To bear the title ‘mediator’ felt a strange, ill-fitting garment upon Elara’s shoulders. Adult. The word clung, heavy with unspoken duties, a weight she neither sought nor welcomed. Her craft, her maps, those were her solace, her truth. This, this tangle with Kaelen’s volatile spirit, was an unfamiliar, unwelcome burden. Countless turns of the Eldorian moon had passed since Master Rhys’s request. She had spent the days cloistered in the Scriptorium, her hands tracing lines on parchment, her mind, however, wrestled ceaselessly with the inherited responsibility. Morning saw her hunched over drafting tables, evening often drew her reluctantly towards the gilded gates of Kaelen’s family estate. She’d scarcely retained a single lesson from Master Rhys’s intricate lectures on ancient city fortifications. Her thoughts, a chaotic scrawl of worries and resentments, constantly veered towards Kaelen’s distant quarters. Kaelen, sequestered in his family’s private wing, greeted her with a detached air. He often stood by the grand arched window, gazing out at the sprawl of Eldoria as if counting the rooftops, waiting for some unseen cue, as though awaiting the arrival of a prized falcon. Once, he had met her with a flurry of complaints, a cascade of bitter words. “They speak of further seclusion. As if a change of scenery could mend a fractured ambition. This stale air, these watchful servants… a cage for a bird meant to soar! And the food, Elara, they serve me fare fit only for an ailing cleric. My stomach churns at the thought, yet they insist it is for my ‘constitution’.” The way he vented, his features contorted in genuine misery, stripped years from his haughty façade. He became, in that moment, disarmingly boyish. A small sigh escaped Elara’s lips. She rummaged through her satchel. A faint scent of old parchment and graphite clung to its worn leather, a familiar comfort. But beneath it, a more pungent, unfamiliar smell. Her brow furrowed, a fleeting grimace. Still, it was better than carrying it openly, exposed to the judging eyes of the estate guards. “What?” Kaelen’s voice, sharp with an edge of expectation, cut through her thoughts. She could almost envision a drooping plume of a crest, shorn short and dishevelled. A ridiculous image. She shook her head, dispelling the thought, and pulled a carefully rolled scroll from her bag. His pitiful gaze swept over the unlatched scroll. A shift occurred in his stormy eyes, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name. “What is this?” he asked, his tone softer now. “A survey,” Elara replied, her voice carefully neutral. “A section of the Lower Districts. They say you are still far from your full duties, so… it seemed a diversion.” “A survey?” “Do not mistake it. It was simply… a piece I had already drafted. A spare.” She warned him against finding deeper meaning, for she had already imbued it with so much. She would never utter the truth: that she had spent three sleepless nights, cross-referencing ancient texts and guild records to detail a forgotten cistern, a network of narrow, shadowed alleys Kaelen had once been obsessed with. A hidden path known only to a few, leading to a half-ruined temple he yearned to explore. She wanted only to appear as one performing a simple, obligatory act of conciliation, nothing more. Yet, even that scant offering seemed enough for Kaelen. His right hand, the one he often used to gesture with such theatrical flair, rose slowly, scratching his temple. The tips of his ears, she noted, were faintly flushed. Her gaze drifted to his fingers. They curled slightly, a familiar habit, though in this new light, they seemed almost strained. Her face tightened. Why did her eyes fixate on those digits? Why could she not look away? A constricted feeling settled in her chest. “…Thank you,” Kaelen murmured, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. He glanced at her, hesitating, and when their eyes met, he flinched, turning abruptly to unroll the parchment. Or perhaps he only feigned surprise. As if being caught looking at her was an infraction, something to conceal. Watching him scrutinise the map with a mechanical intensity, Elara leaned her weary form against the plush velvet divan. The sight was… complex. The way his brow furrowed, the subtle tension in his jaw. Three of Kaelen’s fingers on his left hand never quite straightened after a childhood riding accident, a detail he usually hid with elegant glove-work. She