“Kaelen’s Keeper”—the appellation clung to Lysander like a clinging fog. A constant, chilling reminder that the fleeting academic reprieve of his youth had withered, replaced by a weight of responsibility he never sought.
Adulthood. The word felt like a stiff, ill-fitting academic robe, heavy and cumbersome on his shoulders. Its arcane weave seemed to chafe.
Countless nights had bled into dawns as he grappled with this inherited burden. Not a duty of his choosing, but one thrust upon him by circumstance and the laxity of a powerful House.
Morning found him among the scrolls and lecture halls of the Crimson Spire Arcanum. Evenings saw him navigating the austere corridors of the Convalescence Wing, a place steeped in the chill of arcane suppression fields.
Truthfully, less than half his lectures received his full attention. His thoughts drifted, invariably, to the low thrum of the wards and the distant cries of patients undergoing restorative arcane therapy.
A heavy heart weighted his steps as he returned to the infirmary. Kaelen Varrick, from House Varrick of the Obsidian Dominion, would invariably surge forth from his recuperation chamber, a restless specter waiting for his handler.
And just as surely, Kaelen would unburden himself of every indignity suffered that day within the sterile confines of the ward. His voice, usually sharp, became a petulant whine.
“They speak of another runic re-alignment ritual. Damn it, Lysander… my arm will feel like a raw nerve for weeks again. And these nutrient pastes they serve? Absolutely anathema to a living being. I’m not some ancient spirit tethered to a glyph; my stomach functions perfectly, so why must I choke down this gruel fit only for the famished familiars of the Lower Quarter?”
He poured out his frustrations with a genuinely miserable expression. The grand scion of House Varrick, reduced to a petulant child. It was a sight that twisted Lysander’s stomach.
A small sigh escaped Lysander’s lips. He reached into his satchel, its leather already faintly redolent of the forbidden.
The aroma of spiced stew, rich and earthy, had already permeated the finely tooled hide. A subtle wrinkle creased Lysander’s brow. His fastidious nature recoiled.
Still, carrying it openly would have drawn far more unwelcome attention.
“What is it?” Kaelen’s voice held a tremor of hesitant curiosity. Lysander imagined a phantom tail, thick with dark fur, drooping in his peripheral vision. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.
He swiftly dismissed the repulsive image. From his satchel, Lysander withdrew a lacquered bento box, warm to the touch. It was wrapped in a silken cloth woven with a faint protective ward against detection.
A pitiful gaze swept over the offering. Only then did the gloom in Kaelen’s eyes shift, replaced by something akin to a spark of desperate hope.
“This… what is this?”
“A meal box,” Lysander replied, his voice flat. “I consulted the Healers. Your runic stability is still distant from surgery, so you are permitted this.”
“A meal box?” Kaelen’s eyes widened, a flicker of true hunger eclipsing his usual petulance.
“Do not imbue it with meaning. It was merely acquired from a nearby provisioner.”
The reason Lysander uttered the caveat – to not give it meaning – was because he had already imbued it with too much meaning himself.
He would never voice aloud that he had meticulously sought a purveyor near the Arcanum known for crafting sustenance both palatable and beneficial for those undergoing arcane recovery. Especially those suffering from the unique brand of runic degradation Kaelen endured.
He simply did not wish to dwell on it. To Lysander, this was merely an act of pragmatic necessity, a temporary balm for the festering wound of his unwanted obligation.
Yet, even this feigned indifference seemed sufficient for Kaelen. His barely functional right hand, scarred by uncontrolled runic discharge, twitched. He scratched his ear with clumsy agitation. The tip of his ear, visible beneath his dark hair, flushed a vibrant crimson.
Lysander’s gaze drifted slowly to Kaelen’s fingers. The way they curled slightly, perpetually bent inward, resembled twisted roots. A stark reminder of the reckless magical energies that had ravaged him.
Lysander’s expression tightened. Why did those fingers always capture his attention? Why could he never look away? A cold knot formed in his chest.
“...T-thank you,” Kaelen whispered. His voice was oddly subdued, thick with uncharacteristic deference.
Kaelen glanced at Lysander, his eyes meeting Lysander’s for a fleeting instant. He flinched, startled, then hurriedly fumbled to open the lacquered box. Or perhaps he merely feigned surprise.
It was as if being caught looking at Lysander was an infraction, a forbidden indulgence. As if he did not want Lysander to notice the raw hunger in his gaze.
Watching him shovel food into his mouth like an automaton, Lysander leaned his exhausted frame against the hard, unyielding couch of the antechamber.
It was a grotesque sight. Spilled rice, bits of seasoned fowl clinging to Kaelen’s chin. Kaelen’s lesser digits – the pinky, ring, and middle fingers – remained stiff, unresponsive. Lysander couldn’t discern if it was genuine debilitation or a subtle, unconscious plea for assistance.
Slowly, Lysander shifted closer. He reached out, gently taking the silver spoon from Kaelen’s uncooperative grip.
“What do you wish to consume?”
Kaelen stopped chewing, his eyes wide and unfocused.
“The spiced fowl?” Lysander prompted, his voice carefully neutral.
