“Thorne’s Ward”—the appellation clung to Caspian, a heavy, ill-fitting mantle. Every whisper of it, every knowing glance from a Conservatory peer, made him painfully aware of the precipice of adulthood he’d been pushed onto. Adult. The word itself felt a rough, woven thing, chafing against his skin. It was a role he hadn't sought, a responsibility that twisted itself around his solitude. Weeks had blurred into a monotonous cycle, mornings dedicated to the arduous arcana studies in the ancient halls of Veridia, evenings spent within the hushed, cavernous infirmary. His attendance in lectures had become a phantom presence, his mind often drifting even as master-scholars expounded on the intricacies of elemental composition. Returning to the infirmary each twilight, a weariness settled deep within his bones. Yet, the moment his boots echoed on the polished floor, Lysander Thorne would emerge from his sterile suite, a shadow of his former vibrant self, as though tethered to Caspian’s arrival. And just as surely as the dusk fell, Lysander would begin his litany, recounting the day’s indignities in a voice sharpened by boredom and pain. “Another runic realignment. They’ll have to flay my essence channels again. Gods, Caspian, the nutrient broth they serve here tastes like crushed starlight filtered through ancient moss. My core is perfectly stable, why must I subsist on fare fit only for a comatose gargoyle?” He poured out his grievances, his face a mask of genuine misery, a petulant, spoiled child in a gilded cage. Yet beneath the aristocratic whine, Caspian discerned a genuine, raw fear, a subtle flicker of desperation that tightened his own chest. Caspian sighed, a sound barely audible above the hum of the infirmary’s ambient wards. His satchel, usually smelling of aged parchment and ink, had acquired a faint, alien scent. He pulled it open, a slight grimace touching his lips. He truly loathed the mingling of scents. It felt… vulgar. Still, carrying it unwrapped through the Conservatory's grand halls would have been a greater affront to his carefully constructed composure. “What now?” Lysander’s tone was sharp, but Caspian perceived the subtle dip in his aura, the slump of shoulders that mirrored a drooping tail. A phantom image, thick furred, flashed in his mind. He quickly dismissed it. He drew a lacquered wooden box from the satchel. Lysander’s gaze, previously sullen, brightened, a spark of avarice igniting in his pale eyes. “What’s that?” “A… repast.” Caspian kept his voice level, neutral. “They confirmed your next channel alignment isn’t imminent. You can eat solid food for now.” “A repast?” Lysander’s voice rose, incredulous. “Don’t read into it,” Caspian cautioned, his gaze deliberately distant. “I merely acquired it from a nearby artisan’s stall.” The denial felt like a lie, even to himself. He had spent a torturous hour seeking a culinary establishment near the Conservatory's secluded grounds, one renowned for its restorative, yet palatable, fare. He wouldn't admit the meticulous search, the quiet consultation with a lesser Healer regarding Lysander’s current dietary restrictions. He simply wanted the act to appear one of detached, practical kindness. Nothing more. Yet, even that seemed enough for Lysander. A faint flush crept up his neck, and with his barely functional left hand, he scratched idly at his ear. Caspian caught the brief glimpse of scarlet. His gaze drifted downwards, drawn by an invisible thread. Lysander’s fingers, specifically the middle and ring digits, curved at an unnatural angle, stiff and unyielding, scarred channels of arcane energy. A sharp pang pierced Caspian’s chest. He looked away, but the image lingered. Why did his eyes always snag on that particular deformity? He heard a soft intake of breath. “...Thank you.” Lysander’s voice was uncharacteristically subdued. Lysander glanced at Caspian, a hesitant flicker in his eyes. Their gazes met, and Lysander flinched, then fumbled, as if caught in a forbidden act. He began to unlatch the box with a practiced clumsiness, perhaps pretending greater urgency than he felt. As Lysander devoured the food, stuffing it into his mouth with an almost mechanical ferocity, crumbs escaping his lips, Caspian leaned back against the plush infirmary couch, exhaustion settling over him like a shroud. A faint revulsion curled in his gut at the messy sight. Lysander’s pinky, ring, and middle fingers on his left hand remained rigid. Caspian couldn’t tell if the clumsy manipulation was genuine struggle or a subconscious performance. A quiet, disquieting thought. He pushed it away. He slowly moved closer, taking the spoon from Lysander’s hand. “Which portion do you desire?” Lysander paused, chewing. “The spiced fowl?” At the very least, Caspian felt a primal obligation to acknowledge Lysander’s wounds, both seen and unseen. Lysander, mouth smeared, lowered his head slightly, a small, almost secret smile playing on his lips. Caspian couldn't fathom it. This entitled scion, whose fingers were irrevocably marred, whose arcane channels were a patchwork of scars across his essence—how could he smile? The thought was alien, disturbing. He couldn’t bring himself to meet the brightness in Lysander’s face. What profound amusement could he possibly find in this wretched state? Were it Caspian, he would have withered into ash. He selected a choice morsel of spiced fowl, holding it to Lysander’s lips. Lysander chewed, still smiling, a soft, contented hum rising from his throat. The boy always managed to disquiet him. The repast, Caspian admitted to himself, had been prompted by an earlier encounter, before his arrival at the infirmary—a brief detour to the Thorne estate. ---

A Profane Benediction