The Age of Serenity

2

Bastien

I can do this. I'm here.

It's a mantra, something I quote to myself day in and day out, attempting my best to recall some of the things I study. That never seems to be an obstacle, though I'm frequently tired and absent-minded in class, too lost in my own ideas to focus. If asked to repeat the data, it's all there, written in my neat penmanship.

'As we covered last week, the Skies above our Obelisk are guarded by Xamaev himself,' Master Damion, a slight, younger man, with dark slicked back on his forehead and silver eyes, drawls on, pointing to some particular chalk constellation. He starts naming the stars, Durian, Xeres, and the like, on and on.

My name is Bastien, and I don't have a patronymic. I don't have family, outside of the Brothers and Masters, and the other Wards of this place. For as long as I can remember, I have only had one goal. To be a Brother.

As a Brother of Xamaev, I am not to take a spouse or have children, outside of my breeding cycles. I am to uphold the standards of the Prince, abstain from temptation, obey the orders set in place, not to deviate. But that is arduous. More arduous for me than it seems to be for the others. I distrust things, I question, I'm inquisitive which isn't something the Order supports. We are curators of knowledge, of experience, but we do not conceive. We are consciousness. At nineteen years old, my breeding cycles aren't far off, the subject of reproduction becomes more prevalent, and my mind strays more frequently.

Strays to one place in particular.

A boy with albastar skin, sliver eyes and long fingers.

I begin to shiver, then tremble, then shake violently, sending a few of my books to the ground with a loud thump.

'Do you need to excuse yourself, Bastien?' Master Damion asks me, making a few of my classmate's laugh, and making me blush.

'No, Master,' I croak, turning red. He nods curtly and returns to his lesson. At the end of the class-, Master Damion dismisses us, waving his hand at the door. The entire class of 15 Mavens gets up in unison, and files out of our desks, one row at a time. In uniform silence, we make our way out the door, but Master Damion stops me.

'I need to speak to you, Bastien,' He says, firmly. 'Please remain.'

Perplexed and concerned, I obey, standing near his desk and watching my peers pass me. Caius and Dante, my best friends, give me questioning glances, wrinkling their noses up at me. I want to do something, to provide them with some reason, but I have none, so I look on. When the last of the class is gone, the door closes, and Master Damion turns to me.

'You can pull up a chair,' He chuckles softly. 'You don't have to stand.'

I obey swiftly grabbing a chair and setting it in front of his desk.

'And another,' He says, getting up from his desk and going to the door. I don't question, pulling up another chair and setting it beside my own. Damion returns a moment later, with a young man in tow. This boy, who looks barely sixteen years old, doesn't belong to the Order. That much is evident, from the way he walks. Hands folded in front of him, heels hardly touching the ground. His clothes are novel as well, his chest and shoulders covered in dark blue silk, his abdomen armored with a golden corset. His legs were cloaked in soft blue pants, that cuffed at his ankle with golden metal. And he doesn't wear shoes. His skin is pale, like snow, like flour, and his eyes glow a thousand shades of blue. His hair, a dark wine red, is twisted into dreads down his back, each covered in beads of different origins. Around his neck hangs a heavy chain, e mboldened