A weight, cold and clinging as grave-dust, settled upon Kaelen’s shoulders. Elder Elara’s pronouncements had made him Lysander’s ‘steward,’ a title that felt like a borrowed, ill-fitting set of arcane robes. Each mention hammered home the desolate truth: he was bound, tied to a fate he hadn't chosen.
Adulthood. The word was a husk, empty and brittle. It grated against his skin, a constant abrasion. His nights dissolved into a silent wrestling match with this inherited duty, this shadow-bond to Lysander.
Days blurred. He drifted through the hallowed halls of the Eldorian Academy, mind elsewhere. Lectures on etheric theory or primordial glyphs became a low hum, drowned out by the echo of Lysander’s shallow breaths. Kaelen's own grades suffered, a growing stain on his otherwise pristine record.
Evenings pulled him, a reluctant moth to a sickly flame, to the Sanctum of Healing. Its sterile air, thick with the scent of tinctures and spent mana, never failed to trigger a tremor beneath his ribs. Lysander would lurch from his cot, a pale, too-thin wraith, as if sensing Kaelen’s presence before he even crossed the threshold.
Then, the deluge. Lysander poured out his day, a torrent of complaints. “Another mana-conduit reconstruction, they say. Gods, my arm feels like a raw nerve. And this nutrient gruel… it’s an insult to the Elder Deities! My stomach could digest dragonfire, why must I choke down this watery slop?”
Lysander’s face, contorted in genuine misery, held the petulant charm of a spoiled child. A hollow ache formed in Kaelen’s chest. He reached into his satchel, his jaw clenching. The faint aroma of cooked meat, subtly enhanced by a preservation rune Kaelen had etched onto the satchel’s lining, wafted upwards. The smell clung to his fingers, a silent reproach.
“What now?” Lysander’s voice held a hopeful lilt. Kaelen imagined a phantom tail, coarse and matted, thumping against the floor. Disgust, sharp and visceral, flared through him. He fought it down, shoving the image away.
Kaelen pulled out a carefully wrapped package. Lysander’s eyes, dull moments before, widened. A flicker of something hungry, almost primal, ignited within them.
“What is this?” Lysander breathed, a raw whisper.
“A ration pack. The medics confirmed you’re stable enough for proper sustenance.” Kaelen’s voice was flat, devoid of warmth. “Don’t read anything into it. I merely acquired it from a nearby vendor.”
The denial tasted bitter on his tongue. He had spent hours seeking out a secluded artisan, someone who understood the delicate art of infusing food with restorative runes, ensuring it was both potent and palatable for a recovering patient. He wouldn’t admit the meticulous care, the subtle enchantments woven into the ingredients. He merely wanted to appear pragmatic, fulfilling a cold obligation.
But even that semblance of indifference seemed enough for Lysander. He rubbed his uninjured hand against his ear, a childish gesture. The skin was flushed, a startling crimson against his pallor. Kaelen’s gaze drifted to Lysander’s other hand, the one wrapped in tight bandages. The tips of his fingers, visible through the gauze, were twisted, permanently contorted from the arcane backlash. A knot tightened in Kaelen’s gut. Why did his eyes always snag on that detail? He couldn't tear his gaze away.
“...T-Thank you.” Lysander’s voice was oddly subdued. He glanced at Kaelen, then flinched, turning away with a jerky motion, fumbling with the parcel. Was it feigned shock? A performance? As if being caught looking at Kaelen was a transgression. As if he didn’t want Kaelen to see the raw gratitude etched on his face.
Lysander began to eat, shoveling food into his mouth with mechanical fervor. Kaelen leaned back against the stark wall, exhaustion heavy in his bones. The sight was grotesque: crumbs scattered, Lysander’s lips smeared. Lysander’s injured hand, the middle and ring fingers stiff, seemed to struggle. Was it real difficulty, or another performance? Kaelen slowly slid closer, taking the spoon from his grasp.
“What do you prefer?” Kaelen asked, his voice low.
“...” Lysander paused, chewing.
“The spiced venison?”
