A curious weight settled upon Kaelen’s shoulders, heavier than any arcane tome. He had become Lysander’s anchor, his reluctant steward. Each time he entered the hushed halls of the Sereptia Sanatorium, an unspoken title pressed down, making him feel clumsy, ill-fitting, like a novice trying on the grand robes of a master mage. Maturity felt less like growth and more like a yoke, suddenly clamped around his neck.
Weeks blurred into a monotonous rhythm. Mornings found him hunched over runic schematics in Lumina Arcanum’s shadowed scriptoriums, the scent of aged parchment and ionized ether clinging to his robes. Evenings, however, pulled him across the city, through the bustling arcane markets and serene noble districts, to the sterile, yet somehow oppressive, quiet of the sanatorium.
He missed lectures, his meticulously planned study schedule fractured. Complex inscription patterns often swam before his eyes, replaced by the flickering glow of the sanatorium’s ward-lamps. A persistent anxiety gnawed at the edges of his concentration.
With a leaden heart, he would approach Lysander’s private chamber. The door often opened before his knuckles could even brush the polished cypress wood. Lysander, hair slightly dishevelled, eyes too bright, would practically launch himself forward, a starved creature greeting its keeper.
Almost immediately, the complaints began. Lysander, sprawled across the plush armchair by the window, vented his daily litany of grievances. “They say the grafting ritual failed again. My skin feels like stretched canvas, raw and exposed. And the arcane gruel they serve here… I swear it’s designed to strip one’s soul. My stomach feels perfectly fine, yet I’m condemned to this tasteless sludge fit only for ghouls!”
His voice, usually possessing an almost lyrical cadence, cracked with a genuine misery, a petulant whine that belied his eighteen years. He seemed no different from a frustrated child.
Kaelen sighed, a faint puff of air that barely stirred the quiet. He rummaged through his satchel, a small grimace tightening his lips. Even through the enchanted leather, the faint, sweet-and-sour scent of prepared food had begun to permeate. His face twisted instinctively.
Still, he preferred this to the awkwardness of carrying it openly.
“What is that?” Lysander’s voice dropped, curiosity replacing his earlier pique. Kaelen could almost visualize a tail, once drooping, now twitching with nascent interest. A ridiculous, unsettling image. He quickly banished it. Those images always felt… wrong.
Kaelen pulled out a lacquered wooden box. Lysander’s gaze, previously clouded, sharpened, focusing on the offering.
“A meal box,” Kaelen stated, trying for a neutral tone. “The healers said you’re still distant from the next integration phase. You’re permitted proper nourishment.”
“A meal box?” Lysander echoed, eyes wide.
“Don’t imbue it with meaning,” Kaelen said, his voice flat. “I simply acquired it from a provisioner near the district gate.”
The reason for his caution, his brusque dismissal, stemmed from the meaning *he* had already assigned it. He had spent precious time, navigating the bustling alleys near the Sereptia, seeking out the one purveyor known for meals both palatable and specifically formulated for patients recovering from arcane procedures. He would never voice that fact. He desired only to appear as someone performing a routine act of human courtesy, nothing more.
Yet, that seemed more than enough for Lysander.
With his partially healed right hand, Lysander scratched vigorously at his earlobe. The skin, Kaelen noticed, was flushed, a vivid crimson against the pale skin of his temple. Kaelen’s gaze drifted lower, towards the hand itself.
Lysander’s pinky and ring fingers curled inward, locked in a permanent, slight deformation. He had seen the healers’ reports, the intricate runic scarring that would forever alter their function. A wave of revulsion, sharp and unexpected, washed over Kaelen. His own stomach tightened.
Why did his eyes fixate on those mangled digits? Why could he not look away?
A suffocating tightness seized his chest.
“...Thank you,” Lysander whispered, his voice oddly subdued. He glanced at Kaelen, then flinched when their eyes met, hastily fumbling with the meal box’s intricate clasp. Or perhaps, Kaelen considered, it was merely an act, a feigned surprise. As if being caught observing Kaelen was a transgression. As if he wished his gratitude to remain unseen.
Lysander began to eat, shoveling food into his mouth with an almost frantic energy, oblivious to the small spills dotting the corners of his lips. Kaelen leaned back, exhausted, against the rough fabric of the couch. A disgusting sight, really.
Lysander’s little finger, and the one beside it, remained stubbornly bent, unresponsive to his will.
He couldn’t tell if it was true impairment, or a deliberate performance.
