A name, an unspoken title, clung to Elian like a damp shroud after a storm: ‘Patron Vance’s Shadow’. Each time the phrase echoed in his mind, he felt the heavy weight of expectations settle, an ill-fitting garment on a frame not yet accustomed to its contours. Adulthood. A concept that felt as alien as a foreign spell, its syllables awkward on his tongue, its responsibilities chafing against his carefully cultivated composure. Uncountable vigils and sleepless nights had Elian wrestling with the duties fate had assigned him, not least of which was the precarious state of Rhys. He traversed the Collegiate’s hallowed grounds by morning, his mind alight with theoretical arcana. Yet, by evening, his steps inevitably led him to the infirmary wing, a place smelling faintly of sterile potions and lingering fear. Truthfully, he often found his attention fractured, his studies less than half-attended. His intellect, usually a finely honed instrument, felt dulled, perpetually drawn to the spectral image of Rhys. With a heart that felt perpetually bound by invisible chains, Elian would return. Rhys, confined to a chamber warmed by slow-working restorative charms, would inevitably stir, a sudden animation in his eyes, as if Elian’s arrival was the dawn he’d awaited. Rhys, like a torrent breaking a dam, would then unleash the day’s frustrations, a litany of complaints about the indignities of recuperation. Each word, raw and unrestrained, pierced Elian’s careful reserve. “Another week tethered to these damn tinctures,” Rhys grumbled, a hand, pale and trembling slightly from residual magical strain, gesturing vaguely. “And this… this glorified gruel. My palate isn’t some ancient ruin, Elian. My constitution craves substance, not the broth of wilted weeds they serve.” His voice, usually sharp with a defiant energy, was hoarse, tinged with a genuine misery that stripped away his usual brashness, revealing a vulnerability Elian found both unsettling and strangely compelling. Rhys seemed, in that moment, no different from a frustrated child. Elian expelled a silent breath, barely perceptible, and reached into his satchel. An unwelcome aroma, subtle yet persistent, had already seeped into the fine leather. He felt his lip curl instinctively. Still, better this than carrying the vessel openly. The thought of such a public display of solicitude made his skin prickle. “What?” Rhys asked, his gaze, usually so intense, now held a bewildered tilt. Elian could almost imagine a canine’s drooping ears, thick and unkempt, in his mind’s eye. An absolutely repulsive thought. He banished it with a flicker of mental will, pulling forth a lacquered wooden box from his satchel. A pitiful curiosity flickered in Rhys’s eyes as they swept over the offering. The gloom that had clung to him moments before began to recede, replaced by a cautious interest. “What is this?” Rhys inquired, his voice softer now. “A ration,” Elian replied, his tone clipped, formal. “I enquired. They confirmed your current condition allows for solid intake, provided it’s prepared correctly.” “A ration?” Rhys echoed, his brow furrowing slightly. “Do not attach significance,” Elian insisted, his voice hardening, a subtle tremor in his own hand. “I merely acquired it from a provisioner near the Collegiate gates.” The reason he forbade Rhys from assigning meaning… was because Elian had already imbued it with too much of his own. He would never confess the hours spent researching, the discreet inquiries made, to find a purveyor offering nourishing, palatable fare suitable for one recovering from magical overexertion. He refused to dwell on it. He merely wished to appear as someone performing an act of pure, detached responsibility, nothing more. But even that, it seemed, was enough for Rhys. With his barely functional right hand, he scratched idly at his earlobe, a motion that spoke of suppressed agitation. A quick glance revealed the lobe was flushed, a faint red. Elian’s gaze drifted lower, towards Rhys’s fingers. They curled slightly, stiff, bearing the lingering marks of potent spellcasting, a raw power that had nearly consumed him. His face twisted involuntarily. Why did those fingers capture his attention? Why could he not look away? A suffocating tightness gripped his chest. “—T-Thank you,” Rhys mumbled, his voice oddly subdued. He glanced at Elian, then flinched, as if caught in a forbidden act, his hands fumbling with the lacquered box’s clasp. Was the startled reaction genuine? Or was it a pretense, designed to mask something else, something Rhys wished Elian wouldn’t notice? Watching Rhys mechanically consume the carefully prepared food, Elian leaned his weary frame against the padded support of the chamber’s settee. It was an unrefined sight. Food threatened to spill from the corners of Rhys’s mouth. Rhys’s third, fourth, and fifth fingers remained partially rigid, unable to flex properly. Elian couldn’t discern if this was genuine impairment or an unconscious affectation. Slowly, inexorably, Elian shifted closer. He reached out, taking the spoon from Rhys’s unsteady grip. “What do you prefer?” he murmured, his voice softer than intended. “…” Rhys paused, his chewing slowing. “The meat stew?” Elian prompted, selecting a portion from the box. At the very least, Elian felt a profound, almost primal obligation to acknowledge the validity of Rhys’s afflictions. With lips smeared with the rich stew, Rhys chewed slowly, then lowered his head, offering a faint, almost shy smile. Elian could not comprehend why this