“Guardian of Kaelen Volkov”—the phrase clung to Lysander like a damp, ill-fitting cloak. Each echo in the Arcane Ward’s hushed corridors served as a bitter reminder: adulthood had claimed him. Adulthood. Two syllables, sharp and foreign on his tongue, a costume he hadn't chosen. Countless nights had bled into days, Lysander wrestling with the sudden, crushing weight of this inherited charge. His mornings belonged to the hushed lecture halls of Eldoria, his evenings to the antiseptic chill of the Ward. Truthfully, half his lessons passed in a blur of half-attention, his mind already drifting towards the sterile infirmary. A familiar knot of dread tightened in his gut as he neared Kaelen’s private room. Anticipation hung heavy in the air. As if sensing his arrival, the door eased open. Kaelen appeared, a pale wraith, propelled by an almost desperate energy, like a starved hound greeting its master. Every grievance, every fleeting irritation of his day in the Ward, would be meticulously cataloged, laid at Lysander’s feet. “They talk of another arcane graft,” Kaelen began, his voice raspy, already brimming with indignation. “My thigh, Lysander. Again. They'll flay it like some ritualistic sacrifice. And the slop they call sustenance—it curdles the very air in my throat. I'm not some ancient mage with a withered stomach. Why must I suffer this vile pap fit only for a stray griffin?” His complaints tumbled out, a genuine misery clouding his features. Lysander saw the shadow of a child, trapped within the gaunt frame of a young man. A subtle sigh escaped Lysander’s lips. He reached into his satchel, the worn leather already faintly perfumed with the scent of spiced bread and sweet fruit. He despised it. The cloying aroma clung to his academic scrolls, his treatises on Eldorian hexes. An instinctive grimace twisted his mouth. Still, it was preferable to carrying the box openly. The thought alone chafed. “What now?” Kaelen’s eyes, usually a tempest of restless energy, widened, then narrowed. Lysander almost imagined a thick, furred tail, drooping. Disgust rippled through him. He banished the image, swiftly producing a carefully wrapped wooden box from his bag. A pitiful, almost starved hunger flickered in Kaelen’s gaze. The previous gloom lifted, replaced by a tentative curiosity. “What is this?” “A midday meal.” Lysander’s voice was flat, carefully neutral. “I inquired. Your healers confirmed you’re still distant from the next grafting, so this is permissible.” “A meal?” Kaelen repeated, his voice barely a whisper. “Do not imbue it with meaning. I procured it from a commonplace vendor, adjacent to the Ward.” Lysander had deliberately used those words: “Do not imbue it with meaning.” For he had already imbued it with so much. He would never confess to seeking out a particular artisan’s stall, renowned for its nourishing, palatable preparations suitable for those recovering from severe magical trauma. The very thought, the admission of such meticulous care, made him recoil. He merely wished to appear as one offering a detached, purely practical courtesy. Nothing more. Yet, even that seemed enough for Kaelen. His barely functional right hand rose, scratching frantically at an earlobe. The skin, Lysander noted, was flushed a vivid crimson. Lysander’s gaze drifted, inevitably, to Kaelen’s fingers. They curled slightly, stiff and unnaturally bent, a testament to the arcane burns that had ravaged his body. A familiar knot of revulsion and pity coiled in Lysander’s stomach. Why must his eyes always fixate on those mangled digits? Why could he not simply look away? A crushing weight settled in his chest. “...Lysander,” Kaelen’s voice, usually a defiant bark, was oddly subdued. “Thank you.” Kaelen stole a hesitant glance at Lysander. Their eyes met, and Kaelen flinched, startled, immediately fumbling with the latch of the wooden box. Or perhaps he only feigned surprise. As if being caught watching Lysander was a transgression, something to be concealed. Lysander watched him. Kaelen began to devour the contents, shoveling food into his mouth with the frantic efficiency of a clockwork automaton. A truly repellent sight. Morsels escaped his lips, crumbs scattered across his tunic. Kaelen’s pinky, ring, and middle fingers remained rigid, refusing to bend. Lysander couldn't discern if it was genuine impairment or a grotesque pantomime. Slowly, Lysander shifted, reaching out. He gently took the spoon from Kaelen’s trembling grip. “What appeals to you?” Kaelen paused, chewing. “The spiced lamb?” Lysander felt a profound, undeniable obligation. He had to, at the very least, acknowledge the authenticity of Kaelen’s wounds. Kaelen, his lips smeared with rich gravy, chewed slowly. His head dipped, and a faint smile touched his face. Lysander