A new name found purchase in Cassian’s mind: Elara’s steward. It clung, a curious mantle, heavy and ill-fitting. The syllables tasted of an adulthood he hadn’t chosen, an obligation thrust upon his quiet shoulders, far removed from the maps and scrolls that were his truest companions.
His days unfolded in a dual rhythm. Mornings saw him hunched over parchment in the manor’s echoing scriptorium, charting ancestral lands with the meticulous hand of an artist. He traced forgotten streams, marked ancient groves, the history of Thorne unfolding beneath his quill. But evenings, inevitably, led him to the hushed infirmary wing, a place where time seemed to bleed slow and silent.
His steps grew heavier with each turn down the echoing corridor. A sigh, often escaping before he knew it, preceded his arrival. Elara Thorne, ensconced in her sterile chamber, invariably sensed his presence. A rustle of sheets, a faint stir, and then her voice, a fragile thread woven with anticipation, reached him.
“Cassian? Is that you?” Her tone, though subdued by weeks of confinement, held its familiar, insistent edge. She was often waiting, perched on the edge of her bed, a sparrow tethered to its perch.
She never truly gave him a chance to answer. “They speak of another round of nerve treatments. My arm will feel like a firebrand again. And the food… Gods, it tastes of boiled regrets and dust. Am I an invalid? My stomach yearns for something real, not this gruel fit for toothless grandmothers.”
Her voice, brimming with genuine misery, made her seem no older than the child she still was. Yet the suffering in her eyes lent her an unexpected gravitas.
Cassian merely listened, the scent of parchment still clinging faintly to his tunic. He delved into the satchel he carried, a practical bag for his surveying tools, now repurposed. The subtle aroma of warm spices had already permeated the leather, an incongruous perfume. A fleeting grimace tightened his features, but he dismissed it. Carrying the package openly would have been far worse.
“What do you have there?” A flicker of curiosity warmed Elara’s pale face. A hint of a drooping tail, thick furred and pitiful, manifested in his mind’s eye. He suppressed the image, a wave of revulsion passing over him.
From the satchel, he withdrew a small, lacquered box. Its dark wood gleamed under the infirmary lamp.
“A small repast.” He placed it carefully on her bedside table. “I made enquiries. They confirmed your treatments are still some days off. This is permissible.”
“A repast?” Her voice was soft, laced with disbelief.
“Do not imbue it with undue significance,” he instructed, his gaze distant. “I merely commissioned it from the manor kitchens. A whim, nothing more.”
He would never voice the hours spent poring over his own chronicled notes of the Thorne household, seeking forgotten recipes, or the hushed consultation with the head cook, describing Elara’s dietary restrictions, emphasizing flavor over blandness. He wanted only to appear as one performing a simple, impersonal courtesy.
But even that seemed enough for Elara. Her good hand, the one not afflicted by the nerve damage, rose to scratch her ear. The lobe was a faint, tell-tale pink.
His gaze drifted to her other hand. Her ring, middle, and little fingers curled inward, stiff and unwilling, a permanent testament to her ailment. A silent ache tightened Cassian’s chest. Why did those maimed digits capture his attention so completely? He could not look away.
“...Thank you, Cassian.” Her voice was oddly subdued, almost a whisper.
Elara glanced at him, her eyes wide with a fragile uncertainty. When their gazes met, she flinched, a faint tremor running through her, and fumbled to open the lacquered box. Perhaps a feigned startle, a practiced deflection. As if being caught observing him was a transgression. As if she wished her genuine emotion to remain unnoticed.
Watching her spoon the delicate morsels into her mouth with frantic eagerness, a mechanical consumption, Cassian leaned his exhausted body against the stiff visitor’s chair. Bits of savory broth escaped her lips. A faint mess, unbefitting a noblewoman.
Her damaged fingers remained stubbornly curled. He couldn't discern if it was authentic difficulty or a desperate performance for his benefit. He slowly shifted closer, reaching out to take the spoon from her uninjured hand.
“Which dish do you prefer?” he murmured.
Elara paused, chewing slowly.
“The spiced fowl?”