could not discern if their current rigidity was genuine or merely an act of distraction. Slowly, Elara shifted closer, reaching for a stray wisp of parchment that had curled away from the scroll. “Which section holds your interest?” she asked. “…” “The passages beneath the Old Market?” She had, at the very least, a duty to acknowledge Kaelen’s wounds, both visible and unseen. His lips, though not smeared with food, bore the tight line of restrained emotion. He chewed lightly on his inner cheek as he lowered his head, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing at his mouth. She could not fathom why this man, who might never reclaim his former standing, whose ambitions lay in tatters, could still manage such an expression. She truly could not. Elara found she could not meet his bright, unwavering gaze. What solace could he find in this despondency? Were it her, she might wish the earth to swallow her whole. She indicated a series of carefully shaded lines, the precise contours of a forgotten aqueduct. Kaelen’s eyes brightened, and he traced the path with his finger. He still smiled, a shadow of the boy she remembered. This man always unsettled her. The truth was, she had only brought the survey because of a visit she’d made earlier that day to his family estate, before coming to his quarters. --- It was the second time she’d been granted passage to the restricted wing since Kaelen’s confinement. She still held the Master’s guild-pass, allowing her entry as his assigned mediator. She’d encountered Kaelen’s family only twice in these hallowed halls. Once, his father, distant and formal. Twice, his mother, who had acted with practiced grace, thanking Elara for undertaking the very duties she had seemed eager to delegate. Kaelen, when he was well enough to notice, would simply rest his chin on his hand, watching his mother’s retreating back with an unreadable expression. Elara’s purpose was merely to retrieve some of Kaelen’s abandoned drafting tools, his journals. Things she knew would offer him some semblance of purpose during his forced isolation. She knew, better than anyone, the suffocating boredom of confinement. Having endured similar periods herself, she understood precisely what he might need. She convinced herself it was not sympathy. Not affection. Merely foresight. That day, instead of returning directly to her cramped dwelling in the Scholar’s Ward, she had stopped by his family’s main study. The opulent mansion still welcomed her, though with a chill that permeated the marble floors. Orin, Kaelen’s younger sibling, did not. Leaning against the grand oak doorframe of the study, Orin’s voice was dry, laced with a familiar disdain. “Still tending to Kaelen, are you, draughtswoman?” To be frank, Elara held little fondness for Orin either. How could they never visit Kaelen’s quarters, not once, despite his plight? That ingrained sense of familial duty, common even among the humblest citizens of Eldoria, made her judge them. She hadn’t even realised she was doing it. It was not intentional. The moment the thought surfaced, she clamped her mouth shut, focusing on gathering Kaelen’s scattered quills. “Yes.” “He truly lost his wits, didn’t he? That mad fool… obsessed with you, it seems.” Her hand froze, mid-reach for an inkwell. Elara turned, as if pulled by an invisible thread. “…Obsessed with me?” “What, does that please you?” Orin’s lips curled. “No, I simply asked.” “Nobody ‘simply asks’ anything. You yearned to know, so you posed the question.” A bitter taste filled Elara’s mouth. Orin muttered something under their breath, but Elara pretended not to hear it. Still, Orin stepped closer, disregarding her unspoken wish for distance. This entire family possessed a perverse talent for ignoring boundaries. “Tell me, where did you go after that guild ceremony, all those weeks ago?” Elara remained silent. The entire city, she suspected, already knew. “It’s not as if I cared to find out. But Kaelen… he threw a fit. That idiot, who barely respected a single tradition, suddenly knelt, praying to the Ancestor Spirits, then raged and tore apart the Signet of House Vaeleth, the one his father gave him. He called the Ancestors ‘deaf bastards’ or some such nonsense. Then he sealed himself away. Our household, at least, found a modicum of peace for a time. He doesn’t even grasp who the true fool is. Pitiful.” Orin’s voice, which had been laced with mockery, now dipped, perhaps sensing Elara’s