A child’s apology, when stripped bare, reveals merely a brittle frame. It is a structure of obligation, hastily erected, devoid of the deep mortar of true regret. Especially so in Eldoria, where the weight of one’s House often superseded the frail whispers of a conscience.
“Just that? A shallow trick, you say?” Kaelen’s voice, a low murmur across the polished obsidian table, held a peculiar lilt. He leaned back, the faint shimmer of his silk robes catching the lantern light. His lips curved, a smile that never quite reached his eyes—a disquieting feature Lysander had come to associate with Kaelen’s unsettling candor.
“Do you not know the ancient adage?”
Lysander watched, a spoon of spiced broth hovering before his lips. A knot tightened in his stomach, a familiar tension. His own insecurity often manifested as a heightened awareness of others, a constant analysis.
“A man, or an acolyte, is either a dog or a boy.” Kaelen’s gaze drifted to the lofty, vaulted ceiling of the Sanctum’s antechamber, tracing invisible constellations.
Lysander lowered his spoon, resting it with a soft click against the porcelain bowl. “Seriously.”
“I am no dog. And by Eldorian reckoning, we are all but fledgling acolytes, regardless of years. What true difference does age make in the face of ancestral power?” Kaelen’s words were a rhetorical flourish, a way to dismiss the very concept of genuine maturation. He unfolded his arms, a casual gesture that nonetheless exuded a coiled strength.
Lysander found himself momentarily speechless, again reminded of Kaelen’s peculiar logic, unbound by the usual constraints of decorum or even common sense.
“The chime. They ring for us.”
Kaelen rose with an almost unnerving fluidity, snatching a small, resonant crystal from the table where it had pulsed with a soft, persistent thrum. “Guard my belongings, Lysander.”
“What belongings…?” Lysander began, but Kaelen had already turned, his lithe frame disappearing through an archway. A moment later, he reappeared, balancing a tray in each hand. Lysander’s brow furrowed. The trays, though not vast, were laden with heavy, enchanted clay bowls that radiated a gentle warmth.
“Is that not weighty?” Lysander murmured, a flicker of surprise unsettling his composed facade.
“Not at all. Feels light as air.”
Indeed, Kaelen placed them onto the table without a whisper of strain, the bowls settling with a low, comforting hum. Lysander’s gaze lingered, caught by the unexpected display of physical prowess. Kaelen, noticing his blank stare, gave a dismissive click of his tongue.
“Impressed by my manners, perhaps?” he quipped, a sardonic gleam in his eyes.
Lysander offered a terse reply. “Just eat.”
“How does one eat with lips sealed? Like this?” Kaelen demonstrated, pressing his lips together before breaking into a wide, mirthless grin. He dropped back into his seat, an easy confidence in his posture.
Lysander picked up his own spoon, looking down at his untouched meal. He scraped the ceramic surface of the bowl, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound in the hushed chamber. Kaelen, meanwhile, blew on his steaming broth, then set his spoon aside, beginning to prod at the accompanying side dishes with delicate silver tongs.
Lysander paused, his eyes drawn to Kaelen’s hands. The movements were precise, almost theatrical in their grace.
“I have observed this before… Your handling of utensils is remarkably proper.”
Kaelen raised an eyebrow. “Mine? You think so?”
“Yes.”
Lysander bit back the unspoken thought: *it does not suit you.* Kaelen’s persona, though composed, carried a subtle edge of wildness, a raw potential that seemed at odds with such formal precision. Kaelen, as if reading his unspoken words, narrowed his eyes before a sudden, sinister smirk spread across his face.
“So, you noticed.”
“Noticed what?” Lysander asked, genuine confusion coloring his tone. What peculiar game was Kaelen playing now?
“Feigning ignorance, are we? Fine, you sharp-eyed acolyte. I shall bring you into my confidence.”
Into what, exactly? Lysander frowned, his unease deepening. Kaelen twisted his lips, a flicker of something unsettling in his gaze.