Kaelen felt a reluctant responsibility, a fragile thread connecting him to Lysander’s pain. With food clinging to his chin, Lysander chewed, then offered a small, crooked smile, head bowed. Kaelen couldn’t comprehend it. How could this broken creature, whose hand would never fully mend, whose limbs bore the faint, silvery tracks of etheric scarring, find such joy? The brightness in Lysander’s eyes, even in that muted light, unsettled Kaelen. If it were him, he’d want to vanish, to cease to be.
Kaelen selected a choice morsel, holding it to Lysander’s lips. Lysander swallowed, still smiling, a forced, unsettling cheer. This wretched connection, this creature, always unnerved him.
The memory of his visit to Lysander’s manor earlier that day resurfaced, a sharp, unbidden intrusion.
---
It had been weeks since Lysander’s initial incident, the arcane surge that had left him scarred. The ‘steward’s pass’ for the manor, once given by Lord Valerius, still rested in Kaelen’s possession. He had only encountered Lysander’s immediate family twice in the Sanctum: Lord Valerius once, Elara, his twin sister, never. Elara, Lysander’s other sibling, had perfected the art of distant concern, always gentle and gracious to Kaelen, as if rewarding him for shouldering the burden she so conveniently ignored.
Kaelen had only gone to collect some scrolls and trinkets, simple comforts to alleviate Lysander’s confinement. That was all. He knew, intimately, the soul-crushing boredom of a protracted recovery, having endured his own period of vulnerability. He told himself it wasn’t pity. It certainly wasn’t affection.
That day, Kaelen bypassed the academy dorms, heading directly for Lysander’s sprawling manor. The heavy oak doors, carved with ancestral runes, opened to him. But Elara, lingering in a shadowy alcove, did not offer a welcome.
Leaning against the cool stone, Elara’s voice was dry, a whisper of old dust. “Still tending to Lysander, Kaelen?”
Kaelen felt a prickle of irritation. He held no great fondness for Elara. How could she remain so aloof, never visiting her brother? Her own blood, her twin. An instinctual moral judgment formed, unbidden, unarticulated. He silenced it, clamping his mouth shut, stuffing more of Lysander’s things into his satchel.
“He asked for some things.”
“He truly has you snared, hasn’t he? That… affliction of his, it’s bound itself to you.” Elara’s words were a low murmur, barely audible.
Kaelen’s hands froze around a stack of parchment. He turned, slowly, as if pulled by an unseen string. “...Bound to me?”
“What, does that please you?” Her tone was laced with a chilling amusement.
“No. I merely inquired.” Kaelen’s voice was tight. “One doesn’t ‘merely inquire.’ You desired the knowledge, so you asked.”
Elara scoffed, a soft, repulsive sound. She stepped closer, ignoring Kaelen’s palpable discomfort. This entire lineage, Kaelen thought, possessed a talent for deliberate disregard. Elara, Lysander, even Lord Valerius.
“Tell me, where did you vanish to after the Trial of Ascendance?” Elara pressed, changing tack.
Kaelen gripped the satchel tighter. “I kept to my studies.” The entire academy must have heard the rumors.
“It’s not as if I cared to know. But Lysander… he threw a fit. Never once had he set foot in an Elder Temple, yet suddenly he was prostrate, praying, then screaming. Not long after, he tore apart the Sky-shard Rosary Lord Valerius gave him. He called the Elder Deities ‘cursed, impotent swine,’ then locked himself away. Our manor, for a time, knew peace. He fails to grasp who the true swine is. Fool.”
Her voice, mocking moments before, dropped to a lower register. Kaelen felt a flush creep up his neck. “Your face is reddening.”
“It is not.”
“Impossible. Do you truly feel something for him? You care?” Elara’s voice hardened, edged with disbelief.
“I told you, no.” Kaelen snapped.
“...By the Great Wyrms.” Elara gasped, a hand flying to her mouth, feigning horror. “You’re truly twisted, Kaelen. Utterly insane.”
