A name, unspoken yet felt, clung to Kaelen—‘the artisan’s unfortunate kin.’ Each echo in his mind sharpened the awareness of his station, a man adrift from his rightful port. Adulthood felt a borrowed cloak, too ample in its responsibilities, too threadbare in its comforts.
His family’s decline, a slow, inevitable erosion, had left a deep fissure in his composure. He wrestled with it through countless solitary nights, the inheritance of a silent obligation to uphold what remained.
He had observed Cassian’s desperate unraveling, Lord Valerius’s chilling indifference, Alaric’s sudden, unexpected shield. Now, a strange compulsion drew Kaelen to the Volaire estate. Not a summons, but an undeniable pull, a moral current guiding him through gilded halls that felt increasingly like a gilded cage.
He found Cassian in a secluded salon, its heavy velvet drapes drawn, the air thick with stale incense and unvented emotion. Cassian picked at a loose thread on a brocaded cushion, his movements jerky, a restless energy vibrating beneath his skin. His eyes, usually alight with fervent ambition, now held a dull, distant glaze.
“Another day wasted in this gilded penitentiary,” Cassian muttered, his voice raspy. “They insist on a regimen of… quiet reflection. As if quiet reflection can mend the treachery of men, or the sting of a patron’s dismissal. The broth they serve tastes of ashes and impotence.”
Cassian railed against his perceived injustices, against the subtle curtailment of his movements, the whispers he imagined in the corridors. His frustration poured out, a torrent of indignation, making him seem no different from a petulant child denied a favored toy.
Kaelen released a soft exhalation. Into his satchel, his fingers delved. A faint scent of spiced cedar and polished metal, an aroma he usually found comforting, now seemed out of place. He retrieved a small, circular object.
“A trinket,” Kaelen offered, pushing it across the polished rosewood table. “Something to occupy idle hands.”
Cassian’s eyes, heavy with gloom, lifted, fixing upon the filigreed scent locket. Kaelen had crafted it from slivers of pale moon-iron and intricate bronze wire, concealing a tiny compartment filled with crushed herbs – valerian root, dried lavender, and a whisper of something more ancient, known only to his lineage. It was designed to soothe, to center.
He had spent a sleepless night, meticulously shaping each delicate strand, ensuring its closure was perfect, its weight balanced, its very form a promise of subtle calm. He had sought the rarest herbs, prepared them with painstaking care, all while convincing himself it was a mere whim, a curious experiment. He would never admit the precise intent, the quiet worry that had driven his hands.
“A… locket?” Cassian's voice was low, edged with bewilderment.
“A simple restorative. A distraction.” Kaelen kept his tone neutral, dismissive. He wanted only to appear an indifferent craftsman offering a sample of his skill, nothing more. But even this meager offering seemed to electrify Cassian.
Cassian's right hand, which had been trembling, reached for the locket. His fingers curled around it, unnaturally stiff, as if unused to gentleness. A strange flush climbed his neck.
Kaelen averted his gaze, focusing instead on the patterned rug beneath his worn boots. Why did those fingers, so often grasping, so often clenched in frustration, seem so vulnerable now? A constriction tightened his chest. He felt a profound unease, a familiar churning in his gut.
“It’s… warm,” Cassian whispered, his voice oddly subdued. Cassian glanced up, eyes wide, and when Kaelen’s gaze met his, a flicker of something raw, almost panicked, crossed Cassian’s face. He snatched his hand back, abruptly fumbling with the tiny clasp of the locket.
Perhaps he was feigning surprise. As if being caught looking at Kaelen was a transgression. As if he didn’t wish Kaelen to notice the depth of his reaction. Cassian’s breath hitched, then he began to pick at the intricate filigree, his movements still clumsy, but with a strange intensity.
Kaelen leaned back against the plush velvet settee, his body weary. It was a disconcerting sight. Cassian’s fingers, typically so nimble, struggled with the delicate mechanism. Kaelen saw his pinky, ring, and middle fingers, not truly deformed, but held at an awkward angle, as if resisting the very act of opening.
He moved closer, slowly, and gently took the locket from Cassian’s grasp.