“When we face Thorian and his progenitor, there is a small matter requiring your… assistance.”
“What matter…? Forget it.” Lysander dismissed the nascent thought. It would undoubtedly be some form of elaborate deception. He offered a half-hearted nod, already resigning himself.
Finishing his meal with surprising speed, Kaelen tucked his hands into the silken sleeves of his robes, watching Lysander with an unnerving intensity. As soon as Lysander placed his spoon down, Kaelen gestured with his chin towards the entrance of the antechamber, where a gleaming portal-gate hummed softly. Without a timepiece to consult, he tapped his bare wrist repeatedly, urging Lysander.
“I am finished. Cease your dawdling.”
“We must observe the visitation hours. Your pace is glacial.”
“By the Eldar’s decree. Very well.”
“Rise. Hasten.”
“I am risen, I said.”
“Quickly, summon the portal.”
“Damn it all…” Lysander muttered, chafing at the incessant urging. He jogged to the portal gate and pressed the activation rune.
“Attaboy!”
“Away with you…” Lysander shot Kaelen a discreet, exasperated glare. This acolyte, when he drew close, possessed a peculiar clinginess, a demanding nature Lysander had only begun to discern. It had taken months to unravel this facet, though he had never truly sought to.
As they waited for the portal to stabilize, Kaelen idly rubbed his fingers over the edge of a thick, shimmering ward-patch fixed to his jaw. The patch, meant to conceal, began to peel at the corner, dangling slightly.
“Are you meant to remove it so carelessly?” Lysander asked, a touch of academic curiosity overriding his irritation.
“It vexes me. Obscures the ritual of cleansing.”
Before Lysander could respond, the portal doors shimmered open, revealing a short, brightly lit corridor. Kaelen stepped through, immediately pressing a rune that indicated their destination within the Grand Sanctum. As the portal transported them, he gazed into the reflective surface of the gate, baring his teeth. “Hmph, they are aligned.”
Lysander stole a glance. Kaelen bent slightly to examine his reflection, hands still tucked into his sleeves, an aura of cultivated nonchalance about him. And gods, he was absurdly tall. While Lysander instinctively observed, the portal reached their floor in mere moments.
Absolute silence greeted them in the corridor. Kaelen jerked his chin towards a particular chamber, its door carved with intricate runes of healing and warding.
“That is the one.”
His lips, slightly parted, and his downward gaze were laced with a subtle arrogance, a hint of the predator beneath the polished surface. As the portal doors began to seal behind them, they stepped fully into the corridor. Kaelen, however, did not immediately move towards the chamber. Lysander paused behind him, awaiting the next beat of this unsettling performance.
After a brief, unnerving stillness, Kaelen resumed walking, his unusually long strides carrying him forward. He scratched at the adhesive edge of his ward-patch with his ring finger, then peeled it off in one swift motion.
“Ah. Gods. That stings.”
The discarded patch vanished into his sleeve. His normally smooth silhouette now bore a subtle bulge where it was tucked away. Turning, Kaelen looked at Lysander.
“…”
His exposed jaw bore a grotesque canvas of bluish and deep crimson bruising. It looked, quite frankly, sickeningly authentic. Yet, Kaelen himself grinned with absolute confidence, an expression that felt strangely eerie and unsettling to Lysander. Especially so with that perpetually dark, melancholic cast to his features—as if he were always plotting some intricate, beautiful betrayal.
“How do I appear? Convincing?”
Kaelen, ever the charlatan. Every word, every gesture, spontaneous yet meticulously crafted for effect. He possessed an uncanny knack for persuasion, and at times, Lysander suspected he even ensnared himself within his own elaborate delusions.
“Who can say.” Lysander’s voice was dry, noncommittal.
