Aethelburg, a city perpetually veiled in twilight, always pressed down with its ponderous, metallic breath. Its towering clockwork spires groaned a ceaseless elegy, a sound that resonated deep within Elias Thorne. He moved through its cobbled arteries, a phantom among the bustling cogs, his own gears grinding.
‘Corvus Blackwood’s auxiliary’ – the label chafed. It was an ill-fitting garment, stitched with the coarse thread of unwanted maturity. Each syllable echoed a truth he wished to deny. Adulthood. A brittle, hollow word.
Night after night, the inherited burden clung to him. He wrestled with it, sleepless, beneath the cold glow of his chronometer.
His mornings were devoted to the Obsidian Scriptorium, its hallowed halls brimming with ancient texts and the hum of arcane calculations. Evenings, however, pulled him into the sterile chill of the Aetherium Annex.
Truthfully, he barely absorbed half his lectures. His thoughts, like unanchored dirigibles, drifted constantly.
With a leaden heart, he would push through the heavy doors of Chamber 7. And Corvus Blackwood would surge forward, a creature starved for attention, as if Elias were the very axis of his rotation.
As if waiting for his very breath, Corvus would unleash the day’s litany of grievances, everything that had transpired within the Aetherium’s grim walls.
“They speak of another grafting surgery. Another – blast it all! My thigh will be nothing but torn flesh again. And the rations here, Thorne, they’re putrid enough to curdle the very air. My mind feels stripped bare. I am not some ancient, withered Elder, my stomach is perfectly sound, so why must I endure this slop that even a street-scavenger would scorn?”
His frustration poured out, raw and genuine, twisting his features into a mask of pure misery. He seemed no different from a child, despite the shadow of suffering that clung to him.
Elias exhaled, a silent sigh, and delved into his satchel.
He despised the way the scent of cooked victuals clung to the aged leather. A cloying, inescapable aroma. His face twisted, an instinctive grimace.
No matter. Carrying it openly would have been an even greater affront to his carefully constructed composure.
“What now?” he murmured, more to himself than Corvus.
He felt it then, a phantom twitch at the edge of his perception, like a creature’s tail drooping. A mangy, matted thing.
Disgust. A visceral, immediate revulsion.
Elias shook off the repugnant image. From his satchel, he withdrew a gleaming, steamed nutrient tin. The light from the chamber’s arcane luminaire glinted off its polished surface.
Corvus’s pitiful gaze swept over the offering. Only then did the gloom in his eyes recede, replaced by a flicker of something else. Hope, perhaps. Or avarice.
“What is this?” Corvus asked, his voice low, cautious.
“A nutrient tin. I inquired. They said you are still distant from the procedure, so this is permissible.”
“A nutrient tin?”
“Do not imbue it with meaning. I procured it from a nearby vendor.”
He had told Corvus not to give it meaning… because he himself had already given it too much.
Elias would never confess that he had meticulously sought a purveyor near the Annex whose fare was both nourishing for convalescents and, against all odds, palatable. He had not sought this vendor, certainly not. The fact its fare was deemed suitable for recuperation, yet surprisingly edible, was mere coincidence. Pure happenstance. He wanted it to appear as an act of detached charity, nothing more.
Yet, even that seemed enough for Corvus. Corvus, with his barely functional right hand, began to scratch frantically at his ear, a nervous habit.
A glimpse of his ear revealed a flush of scarlet. Elias’s gaze drifted lower, to Corvus’s fingers. They curled slightly, an unnatural angle, hinting at damage. Deformed, like hooks of gnarled wood.
His face twisted again. Why did those fingers capture his attention so fiercely? Why could he not look away?
A suffocating pressure tightened his chest.
“……Th-Thanks,” Corvus stammered, his voice oddly subdued. A tremor ran through it.
Corvus glanced at him hesitantly. Their eyes met for a fleeting instant, and Corvus flinched, startled, fumbling to pry open the nutrient tin.
Or was it a feigned startle? As if being caught looking at Elias was a transgression. As if he wished his observation to remain unnoticed.
Watching Corvus shovel food into his mouth like an automaton, Elias allowed his exhausted frame to sink onto the chamber’s hard-backed couch.
It was a grotesque display. Food spilled, smeared across his lips. Corvus’s little, ring, and middle fingers refused to bend properly. He ate as if the very act of mastication was a frantic, desperate ritual.