Slowly, Kaelen shifted, leaning closer. He took the ornate spoon from Lysander’s hand.
“What do you prefer?” he asked, his voice low.
Lysander paused, chewing.
“The spiced alra meat?”
At the very least, Kaelen felt a responsibility to acknowledge the authenticity of Lysander’s wounds, his suffering. Lysander, lips smeared with sauce, lowered his head slightly and smiled around a mouthful of food.
Kaelen found himself perplexed. Why could this person, whose fingers would never properly straighten, whose thigh and back bore the grotesque tracery of failed skin grafts, smile with such unburdened joy?
He truly did not understand. He couldn’t bring himself to meet that bright, luminous face. What, in this miserable existence, was so amusing?
If it were him, Kaelen thought, he would rather not live. He carefully selected a succulent piece of alra meat and offered it to Lysander’s waiting mouth. Lysander chewed forcefully, still smiling. This person always managed to unsettle Kaelen.
Truly, the primary reason for acquiring the meal box stemmed from an incident earlier that day, before his visit to the sanatorium.
---
This marked his second visit to Lysander’s family estate since the grafting rituals had begun. He still possessed the temporary guardian’s pass, a gilded, embossed card that felt like a mockery. Lysander’s family, the high-ranking House Veridian, had made only infrequent appearances at the sanatorium. His father once, his mother twice. Lysander’s mother, in particular, had adopted a saccharine sweetness towards Kaelen, as if to compensate him for shouldering her parental duties.
Lysander himself, when conscious enough, would simply rest his chin on his fist, watching his mother’s retreating back with an unreadable expression. Kaelen had only come to gather some of Lysander’s personal effects. A few of his more cherished arcane journals, perhaps a well-worn set of runic carving tools, so he wouldn’t grow too restless within the confines of the sanatorium ward. That was the extent of his purpose.
He understood, perhaps better than anyone, the gnawing boredom of confinement within a healing ward. Having endured it himself, he knew precisely what diversions Lysander would require. He convinced himself it was not sympathy. Or affection.
That day, instead of returning directly to the academy dormitories, Kaelen had decided to travel home first, making a detour. On his way, he stopped by Veridian Manor. The imposing wrought-iron gates, emblazoned with the House Veridian sigil, still swung open for him. But Elara, Lysander’s elder sister, did not welcome him.
Leaning against the polished wood frame of Lysander’s vacant chamber, Elara spoke, her voice dry as aged vellum. “You’re still lingering around Lysander?”
Kaelen’s own sentiments towards Elara were far from cordial. How could she not once visit her own brother in the sanatorium? Her family, fractured and vulnerable, should have drawn her. That innate, unspoken morality within Kaelen stirred, passing judgment. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. It was not intentional. The moment the thought registered, he clamped his mouth shut, shoving another stack of Lysander’s inscribed slate tablets into his satchel.
“Yes.”
“He truly has done it, hasn’t he? That deluded fool… he’s fixated on you.”
Kaelen’s hand froze mid-air. He spun around, as if compelled by an unseen force.
“...Fixated on me?”
“What, does that please you?” Elara’s tone was sharp.
“No, I merely inquired.”
“Nobody merely inquires. You desired knowledge, so you asked.” Disgust laced her low murmur, but Kaelen pretended not to hear it. She stepped closer, oblivious to his discomfort. This entire family, Kaelen mused, possessed a remarkable talent for ignoring others. Elara, Lysander, even their father.
“Say, where did you vanish to after the seasonal graduation ceremony?”
“I remained within the city bounds.”
“Oh, everyone in the arcane district knows already. It’s not as if I sought the information out. But Lysander… he threw a fit. That idiot, who never once darkened the door of a temple, suddenly started invoking divine pleas, then screaming. Not long after, he tore apart the sacred phylactery Father had gifted him, shrieking like a banshee.”
“A phylactery?” Kaelen asked, his brows furrowing.
“Yes, that thing. He used to treasure it, you know? Claimed it was Father’s most sacred gift. Then he called the Divine a ‘cursed mutt’ or some such profanity. After that, he locked himself in his chambers and refused to emerge. The manor finally knew some measure of peace. He doesn’t even comprehend who the true fool is. Brainless.” Her voice, which had been laced with mockery, softened suddenly. Probably a reaction to Kaelen’s expression.
“What in the void? Your face is flushed.”
“It is not.”
“Impossible. Do you genuinely harbor sentiments for him? Do you *like* him?”
“I stated no.”