He had a responsibility, at the very least, to acknowledge the reality of her wounds. Elara, her lips smeared with food, lowered her head slightly and smiled, a faint, lopsided curve. He utterly failed to comprehend how this person, who might never regain full use of her hand, whose fragile constitution kept her isolated, could muster such a display of quiet joy. He truly did not understand.
He could not bear to meet her bright, glowing face. What could possibly be so amusing? If he were in her place, he would wish for oblivion.
He selected a tender piece of spiced fowl and gently guided the spoon to her mouth. Elara chewed, still smiling, her eyes fixed on him. This person, this fragile, inconvenient noble, always discomfited him.
Honestly, the reason he had brought the repast was born of an encounter just before his return to the infirmary – a brief, unsettling stop by Elara’s private study.
---
This marked the second time Cassian had been granted access to Elara’s personal chambers since her convalescence began. Her key, an ornate, filigreed piece, still hung from his belt, a symbol of his odd stewardship.
He had encountered her family only thrice since her confinement. Once, her distant father, a fleeting shadow. Twice, her calculating cousin, Lady Serena Thorne.
Serena, in particular, adopted a saccharine sweetness toward him, as if to subtly reward him for relieving her own family obligations. He had merely sought to retrieve a few books, some scribbling paper to alleviate Elara’s crushing boredom. He knew, better than anyone, the stifling weight of enforced stillness. Having experienced it himself, in a different, more isolated childhood, he understood the small comforts that could ease it. He convinced himself it was not sympathy. Certainly not affection.
That day, instead of returning to his spartan atelier, Cassian had made the detour to Elara’s quarters. The heavy oak door of her private study swung open readily, welcoming him into the scent of dried flowers and old paper. But Serena Thorne, leaning against the archway, did not.
Her voice, dry and laced with a barely concealed amusement, cut through the quiet. “Still lingering in her shadow, are we, Cassian?”
Truthfully, he held little warmth for Serena. Her complete absence from the infirmary, not a single visit to her ailing cousin, offended a deep, unspoken sense of propriety within him. That instinctive morality, honed by years of quiet observation, allowed him to judge her. He had not even realized he was doing it. It was not intentional. The moment the thought formed, he clamped his mouth shut, stuffing more of Elara’s treasured sketchbooks into his satchel.
“Only to gather what she requires.” His voice was level, betraying nothing.
“She truly has, hasn’t she? That poor girl is quite fixated on you.”
His hand froze mid-air. He turned, a prickle of unease tracing his spine.
“...Fixated on me?”
“Does that please you?” Her brow arched, a challenge in her gaze.
“It was merely a question.”
“No one ever ‘merely’ asks anything, Cassian. You desired to know, so you sought confirmation.”
Disgusting. She muttered something under her breath, a low, contemptuous sound, but he pretended not to hear it. She stepped closer, ignoring his unspoken boundaries. This entire family possessed a talent for ignoring those deemed beneath them. Serena, Elara, even her distant father.
“You vanished after your tutelage, did you not?” Serena asked, her voice unexpectedly curious.
“I did.” The entire manor, no doubt, had already whispered the tale.
“I didn’t seek the details myself. But Elara… she threw a terrible fit about it. The girl, who never once cared for decorum, was suddenly praying, wailing, tearing at the ancestral charm her father had given her.”
“The charm?” Cassian felt a jolt of surprise. It was a simple, intricate piece of woven silver, a family heirloom, supposedly blessed for protection.
“Yes, that thing. She cherished it, you know. Claimed it was a token of her father’s love. She called the gods ‘blind deaf mutts’ or some such nonsense. Then she locked herself in her room, emerging only for the servants. Our wing, at least, knew a rare peace. She doesn’t even realize who the real fool is. Simple-minded girl.”
Her voice, previously mocking, suddenly softened, perhaps in response to the tightening of his jaw.
“What is it? Your face is flushed.”
“It is not.”
“Oh, it is. Do you truly harbor such… sentiment for her? You like her?”
“I said no.” The denial was sharp, automatic.
“...By the Ancestors.” Serena gasped, her hand rising to cover her mouth, as if in genuine horror. “You are truly quite mad, aren’t you?”