Elias could not discern if the impairment was genuine or a performance. Slowly, he moved closer. He took the spoon from Corvus’s hand.
“What do you wish to consume?”
“……”
“Meat?”
At the very least, he harbored a responsibility to acknowledge the authenticity of Corvus’s wounds. With food smeared across his lips, Corvus chewed, his head lowered slightly, a faint smile playing upon his face.
Elias had no explanation for this creature. How could he, who would never again properly use three of his fingers, who bore shredded scars across his thigh and back, still manage such a smile?
He truly had no idea. He could not bring himself to meet that bright, luminous face. What, in the name of the Great Regulator, could possibly be so amusing?
If it were Elias, he would wish for oblivion.
He selected what appeared to be the most substantial morsel and pressed it to Corvus’s lips. Corvus chewed forcefully, the smile unwavering.
This creature always unsettled him. Always.
Truthfully, the nutrient tin was not merely an act of convenience. It was a consequence of an earlier encounter, before his arrival at the Aetherium Annex, when he had stopped by Blackwood Manor.
---
This was the second time since Corvus’s skin graft surgery. Surprisingly, Elias still possessed the Auxiliary Sigil, granting him access.
He had encountered Corvus’s family only three times within the Annex. Once, Elder Blackwood. Twice, Mutter Blackwood.
Mutter Blackwood, in particular, adopted a saccharine demeanor, as if to reward Elias for shouldering the responsibilities she had so readily relinquished.
Corvus merely rested his chin on his hand, his gaze fixed on his mother’s retreating back, a silent, hollow testament to their bond.
Elias had come only to retrieve some of Corvus’s belongings, things to alleviate the crushing monotony of convalescence. Nothing more. He knew, better than anyone, the desolate boredom of a hospital chamber.
He had experienced it himself. Thus, he understood precisely what was needed. He convinced himself it was not sympathy. Not affection. Never affection.
That day, instead of returning to his academy dormitory, Elias began commuting from his ancestral home. On his way, he detoured to Blackwood Manor.
The sprawling mansion still welcomed him. Lyra Blackwood did not.
Leaning against the polished wood of Corvus’s bedchamber doorframe, Lyra asked, her voice dry as parchment:
“You are still lingering with Corvus?”
Elias felt little warmth for Lyra either. How could she not visit the Annex, not even once? Her own kin lay wounded. That primal, instinctual morality, usually dormant within Elias’s pragmatic mind, spurred his silent judgment.
He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. It was not intentional. The moment the thought crystallized, he clamped his mouth shut. He continued to pack Corvus’s possessions into his satchel.
“Yes.”
“He truly lost himself, didn’t he? That mad fool is consumed by you.”
His hand froze. He turned, as if impelled by some invisible force.
“……Consumed by me?”
“What, does that please you?” Her lips curled into a sneer.
“No. I merely inquired.” Elias’s voice was sharper than he intended.
“Nobody ever ‘merely’ inquires, Thorne. You desired knowledge, so you asked.”
Disgust. She muttered something under her breath, a venomous whisper, but Elias pretended not to hear. Still, she stepped closer, ignoring his tacit dismissal. This entire lineage possessed a peculiar talent for disregarding others.
Lyra. Corvus. Even Elder Blackwood.
“Tell me, where did you vanish after your graduation ceremony?”
“Yes,” Elias said, a brittle edge to the word. The entire district must have known his movements by now.
“It’s not as if I sought the information. But Corvus, he threw a fit. That wretch never once set foot inside a sacred precinct, yet suddenly he was prostrate, praying, then raging. Not long after, he tore apart the Aethling Charm Elder Blackwood had bestowed upon him. He screamed.”
“An Aethling Charm?” Elias asked, a cold knot forming in his gut.
“Yes, that trinket. He once treasured it, you know? Claimed it was a gift from his father. Then he denounced the Great Regulator as a ‘malformed cog’ or some such blasphemy. Afterwards, he sealed himself within his chamber and would not emerge. Our manor, finally, knew a moment of peace. He does not even comprehend the true architect of his despair. A blithering fool.”
Her voice, which had been laced with mockery, suddenly dipped lower, noticing Elias’s expression.
“What is it? Your face is flushed.”
“It is not.”
“Impossible. Do you truly… desire him? You desire him?” Her voice rose, edged with incredulity.
“I said no.” The words were clipped, precise.
“……By the Scriptorium’s oldest oaths.” She gasped, covering her mouth as if horrified. “You are utterly unhinged, Thorne. Truly.”
