A patron’s duty. Lysander tasted the words like ash. Each syllable reminded him of the silent agreement, the unspoken weight that settled upon him. He was not meant for such roles. His life, until recently, had been a quiet pursuit of forgotten texts, a solitary dance with ancient runes. Now, Kaelan’s well-being, his very spirit, felt tethered to Lysander’s unwilling grasp. Adulthood, they called it. A brittle cloak, ill-fitting and scratchy against his skin. He spent mornings poring over glyph-scrolls in the scriptorium, evenings navigating the hushed halls of the Sanctum Sanatorium. Attending even half his lectures felt like a distant luxury. His mind drifted, always returning to the small, sterile chamber where Kaelan waited. He’d arrive, shoulders heavy, to find Kaelan’s face light up with a startling, almost desperate, joy. Kaelan would spill out his day, a torrent of frustration. He chafed under the Citadel’s strict healing protocols, the magically purified rations. He spoke of the ache in his ethereal channels, still mending from the arcane backlash. His right hand, once so deft with elemental shaping, now bore a subtle tremor, a constant reminder of his brush with ruin. “Another channel-graft, they say. My core’s going to feel like a torn spirit-leaf again,” Kaelan groaned. He slumped against the headrest, a picture of youthful misery. “And this nutrient paste… it’s an insult to living beings. My stomach is perfectly capable, Lysander, why must I consume this grey sludge even a grimoire-worm wouldn’t touch?” His complaints, vibrant with a child’s petulance, were a familiar refrain. Lysander sighed, reaching into his satchel. He despised the faint, sweet scent of the smuggled provisions that now clung to his study-notes. A grimace touched his lips. Carrying them openly through the hallowed corridors would have been worse. The judgment of the Elder Magi, the whispers of his peers… that was a far heavier burden than the lingering aroma. “What?” Kaelan’s eyes widened, the gloom lifting. A silent question hung in the air, hopeful. Lysander pulled a small, oiled parchment-wrapped package from his bag. It was a rarity from the lower districts, a spiced Aerthos bread, infused with a hint of sun-drenched berries. Not much, but a stark contrast to the Sanatorium’s bland offerings. Kaelan’s gaze, previously downtrodden, brightened. It felt like watching a wilting flower suddenly unfurl. “What is this?” he breathed, his voice hushed. “A… a ration. They said your ethereal channels are stabilizing. A little deviation from the strict regimen won’t hinder your recovery.” Lysander kept his tone flat, even. “A ration?” Kaelan’s voice held disbelief, a tremor of delight. “Don’t overthink it. I merely acquired it from a stall near the outer market.” He spoke quickly, perhaps too quickly. The words felt hollow, a flimsy shield against the truth. He had not merely ‘acquired’ it. Lysander had spent a precious half-hour, navigating the bustling lower-tier market, specifically seeking a vendor known for their fresh, wholesome, easily digestible provisions – the kind that would not risk Kaelan’s delicate healing. He’d even consulted an old herbalist for advice. He didn’t want to consider the implication. He only wanted to seem… helpful. A practical-minded scholar, doing his due diligence for a student in his charge. Nothing more. That seemed to be enough for Kaelan. He scratched his ear, his right hand still trembling slightly. A flush crept up his neck, vivid against his pale skin. Lysander watched the subtle movement of Kaelan’s fingers. Three of them, the middle, ring, and pinky, curved inward, refusing to fully straighten. A tightening sensation cinched Lysander’s chest. He felt a sudden, sharp twist of discomfort. Why did he fixate on that? Why couldn’t he look away? “...T-thank you, Lysander.” Kaelan’s voice was oddly subdued, thick with emotion. He met Lysander’s gaze for a fleeting moment, then flinched, as if caught in a forbidden act. Kaelan hastily fumbled with the parchment, tearing it open. Perhaps he was pretending. Feigning surprise, acting as if being seen looking at Lysander was a transgression. He stuffed a piece of the bread into his mouth, chewing mechanically. Food crumbs scattered across his tunic. It was a messy, almost animalistic sight. Kaelan’s three fingers still refused to bend fully. Was it genuine? Or a performance? Lysander, without conscious thought, moved closer. He reached out, gently taking a piece from Kaelan’s hand. “What do you want?” Lysander’s voice was softer than he intended. Kaelan chewed, watching him. “More… of this?” At the very least, he had a responsibility to acknowledge Kaelan’s suffering. Lysander picked another piece, clean this time, and offered it. Kaelan, his lips smeared with crumbs, lowered his head slightly and smiled around the mouthful. Lysander couldn’t fathom it. This student, whose channeling hand might never fully recover, whose core still bore the phantom ache of damage, could smile like that. It was an enigma. A profound, unsettling puzzle. