Caelan felt the weight of “Lyra’s Keeper” like a brand. Not a title of honor, but an ill-fitting mantle, stitched from his own reluctant compassion and the Conclave’s convenient delegation. An adult. The syllables grated, a rough weave against his skin.
Many nights passed in the pale glow of astral charts, his mind grappling with the unexpected burden of Lyra’s continued care. Mornings saw him tracing ancient star-paths; evenings found him traversing the hushed corridors of the Lumina Sanctuary. Half his lectures on celestial navigation blurred into an ignored murmur.
Heart heavy, he would return to the Lumina’s ward, and Lyra would erupt from his cot, a pale, restless specter awaiting his tether. And like a forgotten star-chart unrolled, Lyra would spill the day’s indignities.
“They talk of another mana-graft. Gods, my spirit-channels will be flayed raw again. And the Sanctuary’s gruel… it curdles the very air. I’m no elder, my stomach still craves substance, why must I ingest this pallid sludge even a grimoire-golem would refuse?”
Lyra’s face, usually drawn, twisted into a mask of genuine misery, stripping away the adept’s years, leaving only the petulant child.
Caelan released a quiet exhale, his fingers delving into his satchel. He despised the way the scent of mundane victuals clung to the intricate leather. It had already seeped, a cloying sweetness that made his mouth pinch. But carrying the box unwrapped, exposed to the whispers of the Conclave, would have been far worse.
“What is that?”
He swore he could almost glimpse a wilting aura around Lyra, a shadow of an injured beast. It made his skin crawl. He dismissed the grotesque image, pulling a polished wooden box from his bag.
A gaze, hollowed by weeks of confinement, fixated on the offering. A flicker of something else stirred in those haunted eyes.
“That’s a sustenance box. They said you’re still far from the next grafting, so you may partake.”
“A sustenance box?”
“Do not imbue it with meaning. I procured it from a provisioner near the Conclave gates.”
The command to refrain from reading into it was a lie Caelan told himself first. He would never admit to seeking out a provisioner known for both its palatable fare and its gentle, restorative properties, suitable for those undergoing esoteric healing. He refused to acknowledge the thought. He only wished to present himself as one performing a simple, impersonal duty.
Even that meager pretense seemed to be enough for Lyra. His right hand, still stiff from the mana-burns, scratched wildly at his temple. A flush spread across the pale skin there. Caelan’s gaze drifted downward, settling on Lyra’s fingers. They curled inward, unnaturally, a testament to the arcane feedback that had ravaged his hand. His mouth tightened. Why did those ruined fingers hold his attention so fiercely? Why could he not look away? A cold knot formed in his chest.
“…Th-thank you.”
Lyra’s voice, usually a rapid torrent, was oddly subdued. He glanced up, met Caelan’s eyes, and flinched, almost physically recoiling, then fumbled with the clasp of the box. A feigned startle? As if being caught looking at Caelan was a transgression. As if he didn’t want Caelan to notice.
Watching Lyra devour the contents, a blur of motion, Caelan leaned against the uncomfortable cot, exhaustion seeping into his bones. It was a crude display. Food clung to Lyra’s lips, crumbs scattered. The pinky, ring, and middle fingers of Lyra’s right hand remained unmoving. Caelan couldn’t tell if it was true impairment or a performance for his benefit. Slowly, Caelan moved closer, gently taking the spoon from Lyra’s hand.
“What do you wish for?”
A quiet silence.
“Aether-fish?”
At the very least, Caelan bore the responsibility of acknowledging Lyra’s genuine suffering. Lyra, lips smeared, chewed slowly, then lowered his head, a faint smile playing on his face. Caelan could not fathom how this acolyte, whose fingers might never fully flex again, whose spirit-channels bore fresh, angry scars across his back, could smile so freely. He truly couldn’t comprehend it. He averted his gaze from Lyra’s bright, incandescent face. What could possibly be so amusing? If it were Caelan, he would wish for oblivion. He selected a succulent piece of stewed dream-root and brought it to Lyra’s lips. Lyra chewed, still smiling, with an almost defiant vigor. This acolyte, Lyra, always unsettled Caelan.
---
The truth was, Caelan had purchased the sustenance box because of an earlier encounter, before his visit to the Lumina Sanctuary. He had stopped at Lyra’s personal chambers.
This was the second time Caelan had visited since Lyra’s most recent mana-grafting. The ward-pass, etched with the symbol of the Conclave’s temporary guardianship, still granted him access. He had encountered Lyra’s family only thrice within the Sanctuary. Once, Lyra’s father, a severe man of arcane lineage. Twice, his mother, who had adopted a cloying sweetness with Caelan, as if rewarding him for shouldering her own neglected duties. Lyra had simply rested his chin on his hand, watching his mother’s retreating back with an unsettling stillness.
Caelan had only come to gather some of Lyra’s personal effects. A few scrolls, a favoured runic tablet, anything to alleviate the crushing monotony of the healing ward. That was all. He knew, better than anyone, the slow torment of confinement within such walls. Having endured his own period of recovery in his youth, he understood the particular needs. He convinced himself it was not empathy. Nor affection.
That day, instead of returning to his spartan dormitory, Caelan had commuted from his ancestral rooms within the Conclave’s less frequented sections. On his way, he had called upon Lyra’s private chambers, a smaller annex within his family’s grander estate. The ward-barrier still recognised Caelan’s sigil. But Seraphina, Lyra’s elder sister, had not. She stood leaning against the polished obsidian frame of Lyra’s door, a silhouette of elegant disdain.
“You’re still tending to Lyra, Thorne?” she asked, her voice dry, like rustling parchment.
