Elian Vane stepped into the hushed chamber, the air thick with the scent of tinctures and the faint, sweet decay of ancient stone. This secluded wing of the Aesculapian Vaults, reserved for noble ailments of particular delicacy, felt less like a place of healing and more a gilded cage. He carried the weight of a secret, of a trust unasked for yet irrevocably granted. His second name, it seemed, was 'Lord Valerius' Unbidden Confidant.' The phrase always tasted like ash. Adult. Two syllables, too large for him. Like borrowing a ceremonial robe from a giant. Countless nights had frayed Elian's nerves since Kael Valerius had been interred here. Mornings were for the Imperial Archives, for the meticulous translation of archaic texts; evenings for this sterile, shadowed sanctum. Often, he missed more than half his lectures, a silent tremor of anxiety coiling in his gut. His reputation, his very future, depended on his scholarly diligence. With a heart heavy as an alchemist’s lead, he returned. Kael, always, seemed to be waiting. He would spill the day’s indignities the moment Elian crossed the threshold. "Another round of bone-marrow poultices, they say. My back, Elian, feels like a butcher's block again. And the infusions... Gods, they taste of rusted iron and desperation. I am not some doddering elder, my stomach churns for real fare, not this watered-down gruel fit only for a dying pauper." Kael's voice, usually a languid purr, was edged with a raw, childish misery. His handsome features, sharpened by his ordeal, twisted in a genuinely wretched mask. Elian sighed, a thin whisper of air. His satchel, a scholar’s companion, held more than just scrolls. The faint, tell-tale aroma of spiced meats and a rich stew already clung to the leather. His lip curled, an involuntary tremor of distaste. It would forever carry this tell. Better than carrying it openly. The gossip. The questions. "What is it?" Kael's eyes, usually sharp as obsidian shards, softened, then widened. Elian almost imagined a droop in his posture, a pathetic, almost canine slump. Disgusting. The thought flared, sharp and unwelcome. He pushed the notion away, thrusting a carefully wrapped wooden box into Kael’s lap. A pitiable gaze, haunted and expectant, fixed on the offering. The gloom in Kael’s eyes flickered, replaced by a nascent spark. "What is this?" Kael’s voice was a whisper, laced with a fragile hope. "A supper box. The healers confirmed you're still far from your next grafting ritual. You can eat this." Elian’s tone was clipped, brusque. "A supper box?" "Do not imbue it with meaning. I procured it from a vendor near the outer gates." He had told Kael not to imbue it with meaning because he had already, foolishly, done so himself. Searching the bustling market quarter, finding a discreet stall that served dishes both safe for a weakened constitution and deliciously flavorful – he would never admit the effort. He desired only to appear as one performing a simple act of pragmatic concern. Nothing more. Yet, even that seemed enough for Kael. His barely functional right hand, a casualty of the arcane backlash that had ravaged his body, scratched at his ear. The lobe, Elian noticed, was flushed a dark crimson. Elian's gaze drifted, drawn inexplicably to Kael's fingers. They curled, slightly stiff, a grotesque mockery of their former elegant dexterity. His face tightened. Why did his eyes always snag on Kael's imperfections? Why couldn't he simply look away? A cold knot tightened in Elian's chest. "…Thank you," Kael murmured, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. He glanced at Elian, then flinched when their eyes met, scrambling to open the supper box. A feigned startle, perhaps? As if being caught looking at Elian was a trespass, something to conceal. Kael began to eat, stuffing the food into his mouth with an almost mechanical haste. He paid no heed to the stray morsels that escaped. A revolting sight. Elian leaned his exhausted body against the plush velvet of the daybed. Kael’s middle, ring, and little fingers remained stubbornly rigid, an immobile trio. Elian couldn't discern if it was genuine impairment or an elaborate performance. Slowly, Elian shifted closer, taking the spoon from Kael's fumbling grasp. "What do you desire to eat?" Kael looked up, his chewing momentarily halted. "Meat?" Elian offered, picking out a succulent morsel. At the very least, Elian felt a strange, unbidden responsibility to acknowledge the truth of Kael's suffering. Kael, lips smeared, chewed slowly, then dipped his head and smiled. Elian had no understanding. How could this bastard, who would never again wield a blade or a quill with three of his fingers, whose back and thigh were crisscrossed with the keloid scars of arcane damage, smile with such unnerving serenity? Elian truly did not understand. He couldn't bear to meet