Regardless of his intentions, Lysander held a responsibility to acknowledge the authenticity of Kaelen’s wounds. With food smeared across his lips, Kaelen chewed, lowering his head slightly. A faint, unsettling smile played upon his mouth.
Lysander could not comprehend why this individual—whose runic conduit hand would never fully recover, whose arm bore the livid, spreading scars of arcane backlash—could smile with such unsettling delight. He truly could not understand.
He found himself unable to meet Kaelen’s bright, incandescent face. What in the Void’s name was so amusing? If it were Lysander, he would wish for oblivion.
Lysander carefully selected what appeared to be the most tender morsel and guided it to Kaelen’s lips. Kaelen chewed forcefully, the unnerving smile still fixed upon his face.
Kaelen Varrick always made Lysander profoundly uncomfortable.
---
Truthfully, the reason Lysander had acquired the meal box stemmed from an incident earlier that day, before his visit to the Convalescence Ward – a necessary detour to the Varrick family’s urban estate.
This marked the second occasion Lysander had visited since Kaelen’s initial runic stabilization procedure. Surprisingly, the House Varrick retainer’s pass still granted him access, a testament to the family’s continued delegation.
Lysander had encountered Kaelen’s immediate family only thrice within the Arcanum’s healing sanctum. Once, his father, a fleeting, business-like inquiry. Twice, his mother, always with an air of refined graciousness, as if to acknowledge Lysander’s commendable stewardship of her inconveniently afflicted son.
Kaelen, meanwhile, had merely rested his chin on his hand, eyes fixed on his mother’s retreating, silken-robed back, a silent study in abandonment.
Lysander had only gone to the Varrick estate to retrieve some of Kaelen’s personal effects. Small comforts, objects that might alleviate the soul-crushing boredom of confinement within the wards.
That was his sole motivation. He understood, better than anyone, the suffocating monotony of being trapped in a sterile chamber. His own brief, early academic setbacks had exposed him to the chilling isolation of the Arcanum’s minor infirmaries. He knew precisely what Kaelen required.
He convinced himself it was not sympathy. Or affection. Simply cold, calculated efficiency.
That day, instead of returning directly to his spartan dormitory chamber, Lysander had commuted from the Vance family’s smaller, more distant city residence. On his way, he stopped by the Varrick manor.
The sprawling, magically fortified mansion still welcomed him. But Lyra Varrick, Kaelen’s elder sister, did not. She leaned against the cold stone wall of Kaelen’s abandoned study, her expression as sharp and glacial as a winter rune.
“You are still associating with Kaelen?” she asked, her tone dry, utterly devoid of warmth.
Lysander harbored little affection for Lyra, either. How could she neglect her brother so completely, never visiting the wards, not even once? Her own kin lay broken, tethered to arcane life-support.
That primal, instinctual sense of familial obligation made him judge her, though he scarcely realized he was doing so. It was not intentional.
The moment the realization pricked him, he clamped his mouth shut. He crammed more of Kaelen’s neglected texts and favored scribing tools into his satchel.
“Yes.” His voice was clipped.
“He truly has done it, then?” Lyra mused, a cruel amusement in her tone. “That mad brother of mine. Obsessed with you.”
Lysander’s hand froze mid-reach for a discarded rune-slate. He turned, as if compelled by an unseen force.
“...Obsessed with me?”
“What, does the thought please you?” Her brow arched, a challenge in her gaze.
“No, I merely inquired.” Lysander’s denial was swift, perhaps too swift.
“Nobody ever ‘merely’ inquires, Vance. You desired clarification, so you asked.” Disgusting. She muttered under her breath, a low, guttural sound, but Lysander pretended not to hear. Still, she stepped closer, ignoring him with the same effortless disdain her family perfected.
This entire family possessed an uncanny talent for overlooking people. Lyra. Kaelen. Even their father.
“Tell me, where did you vanish to after your initial academy terms?”
Lysander bristled. “It is a matter of record, Lady Varrick.” The whole Dominion likely knew. Lysander’s brief, early academic ‘failure’ had been discreetly covered, but whispers persisted.
“It’s not as if I sought the information,” Lyra continued, waving a dismissive hand. “But Kaelen… he threw a fit. That wretch never once acknowledged the Elder Patrons, but suddenly he was invoking their names, then screaming. Not long after, he shattered the Ancestral Sigil his father bestowed upon him. He called the Founding Lords ‘feeble echoes’ or some such obscenity.”
“The Ancestral Sigil?” Lysander felt a chill. Such relics were sacred to the Noble Houses.
“Yes, that revered trinket. He used to carry it everywhere, you know? Claimed it anchored his bloodline. Then he cursed the Patrons and locked himself in this very study for days. Our estate was finally peaceful for once. He doesn’t even realize who the true wretch is. Such an imbecile.”
Her voice, laced with mockery, suddenly dipped lower, her eyes narrowing. Likely in response to the tight set of Lysander’s jaw.
“What in the Void? Your face is flushed, Vance.”
“It is not.”
“Impossible. Do you truly… have affection for him? For Kaelen?”
“I stated, I do not.” Lysander’s voice was sharper than intended.
