The bitter tang of medicinal herbs hung thick in the air, a constant companion in the Athenaeum’s infirmary wing. Kaelen dismissed the concept of sincere apology with a wave of his hand, a gesture both dismissive and weary. “The contrition of a scion barely old enough to grasp the weight of their own shadow? It’s a transparent artifice, Thorne. Devoid of any true cost.”
Kaelen leaned back against the worn oak of the waiting room bench, a faint creak echoing through the quiet corridor. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling, where ancient runes carved centuries ago whispered forgotten lore. His arms crossed, a thin smile played on his lips. His naturally somber features rarely brightened, even in amusement.
“You call that merely ‘transparent’?” Elias murmured, a knot tightening in his chest. “Harsh, Kaelen. Surely, even in Eldoria, we acknowledge the potential for genuine remorse.”
“The commonfolk often say,” Kaelen continued, ignoring Elias, his gaze fixed on the dust motes dancing in a shaft of pale sunlight, “a man is either a hound or a child.”
Elias blinked. “A hound or a child?”
“Indeed.” Kaelen lowered his gaze, meeting Elias’s eyes with an unnerving intensity. “I am no hound, Thorne. Therefore, regardless of how many seasons I endure, we are all just children at play. What true difference does age make to our fundamental follies?”
He unfolded his arms, the slight rustle of his coarse tunic breaking the quietude. Elias found himself momentarily speechless, again reminded of Kaelen’s peculiar logic, which bent all common sense to its own twisted purpose.
A distant chime echoed down the corridor – the ward’s annunciator bell. Kaelen sprang up, snatching the vibrating pager from the small table between them.
“Watch my scrolls, Thorne.”
“Your… scrolls?” Elias began, but Kaelen was already striding away. He returned moments later, a heavy tray balanced in each hand. Elias watched, dumbfounded. Kaelen’s hands, though large, cradled the burdens with effortless grace. One tray bore a steaming clay pot, its earthy aroma now joining the medicinal scent. Yet, he placed them on the table without a grunt of exertion.
Elias stared, a scholar’s curiosity piqued by the unexpected display of strength. Kaelen clicked his tongue, a sharp sound in the stillness.
“Impressed by my… decorum, perhaps, Thorne?”
“I merely observed your efficiency,” Elias said, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Eat, Kaelen.”
“And how am I to eat with my lips sealed, Thorne? Thus?” Kaelen pressed his lips together, then grinned, baring his teeth before sinking back onto the bench.
Elias picked up his own spoon, gazing into the simple broth. He brought it slowly to his lips, but paused, his eyes drawn to Kaelen’s hands. Kaelen blew on his food, then set his spoon down, prodding at a side dish of preserved roots with his fingers.
“I have been meaning to observe this,” Elias said, the words slipping out unbidden. “You handle your utensils… with an uncommon precision.”
“I? You find it so?” Kaelen’s brow furrowed.
“Yes.” It was strangely formal, Elias thought, for a man whose mannerisms were otherwise so rough-hewn. The thought of voicing this incongruity made Elias bite his tongue. Kaelen, however, seemed to read the unspoken sentiment. His eyes narrowed, then a sinister smirk twisted his lips. “Ah!” he exclaimed, a low, knowing sound. “So, you discerned it.”
“Discerned what?” Elias asked, genuinely perplexed.
“You feign ignorance, Thorne? A shrewd scholar, indeed. Very well, I shall include you in this… endeavor.”
Elias frowned at the vague, unsettling pronouncement. Kaelen twisted his mouth, a gesture of conspiratorial glee. “When we proceed to see young Valerius, there is a small matter requiring your… scholarly assistance.”
“What matter…?” Elias began, but Kaelen cut him off with a dismissive wave. It was clearly some elaborate pretense. Elias merely offered a noncommittal nod, his unease growing.
Kaelen finished his meal first, then stuffed his hands into his pockets, watching Elias with an unsettling patience. The moment Elias put down his spoon, Kaelen jerked his chin towards the far end of the corridor, where the conveyance lift to the upper infirmary floors stood. He tapped his bare wrist repeatedly, a silent, impatient command.
“I am finished,” Elias stated, feeling a prickle of irritation. “Cease your urgency.”
“Visiting hours, Thorne. They are quite specific. You are dawdling with the most deliberate slowness.”
“By the Obscura, Kaelen. Very well.”
“Arise. Hasten.”
“I am arising, I said.”
“Then hasten to summon the conveyance lift.”