simply could not comprehend it. This individual, whose fingers would forever be crippled, whose thigh and back bore hideous, scarred sigils of pain—how could he possibly smile? The radiant, almost luminous joy on Kaelen’s face was an unbearable sight. What could possibly be so amusing? If it were Lysander, he would wish for oblivion. Lysander selected a choice piece of the lamb, guiding it to Kaelen’s mouth. Kaelen chewed, forcefully, still smiling. That wretched boy always managed to disorient Lysander. Truly, the reason for this midday meal, this carefully prepared sustenance, stemmed from an event preceding Lysander’s arrival at the Ward. It began with a visit to Kaelen’s ancestral home. --- This marked Lysander’s second visit to Kaelen’s room since the arcane skin grafting. Lysander still possessed the guardian’s pass, a parchment embossed with the Eldorian seal. In all the weeks Kaelen had been confined, Lysander had encountered his family only three times within the Ward’s sterile confines. Once, his father. Twice, his mother. Kaelen’s mother, in particular, had adopted a saccharine sweetness towards Lysander, as if bestowing praise for his diligent execution of her neglected duties. Kaelen simply rested his chin on a hand, staring at his mother’s retreating back, a silent, unreadable canvas. Lysander’s sole purpose that day had been to retrieve some of Kaelen’s personal effects. A few books, some scrolls, perhaps a favored trinket to alleviate the crushing monotony of the Ward. Nothing more. He knew, better than anyone, the soul-numbing ennui of confinement. Having endured it himself, he understood Kaelen’s silent needs. He reasoned it wasn't sympathy. Certainly not affection. That day, instead of returning to the Ward’s student quarters, Lysander had commuted from his own family’s estate. On his route, he had paused at the Volkov mansion. The grand gates had parted, familiar and welcoming. But Lyra, Kaelen’s sister, was not. She leaned against the archway of Kaelen’s deserted chamber, her voice dry, brittle. “Still haunting Kaelen’s shadow, Lysander?” Lysander harbored little warmth for Lyra. How could she remain absent from the Ward, not a single visit? Her own kin was afflicted. An instinctive, almost primal sense of morality flared within Lysander, silently judging her. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. It was unintentional. The moment the thought surfaced, Lysander clamped his jaw shut, stuffing more of Kaelen’s belongings into his satchel. “He needs his texts.” “He truly did it, didn't he?” Lyra continued, her eyes cold, distant. “That deluded fool is utterly consumed by you.” Lysander’s hand froze mid-air, clutching a discarded quill. He turned, as if drawn by an invisible current. “...Consumed by me?” “What now? Does that revelation warm your cold heart?” “No. I merely sought clarification.” “Nobody 'merely asks' anything, Lysander. You hungered for that answer. You probed.” A low, guttural murmur escaped her, barely audible. Lysander pretended not to hear. Ignoring his pretense, Lyra stepped closer, invading his personal space. This entire family possessed a peculiar talent for disregard: Lyra, Kaelen, even their father. “Tell me, Lysander, where did you vanish after the Scholarly Conclave?” “I returned to my studies.” The whole damned House of Volkov must have heard the tale by now. Lysander knew. “It wasn't as if I yearned for the details,” Lyra scoffed. “But Kaelen. He descended into a fit of madness. That imbecile, who never once darkened the threshold of the Temple of the Elder Light, suddenly prostrated himself in fervent prayer, then erupted in a tantrum. Not long after, he tore apart the Eldorian Talisman his father had gifted him, shrieking like a banshee.” “Talisman?” “The blessed charm. He cherished it, you know? Claimed it was a relic from their father. Then he cursed the Elder Light, calling the Ancestors 'blasphemous mutts.' After that, he sealed himself in his chambers and refused to emerge. The estate was finally peaceful for a time. He doesn’t even grasp the true extent of his own foolishness. A half-wit.” Her voice, previously laced with mocking disdain, suddenly softened, dipping lower. Lysander suspected his own expression had shifted. “What is this? Your face is flushed.” “It is not.” “Liar. Do you actually feel something for him? You care for Kaelen?” “I said no.” Lysander’s voice was tight, strained. “...By the Elder Light.” Lyra gasped, covering her mouth as if confronted by an abomination. “You truly are depraved, Lysander. Utterly without reason.” Why did she persist with such accusations, even after his vehement denial? A prickle of annoyance sharpened Lysander’s temper. He yanked the zipper of his satchel shut, the sound a harsh rasp in the quiet room. He wanted to retaliate, to wound her in turn. “Why do you speak such things to me? Your father, the Arch-Mage, informed me Kaelen was his second son. A lesser lineage.” “What? What bizarre tangent is this?” Lyra’s eyes, usually so calculating, now held a flicker of genuine bewilderment. A true contradiction. Lysander knew it too. Han Taesan, his meticulous tutor, had once remarked on it: *Lysander, for all your calculated detachment, you invariably perform acts of kindness.