob turned and Viristin appeared in the doorframe, the diminished light of the day partially concealing his refined features in shadow. Seeing Zephyrin half-turned in his chair, his face took on something of a wary expression. Zephyrin knew he had to make amends after their last interaction. Taking care to wipe all lingering traces of irritation from his face, he rose from his desk in a deliberate, non-threatening manner. “Dy Llegellion. I’m sorry about losing my composure like that the other day. It’s not you I was upset with, and I didn’t mean to alarm you. I do hope you can forgive me.”

Viristin regarded him for a moment and then nodded grudgingly, as if against his own will. “… I accept your apology, b—Emperor.”

Zephyrin thought that was the end of the matter, but Viristin continued standing in place, watching him with an expression that was odd, even conflicted. He looked very much as though he had to do violence to himself to keep from coming out with a question that had been gnawing at him for weeks. Finally, he lost the struggle. “Why are you so interested in that Alérian?” were the words that burst from his lips.

Slightly taken aback as he considered his dorm-mate’s forceful words, more demand than inquiry, Zephyrin realized he was still holding the journal in his hand. “What do you mean?” he asked carefully, replacing it in his desk with what he hoped was a nonchalant air. He would burn the thing later; it was decided. And speaking of burning, Viristin’s agitation had just about reached fever pitch. “I’m talking about Narcissin, as you know full well!” he exclaimed.

“What about him?” Zephyrin answered coolly.

“It’s no use trying to play the fool, Emperor. I know there’s something between you two.” Viristin wore a triumphant expression, like a student possessing the answer to a conundrum that had long stumped him. “You gave yourself away too many times.”

Though Zephyrin didn’t miss the note of conviction in the young noble’s voice, he was still skeptical. Gave himself away? What was this child going on about? “Go ahead, then. Explain yourself.”

“Your deference.”

“…I beg your pardon?”

Viristin’s triumph morphed into smug self-assurance. “When you and the Alérian were walking together, either to or from the library, or after recreation. Every time without fail, no matter if it was just the two of you or if there was someone else of a higher rank, you’d always make room for him.”

“I have no idea what you’re…” Even as the words left his mouth, however, Zephyrin felt the first stirrings of a deeply unpleasant realization. Meanwhile, indifferent to his sudden attack of self-doubt, Viristin crossed his arms and resumed laying out his observations. “I thought it was suspicious. You, a dy Valensis, and yet with the Alérian in your company you’d let him walk in the middle while keeping to his right. It’s as if you considered him your superior.”

Zephyrin said nothing. What could he say? Hyper-sensitive to the slightest breach or anomaly in protocol, it was a given that the nobles’ sons would pick up any interaction that seemed the slightest bit unusual. It was a blunder easy to avoid, and yet he had failed to foresee it.

“That’s when I first began to suspect you of being a baseblood.” Viristin’s lip slightly curled, as though this last word left a vile taste in his mouth. “But there’s something that still doesn’t add up.” Growing emboldened from Zephyrin’s silence, the young noble took a step forward in the darkening dorm, his eyes narrowing. “If you’re a peasant, I can understand you deferring to an outlander noble, however petty. But if that’s truly the case, then you should do so every time, and for all of us… which simply isn’t the case.”

Zephyrin waited for him to finish. Even if Viristin had found his behavior curious, it was impossible for him to…

No less than the sky, Viristin’s eyes were enkindled by the red glare of the setting sun. “Tell me the truth, dy Valensis. The Alérian… he’s your relative, isn’t he?”