“Elian Vane, designated aide to House Valerius.”
Every time the words reached Elian’s ears, a cold knot tightened in his stomach. The title felt like a poorly fitted cloak, heavy and scratchy, chafing against his skin. He was barely an adult, yet this responsibility, this obligation, draped itself over him, chilling him to the bone.
Weeks blurred into a grueling cycle. Morning lectures at the academy, evenings spent in the hushed, sterile confines of the Lumina Arcanum’s sanatorium wing. His studies, once a source of quiet pride, became a distant hum, barely registering. He attended few classes with true focus, his mind always drifting to the patient awaiting him.
He would return to the sanatorium, heart heavy with the day’s intellectual burdens. Kael, scion of House Valerius, would inevitably rush from his private chamber, a pale, restless specter, as if tethered to Elian’s arrival. The younger noble would immediately launch into a torrent of grievances, anxieties pouring from him like a breached dam.
“Another runic therapy session. My core feels like it’s being flayed alive. And the nutrient gruel here… it’s an insult to the palate. I’m not some ancient relic, my stomach is perfectly capable, so why must I endure this bland, tasteless… slop?”
Kael’s face contorted with genuine misery, his complaints echoing with the petulance of a child. His noble upbringing seemed to melt away, leaving only raw frustration.
Elian sighed, a faint puff of air, and reached into his satchel. He loathed the faint, cloying scent of preserved victuals clinging to the treated leather. A subtle grimace touched his lips. Still, carrying it openly would invite far more scrutiny.
“What now?” Kael asked, his voice sharp with suspicion.
Elian imagined a dog, tail drooping, expectant. A ridiculous image, quickly dismissed. He pulled forth a small, lacquered box. Kael’s gaze, previously clouded with discontent, sharpened, curiosity replacing the gloom.
“What’s this?”
“A prepared meal. The Master Healer confirmed you are still some time from further core stabilization, so this is permissible.”
“A meal?” Kael repeated, suspicion still in his tone.
“Do not imbue it with unwarranted significance. I acquired it from a provisioner near the academy.”
He spoke the words flatly, hoping to strip them of any deeper meaning. Yet, in his heart, Elian knew the truth. He had scoured the arcane market, seeking a vendor known for crafting magically fortified, palatable dishes suitable for those with delicate constitutions. He had spent precious, stolen hours on this task.
He wanted to appear detached, merely performing a duty, an act of convenient kindness. Nothing more. But even that meager offering seemed to satisfy Kael.
Kael’s functioning left hand twitched, raking through his dark hair. A faint flush crept up his neck, coloring the tips of his ears a tell-tale crimson. Elian’s gaze drifted to Kael’s right hand, resting on the silken sleeve of his robe. Three fingers, pale and slightly twisted, curled in an unnatural fashion. A subtle deformity from the magical backlash.
His own face tightened. Why did those fingers always draw his eye? Why could he never look away? A strange tightness seized his chest.
“…T-Thank you,” Kael mumbled, his voice uncharacteristically subdued.
Kael’s eyes flickered to Elian, then darted away as if caught. He fumbled with the lacquered box, pretending a sudden urgency to open it. An elaborate charade, perhaps, to avoid Elian’s scrutiny. As if being seen looking at Elian would spell trouble.
Watching Kael begin to eat, mechanically shoveling food into his mouth, Elian leaned his weary body against a velvet chaise. Kael ate with a shocking lack of decorum, crumbs scattering, sauces smearing his chin. The sight was, frankly, rather vulgar.
Kael’s ring, middle, and little fingers on his right hand remained stiff, unbending. Was it genuine struggle, or a performance for Elian’s benefit? Slowly, Elian moved closer, gently taking the spoon from Kael’s lax grip.
“What do you wish to eat next?”
Kael stared, food smeared on his lips.
“The spiced fowl?”
He had a responsibility to acknowledge the authenticity of Kael’s wounds, at the very least. Kael chewed, lowered his head slightly, and smiled. A small, almost imperceptible smile, yet it radiated an unnerving brightness. Elian could not comprehend it. How could this young noble, whose fingers would never properly flex again, whose body bore faint, intricate scars from core instability, find cause to smile?