that bright, unsettling gaze. What in the blazes was so amusing? If it were Elian, he would wish for oblivion. He selected another generous portion of what looked to be the finest side dish – braised pheasant with saffron – and offered it to Kael. Kael chewed, still smiling, still unsettling. This bastard, always. Honestly, the supper box was a consequence of a stop Elian had made before coming to the Vaults. He had visited Valerius Keep. --- It was the second time since Kael’s last grafting ritual. Elian still possessed the arcane sigil that granted him access to the Valerius’ private grounds, a relic from his initial appointment. He had encountered Kael’s family only thrice in these hushed halls of healing. Once, his father, Lord Valerius, distant and cold; twice, his mother, Lady Valerius, a vision of fragile elegance. Her voice, soft as winter lace, had held an undercurrent of gratitude, a subtle acknowledgment of the burden Elian had assumed. Kael, for his part, had simply rested his chin on his hand, eyes following his mother's retreating back with a blank, unreadable stare. Elian had gone only to retrieve some comforts for Kael, scrolls of philosophy, volumes of ancient poetry, a particular set of etched divination runes he was fond of. Anything to break the monotony of confinement. He knew the tedium of a sick room all too well. Having experienced his own periods of debilitating illness as a child, he understood Kael's needs with an unwanted clarity. He had convinced himself it was not pity. Certainly not affection. That day, instead of returning to his modest dormitory within the Collegium, he had decided to commute from his rented rooms on the city's outskirts. Valerius Keep still welcomed him, its grand gates bowing in silent invitation. But Lady Seraphina did not. She leaned against the archway of Kael’s neglected study, a silhouette of elegant disdain. "Still hovering over Kael, are we, Vane?" Her voice was dry as aged parchment. Elian, to be frank, held little warmth for Seraphina. How could she remain cloistered within these opulent walls, never once visiting her ailing brother? Her kin was broken, suffering. His own ingrained sense of propriety, of fundamental morality, judged her. He hadn't even realized he was doing it, this quiet condemnation. It was not a conscious choice. The moment of its realization clamped his jaw shut. He shoved more of Kael’s scrolls into his satchel. "Yes," Elian replied, his voice flat. "He truly has, hasn't he? That madman. He's quite possessed by you." Elian's hand froze mid-reach for a heavy tome. He turned, as if drawn by an unseen cord. "…Possessed by me?" "What, does that please you, Vane?" Her lips curved, a cruel, knowing line. "No. I merely sought clarification." "No one merely seeks anything, Vane. You desired to know, thus you asked." Disgusting. She muttered something under her breath, a low, venomous sound, but Elian pretended not to hear. Seraphina, however, stepped closer, her sharp gaze unwavering. This entire family possessed a talent for utter disregard. Seraphina, Kael, even the elder Lord Valerius. "Tell me, where did you vanish to after your Collegium matriculation?" "I attended to my studies," Elian said, feeling the familiar blush creep up his neck. "The entire city likely knows. It is not as if I sought the information. But Kael… Kael threw quite the fit. That imbecile, who never once attended the ceremonial prayers to the Ancestral Spirits, suddenly started invoking their names, demanding solace, then tore apart the Sliver of the First Star his father had gifted him. He began to scream. Ripped it to shreds, calling the Spirits 'foul curs' and other unspeakable things. Then he locked himself in his chambers and refused to emerge. Our house, finally, knew a brief tranquility. He doesn't even comprehend the true villain in this sordid tale. Idiot." Seraphina’s voice, which had dripped with mockery, suddenly softened, a subtle shift that betrayed a flicker of something resembling concern, perhaps for Elian’s reaction. "What in the blazes? Your face is quite crimson." "It is not." "Oh, but it is. Do you truly harbor affection for him? For Kael?" "I told you, no." Elian's voice was sharp. "…By the Silent Divinities." Seraphina gasped, covering her mouth with a delicate hand, as if genuinely horrified. "You are utterly deranged, Vane. Truly." Why did she persist in her accusations when he had already denied them? Annoyance, cold and brittle, snapped in Elian. He yanked his satchel’s clasp shut. He wanted to lash out, to condemn her, too. "Why would you speak such things to me? Your father, Lord Valerius, informed me that Kael was his second son. A contradiction, wouldn't you agree?" "What? What utter nonsense are you spouting now?" A true contradiction. Elian knew it. A former mentor at the Collegium, a cynical old archivist