“...By the Arcana.” Elara gasped, covering her mouth as if genuinely appalled. “You are utterly unhinged. Truly.”
Why did she persist in her accusations when he had already denied it? Annoyed, Kaelen yanked the zipper of his satchel shut, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He yearned to retort, to criticize her in turn.
“Why did you impart that information to me? Your father once confided in me that Lysander was his ‘second son’.”
“What? What in the nether-reaches are you suddenly prattling about?”
---
Lysander’s words, echoing from Elara’s account, formed a strange, uncomfortable contradiction within Kaelen. He knew it too. Roric, Kaelen’s usual sparring partner, had once grumbled that Kaelen, despite his prickly demeanor, always ended up performing acts of unexpected kindness. Regardless of his stated intentions.
Right now, however, Kaelen had an excuse. The faint, brown-red scars spreading across Lysander’s back, visible when the healers tended to him. Just as Lysander could not meet Kaelen’s gaze fully, Kaelen found he could not truly look at the expanse of that damaged skin.
“Kaelen.” Lysander’s voice, a low rasp, pulled Kaelen back to the sanatorium room. “Yes.”
“Then… is it permissible for me to believe in you?” His voice, hoarse, crept closer. Kaelen feigned indifference, a carefully constructed mask.
But he listened.
“What in the Void-touched realms are you speaking of?”
“I will not… harbor affections for you.”
In that single instant, Kaelen’s heart plummeted, crashing against the floor of his chest. His stomach twisted into a knot. Something tightened, agonizingly, around his ribs. He almost asked—unthinkingly—*Why not?*
The words were on the precipice of escape, a gasp of pure, raw honesty. He realized, with a sickening lurch, the true, hidden thought that had almost betrayed him. *Kaelen, you are a complete idiot.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the question, forcing it down.
Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead,” Lysander continued, his voice strange, “I will believe in you.”
His tone was a perplexing blend of sorrow and exhilaration, like a disciple receiving a revelation. Was there any other way to describe him in this moment? Kaelen did not comprehend his words. And yet, he did not pull his hand away. Did not flee. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer merely squeezed; it now stabbed, a sharp, cold agony.
“I am an atheist now. Honestly, you are far more instrumental to my existence than that distant deity in the aether.”
“Silence, you blasphemer.”
This person…
“You utter profanities every single day.”
“No, that is untrue! I was raised a devout follower, you know!” Lysander protested, frantically shaking his damaged hands. A desperate plea, as if his very life depended on Kaelen’s belief. If Kaelen refused to believe him, Lysander might truly weep.
Caught entirely off guard, Kaelen was left speechless. Then, as if a sudden decision had galvanized him, Lysander slid from the armchair and dropped to his knees.
“Then I shall demonstrate.”
“Hey, hey. What in the Abyss are you attempting?”
Lysander’s large, pale hand wrapped around Kaelen’s ankle. Kaelen had been sitting with his legs propped casually on the edge of the couch. He slid forward, now precariously balanced on the very rim of the seat, his foot dangling, suspended in Lysander’s grip.
Lysander’s gaze settled on the faint, jagged scar etched into the sole of Kaelen’s foot, a relic from a childhood accident with broken glass. His brow furrowed. Then, to Kaelen’s utter disbelief, Lysander’s eyes welled with moisture.
Kaelen jerked back in shock, attempting to pull his foot free. Before he could escape, Lysander lowered his head.
“What are you—?”
“In the name of the Arcane Source, the Weaver of Fates, and the Guiding Light.” Cold fingertips brushed against Kaelen’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up Kaelen’s calf, deep into his stomach. What in the void was this lunatic doing?
Kaelen tried to yank his foot away, but his strength abandoned him. Lysander looked up at him once, his face utterly devoid of disgust. Instead, an expression of profound reverence, like a devout believer touching a sacred relic, washed over him.
“I greet my Lord.”
Lysander pressed his lips to the tip of Kaelen’s foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against Kaelen’s ankle, a light, unsettling tickle. The gentle press of his lips rubbed against the base of Kaelen’s toes.
“St-stop it…” Kaelen stammered, throwing an arm over his face. Lysander’s right hand, the one with the twisted fingers, tightened its grip on Kaelen’s ankle. In that moment, Kaelen ceased resisting.
Those three weak, malformed fingers held him. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that cursed the Divine every day now traced a path upwards, along his calf. And Kaelen did nothing to stop him.
That’s when he realized. This relentless, incurable malady—this waking nightmare of his eighteenth year—still was not over.