Elias muttered under his breath, jogging towards the polished silver doors of the lift. He pressed the summoning rune.
“A good ward-brother, Thorne!” Kaelen called out.
“Cease your jesting,” Elias retorted, shooting Kaelen a discreet glare. He had learned, slowly, that Kaelen, for all his bluster, possessed an unexpected, almost cloying need for companionship once he allowed someone into his orbit. A disconcerting discovery, made over many months of reluctant proximity.
As they waited, Kaelen rubbed his fingers over the edge of a thick medical patch on his jaw. The adhesive, firmly set against his skin, began to peel slightly at the corner.
“Should you be disturbing that?” Elias asked.
“It vexes me. Washing my face becomes an unnecessary chore.”
Before Elias could respond, the lift doors hissed open. Kaelen stepped in, pressing the rune for the infirmary’s upper ward without hesitation. As they ascended, he caught his reflection in the polished metal wall, baring his teeth. “Hm, they are aligned,” he mumbled, a peculiar observation.
Elias stole a glance at him. Kaelen hunched slightly, hands in his pockets, an aura of defiant insolence about him. He was absurdly tall. While Elias instinctively observed, the lift reached their floor in short order.
The corridor lay in hushed silence. Kaelen jerked his chin towards a particular door.
“That is the one.” His lips were slightly parted, his gaze arrogant. The lift doors began to close behind them as they stepped out. Kaelen, however, did not immediately move towards the room. Elias stopped behind him, waiting.
After a moment of stillness, Kaelen resumed walking, his unusually long legs striding forward. He scratched at the adhesive edge of his jaw bandage with his ring finger, then peeled it off in one swift motion.
“Ah. By the Abyss. That smarts.”
The discarded patch vanished into his pocket. His tunic, previously unmarred, now bore a small bulge where the bandage was stuffed. Kaelen turned, looking at Elias.
His exposed jaw was a mottled canvas of bluish-purple and angry red bruises. It looked, Elias admitted, somewhat grotesque. Yet, Kaelen grinned, a flash of absolute confidence, which Elias found eerily unsettling. Especially from that perpetually melancholic face, always seeming to plot some unseen maneuver.
“How do I appear, Thorne? Sufficiently… convincing?”
Kaelen. Always full of performative bluster. His pronouncements were spontaneous, self-serving. He possessed a peculiar knack for persuading with nonsense, at times even entangling himself in his own grandiose illusions.
“Who can say,” Elias replied, a tremor of unease passing through him.
Suddenly, Elias recalled a fleeting memory Kaelen had shared just days prior. Kaelen spoke of it as if it were another man’s tale – how he had entered the Temple of the Silent Oracle for the first time in a decade. His transgression? Neglecting to offer an invocation to the Oracle for ten long years. He had admitted he only went because his elder sister had threatened him with a scourging. The acolyte had told him such reluctant devotion was an affront.
“Ah, my apologies for the discourtesy,” Kaelen had claimed to say. He had intended to leave, but ended up reciting the final blessing instead of the flustered acolyte. “I wished for the earth to swallow me whole from the shame, Thorne. Why do they inscribe the benediction so plainly before one’s eyes?”
Yet, Kaelen was assuredly not bound for the Temple this week either. Such was the peculiar consistency of the man.
“My kin and certain temple Elders persist in inquiring as to my absence. Is that their singular concern? What choice have I but to maintain the charade?” Kaelen had snickered then. Observing others laugh along, Elias had nodded. Yes, in his own strange way, Kaelen was consistent. And that consistency had never yet disadvantaged Elias.
Elias raised his own hand, roughly peeling off a small plaster from the bridge of his nose. The faint red mark beneath it was a stark line against his pale skin, a souvenir from the brawl. “This should suffice, I imagine?”
Kaelen’s faint smile broadened, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
“Do you know why young Valerius is a fool, Thorne?” Kaelen lowered his head slightly, bringing his face close, whispering in a low voice. “He possesses no foresight. None at all. He fails to perceive that if he continues upon his current path, his lineage, his life, will splinter into ruin.”
A light tap-tap against his pocket. “He should have heeded his father. They assert that good fortune follows those who listen to their elders.”
*And do you heed your own elders?* Elias swallowed the unspoken question. In a peculiar sense, Kaelen seemed to. *Very well, then.* Kaelen’s voice was full of mirth. They arrived at a grand, intricately carved door, and Kaelen simply waited, rather than opening it.