* No matter his meticulously constructed intentions, the underlying impulse always surfaced. But in this moment, Lysander had his excuse. The sprawling, mottled scars that marred Kaelen’s back. Just as Kaelen could not meet Lysander’s eyes, Lysander could not bring himself to gaze upon those horrific marks. “Lysander.” “Kaelen.” “Then... is it permissible for me to place my belief in you?” His voice was hoarse, a fragile tendril reaching across the space between them. Lysander feigned disinterest. Yet he listened. “What twisted notion are you uttering now?” “I will not love you.” At that instant, Lysander’s heart plummeted. A cold, leaden weight dropped into the pit of his stomach. Something seized his chest, squeezing tight. The words almost escaped him, an involuntary gasp: *Why not?* The sheer audacity of the thought, the raw, unfiltered confession lurking beneath his polished surface, startled him. His true, hidden thoughts, almost laid bare. Lysander, you are a damned fool. He clenched his fists, swallowing the impulse, forcing it down. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. “Instead,” Kaelen continued, his voice a strange blend of sorrow and profound exhilaration, “I will believe in you.” His words made no sense. Yet, Lysander did not withdraw his hand. Did not flee. The suffocating pressure in his chest, no longer merely squeezing, now sharpened into a piercing ache. “I am an atheist now, Lysander. Truly, you are of far greater utility to my existence than that distant, nameless bastard in the ethereal realm.” “Silence, Kaelen.” That wretched boy... “You blaspheme every living day.” “No, that is untrue! I was raised a devout follower of the Elder Light, you know!” “Then what was that vile pronouncement just now?” Kaelen frantically shook his hands, fingers stiff and awkward, as if his very life depended on convincing Lysander. His tone—desperate, on the verge of tears. Lysander felt a strange jolt. If he didn't believe Kaelen, the boy might actually weep. Lysander was caught off guard, left utterly speechless. Then, as if a sudden resolve had seized him, Kaelen slid from the worn Arcane Ward couch, dropping to his knees. “Then I shall prove it.” “Kaelen, what depraved ritual are you enacting?” A large, surprisingly strong hand enveloped Lysander’s ankle. Lysander, having been seated with his legs propped negligently on the couch, slid forward, barely clinging to the edge. His foot dangled, suspended, cradled in Kaelen’s grasp. Kaelen’s gaze descended, lingering on the pale, jagged scar that marred the sole of Lysander’s foot—a mark left from a forgotten shard of enchanted glass in his youth. Kaelen’s brow furrowed. And, to Lysander’s utter disbelief, Kaelen’s eyes welled with moisture. Lysander recoiled in shock, instinctively attempting to yank his foot free. Before he could escape, Kaelen lowered his head. “What are you—” “In the name of the Elder Light, the Arch-Mage, and the Sacred Lineage.” Cold fingertips brushed against Lysander’s ankle. A sharp, unfamiliar ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. What lunatic spell was Kaelen attempting? Lysander struggled, but his strength inexplicably abandoned him. Kaelen looked up once, his expression devoid of disgust. Not a trace. Like a true devotee touching a hallowed relic. “I greet the Vessel.” Kaelen pressed his lips to the tip of Lysander’s foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against Lysander’s ankle, a light, unsettling tickle. The gentle press of his lips traced a path across the base of Lysander’s toes. “S-stop it...” Lysander threw an arm across his face, shielding his eyes from the sight. Kaelen’s right hand, the one with the twisted fingers, tightened around Lysander’s ankle. In that precise moment— Lysander ceased resisting. Three weak, malformed fingers held him. A delicate, fragile grip, tapping lightly, rhythmically against his skin. The lips that had cursed the Elder Light, that had called the Ancestors 'blasphemous mutts,' now meticulously traced a path up his calf. And Lysander did nothing to stop him. That’s when he realized. This relentless, incurable disease—this nightmare of being eighteen, of being Lysander Volkov’s unwitting guardian—still had not reached its harrowing conclusion.

The Weight of Belief