Why did she persist in this absurd accusation, despite his denial? Annoyed, Elias yanked his satchel’s zipper shut with a sharp snap. He wanted to cast his own judgment, a swift, cutting retort.
“Why did you speak of this to me? Your father once referred to Corvus as his *second* son.”
“What? What in the nether-spires are you prattling on about?”
A True Contradiction. He saw it, recognized it within himself. Even Hanric, the Arch-Proctor who always seemed to find fault, had once observed Elias’s tendency to perform acts of kindness, regardless of his stated intentions.
But now, he had an excuse. The mottled, brown scars spreading across Corvus’s back. Just as Corvus could not meet his eyes, Elias could not bring himself to look at those marks.
“Thorne.” Corvus’s voice, raspy, drew him back to the present. He realized he was still in Chamber 7, still holding the nutrient tin.
“Yes.” Elias turned from the chamber wall.
“Then… is it permissible if I believe in you?”
His hoarse voice crept closer, intimate in the sterile air. Elias pretended not to care. But he listened. Every syllable.
“What in the cogs are you speaking of?”
“I will not desire you.”
In that instant, Elias’s heart crashed to the cold, hard floor of his perception. His stomach twisted, a sickening lurch. Something tightened around his chest, an iron band constricting his breath.
He almost asked – without thinking, the words rising unbidden – *Why not?*
The moment the question nearly escaped his lips, he recognized the precipice he stood upon. His true, hidden thoughts, carefully suppressed, had almost broken free. *Elias Thorne, you are a blithering fool.*
He clenched his fists, knuckles bone-white, and swallowed the words down. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. He told himself this with fierce conviction.
“Then instead, I will believe in you.” Corvus’s words were strange, tangled with both sorrow and a peculiar elation. Like a disciple receiving a revelation from a forgotten prophet. Was there any other way to describe him in this moment?
Elias did not comprehend the meaning. And yet, he did not pull his hand away. He did not flee. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer merely squeezed; it twisted, it stabbed.
“I am an atheist now. Honestly, you are far more useful to my life than that indifferent Regulator in the sky.”
“Silence that blasphemy.” Elias felt a cold anger rise. This creature… “You curse the Architect every single cycle.”
“No, that is untrue! I was raised a devoted adherent, you know!” Corvus franticly shook his head, his hands waving in desperation. As if his very life depended upon Elias’s belief. If Elias did not believe him, Corvus might actually weep.
Caught off guard, Elias was left speechless. Then, as if reaching a profound decision, Corvus suddenly slid from the couch. He dropped to his knees on the cold floor plates.
“Then I will show you.”
“What in the great gear-works are you doing?” Elias demanded. A large, warm hand grasped his foot. He had been sitting with his legs propped, so he slid forward, barely clinging to the edge of the seat. His foot, dangling slightly, was held firmly in Corvus’s grasp.
Corvus’s gaze landed on the jagged scar that marred the sole of Elias’s foot. A pale, raised line, a memory of a broken shard of glass from the forgotten alleys of the Under-Spire district. His brow furrowed. And to Elias’s disbelief – Corvus’s eyes welled with moisture.
Elias jerked back, shocked, attempting to yank his foot away. Before he could escape, Corvus lowered his head.
“What are you—”
“In the name of the Cog, the Chronos, and the Great Regulator.”
Cold fingertips brushed against Elias’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach, a dizzying nausea. What was this lunatic doing?
He tried to rip his foot free, but his strength abandoned him. It was a strange paralysis.
Corvus looked up at him once, his eyes full of a strange reverence. Then, with a face that showed not a single ounce of disgust – like a devout believer touching a sacred relic – he said:
“I greet the Regulator.” He pressed his lips to the tip of Elias’s foot.
His fine, dark hair brushed against Elias’s ankle, a faint tickle. The gentle press of his lips rubbed against the base of Elias’s toes. A shudder ran through Elias’s spine.
“S-Stop it….” He threw an arm over his face, hiding the sudden rush of heat and shame. Corvus’s right hand tightened around his ankle. And in that moment – Elias stopped resisting.
Three weak, damaged fingers held onto him. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that cursed the Architect every day now traced a path up his calf. And Elias did nothing to stop him.
That’s when he realized.
This relentless, incurable affliction – this nightmare of being ensnared by Corvus, by his own yearning, by the strange, forbidden chaos he brought – still wasn’t over.