For a brief moment, Elias tried to dissect his own actions. Why had he followed Kaelen here? Why was he participating in this elaborate deception? The most compelling reason that surfaced was a scholar’s morbid fascination – a desire to witness the unraveling of Lysander Valerius with his own eyes. To understand the mechanism of such a downfall.
Elias lifted his head, meeting Kaelen’s gaze. He placed a hand lightly on Kaelen’s back. “Let us proceed.”
The words were barely out when Kaelen smirked, as if anticipating them. He ran his fingers through his hair, deliberately disheveling it, and hunched his shoulders slightly as he carefully opened the door. He stepped in first, Elias following into the private infirmary room.
Lysander Valerius lay propped on the bed, pale and still. Beside him, in a chair pulled close, sat a face Elias knew too well – Lord Valerius, Lysander’s powerful father. Elias was truly taken aback. He had not expected the formidable nobleman to be present.
“Forgive our tardiness, Lord Valerius. I am Kaelen,” Kaelen stated smoothly, lifting his chin with a brazen confidence that belied his humble station. Though startled, Elias quickly masked his surprise, offering a low bow.
“My lord.”
Lord Valerius’s piercing gaze, which had been fixed on Kaelen, now shifted to Elias. A flicker of surprise crossed the elder man’s face. “You… Thorne?”
“I chanced upon him in the main atrium, my lord,” Kaelen interjected, playing the innocent fool as if born to it. “He inquired if I was visiting the infirmary.” The ease with which Kaelen lied, transforming it into a polite greeting, was chillingly impressive. He had undoubtedly honed this skill over countless encounters. Elias, though speechless, managed a polite smile, playing along. To contradict Kaelen here would be disastrous.
“Yes, my lord. Merely a visit.”
“Ah… but, you see…” Lord Valerius’s worried expression faltered. He clearly wished to speak, but hesitated, making his next words painfully obvious. Finally, the nobleman broke the silence.
“Thank you for coming, Thorne. I am certain Lysander would appreciate it. But, Thorne, I apologize, might you step outside for a moment? There is a matter I must discuss with… this young man.”
“Of course, my lord.” Elias nodded, withdrawing from the room without protest. For a fleeting second, he considered leaving the door ajar to eavesdrop, but Lord Valerius’s gaze, sharp and intent, dissuaded him. The risk was too great.
So, Elias remained outside, oblivious to the precise exchange within. He turned to the window, observing the grey, wind-scoured peaks that loomed over the Athenaeum. Clouds drifted slowly across the bruised sky, painting a melancholic portrait of Eldoria. It was impossible to gauge if the time that passed was too short or too long for a conversation about forgiveness. Eventually, the door opened, and Lord Valerius emerged.
“Thorne.”
“My lord.” Elias turned quickly, offering another bow. The sound of Lord Valerius’s polished boots grew closer before Elias lifted his head to observe the man. He seemed to have aged significantly. Only a few months had passed since Elias last saw him, yet his face was more deeply lined, his posture subtly stooped, a sight that filled Elias with a strange unease.
“Forgive my abrupt dismissal. Lysander has been… acting so recklessly of late. But you still came. I genuinely appreciate your presence. He is under medication, Thorne, he will not be lucid.”
“No apologies necessary, my lord. I felt it my duty, of course. Though it is regrettable I cannot speak with him.”
“Yes, thank you for your understanding.” Lord Valerius exhaled a low sigh. It was so weak, so laden with weariness, that it bordered on pitiful. This was not the furious, roaring lion who once reacted to every slight concerning his son. This was a fragile, middle-aged man, hollowed by some unseen burden. Elias could not fathom why he appeared so utterly bereft. Surely, not merely because his son endured a few blows.
“I believed that allowing Lysander to spend time with you, Thorne, might temper his more impulsive inclinations. To expose him to a different path… But lately, he has only fallen into deeper trouble, drawn to… unsavory influences. And now this…”
“My lord?”
“By some chance, Thorne, do you know of a youth named Cyprian?”
Cyprian. Elias’s fingertips trembled, a cold knot forming deep in his gut. The weariness of this intricate deception was suddenly overwhelming. “Cyprian? Yes, my lord. He attends the same scribal courses as I do.”
“What manner of youth is he? Do you possess any knowledge of his character?”
“He is… diligent, my lord. Intelligent, with a keen aptitude for ancient scripts. His family circumstances are… challenging. Yet, despite his hardships, he strives commendably in his studies….”
“And?”
“And then, he…”