reaction. “What now? Your face is flushed.” “It is not.” “Impossible. Do you truly… favour him? You… favour Kaelen?” “I said no.” “…By the Grand Architects.” Orin gasped, covering their mouth as if horrified. “You are truly unhinged.” Why did they persist in such accusations, even after her denial? Annoyed, Elara yanked the satchel’s clasp shut. She wanted to lash out, to criticise them too. “Why did you tell me that? His father once told me Kaelen was his most promising son.” “What? What in the blazes are you rambling about?” --- A stark contradiction. She knew it, deeply. Lyra, her pragmatic confidante, had once remarked: Elara, despite herself, always finds a way to mend what is broken, even when she wishes not to. But now, she had an excuse. The jagged lines of worry etched into Kaelen’s brow, the defeated slump of his shoulders. Just as Kaelen often avoided her gaze, she found she could not look at the full extent of his quiet despair. “Elara.” “Yes?” “Then… is it permissible for me to believe in you?” His voice, hoarse, drew closer. She pretended indifference. But she listened. “What nonsense are you uttering?” “I won’t… favour you.” In that breath, her heart plummeted. Her stomach twisted, a sudden, sharp knot. Something tightened around her chest. She almost asked, without thought, *Why not?* The words hovered at the precipice of her lips, and then she realised the true, hidden meaning of her nearly spoken query. Elara, you are a damned fool. She clenched her fists, swallowing the bitter truth. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. “Then instead, I will believe in you.” Yet Kaelen uttered a perplexing sentiment. His voice a strange tapestry woven with sorrow and a nascent joy. Like a novice initiate receiving a profound revelation. How else could she describe him in that moment? She did not comprehend his words. And yet, she did not recoil. Did not flee. The suffocating weight upon her chest no longer merely squeezed; it pierced. “I abandon the Ancestors now. Honestly, you are far more instrumental to my purpose than those stone-faced figures in the sky.” “Silence your blasphemy.” This man… “You insult the very foundations of Eldoria every day.” “No, that is untrue! I was raised a devout son of the House, you know!” “Then what, pray tell, was that just now?” Kaelen frantically waved his hands, as if his very life depended on her belief. His tone, desperate, teetered on the edge of tears. If she did not believe him, he might truly weep. Caught off guard, Elara found herself speechless. Then, as if a new resolve had seized him, Kaelen slid from the divan and dropped to one knee. “Then I will show you.” “Kaelen, what are you doing?” His hand, slender and long-fingered, reached out and clasped her ankle. Having been seated with her legs tucked beneath her, Elara slid forward, barely clinging to the edge of the divan. Her foot, suspended precariously, was held in his grip. Then, Kaelen’s gaze settled on the subtle, almost imperceptible dark stain on the sole of her foot, a faint, permanent mark of graphite and ink from long hours bent over maps. His brow furrowed. And, to her utter disbelief, his eyes welled with moisture. Elara gasped, jerking back, attempting to pull her foot away. Before she could escape, Kaelen lowered his head. “What in the— ” “In the name of the Builder, the Draughtsman, and the Guiding Line.” His cool fingertips brushed against her ankle. A sharp ache shot up her calf, deep into her stomach. What was this madman doing? She tried to yank her foot free, but a strange weakness had stolen her strength. Kaelen looked up at her once, his face devoid of a single ounce of revulsion. Like a fervent initiate touching a revered relic. “I honour the craft.” He pressed his lips to the tip of her foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against her ankle, a strange tickle. The gentle press of his lips grazed the base of her toes. “S-Stop this…” Elara threw an arm over her face. Kaelen’s right hand tightened around her ankle. In that moment, she stopped resisting. Three of his weak fingers held onto her. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against her skin. The lips that had cursed his Ancestors now traced a path up her calf. She did nothing to stop him. That’s when Elara realised. This relentless, consuming connection—this bewildering nightmare of being Elara of Eldoria—still wasn’t over.

A Builder of Bridges, or a Mark on the Skin