He truly did not understand. He found himself unable to meet Kael’s glowing face. What could possibly be amusing? Were it Elian, he would wish only for oblivion. Elian selected a choice morsel and brought it to Kael’s lips. Kael ate with gusto, still smiling. The boy always left Elian feeling profoundly unsettled.
---
Elian had visited the Valerius manor just before coming to the sanatorium. The memory of that visit was the true reason for the prepared meal.
This marked the second occasion he had retrieved Kael’s personal effects since the initial core stabilization. He still possessed the temporary access sigil granted by House Valerius. Elian had encountered Kael’s actual family only a few times within the sanatorium. Once, his father, Lord Valerius, a man whose presence felt like a glacial wind. Twice, his mother, Lady Valerius, who cultivated an air of gentle gratitude, as if to thank Elian for shouldering the burdens she had so readily cast off.
Kael, in those instances, merely rested his chin on his hand, observing his mother’s retreating form with an inscrutable expression. Elian had simply come to gather a few more items for Kael. Things to alleviate the relentless boredom of his confinement. That was all. He knew, better than anyone, the desolate ennui of prolonged isolation. He had experienced it himself, in a far less opulent setting. He understood Kael’s need for distraction. He convinced himself it was not sympathy. Not attachment.
---
That day, instead of returning to his academy dormitory, Elian had taken the transit spire to the edge of the Noble Quarter. He presented the access sigil at the Valerius estate. The great mansion, a monument to ancient arcane power, still welcomed him. Lady Lyra, Kael’s elder sister, did not.
She leaned against the archway to Kael’s chambers, a picture of languid disdain. “Still hovering over Kael, scholar?” Her voice dripped with condescension.
Honestly, Elian held no great affection for Lady Lyra either. Her family member lay afflicted, yet she had not graced the sanatorium with her presence even once. A flicker of instinctive judgment, a simple sense of human decency, stirred within him. He hadn’t even realized he was judging her. The moment awareness struck, he clamped his lips shut, shoving more of Kael’s scrolls and trinkets into his bag.
“Yes.”
“He truly is obsessed, that mad boy. With you.”
Elian’s hands froze around a small, etched grimoire. He turned slowly, as if pulled by an invisible thread.
“…Obsessed with me?”
“Does that news please you?” Lyra’s eyebrow arched, a smirk playing on her lips.
“No, I merely inquired.”
“No one merely inquires, scholar. You desired knowledge, so you asked.” Disgust coated her voice, though she muttered the last words, almost under her breath. Elian pretended not to hear. Still, she stepped closer, ignoring his discomfort. It was a peculiar trait of the entire Valerius line—a knack for dismissing others. Lyra, Kael, even their father.
“Tell me, where did you disappear to after your tutelage concluded?”
“Yes.” Elian’s throat felt dry. The entire Lumina Arcanum probably knew of his temporary departure, his brief, ill-advised attempt to escape the academy’s rigid structures.
“Not that I sought the information. But Kael… he threw a fit. Never has that boy set foot near a consecrated shrine, yet suddenly he was praying, raging. Not long after, he tore apart the family’s Blessing Charm, a relic he used to guard with his life, and screamed obscenities at the Aether-Gods.”
“The Blessing Charm?”
“Indeed, that old thing. He treasured it, you know. Said it was a gift from our father. Then he called the Aether-Gods… ‘void-cursed mutts’ or something equally blasphemous. After that, he locked himself in his chambers and didn’t emerge for days. Our house finally had a moment of quiet. He doesn’t even grasp who the true fool is. Brainless child.” Her voice, which had been laced with mockery, softened, dipping lower, perhaps noticing something in Elian’s expression.
“What is it? Your face is flushed.”
“It is not.”
“Nonsense. Do you truly harbor affection for him? For Kael?” she pressed, a cruel curiosity in her eyes.
“I said no.”
“…By the Archons above.” She gasped, covering her mouth with a hand, feigning horror. “You truly are deranged. Honestly.”
Why did she persist in her accusations when he had already denied it? Annoyed, Elian yanked the satchel’s zipper shut with a sharp click. He felt a fierce urge to retaliate, to wound her in turn. “Why did you convey that to me? Your father, Lord Valerius, informed me Kael was his second son.”