brash individual, whose fingers might never regain their full dexterity, and who bore the scars of a magic that had ravaged his core, could still smile like that. He truly did not understand. He found he could not bring himself to look at that bright, unsettlingly vulnerable face. What could possibly be so amusing? If it were Elian, he’d wish for an oblivion to swallow him whole. He selected a succulent piece of roasted fowl and guided it to Rhys’s mouth. Rhys chewed forcefully, still smiling. That man, that infuriating, intense individual, always unsettled him. --- To be candid, the only reason Elian had acquired the restorative rations was due to an encounter before his visit to the infirmary—a brief, unwelcome interlude near Rhys’s assigned quarters. It was the second time Elian had been compelled to attend to Rhys’s needs since the incident that had left him drained and vulnerable. Surprisingly, the pass that granted him access to Rhys’s private recovery suite still resided within his satchel, a small, polished disk of obsidian. In the entire time Rhys had been confined, Elian had only glimpsed Rhys’s actual family on three occasions. Once, his stoic father; twice, his overly solicitous mother. His mother, in particular, adopted a saccharine demeanor towards Elian, as if to reward him for diligently fulfilling the responsibilities she had so readily—and frequently—delegated. Rhys merely rested his chin on a fist, his gaze fixed on his mother’s retreating back, a faint, unreadable shadow in his eyes. Elian’s sole purpose had been to retrieve certain academic texts and personal artifacts for Rhys, to alleviate the stultifying boredom of confinement. He knew, better than anyone, the insidious crawl of time within a solitary chamber. Having endured similar periods of enforced isolation, Elian understood precisely what was required. He convinced himself it was merely duty, a pragmatic assessment of need. Not sympathy. Certainly not affection. That day, rather than returning to his own austere dormitory, Elian found himself detouring, drawn by an invisible thread, towards Rhys’s more opulent, though currently unoccupied, living quarters. His noble house’s private residence within the Collegiate grounds still welcomed him, its magically warded doors swinging open at his approach. But Lorian Vex did not. Leaning against the polished obsidian of Rhys’s outer chamber, Lorian’s voice cut through the hushed air, dry and laced with a familiar cynicism. “Still tending to Rhys, Vance?” Lorian queried, his eyes, dark as midnight, assessing Elian with a discomfiting precision. To be honest, Elian harbored no warm feelings toward Lorian either. How could he remain so detached, never visiting, never inquiring beyond a casual remark? Rhys was, after all, a peer, a fellow student, a member of their interwoven society. That instinctual sense of propriety made Elian judge him. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. It wasn’t intentional. The moment the realization struck, Elian clamped his mouth shut, stuffing another scroll into his bag. “Yes.” His response was terse. “He truly has taken leave of his senses, hasn’t he? That madman’s utterly fixated on you.” Elian’s hand, hovering over a stack of inscribed tablets, froze. He turned slowly, as if pulled by an unseen force. “…Fixated on me?” “What, does the thought please you?” Lorian’s lip curled, a hint of disdain. “No,” Elian retorted, his voice strained. “I merely sought clarification.” “One never ‘merely’ seeks clarification. You desired to know, so you asked.” Lorian’s voice dipped to a near whisper, though every word was perfectly audible. Disgusting. Elian pretended not to hear the underlying malice. Still, Lorian closed the distance between them, oblivious to Elian’s discomfort. This entire stratum of society, it seemed, possessed an innate talent for ignoring inconvenient truths. Lorian, Rhys, even Elian’s own father, in his own way. “Tell me, where did you disappear to after the Grand Conjunction ceremony?” Elian paused. “I returned to my studies.” The entire Collegiate, he knew, must have been rife with speculation. He had retreated from the social crucible, a tactical withdrawal, yet it had clearly been misinterpreted. “It’s not as if I sought the information out. But Rhys… Rhys threw a veritable tantrum over it. That infuriating dolt, who rarely acknowledges the Arcane Weave, suddenly began muttering invocations, then screaming at the very concept of Fate. Not long after, he tore apart the gilded compass his father gifted him, shouting obscenities at the cosmos.” “His compass?” Elian asked, a cold dread seeping into his bones. “Yes, that trivial thing. He once treasured it, you know? Called it a guide to his aspirations. Then he proclaimed the Weaver of Fates a ‘blind mutt’ or some such nonsense. He locked himself in his chambers and didn’t emerge for days. Our hall, for once, knew a modicum of peace. He doesn’t even grasp the true architect of his own misery. Fool.” Lorian’s voice, which had been mocking, suddenly lowered, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, perhaps a reaction to Elian’s own expression. “What is it? Your face is flushed.” “It is not.” “Impossible. Do you truly harbor affection for him? Do you desire him?” “I said no,” Elian bit out, his jaw tight. “…By the Abyss.” Lorian gasped, covering his mouth as if horrified. “You are truly unhinged, Vance. Utterly so.” Why did Lorian persist when Elian had already denied it? Annoyed, Elian yanked his satchel’s clasp shut with a sharp click and snapped at him. He wanted to retaliate, to critique Lorian’s own detachment. “Why did you speak of this to me? Your father once called Rhys his most promising protégé, his second son in all but blood.” “What? What nonsense are you spouting now?” --- Such a profound contradiction. Elian recognized the irony, the unsettling truth in Lorian’s words, however cruelly delivered. Even Han Taesan, a rival who perpetually grated on his nerves, had once remarked upon it – ‘Elian Vance, for all his aloofness, inevitably performs acts of startling kindness.’ No matter his true intentions. But right now, Elian possessed an excuse. The faint, persistent tremor in Rhys’s hand, the residual fatigue etched into his lean frame. Just as Rhys often averted his eyes from Elian’s intense scrutiny, Elian found himself unable to fully meet the raw vulnerability in Rhys’s gaze. “Elian.” Rhys’s voice, hoarse and almost a plea, pulled Elian from his spiraling thoughts. “Yes?” Elian replied, his voice neutral. He feigned indifference. Yet, he listened. Truly listened. “Then… is it acceptable if I believe in you?” His words, soft and laced with an unexpected reverence, crept closer, enveloping Elian. He pretended not to care. Yet, every nerve ending hummed. “What do you mean?” Elian asked, his voice rougher than he intended. “I won’t… pursue you,” Rhys clarified, the phrase clumsy, yet deliberate. In that instant, Elian’s heart plummeted, a leaden weight sinking through his core. His stomach twisted. Something tightened, suffocating, around his chest. He almost asked—without thinking. *Why not?* The moment the words nearly escaped his lips, Elian recognized the precipice he stood upon, the abyss of his own hidden yearning. His true, suppressed desires had almost found voice. *Elian Vance, you are a fool, an absolute, unredeemable fool.* He clenched his fists beneath the folds of his robes, swallowing the nascent question, the shameful admission. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. He forced a bland expression onto his face. “Then, instead,” Rhys continued, his voice tangled with both sorrow and a strange, quiet joy, “I will believe in you.” Like a supplicant receiving a revelation, or a devotee encountering a sacred truth. Was there any other way to describe him in this moment? Elian did not fully comprehend Rhys’s words. And yet, he did not withdraw his hand. Did not retreat. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer merely squeezed—it twisted, a sharp, cold blade. “I am an atheist, now. Truly, you are far more instrumental to my existence than any ethereal being.” “Silence,” Elian snapped, the word a desperate plea more than a command. “You blaspheme with every breath.” “No, that is not true. I was raised a devoted adherent, you know!” Rhys protested, his hands flailing, his desperation palpable, as if his very sanity hinged on Elian’s belief. If Elian did not accept his words, Rhys might indeed unravel. Caught off guard, Elian was left speechless. And then, as if a new resolve had settled upon him, Rhys slid from the settee, dropping gracefully, almost reverently, to his knees before Elian. “Then I shall demonstrate.” “Rhys, what in the—what are you doing?” A large, still somewhat unsteady hand, reached out, gripping Elian’s ankle. Since Elian had been sitting with his legs crossed, propped on the settee, he slid forward, barely perching on the edge of the seat. His foot, suspended in the air, was held captive by Rhys’s grasp. Then, Rhys’s gaze fell upon a faint, almost imperceptible scar on the sole of Elian’s foot—a remnant from a childhood mishap involving shattered glass in the Collegiate’s ancient greenhouses. Rhys’s brow furrowed. And to Elian’s utter disbelief—Rhys’s eyes filled with moisture. A raw, unbidden empathy. Elian recoiled in shock, attempting to yank his foot free. Before he could escape, Rhys lowered his head. “What are you—” “In the name of the Grand Architect, the Guiding Star, and the Eternal Weave,” Rhys murmured, his voice thick with emotion. Cold fingertips brushed against Elian’s ankle. A sharp ache, less physical than spiritual, shot up Elian’s calf, deep into his stomach. What was this madman doing? He tried to wrench his foot away, but his strength abandoned him, leaving him limp, trembling. Rhys looked up at Elian once, his gaze unwavering. And then, with a face that showed not a single ounce of revulsion—like a devout acolyte touching a sacred relic— “I greet the true vessel.” He pressed his lips to the tip of Elian’s foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against Elian’s ankle, a feather-light touch. The gentle pressure of his lips traced a path across the base of Elian’s toes. “S-Stop it…” Elian threw an arm over his face, a desperate attempt to shield himself from the overwhelming intimacy, the raw, unearned reverence. Rhys’s right hand, still weakened, tightened around Elian’s ankle. And in that moment—Elian stopped resisting. Three frail, less-than-perfect fingers held onto him. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly, rhythmically, against his skin. The lips that had cursed the cosmos, that had spurned the very gods, now traced a path up Elian’s calf. And Elian did nothing to stop him. That’s when he realized. This relentless, incurable disease—this nightmare of his eighteenth year, already fraught with Kaelen’s distant allure and Lorian’s subtle challenges—still wasn’t over. It had merely taken on a new, profoundly unsettling form.

A True Contradiction