Guardian of House Veridian’s youngest, Kael—that moniker clung to Lysander. Each whisper of it, even in his own silent thoughts, solidified the uncomfortable truth: he had crossed into a realm of adult responsibility he never sought.
Adulthood. A word like a ill-fitting robe, scratchy and restrictive. He felt himself flail within its folds.
Innumerable nights melted into an anxious blur, Lysander wrestling with the inherited burden of his charge.
Days saw him hunched over vellum at the Scribes' Collegium. Evenings drew him to the hushed wing of the Veridian manor’s private infirmary.
Truthfully, less than half his assigned duties were properly seen to. His mind drifted, consumed by visions of Kael’s wan face.
With a leaden heart, Lysander would approach the infirmary door. Kael, always, would burst forth as if awaiting a favorite hound.
Then, as if Lysander’s presence alone unlocked him, Kael would unload every indignity of his day within the sterile confines.
“They say more infusions are needed. Ah, curse it all… My veins will soon be more puncture marks than skin. And this infernal convalescent broth, it’s enough to rot the senses. I’m not some ancient courtier, my stomach is perfectly hale, so why must I endure this gruel that even a stable dog would scorn?”
Kael poured out his frustrations, a genuinely miserable cast to his features, no different from a fretful child.
Lysander sighed, a low sound caught in his throat, and delved into his satchel.
He despised the way the scent of aged parchment and ink bled into everything. A faint sweetness, almost cloying, had already begun to mingle with the tang of medicinals. His face instinctively tightened.
No matter. Carrying it openly would have been far worse.
“What?” Kael’s voice held a petulant edge.
Lysander imagined a drooping tail, thick and matted, visible only to him. Disgusting. Truly disgusting.
He shook off the repulsive image, pulling a small, leather-bound codex from his satchel. Its cover was unadorned, save for a single, intricately drawn leaf rendered in silver point.
A pitiful gaze swept over the small book. Only then did the gloom in Kael’s eyes yield to something else.
“What is this?”
“A small compendium. I inquired, and they said your next infusion is still hours away, so you may look upon this.”
“A compendium?” Kael’s voice was a mere breath.
“Do not assign it meaning. I procured it from a street vendor nearby.” Lysander’s voice was flat, carefully neutral.
The reason for his caution… he had already imbued it with too much meaning himself.
He would never utter the truth: he had scoured the city, seeking a small, engaging text both safe for Kael’s fragile disposition and artfully crafted, knowing Kael’s love for fine script.
He refused even to dwell on it. Lysander merely wished to appear as one offering a simple act of human consideration, nothing more.
Yet, that seemed sufficient for Kael. With his barely functional right hand, he scratched at his ear, a frantic motion. His ear, briefly glimpsed, was flushed scarlet.
Lysander’s gaze drifted to Kael’s fingers. They curled slightly, stiff and unnatural. His face tightened with a sour grimace.
Why did those particular fingers always seize his attention? Why could he never look away?
A suffocating tightness settled in Lysander’s chest.
“……Th-thanks.” Kael’s voice was oddly subdued.
Kael glanced hesitantly at Lysander. When their eyes met, he flinched, then fumbled to open the codex. Perhaps he merely feigned surprise.
It was as if being caught looking at Lysander was a transgression. As if he wished his observation to remain unnoticed.
Watching Kael attempt to turn the stiff vellum pages with his weakened hand, Lysander leaned his exhausted body against the cot’s frame.
It was a clumsy sight. Kael’s thumb slipped, the pages rustling.
Kael’s ring finger, his middle finger—they did not bend with ease. Lysander could not discern if this was genuine or a performance.
Slowly, Lysander shifted closer, gently taking the codex from Kael’s hand.
“Which illumination interests you?”
“……”
“Perhaps the celestial sphere?”
Lysander knew he, at the very least, bore the responsibility to acknowledge Kael’s affliction. Kael, lips smeared with traces of his earlier broth, chewed slowly, then lowered his head and offered a small, disquieting smile.