Why did she persist when he had already denied it? Irritated, Cassian yanked his satchel’s zipper shut. A retort sprang to his lips. He wished to criticize her, too. “How can you speak of her so callously? She is of Thorne blood.”
“What? What in the Blight are you prattling on about?”
Such a contradiction. He was aware of it, acutely. His predecessor, a brusque old scholar, once remarked on Cassian’s quiet nature, adding, ‘But in the end, young Cassian, you always do the decent thing, no matter how much you resist.’
But now, he had an excuse. The faint, unseen scars that marred Elara’s hand, the fragility of her youth. Just as Elara could not meet his eyes sometimes, he found himself unable to fully look upon her vulnerability.
“Cassian.” Her voice, hoarse with the effort of conversation, drew him back to the infirmary. He saw his own hand, still holding the spoon, poised near her lips.
“Yes, Elara.”
“Then… is it permissible for me to believe in you?”
Her voice crept closer, a fragile plea. He pretended not to care. Yet, he listened.
“What are you speaking of?” he managed, his voice stiff.
“I will not… ‘like’ you.”
In that instant, his heart plummeted to the cool, sterile tile floor. His stomach twisted. Something cold and sharp tightened around his chest. The words almost escaped him, an unconscious protest: *Why not?*
The moment they neared his lips, he recognized the true, hidden thought. His carefully guarded inner self had almost betrayed him. *Cassian, you are a fool.*
He clenched his fists, forcing the words back down, swallowing the bitter taste of truth. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. He was a steward, a chronicler, not a confidante.
“Then instead,” Elara continued, her voice a strange mix of sorrow and faint triumph, “I will believe in you.” Like a novitiate receiving a sacred revelation. Was there any other way to describe her in that moment? He did not understand her words. And yet, he did not pull his hand away. Did not flee.
The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer merely squeezed; it began to pierce.
“I am an apostate now,” she declared, her eyes shining with an almost defiant fervor. “Honestly, you are far more useful to my life than that indifferent deity in the sky.”
“Silence,” he commanded, the word sharp, unbidden. “You blaspheme every day.”
“No, that is not true! I was raised a devout believer, you know!” she insisted, frantically shaking her good hand. Her tone was desperate, on the verge of tears. If he did not believe her, she might actually weep.
Caught off guard, Cassian was speechless. Then, as if a sudden resolve had seized her, Elara slid from the bed and onto her knees on the cold floor.
“Then I will show you.”
“Elara, what in the Valorian Dominion are you doing?”
A small, unexpectedly strong hand grasped his foot. He had been sitting with one leg casually propped on the chair, and he slid forward, teetering on the edge of the seat. His foot, suspended, was now held firmly in her grasp.
Elara’s gaze landed on an old scar, a faint white line on the sole of his foot, a relic of a childhood accident, stepping on broken glass. Her brow furrowed. And to his utter disbelief, her eyes welled with tears.
He jerked back in shock, attempting to pull his foot away. Before he could escape, Elara lowered her head.
“What are you—”
“In the name of the Ancestors, the Lineage, and the enduring Dominion.” Her voice was a fervent whisper.
Her cold fingertips brushed against his ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. *What madness is this?* He tried to yank his foot free, but his strength abandoned him.
Elara looked up at him once, her face devoid of any disgust. Like a true devotee touching a sacred relic, a relic more potent than any charm—
“I greet my Lord.”
She pressed her lips to the tip of his foot. Her fine, soft hair brushed against his ankle, a startling tickle. The gentle press of her lips warmed the base of his toes.
“S-Stop it…” He threw an arm over his face, a futile gesture of self-preservation.
Elara’s good hand tightened around his ankle. And in that moment—
He ceased to resist.
Her three weak fingers, the ones that could not fully bend, tapped lightly against his skin. Her lips, which cursed the gods and railed against the manor’s bland food, now traced a path up his calf. And he did nothing to stop her.
That’s when he understood. This relentless, incurable disease—this nightmare of his station, of his quiet, unassuming life being irrevocably intertwined with hers—still was not over. It had only just begun.