“...By the Elder’s Breath.” Lyra gasped, covering her mouth as if horrified. “You are truly unhinged. Utterly deranged.”
Why did she persist in these assertions when he had already denied them? Annoyed, Lysander yanked his satchel’s zipper shut with a decisive snap. He wanted to castigate her in return. To remind her of her own dereliction.
“Why do you speak such slander to me? Your father himself informed me Kaelen was his second son.” A true contradiction. House Varrick, so proud of its lineage, yet so neglectful of its progeny.
---
Lysander returned to the Convalescence Ward, the weight of Lyra’s words lingering like a foul taste. The brown, branching scars that spread across Kaelen’s arm and shoulder seemed to deepen in hue.
Just as Kaelen couldn’t meet Lysander’s eyes when Lysander spoke of obligation, Lysander couldn’t bring himself to look at the raw, magical damage that marred Kaelen’s flesh.
“Lysander.” Kaelen’s voice, raspy now, drew closer. Lysander pretended not to care. But he listened.
“Yes?”
“Then… is it permissible for me to believe in you?”
His hoarse whisper caressed the air. Lysander feigned disinterest. Yet, he listened with every fiber of his being.
“What in the name of the Silent Spires are you uttering?”
“I will not revere you.”
In that instant, Lysander’s heart plummeted, a leaden weight striking the floor. His stomach twisted. Something tightened, agonizingly, around his chest. He almost asked—without thinking, without restraint—
*Why not?*
The moment the forbidden query nearly escaped his lips, Lysander realized the precipice he stood upon. His true, hidden thoughts, his secret yearning for profound connection, for recognition beyond mere academic success, had almost breached the carefully constructed walls of his composure.
*Lysander Vance, you are a complete imbecile.* He clenched his fists beneath the folds of his robe, swallowing the words back down. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. This was the safer path.
“Then instead, I will believe in you.” Kaelen’s words were strange, tangled with both sorrow and a startling, defiant joy. Like a disciple receiving an unholy revelation.
Was there any other way to describe the fervent intensity in his eyes at this moment? Lysander did not comprehend Kaelen’s words. And yet, he did not pull his hand away from where Kaelen had tentatively touched his wrist. He did not run. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer just squeezed—it stabbed.
“I am an atheist now, Lysander. Truly, you are infinitely more useful to my existence than any Elder Patron up in the aether.”
“Silence your blasphemy.” Lysander’s voice was a low growl. This wretch…
“You utter profanities every day.”
“No, that is untrue! I was raised a devout adherent of the Elder’s Lore, you know!” Kaelen frantically shook his head, his hands gesticulating wildly, as if his very life depended on Lysander’s belief. His tone was desperate, on the verge of tears. If Lysander did not believe him, Kaelen might truly weep.
Caught off guard, Lysander was rendered speechless. And then, as if a sudden, grave resolve had settled upon him, Kaelen abruptly slid off the couch, dropping to his knees on the cold, sterile floor.
“Then I shall show you.”
“Kaelen, what in the name of the Void are you doing?”
A large, scarred hand reached out, grabbing Lysander’s foot. Since he had been sitting with his legs propped on the couch, Lysander slid forward, barely perching on the edge of the seat. His foot, dangling slightly in the air, was held in Kaelen’s grip.
Then, Kaelen’s gaze landed upon a faint, discolored mark on the sole of Lysander’s foot, near the arch. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible runic scar, etched into his skin from a minor miscalculation during a forgotten, experimental ward-casting in his earliest days at the Arcanum—a mark Lysander thought no one had ever noticed.
Kaelen’s brow furrowed. And to Lysander’s utter disbelief—Kaelen’s eyes filled with moisture. Lysander jerked back in shock, attempting to pull his foot away. Before he could escape, Kaelen lowered his head.
“What are you—”
“By the First Light, the Silent Spire, and the Unspoken Lore.”
Cold fingertips brushed against Lysander’s ankle. A sharp, icy ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. What in the hells was this lunatic doing?
Lysander tried to yank his foot free, but his strength abandoned him, rooted by shock. Kaelen looked up at him once, his face utterly devoid of disgust. Instead, it bore an expression of profound, almost terrifying reverence.
Like a devout believer touching a sacred relic, a newly discovered, potent artifact—
“I greet my Lord of Lost Knowledge.”
He pressed his lips to the tip of Lysander’s foot. Kaelen’s fine, soft hair brushed against Lysander’s ankle, a light, unsettling tickle. The gentle press of his lips rubbed against the base of Lysander’s toes.
“S-Stop it….” Lysander threw his arm over his face, a desperate attempt to conceal his mortification. Kaelen’s right hand, the one with the three stiff, non-compliant fingers, tightened around Lysander’s ankle.
And in that moment—Lysander stopped resisting.
Those three weak fingers, symbols of Kaelen’s own brokenness, held onto him. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed the Elder Patrons, that had blasphemed against the sacred Founding Lords, now traced a fervent path up Lysander’s calf.
And Lysander did nothing to stop him.
That’s when he realized. This relentless, incurable disease—this nightmare of being Kaelen’s Keeper—still wasn’t over. It had only just begun to truly fester.