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Kaelan’s bright, ingenuous face. What was so amusing? If it were Lysander, he would wish only for oblivion. Lysander offered another piece, his brow furrowed. Kaelan ate, still smiling. This student, Kaelan, always managed to disquiet him. The real reason Lysander brought the rare bread wasn't just Kaelan's hunger. It was something that happened before he arrived at the Sanatorium—a visit to Kaelan’s family quarters. --- This was the second time since Kaelan’s spiritual channel grafting that Lysander found himself within the private residences of the Arch-Magi’s scions. He still carried the special patron’s pass. He had only encountered Kaelan’s immediate family twice in the Sanctum: once, briefly, with his father, Elder Thorne, and once with his mother, the Enchantress Lyra. Lyra, in particular, had been exceedingly gracious, her tone gentle, her eyes warm. It felt like a subtle reward, a tacit acknowledgment of Lysander's acceptance of the duties she had so readily delegated. Kaelan, during her visit, had simply rested his chin on his hand, observing his mother’s retreating back with an unreadable expression. Lysander had only come to collect a few of Kaelan’s more cherished academic scrolls. To ease the tedium of recovery. Nothing more. He knew, better than anyone, the crushing boredom of confinement, the hollow ache of being isolated from one’s purpose. Having experienced it himself, in a different context, he understood Kaelan’s needs. He convinced himself it wasn't sympathy. It was obligation. Or perhaps… scholarly solidarity. No sentimentality. That day, instead of returning to his spartan dorm, Lysander made his way to the family estates, a sprawl of elegant towers in the upper tiers of Aerthos. The mansion, though grand, felt empty. Only the distant hum of ancestral wards welcomed him. Kaelan’s older sister, Seraphina, did not. She leaned against the polished obsidian wall of Kaelan’s private study, her gaze sharp, almost accusatory. “Still hovering around Kaelan?” Her voice was dry, devoid of warmth. Lysander didn’t have favorable feelings towards Seraphina either. She hadn’t visited Kaelan once, not even after the grafting. Her brother, her family, had been wounded. His instincts, those ingrained moral precepts, judged her silently. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. He snapped his jaw shut, stuffing Kaelan’s runic tablets into his satchel. “Yes.” “He truly is… lost to it, isn’t he? That mad boy is obsessed with you.” Lysander’s hand froze mid-air. He turned, slowly, as if pulled by an invisible thread. “...Obsessed with me?” “What, does that please you?” Seraphina’s lips twisted in a sneer. “No. I merely inquired.” “No one ‘merely inquires’ anything. You wanted to know, so you asked.” Her voice was low, a bitter murmur. Lysander pretended not to hear. She moved closer, ignoring his discomfort. This family, it seemed, shared a peculiar talent for ignoring others. Seraphina, Kaelan, even their father, Elder Thorne. “Tell me, where did you disappear to after the Last Culling? The final exams.” Lysander hesitated. “I kept to my research.” Everyone in the Citadel knew of his temporary seclusion. He’d vanished into the archives, wrestling with a particularly challenging ancient script. He hadn’t thought Kaelan would notice, let alone care. “It’s not like I cared to find out,” Seraphina continued, her tone dismissive. “But Kaelan… he threw a fit. He never cared for the Arch-Magi’s doctrines, but suddenly he was ranting about betrayal, screaming at the celestial constellations. He tore apart the ancestral scrying crystal Father gave him, shattered it.” “The scrying crystal?” Lysander remembered Kaelan mentioning it, a cherished gift. “Yes, that. He called the Celestial Weave a ‘silent, useless void.’ Then he locked himself in his study and didn’t emerge for days. Our residence was finally quiet for once. He doesn’t even realize who the real fool is. Blind imbecile.” Her voice, which had been mocking, softened slightly. Probably because of the shock etched on Lysander’s face. “What is it? Your face is flushed.” “It is not.” “Don’t lie. Do you actually… like him? You have feelings for Kaelan?” “I said no.” “...By the Great Weave.” Seraphina gasped, covering her mouth, as if truly horrified. “You are truly lost. Utterly insane.” Why did she persist, even after his denial? Annoyed, Lysander yanked his satchel’s clasp shut. He wanted to lash out, to criticize her own cruel indifference. “Why did you say those things to me? Your father told me Kaelan was his second son, heir to the Thorne legacy.” “What? What are you babbling about?” Her face was a mask of genuine confusion. Lysander carried his satchel, feeling a strange blend of resentment and a peculiar, unwilling empathy for Kaelan. A true contradiction. Elder Thorne, Kaelan’s own father, had once remarked, with a knowing glint in his eye, that Lysander, despite his withdrawn nature, possessed a stubborn kindness. He always ended up doing something… considerate, no matter his initial intentions. But this time, Lysander had an excuse. The faint, brown scars, still healing, spreading across Kaelan’s ethereal channels. Just as Kaelan couldn't meet his gaze for long, Lysander couldn't bear to look at the subtle, distorted marks on his body. “Lysander.” Kaelan’s hoarse voice pulled him back to the present. “Yes?” “Then… is it permissible if I believe in you?” His voice, soft and earnest, drifted closer. Lysander pretended not to notice. But he listened. Every word was a hook, sinking into his fragile composure. “What are you speaking of?” “I won’t… pursue you. Not in that way.” In that instant, Lysander’s heart dropped. His stomach twisted. Something cold and tight constricted his chest. He almost asked—without thinking. *Why not?* The words hovered at the precipice of his lips, a forbidden confession. He realized, with a jolt of self-loathing, the true nature of his hidden thoughts. *Lysander, you are a fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the impulse, forcing it down into the deepest recesses of his being. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. “Then instead, I shall anchor my belief in you.” Kaelan’s words were strange, a paradox of sorrow and profound joy. Like a disciple receiving a revelation from a reluctant prophet. Lysander didn’t understand. And yet, he didn’t pull his hand away. Didn’t flee. The suffocating weight on his chest no longer just squeezed. It pierced him. “I am an acolyte of the tangible now. Honestly, you are far more useful to my life than that silent, uncaring Weave.” “Hold your tongue.” Lysander’s voice was sharp. “You blaspheme every day.” “No, that’s not true! I was raised a devout observer of the Weave, you know!” Kaelan frantically shook his head, his hands fluttering. His tone was desperate, on the verge of tears. If Lysander didn’t believe him, he might truly break down. Caught off guard, Lysander found himself speechless. Then, as if reaching a sudden decision, Kaelan slid off the edge of the healing cot and dropped to his knees. “Then I shall demonstrate.” “Kaelan, stop. What are you doing?” A large hand gently took hold of Lysander’s foot. He had been sitting with his legs propped, so he slid forward, barely clinging to the edge of the cot. His foot, suspended, was now held firmly in Kaelan’s grasp. Kaelan’s gaze fell upon a subtle, almost imperceptible scar on the sole of Lysander’s foot – a remnant from a childhood mishap, a shard of fallen crystal. Kaelan’s brow furrowed. And, to Lysander’s utter disbelief, his eyes welled with tears. Lysander flinched, attempting to pull his foot away. Before he could escape, Kaelan bowed his head. “What are you—?” “In the name of the Arcane, the Scholar, and the Truth.” Cold fingertips brushed against Lysander’s ankle. A peculiar ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. What was this mad boy doing? He tried to yank his foot free, but his strength faltered. Kaelan looked up once, his face devoid of a single trace of disgust. Like a devout believer touching a sacred relic. “I greet my anchor.” He pressed his lips to the tip of Lysander’s foot. Kaelan’s fine, soft hair brushed against his ankle, a faint tickle against his skin. The gentle pressure of his lips traced the base of Lysander’s toes. “S-stop it…” Lysander threw an arm over his face. Kaelan’s right hand, the one with the subtly deformed fingers, tightened around his ankle. And in that moment, Lysander stopped resisting. Three weak fingers held him. A delicate, fragile grip, tapping lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed the Celestial Weave only moments before now traced a path up his calf. And Lysander did nothing to stop him. That’s when he understood. This relentless, unbidden devotion. This nightmare of his growing influence, of being Lysander Vance, the quiet scholar now worshipped by a broken boy—it was not over. It had only just begun.

Unbidden Altar