“What? What in the nether-spires are you speaking of?” Lyra’s composure fractured, if only for a moment.
A stark contradiction. Elian recognized it. Master Aethel, his stern linguistics professor, once remarked that Elian, despite his guarded nature, often found himself performing acts of unwitting kindness. Regardless of his true intentions. But now, he had an excuse. The faint, brown scars that crisscrossed Kael’s back, a testament to raw, unstable magic. Just as Kael often avoided his gaze, Elian found himself unable to look at those marks.
“Elian?” Kael’s hoarse voice crept closer.
“Yes.” Elian pretended nonchalance, though his every nerve ending vibrated with attention.
“Then… is it permissible for me to place my belief in you?”
“What in the void are you talking about?”
“I will not… harbor affection for you.”
In that single, stark instant, Elian’s composure shattered. His heart plummeted to the frigid flagstones of the sanatorium floor. A sickening twist seized his gut. Something tightened around his chest, a band of ice. He almost spoke, the words forming without conscious thought: *Why not?*
The question, raw and desperate, nearly escaped his lips. The moment it did, he recoiled, horrified by the hidden desire it revealed. *Elian Vane, you are an utter fool.*
He clenched his fists, forcing the words back down, choking them off. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. He told himself that, but the conviction felt hollow.
“Then instead, I will place my belief in you,” Kael insisted. His voice, a strange blend of sorrow and something akin to revelation, echoed in the quiet room. Like a devoted acolyte finding a new deity. Elian could find no other way to describe the expression on Kael’s face. He did not comprehend the meaning behind Kael’s words. Yet, he did not pull his hand away. Did not flee. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest shifted, no longer merely squeezing, but twisting, a sharp, piercing pain.
“I am an atheist now. Truly, you are far more useful to my continued existence than any distant, uncaring Aether-God.”
“Be silent,” Elian snapped. This boy… “You blaspheme constantly.”
“No, that is untrue! I was raised a devout believer, you know!” Kael flailed his hands, a frantic, desperate gesture, as if his very life depended on Elian’s belief. His tone was on the verge of tears. If Elian did not humor him, Kael truly might weep. Caught off guard, Elian found himself speechless.
Then, as if a sudden resolve had seized him, Kael slid from the chaise, dropping to his knees with a soft thud. “Then I will show you.”
“Kael, what in the hells are you doing?”
A pale, slender hand seized Elian’s foot. He had been sitting with his legs crossed, one propped idly on the chaise. The sudden movement sent him sliding forward, leaving him perched precariously on the edge. His foot, now dangling, was held firmly in Kael’s grasp.
Kael’s gaze fell upon the ancient scar on the sole of Elian’s foot—a jagged mark from a childhood accident with a shard of broken crystal. Kael’s brow furrowed. And then, to Elian’s profound disbelief, Kael’s eyes welled with moisture.
Elian instinctively recoiled, attempting to pull his foot free. Before he could escape, Kael bowed his head.
“What are yo—”
“In the name of the Arcane Lord, the Sacred Coil, and the Ever-Flowing Mana.”
Cold fingertips brushed against Elian’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. *What madness is this boy performing?* He tried again to yank his foot away, but his strength seemed to abandon him. Kael looked up once, his gaze piercing. And then, with a face devoid of even a hint of disgust—like a true believer touching a revered relic—
“I greet the one who sustains.”
He pressed his lips to the tip of Elian’s foot. Kael’s fine, dark hair brushed against Elian’s ankle, a soft, unsettling caress. The gentle press of his lips traced a path across the base of Elian’s toes. “S-Stop it…” Elian threw an arm across his face, his cheeks burning.
Kael’s right hand, the one with the twisted fingers, tightened its grip on Elian’s ankle. And in that moment, Elian ceased his struggles. Three weak fingers, holding him fast. A delicate, fragile pressure tapping lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed the Aether-Gods now traced a path up his calf. Elian did nothing to stop him.
That was when he understood. This persistent, unyielding disease—this nightmare of his young adulthood—it was far from over. It had only just begun its insidious coil around him.