Suddenly, a memory surfaced, a fleeting echo of Kaelen’s ramblings from days past. He had spoken, as if recounting another’s tale, of visiting the Temple of Eldoria for the first time in seven years. Since his First Arcane Attunement at eleven cycles, it had been his first true confessional. His sin? Neglecting the ancient rites for seven long years. He admitted he had only gone out of fear of his progenitor’s ire. The Acolyte-Priest had chastised him, noting such faith was troublesome. “Ah, my apologies,” Kaelen had said, intending to leave, yet somehow found himself delivering the final blessing in the priest’s stead. The priest, Kaelen claimed, had been flustered. Only after stepping from the confessional did Kaelen realize what he had done. “I wished to be swallowed by the earth from sheer mortification. Why, in the void’s name, do they scribe the blessing so prominently?”
Yet, Kaelen, Lysander knew, would not be visiting the Temple this week, nor likely the next. That was simply his nature.
“Well, my parents and certain Temple figures kept asking why I had not attended the rites. Is that truly their sole inquiry? What can one do? Consistency is key.” Kaelen had snickered. Lysander, seeing the others laugh along with him, nodded. Yes, in his own twisted way, Kaelen was consistent. And that consistency had, thus far, never placed Lysander at a disadvantage.
Lysander raised a hand, peeling back the faint glamour he had applied over his nose. A dark red, horizontal line now bisected the bridge of his unusually aristocratic nose. Kaelen looked at him, a faint smile playing on his lips before his eyes crinkled with a peculiar amusement.
“Do you know why Thorian is such a simpleton?” Kaelen lowered his head slightly, bringing his face close to Lysander’s, and whispered in a low, conspiratorial tone.
“He possesses no foresight. None at all. He fails to grasp that if he continues upon this path, his life will unravel into ruin.” Tap, tap. Kaelen’s thin fingers drummed lightly against the concealed bulk within his sleeve.
“He should have heeded his progenitor’s counsel. They say, obey your elders, and prosperity follows.”
*And do you heed yours?* Lysander swallowed the words. In a strange, convoluted way, perhaps Kaelen did. *Sure, whatever.* Kaelen’s voice was full of laughter, a chilling mirth. They soon arrived before a grand, heavy door, and instead of opening it, Kaelen simply waited.
For a brief moment, Lysander analyzed his own actions. Why had he followed Kaelen here? Why was he complicit in this charade? The most potent reason, the one that resonated deepest, was his desire to witness Thorian’s downfall, his once-unassailable position crumble, with his own eyes. And perhaps, a tiny part of him yearned for the recognition that came with such high-stakes involvement, even if unseen.
Lysander lifted his head, meeting Kaelen’s gaze. He placed a hand lightly on Kaelen’s back. “Let us proceed.”
The moment he spoke, Kaelen’s smirk widened, as if Lysander’s assent had been precisely what he awaited. He ran his fingers through his dark hair, deliberately disheveling it, and hunched his shoulders slightly as he carefully opened the heavy door. Kaelen stepped in first, and Lysander followed him into the recuperation chamber.
Thorian lay upon a bed of softly glowing crystal, his face pale, surrounded by the subtle hum of healing enchantments. Beside him, seated with an air of profound weariness, was a face Lysander knew all too well: Lord Valerius, Thorian’s progenitor, head of House Valerius. Honestly, Lysander was taken aback. He hadn’t expected the esteemed Lord to be personally present.
“Forgive our tardiness, Lord Valerius. I am Kaelen,” Kaelen announced smoothly, lifting his chin with shameless confidence. Though Lysander felt a jolt of surprise, he quickly masked his reaction, offering a slight, deferential bow. “Greetings, Lord Valerius.”
As soon as Lysander finished speaking, the old man’s gaze, which had been fixed on Kaelen, shifted to him. A flash of surprise crossed Valerius’s aged features.
“You… you are Lysander, are you not?”