“Allow me.” He clicked it open with a soft snick. The subtle, herbal fragrance wafted into the still air. “Breathe it in. Focus on the scent.”
Cassian, lips slightly parted, a flush still on his cheeks, nodded, a faint, lopsided smile playing on his mouth. His head dipped slightly. Kaelen had no explanation for this man’s smile, this tempestuous, fragile man who had torn apart the very fabric of his reputation, who now navigated the razor’s edge of social ruin. It was unsettling.
Kaelen could not bring himself to meet Cassian’s intense, searching gaze. What was so amusing? If it were Kaelen, he would be crushed under the weight of such public humiliation.
He pressed the opened locket into Cassian’s palm, allowing the scent to permeate the space between them. Cassian closed his hand around it, still smiling.
This man always made Kaelen uncomfortable. Yet Kaelen knew precisely why he had come, why he had crafted the locket. It was because of the detour he had made before coming to the Volaire estate.
---
This was not the first time Kaelen found himself navigating the Volaire’s lesser-used corridors. He still possessed a temporary guest pass, a courtesy extended after the previous evening’s debacle. He had only encountered Cassian’s family twice at the main manor. Once, a brief, dismissive nod from Lord Volaire. Twice, the cloying, feigned concern of Lady Volaire, who had treated Kaelen as a convenient distraction for her son.
He had only stopped by Cassian’s private study, intending to gather a few favored texts or drawing instruments—anything to alleviate Cassian’s inevitable restlessness in confinement. That was all.
Kaelen knew, from his own solitary pursuits, the soul-crushing boredom of enforced idleness. He convinced himself it was not sympathy, not a flicker of anything resembling affection. He merely understood the need for occupation.
On his way, he had passed Lady Seraphina, a minor Volaire cousin with a talent for unearthing inconvenient truths and broadcasting them with casual cruelty. She leaned against a gilded archway, arms crossed, regarding him with an arch expression.
“Still attending to our wayward bird, Kaelen?” Seraphina’s tone was dry as aged parchment.
To be frank, Kaelen held little fondness for Seraphina. He often wondered how she could remain so detached from the emotional wreckage Cassian left in his wake. Her family, after all, was embroiled. He had not realized his own quiet judgment until her words solidified it.
“Indeed,” Kaelen replied, tightening the strap of his satchel.
“He truly has done it, hasn’t he? That… that fervent creature. He’s quite fixated on you now.”
Kaelen’s hands froze on his satchel’s clasp. He turned, slowly, as if pulled by an invisible thread.
“Fixated on me?”
“What, does that please you?” Her brow arched higher.
“I merely inquired.”
“No one merely inquires, Kaelen. You wished to know, so you asked.”
Her cynicism was a bitter draft. Seraphina murmured something under her breath about Kaelen’s naivete, but he pretended not to hear. She moved closer, her gaze unwavering. This entire House Volaire seemed to possess a knack for ignoring boundaries, for peeling back layers of composure.
“Tell me, where did you disappear to after the… incident?”
“I merely retreated.”
“Right. Well, our fervent one did not take your retreat kindly. Apparently, he threw quite a fit. He never much cared for the House sigils, you know, but suddenly he was screaming at the Volaire crest and tearing at the embroidered hangings.”
“The crest?”
“Indeed. That heavy, gold-threaded thing he once displayed so proudly. Called it a ‘hollow mockery,’ or something equally dramatic. Then he locked himself in his chambers and refused to emerge. Our estate was quite peaceful for a time. He doesn’t even realize the true nature of his folly. Blind idiot.”
Her voice, which had been sharp with mockery, softened, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. It was likely Kaelen’s own expression that prompted the change.
“What now? Your face is quite flushed.”
“It is not.”
“Impossible. Do you truly… care for him? You care?”
“I do not.” Kaelen’s voice was tight.
“…By the Stars above.” Seraphina gasped, a hand flying to her mouth, as if genuinely horrified. “You are truly unhinged.”
Why did she persist in this accusation when he had already denied it? Irritated, Kaelen yanked the satchel’s zipper shut. He wanted to retort, to criticize her callousness.
“Why did you tell me this, Seraphina? Lord Volaire merely presented Cassian as a wayward son.”