Truthfully, Caelan held little warmth for Seraphina either. How could she fail to visit the Sanctuary, not once? Her own kin, ravaged by arcane imbalance. A primal sense of duty, unexpected in Caelan, stirred a silent judgment within him. He hadn’t even realized the thought had formed until it lingered. He clamped his mouth shut, stuffing more of Lyra’s scrolls into his satchel.
“Yes.”
“He truly has latched onto you, hasn’t he? That desperate creature is obsessed.”
Caelan’s hand froze, mid-reach. He turned, as if pulled by an invisible thread.
“…Obsessed with me?”
“What, does that please you, Thorne?”
“No, I merely inquired.”
“No one ‘merely’ inquires. You desired to know, so you asked.”
A sickening sensation stirred in Caelan’s gut. She muttered something under her breath, a low sneer, but Caelan pretended not to hear. Still, she stepped closer, a dismissive wave of her hand. This entire family seemed to possess a talent for ignoring what they deemed inconvenient. Seraphina, Lyra, even their father.
“Tell me, where did you disappear to after your tutelage?”
“After my tutelage?”
The whispers must have spread through the Conclave’s every chamber.
“It’s not as if I sought the information. But Lyra… he threw a fit about it. The acolyte who never once invoked the Conclave’s patrons suddenly prayed, then raged. Not long after, he tore apart the Sacred Sigil his father bestowed upon him and screamed until his throat was raw.”
“The Sigil?”
“Yes, that trinket. He once guarded it jealously, you know? Called it a gift from his father, a tether to the lineage. Then he cursed the celestial patrons, called them faithless mutts. After that, he locked himself in his chambers and refused to emerge. Our estate was finally quiet, for once. He doesn’t even comprehend who the true wretch is. Fool.”
Her voice, which had been laced with mockery, dipped suddenly, noticing Caelan’s expression.
“What is it? Your face is flushed.”
“It is not.”
“No, it absolutely is. Do you truly harbor affection for him? Do you truly… like him?”
“I said no.”
“…By the Void.”
She gasped, covering her mouth as if confronted by something truly horrific.
“You are unhinged. Truly.”
Why did she insist, despite his denials? Annoyed, Caelan yanked the satchel’s flap shut with a decisive snap. He wished to rebuke her too.
“Why did you speak of that to me? Your father claimed Lyra was his true-born son.”
---
A True Contradiction.
What a paradox. Even his old tutor, Master Theon, a man whose patience was as thin as spun ether, had once observed that Caelan, despite his best efforts, always ended up performing some act of unbidden kindness. No matter his intentions.
But now, Caelan had an excuse. The faint, brown scars that latticed Lyra’s back, visible when the healer had changed his dressings. Just as Lyra could not meet Caelan’s gaze, Caelan could not bring himself to look at those marks.
“Caelan.”
“Yes.”
“Then… may I believe in you?”
Lyra’s voice, hoarse from disuse, crept closer. Caelan pretended not to care. But he listened.
“What arcane nonsense are you uttering?”
“I will not… like you.”
In that instant, Caelan’s carefully constructed composure fractured, crumbling to the floor. His stomach twisted, a cold knot tightening around his chest. He almost asked—unthinkingly. *Why not?* The words hovered at the precipice of his tongue, and he recognized the true, hidden thought trying to escape. *Caelan Thorne, you are a fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the urge. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead, I will believe in you.”
But Lyra spoke again, his voice a strange blend of sorrow and quiet joy. Like an acolyte receiving a sacred revelation from a celestial being. How else could he describe this moment? Caelan did not comprehend his words. And yet, he did not pull his hand away. He did not flee. The suffocating weight on his chest no longer merely squeezed; it pierced him.
“I am an atheist now. Truly, you are more beneficial to my existence than any patron in the sky.”
“Silence, acolyte.”
This creature…
“You utter blasphemy every cycle.”
“No, that is untrue. I was raised a devout supplicant, you know!”
“Then what was that pronouncement?”
Lyra shook his hands frantically, as if his very life depended on Caelan’s belief. His tone, desperate, as if he might actually weep if Caelan doubted him. Caught off guard, Caelan found himself speechless.
Then, as if a sudden resolve had seized him, Lyra slid off the cot, dropping to his knees on the cold floor.
“Then I shall show you.”
“Acolyte, acolyte. What are you doing?”
A slender hand clamped around Caelan’s foot. Since he had been sitting with his legs casually propped on the cot, Caelan slid forward, teetering precariously on the edge. His foot, now dangling, was cradled in Lyra’s grasp. Lyra’s gaze landed on the faint, silvery scar on the sole of Caelan’s foot, a legacy from shattered rune-glass in his youth. Lyra’s brow furrowed. And, to Caelan’s disbelief—Lyra’s eyes brimmed with liquid light.
Caelan recoiled in shock, trying to yank his foot free. Before he could escape, Lyra lowered his head.
“What in the—”
“In the name of the Conclave’s Grand Masters, the Acolyte’s Path, and the Sacred Truth.”
Cold fingertips brushed against Caelan’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. What archaic rite was this lunatic performing? Caelan tried to pull his foot away, but his strength abandoned him. Lyra looked up at Caelan once more. And then, with a face that showed not a single mote of disgust—like a devout supplicant touching a holy relic—
“I greet my Guide.”
He pressed his lips to the tip of Caelan’s foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against Caelan’s ankle, a feather-light touch. The gentle pressure of his lips traced the base of Caelan’s toes.
“S-stop this…”
Caelan threw an arm over his face, shielding his eyes. Lyra’s right hand, the one with the damaged fingers, tightened around Caelan’s ankle. And in that moment—
Caelan stopped resisting. Three weak fingers held him, a delicate, fragile grip tapping lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed the celestial patrons only moments ago now traced a path up his calf. And Caelan did nothing to stop him.
That’s when he realized. This relentless, consuming ailment—this nightmare of his new responsibility—it was far from over.