Why did she persist in her accusations? Annoyance flared. Kaelen yanked the satchel’s zipper shut, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He had his own criticism, a barbed retort itching to be released. “Why would you say such things? Lord Valerius himself called Lysander his true heir, his ‘second son’ when he first entrusted him to me.”
Elara’s eyes narrowed. “What utter nonsense are you spouting?”
Such a contradiction. Kaelen knew it. Gareth, that perpetually infuriating mentor, had once remarked, ‘Kaelen, for all his dark brooding, always ends up performing acts of inexplicable kindness.’ Regardless of his intentions.
But now, Kaelen had an excuse. Lysander’s etheric scars, like faint brown rivulets across his back, were a persistent reminder. Just as Lysander couldn’t meet Kaelen’s eyes, Kaelen often found himself unable to fully face Lysander’s lingering wounds.
---
“Kaelen.” Lysander’s voice, a hoarse whisper, broke through the recollection. Kaelen startled, the spoon clattering against the bowl. “Yeah.”
“Then… is it permissible for me to believe in you?” Lysander’s words, laced with a strange reverence, crept closer. Kaelen feigned indifference, but every nerve ending tingled. He listened.
“What are you babbling about?”
“I won’t… crave your affection.”
In that breath, Kaelen’s heart plummeted. His stomach twisted. A vise clamped around his chest. He almost asked—the words formed, unbidden, at the back of his throat—*Why not?*
The moment the question nearly escaped, Kaelen recoiled. His hidden, ugly thoughts, his suppressed yearning for some twisted validation, had almost betrayed him. *Kaelen, you’re a fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the acidic truth.
Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead, I’ll believe in you.” Lysander’s voice was a strange tangle of sorrow and joy, like a newly initiated acolyte receiving a divine revelation. Kaelen didn’t comprehend his words. And yet, he didn’t pull his hand away. He didn’t flee.
The suffocating weight on his chest, no longer merely squeezing, now twisted, stabbing.
“I’m an atheist now. Honestly, you’re far more potent to my life than any distant, uncaring deity.”
“Silence that blasphemy.” This wretched boy…
“You insult the Elder Deities daily.”
“No, that’s untrue! I was raised a devout believer!” Lysander protested, frantically waving his good hand, as if his very existence depended on Kaelen believing him. If Kaelen didn’t, Lysander might actually weep. Caught off guard, Kaelen was speechless. Then, as if a sudden decision had seized him, Lysander slid from the cot, dropping to his knees.
“Then I’ll show you.”
“Hey, what in the Netherblight are you doing?” A fragile hand, the one with twisted fingers, grasped Kaelen’s foot. Kaelen, perched on the edge of the cot, slid forward, his foot dangling. Lysander’s gaze fixed on an old scar, a pale seam running across the sole of Kaelen’s foot—the faded reminder of shattered glass from his own childhood recklessness. Lysander’s brow furrowed. Then, to Kaelen’s shock, his eyes welled with moisture.
Kaelen recoiled, tugging his foot. But before he could escape, Lysander lowered his head.
“What are you—”
“In the name of the Arcane Lord, the Blessed Rune, and the Endless Void.” Cold fingertips brushed Kaelen’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up Kaelen’s calf, twisting deep into his gut. What madness possessed this boy? Kaelen strained to yank his foot free, but his strength abandoned him.
Lysander looked up once, his face utterly devoid of revulsion. Like a fervent devotee touching a sacred relic, he pressed his lips to the tip of Kaelen’s foot. Lysander’s fine, soft hair brushed Kaelen’s ankle, a feather-light touch. The gentle pressure of his lips traced a path up the base of Kaelen’s toes.
“S-Stop…” Kaelen threw an arm over his face. Lysander’s right hand, the injured one, tightened around Kaelen’s ankle. And in that moment, Kaelen stopped resisting. Three weak, twisted fingers held him. A delicate, fragile grip, a tapping against his skin. The lips that cursed gods now traced a path up his calf. And Kaelen did nothing. That’s when he realized. This relentless, incurable disease—this nightmare of being eighteen, and inextricably bound—still wasn’t over.