Lysander could not fathom why this individual, who would never again wield a quill with three of his fingers, whose skin bore a faint, permanent pallor from lingering malady, could smile thus.
He truly could not understand. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Kael’s unnervingly bright face.
What amusement did he find? Lysander, if it were him, would wish to vanish from existence.
He carefully opened the codex to a page depicting an ancient constellation, its stars rendered in shimmering gold leaf, and held it steady for Kael. Kael chewed forcefully, still smiling.
This individual always unsettled Lysander. Honestly, Lysander had brought the codex because of an encounter before he arrived at the infirmary—a stop at Kael’s private chambers within the manor.
---
This marked Lysander’s second visit to Kael’s rooms since the latest round of infusions began. Surprisingly, his Scribe’s Writ, granting him access as Kael’s appointed academic aide, remained valid.
He had encountered Kael’s family only thrice in this wing. Once, Kael’s father, the Duke Veridian, a man of cold calculation. Twice, Kael’s mother, Lady Elara.
Lady Elara, especially, adopted a saccharine gentleness towards Lysander, as if to reward him for tending to the duties she so conveniently delegated. Kael merely rested his chin in his hand, eyes fixed on his mother’s retreating back, a faint, unreadable smirk on his face.
Lysander had come only to retrieve some of Kael’s favored quills and a specific volume of arcane lore. This was so Kael wouldn’t succumb to boredom in the infirmary.
That was his sole purpose. Lysander knew better than anyone the desolate monotony of confinement within a single room. Having experienced his own childhood illnesses, he knew precisely what diversions were needed.
He convinced himself it was not sympathy. Nor affection.
That day, instead of returning to the Scribes' Collegium, he had commuted directly from his small, rented chamber.
On his way, he had stopped by Kael’s rooms. The manor welcomed him with its familiar, chilling silence. But Lyra, Kael’s elder sister, did not.
Leaning against the polished doorframe of Kael’s unoccupied chamber, Lyra’s voice was dry, edged with ice.
“Still hovering around Kael?”
Lysander harbored no fondness for Lyra either, to be frank. How could she never visit her own ailing brother? Not even once?
An instinctual sense of moral judgment flared within him. His own family was gone, yet the idea of such neglect stung. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. It wasn’t intentional.
The moment of realization clamped his mouth shut. He shoved more of Kael’s belongings—an inkpot, a small set of burnishing tools—into his satchel.
“Yes.”
“He truly is mad for you, isn’t he? That pathetic creature, obsessed.”
Lysander’s hand froze. He spun around, as if pulled by an invisible string.
“……Obsessed with me?”
“What, does that please you?” Lyra’s eyes narrowed.
“No, I merely asked.”
“Nobody merely asks anything. You yearned to know, so you asked.”
Disgusting. She muttered under her breath, but Lysander feigned deafness. Still, she stepped closer, ignoring his discomfort. This entire family possessed a chilling talent for disregarding others. Lyra. Kael. Even their father.
“Tell me, where did you go after your Collegium graduation?”
“Yes.” Lysander answered curtly.
The whole damned Obsidian Court likely already knew.
“It’s not as if I sought the information. But Kael… he threw a veritable fit over it. That wretched boy never even set foot in a temple, but suddenly he was praying, then screaming, a tantrum of pure fury.
Not long after, he tore apart the blessed charm Father gave him and began to curse. Blasphemed the Divine itself.”
“A charm?”
“Yes, that thing. He once treasured it, you know? Claimed it was Father’s token of favor. Called the Ascendant Light a ‘foul, blind beast’ or something equally vile. Then he sealed himself in his room and refused to emerge. Our house finally knew a moment of quiet. He doesn’t even grasp who the real monster is. Foolish boy.”
Her voice, previously mocking, suddenly dipped lower. Likely, she had caught sight of Lysander’s expression.
“What is it? Your face is flushed.”
“It is not.”
“No. You truly… you favor him? You crave his attention?” Lyra’s tone was incredulous.
“I said no.” Lysander’s voice was tight.
“……By the Great Serpent.” She gasped, covering her mouth as if horrified. “You are truly unhinged.”