“What in the nine hells are you speaking of?”
A profound contradiction, Kaelen recognized it. He often ended up doing something kind, regardless of his initial intentions. But now, he had a genuine reason. He had seen the raw, unguarded desperation in Cassian’s eyes, the profound brokenness that lay beneath the polished arrogance.
Just as Cassian couldn't meet his gaze when his emotions were laid bare, Kaelen found himself unable to completely dismiss the raw truth of the man.
“Kaelen.” Cassian’s voice, raspy, came from beside him. He still cradled the locket.
“Yes?” Kaelen feigned indifference. Yet, he listened.
“I will not desire your favor.”
At that instant, a strange chill plunged through Kaelen. His stomach twisted. Something tightened around his chest, a band of unseen iron. He almost asked—without thinking—
*Why not?*
The words nearly escaped his lips. He realized, with a jolt of alarm, what he had almost uttered. His true, hidden thoughts, an unwelcome flicker of something he dared not name, had nearly breached his carefully constructed facade.
*Kaelen, you fool.*
He clenched his hands, swallowing the unwelcome urge. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead,” Cassian continued, his voice a strange tangle of sorrow and nascent joy, “I will believe in you.”
His words, like a devotee receiving a revelation, mystified Kaelen. Yet, Kaelen did not pull away. He did not flee. The suffocating weight on his chest intensified, no longer a mere squeeze, but a sharp, piercing jab.
“I am a pragmatic man now. Honestly, your quiet craft is far more useful to my life than any fleeting favor of Valerius.”
“Hush, Cassian,” Kaelen murmured.
“You blaspheme every day.”
“No, that’s untrue! I was raised with the utmost respect for truth, Kaelen!” Cassian protested, shaking his head frantically, as if his very sanity depended on Kaelen’s belief. If Kaelen didn’t believe him, Cassian might truly shatter.
Caught off guard, Kaelen remained speechless. Then, as if a sudden resolve seized him, Cassian slid off the settee, dropping to one knee before Kaelen.
“Then I shall show you.”
“Cassian, what are you doing?” Kaelen’s voice was a strained whisper. A large hand reached out, tentatively, and then firmly grasped Kaelen’s left wrist.
Kaelen, who had been sitting with one arm resting on his knee, shifted forward, barely maintaining his balance on the edge of the seat. His wrist, held gently but with unexpected strength, pulsed under Cassian’s touch.
Cassian’s gaze fell upon Kaelen’s hand, the crafting hand, marked by the subtle nicks and calluses of his delicate work. The skin was not pristine, not unblemished by toil, unlike the hands of most Imperium nobles. His brow furrowed, and to Kaelen’s disbelief, Cassian’s eyes shimmered with a sudden, unexpected moisture.
Kaelen flinched, attempting to pull his hand free. But before he could escape, Cassian bowed his head.
“What are you—”
“By the light of the True Form, the Essence Unmarred, the Spirit Refined.”
Cold fingertips brushed against Kaelen’s pulse point. A sharp ache shot up his arm, settling deep in his stomach. *What madness is this?*
He tried to yank his hand away, but his strength faltered, abandoning him. Cassian looked up at him, once, his face showing not a trace of revulsion, but rather a profound, almost desperate reverence.
Like a devout acolyte touching a sacred relic, Cassian pressed his lips to the back of Kaelen’s hand.
Cassian’s fine, dark hair brushed against Kaelen’s skin, a fleeting, almost imperceptible tickle. The gentle press of his lips, surprisingly soft, lingered against the faint calluses near Kaelen’s knuckles.
“S-Stop it…” Kaelen murmured, his voice caught in his throat. He threw his free arm across his face, shielding his expression.
Cassian’s hand, clasping Kaelen’s wrist, tightened slightly. And in that moment, Kaelen stopped resisting.
Three fingers, delicate and trembling, held him fast. A fragile, almost pleading grip, yet utterly inescapable. The lips that had cursed the Volaire crest now traced a path across his skin, a bizarre, unsettling blessing.
Kaelen did nothing to stop him. That’s when he realized. This relentless, incurable fever—this nightmare of entanglement in the Ascendant Imperium’s ruthless dance—still wasn’t over.