named Master Renwick, had once observed that despite Elian’s cautious, self-preserving nature, he always, invariably, ended up performing some act of unsolicited kindness. Regardless of his intentions. But now, he had an excuse. The raw, brown scars blooming across Kael's back. Just as Kael often avoided Elian's gaze, Elian could not bring himself to look directly upon those marks. "Elian," Kael's voice, raspy now, drew him back to the present. "Yes," Elian replied, his own voice tight. "Then… is it permissible for me to believe in you?" Kael's words, hoarse and close, brushed against Elian's ear. Elian feigned indifference, a carefully constructed mask. But he listened. Every syllable. "What in the deep abyssal hells are you speaking of?" "I will not harbor affection for you." In that instant, Elian's heart plunged, a stone dropping into a bottomless chasm. His stomach twisted, a sickening lurch. Something tightened, a vise around his chest. The question almost escaped his lips, unbidden, unthought. *Why not?* The words nearly formed, a silent, desperate plea. He realized the terrifying truth of his hidden thoughts, almost laid bare. *Elian Vane, you are a damned fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the acidic taste of his near confession. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. "Then instead, I will believe in you." Kael spoke again, a strange pronouncement. His voice, now, was tangled with a profound, almost sacred blend of sorrow and joy. Like a supplicant receiving a divine revelation. Was there any other way to describe him in this moment? Elian did not comprehend Kael's words. And yet, he did not pull his hand away, did not flee the suffocating presence. The weight pressing on his chest no longer simply squeezed; it pierced, a sharp, cold blade. "I am an atheist now, Elian. Honestly, you are far more instrumental to my wretched existence than those distant, silent bastards in the celestial spheres." "Silence, you fool," Elian snapped, a desperate edge to his voice. "You blaspheme every living day." "No, that is untrue! I was raised a devout follower of the Ancestral Rites, you know!" Kael protested, shaking his hands frantically, as if his very life depended on Elian's belief. His tone was desperate, on the verge of tears. If Elian didn't believe him, Kael might actually weep. Caught off guard, Elian was left speechless. Then, as if reaching a sudden, profound decision, Kael slid off the daybed, dropping to his knees. "Then I shall prove it." "Kael, stop this madness. What in the abyssal hells are you doing?" A large hand, surprisingly strong despite its damaged state, seized Elian's foot. He had been sitting with his legs casually propped, and the unexpected pull sent him sliding forward, barely clinging to the edge of the seat. His foot, now dangling, was held firmly in Kael's grasp. Kael's gaze settled on the faded, crescent-shaped scar on the sole of Elian's foot. A minor mark from a childhood mishap, a clumsy misstep on shattered glass—a mark Elian always thought of as his 'Scholar’s Burden,' a reminder of his physical inadequacy next to the court's martial nobles. Kael’s brow furrowed, a pained expression on his face. And then, to Elian's utter disbelief, Kael's eyes filled with moisture. Elian jerked back in shock, attempting to yank his foot free. Before he could escape, Kael lowered his head. "What—" Elian began, breath catching in his throat. "In the name of the Ancestral Spirits, the Silent Divinities, and the Cosmic Order," Kael intoned, his voice strangely solemn, almost a chant. Cold fingertips brushed against Elian's ankle. A sharp, unexpected ache shot up his calf, deep into his gut. What insanity was this lunatic performing? Elian tried again to tear his foot away, but his strength abandoned him, dissolving into a strange weakness. Kael looked up at Elian once, his eyes glistening. Then, with a face that betrayed not a single tremor of revulsion—like a devout acolyte touching a sacred relic— "I greet my Lord." He pressed his lips to the tip of Elian's foot. Kael's fine, soft hair brushed against Elian's ankle, a light, unsettling tickle. The gentle press of his lips rubbed against the base of Elian's toes, impossibly soft. "S-Stop this," Elian whispered, throwing an arm over his face, as if to hide. Kael's right hand, the one with the damaged fingers, tightened around Elian's ankle. And in that moment—Elian ceased resisting. Three weak, crooked fingers held onto him, a delicate, almost fragile grip, tapping lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed the cosmic order moments ago now traced a path, slow and deliberate, up his calf. Elian did nothing to stop him. That's when he realized. This relentless, incurable disease—this nightmare of his compromised, eighteen-year-old existence—still wasn't over.

The Scar and the Vow