Why did she persist when he had already denied it? Annoyed, Lysander yanked his satchel’s flap shut, snapping the buckle. He longed to retaliate, to wound her with a truth of his own.
“Why did you speak thus to me? Your father told me Kael was his second son. A carefully concealed fact, given his standing.”
“What? What nonsense are you spouting now?” Her eyes narrowed, venomous.
A True Contradiction.
Such a contradiction. Lysander knew it. Valerius, who often grated on Lysander’s nerves, had once observed: “Lysander, for all his aloofness, always performs an act of kindness in the end.” No matter his intentions.
But now, Lysander possessed an excuse. The faint, dark marks on Kael’s wrist, a permanent reminder of his affliction. Just as Kael often avoided Lysander’s gaze, Lysander often found himself unable to look directly at those tell-tale lines.
“Lysander.” Kael’s voice, raspy, drew closer. “Yes.” Lysander managed.
“Then… is it permissible for me to believe in you?”
His voice was hoarse, a whisper. Lysander pretended not to care. But he listened.
“What are you speaking of?” Lysander’s voice was a forced calm.
“I will not… crave you.”
In that instant, Lysander’s heart plummeted to the hard stone floor. His stomach twisted. Something tightened around his chest, a sharp, suffocating band. He almost asked—without conscious thought. *Why not?*
The moment the words nearly escaped his lips, Lysander understood the true nature of his impulse. His true, hidden thoughts had almost betrayed him.
*Lysander, you are a damned fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the question, the implications.
Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead, I shall believe in you.” Kael’s words were strange, a complex tapestry of sorrow and elation woven into his tone. Like a penitent disciple receiving a divine revelation. Was there any other way to describe him in this moment?
Lysander did not comprehend Kael’s words. And yet, he did not withdraw his hand. Did not flee. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer merely squeezed—it stabbed.
“I am an atheist now. Honestly, you are far more vital to my existence than that distant, uncaring Ascendant Light.”
“Silence your blasphemy.” Lysander’s voice was sharp.
“You blaspheme every blessed day.”
“No, that is untrue! I was raised a devoted acolyte, you know!” Kael frantically shook his head, like his very life hung in the balance. His tone—desperate, as if on the verge of tears. If Lysander did not believe him, he might truly weep.
Caught off guard, Lysander found himself speechless. Then, as if reaching a sudden decision, Kael slid off the cot and dropped to his knees.
“Then I shall prove it to you.”
“Kael. What madness is this?”
A frail hand grasped Lysander’s ankle. Since Lysander had been seated with his legs propped, he slid forward, barely clinging to the edge of the cot. Dangling slightly, his foot hung in the air, held in Kael’s grip.
Then, Kael’s gaze landed on a faint, almost invisible scar near the arch of Lysander’s foot. A subtle mark, a memory of a childhood fall, forever etched. Kael’s brow furrowed.
And to Lysander’s disbelief—Kael’s eyes filled with moisture.
Lysander jerked back in shock, attempting to pull his foot away. Before he could escape, Kael lowered his head.
“What are you—?”
“In the name of the Ascendant, the Sanctified, and the Unyielding Light.”
Cold fingertips brushed against Lysander’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his gut. What aberration was this person committing?
He tried to yank his foot free, but his strength abandoned him. Kael looked up at him once. And then, with a face that showed not a single ounce of revulsion—like a fervent acolyte touching a sacred relic—
“I greet the one true arbiter.”
Kael pressed his lips to the tip of Lysander’s foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against Lysander’s ankle, a light, unsettling tickle. The gentle press of his lips rubbed against the base of Lysander’s toes.
“S-Stop it….” Lysander threw his arm over his face.
Kael’s right hand tightened around Lysander’s ankle. And in that moment—Lysander stopped resisting. Three weakened fingers held onto him. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that cursed the Divine every day traced a path up his calf.
And Lysander did nothing to halt him. That’s when he realized. This relentless, incurable disease—this nightmare of being Lysander, of this strange, unwanted bond—still wasn’t over.