“I encountered him in the Grand Sanctum’s antechamber, Lord Valerius. He appeared to be here for a visitation as well?” Kaelen smoothly interjected, before Lysander could answer, playing dumb with an unsettling naturalness. The ease with which Kaelen lied, as if it were merely another polite formality, was truly impressive. He must have honed this art countless times. Lysander, speechless at the brazenness, simply offered a small smile, playing along. He could hardly contradict Kaelen now.
“Yes. Merely visiting.”
“Ah… But, well…” Lord Valerius’s worried expression faltered. It was obvious he wished to say something more, but hesitated, making his intention painfully clear. In the end, Thorian’s progenitor broke the silence.
“Thank you for coming, Lysander. I am certain Thorian would be pleased. But, Lysander, I regret, might I ask you to step out for a moment? There is a sensitive matter I must discuss with this acolyte.”
“Of course, Lord Valerius.”
Lysander nodded, bowing again, and left the chamber without hesitation. For a fleeting second, he considered leaving the door ajar to eavesdrop, but Lord Valerius’s gaze was so piercingly fixed upon him that he dared not risk it.
So, Lysander remained ignorant of what transpired within. He turned to gaze out of a tall, arched window, where slow-moving clouds drifted across the cerulean Eldorian sky. It was difficult to judge the passage of time—whether too short or too long for a conversation concerning penitence and restitution. But eventually, the heavy door opened, and Lord Valerius emerged.
“Lysander.”
“Lord Valerius. Are your discussions concluded?” Lysander quickly turned, offering another slight bow. The soft rustle of expensive robes, the quiet tread of polished leather, grew closer. Only then did Lysander lift his head to regard the man who, in a way, had indirectly birthed Lysander’s quiet resentment. Lord Valerius had aged significantly. Only a few moons had passed since their last encounter, yet his face seemed withered, etched with new lines of strain, casting an unsettling pallor upon him.
“Forgive my abrupt dismissal. Thorian has been acting so recklessly of late… Yet you still came all this way. I truly appreciate it. He is under the effects of potent arcane restoratives now, so he will not awaken.”
“Oh, no matter, Lord Valerius. I felt compelled to come. Though it is a pity I cannot converse with him.” Lysander kept his voice even, perfectly composed.
“Yes, thank you for your understanding.” Lord Valerius let out a low sigh, so weak it seemed pitiful. There was no trace of the formidable, thundering patriarch Lysander had heard tales of, the one who reacted with furious passion to every slight concerning Thorian. Only a fragile, weary middle-aged man remained. Lysander found himself unable to comprehend why Valerius appeared so utterly dejected. Surely, his son merely receiving a few minor rebukes could not cause such profound despair.
“I had hoped that associating with acolytes like you, Lysander, might aid Thorian in his growth… But lately, he has only fallen into further trouble, seeking out… unsuitable influences… And now this…” Valerius trailed off, his gaze distant.
“…”
“By some chance, Lysander, do you know an acolyte named Elara?”
Elara.
Lysander’s fingertips trembled, almost imperceptibly, where they rested against his side. He was so weary of this twisted, convoluted dance. “Elara? Yes. She is in some of my theoretical study circles.”
“What manner of acolyte is she? Do you know anything of her character?”
“Uh, well… She is diligent. Possesses a keen intellect, too. But her House’s standing is… strained. Even so, she always strives to excel in her studies….”
“And?”
“Then, one incident, it seemed to…” Lord Valerius’s gaze sharpened, his weariness replaced by an intense scrutiny. Lysander felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. The carefully constructed facade, the quiet vindication he had savored, now felt precarious, teetering on the edge of exposure. He had not anticipated this. He had not anticipated Elara.
His heart hammered a silent rhythm against his ribs. The currents beneath the polished surface of Eldoria, indeed, ran deeper and colder than he had ever truly understood. He forced a serene expression, masking the turmoil within. His drive for perfection, for control, demanded it. He met Lord Valerius’s gaze, offering only a polite, expectant silence.
He wanted to understand. He *needed* to understand.