A chill permeated the grand halls of the Imperial Collegium of Healing, a stark contrast to the Valerius estate’s heated chambers. Lyraeus adjusted the finely woven sleeves of his tunic. ‘Septimus’s Patron’—a title that clung like a heavy brocade, each syllable a reminder of his unwilling ascent to adult responsibility. It chafed, like a garment tailored for a broader, less fastidious frame. He carried its weight through countless sleepless nights. Mornings saw him navigating the labyrinthine archives of the Imperial Library; evenings, he returned to this place of hushed suffering. He had rarely attended his own scholastic lectures with such regularity. Now, the Collegium’s polished marble floors knew his footsteps intimately. A heavy sigh escaped him. Septimus of House Aethelred awaited, bursting from his private recovery suite as if summoned by an unseen leash. With a practiced ease, Septimus launched into the day’s litany of grievances. “Another bone graft, they say. Gods, my femur will be a patchwork of scar tissue. And the physicians insist on this… this broth! My stomach is perfectly capable, Lyraeus, yet I’m condemned to slop that even a pauper would scorn.” Septimus’s voice, usually a smooth instrument of courtly charm, was rough with genuine misery. The spectacle of a nobleman stripped of his customary grace was unsettling. He seemed, in that moment, no more than a petulant child. Lyraeus reached into the discreet satchel at his side. A faint aroma of spiced fowl and roasted root vegetables wafted from within. His lip curled almost imperceptibly. He detested the lingering scent of provisions. Yet, the alternative—carrying the meal uncovered—was far more unpalatable. Septimus’s eyes, usually sharp and calculating, softened with a bewildered curiosity. “What is that?” Lyraeus produced a small, silver-domed platter, carefully wrapped in a linen cloth. “A repast. I inquired. Given your surgery remains distant, the healers permitted it.” He paused, feigning disinterest. “From a purveyor near the Collegium.” His dismissive tone was deliberate. He refused to acknowledge the meticulous care with which he had sought a vendor known for both their culinary excellence and their understanding of delicate palates. The thought alone was an irritant. He preferred to project an image of detached benevolence, nothing more. Yet, even that minimal effort seemed to disarm Septimus. Septimus’s uninjured left hand rose, rubbing at an earlobe that flushed a bright crimson. Lyraeus’s gaze snagged on the other hand, the right. Its fingers curled grotesquely, the flesh mottled, barely capable of independent movement. A wave of revulsion, sharp and unbidden, twisted in Lyraeus’s gut. He tore his eyes away, but the image lingered. His chest tightened. “...Thank you, Lyraeus,” Septimus murmured, his voice oddly subdued. He caught Lyraeus’s glance, flinched, then fumbled with the clasp of the silver dome, a desperate charade of distraction. As if being caught looking at his patron was an offense. Septimus devoured the food with an almost mechanical urgency, spilling morsels onto his silk tunic. It was a crude, undignified sight. The disfigured fingers of his right hand barely cooperated, his pinky, ring, and middle fingers stiff and unyielding. Lyraeus couldn’t discern if the clumsiness was genuine or another calculated performance. He leaned forward, taking the utensil from Septimus’s slackened grip. “Which dish do you prefer?” Septimus merely stared, chewing. “The pheasant?” Lyraeus felt a strange, compelling duty to acknowledge Septimus’s pain, even if the source of that pain remained shrouded in courtly whispers. Septimus, his lips stained with rich gravy, lowered his head slightly and smiled. A genuine, unvarnished smile. Lyraeus found himself disquieted by it. What mirth could possibly bloom in a man whose hand was ruined, whose body bore the brutal marks of political violence, whose future was now irrevocably altered? He simply could not comprehend. He avoided Septimus’s luminous gaze. What joy could this possibly hold? Had it been him, Lyraeus thought, he would have wished for oblivion. He selected a succulent piece of roasted capon and offered it. Septimus chewed, still smiling, a silent, unsettling fixture. That damnable Aethelred always unsettled him. --- The true impetus for Lyraeus’s visit to the Collegium, beyond his official patronage, had been a stop at the Aethelred family estate that very morning. This marked the second occasion Lyraeus had been permitted entry to Septimus’s private chambers since the most recent 'incident' that had left the young Aethelred so grievously injured. He still possessed the silver-inlaid access token, a relic of his temporary guardianship. Septimus’s true family had, in truth, made scant appearances at the Collegium: his father once, his mother twice. His mother, especially, had exuded an artificial solicitousness toward Lyraeus, as if to compensate him for shouldering the burdens she so readily relinquished. Septimus, then, had merely rested his chin on his good hand, watching his mother’s retreating back with an inscrutable gaze. Lyraeus had only gone to gather a few personal effects for Septimus, some familiar comforts to alleviate the suffocating tedium of the Collegium. He understood that tedium intimately. He had endured his own period of confinement as a child, after a riding accident left him bedridden. He knew precisely what Septimus needed. He had convinced himself it was merely empathy, not sentiment, not affection. That day, instead of returning to the Valerius residential wing at the Imperial Academy, he had diverted his route to the Aethelred estate. The ancestral gates had swung open for him. But Aeliana, Septimus’s elder sister, had not offered such a welcome. She had leaned against the gilded architrave of Septimus’s former study, her voice dry as parchment. “Still clinging to him, Lyraeus?” Lyraeus harbored no warm sentiments for Aeliana either. How could she, his own kin, neglect to visit her brother, not even once? A raw, unbidden sense of moral outrage had stirred within him. He hadn’t even realized he was judging her, had clamped his mouth shut the moment he recognized the thought. He merely continued to arrange Septimus’s scrolls into his satchel. “He is my patron. My duty.” “He did truly lose himself, didn’t he? That madman, obsessed with you.” Lyraeus’s hand froze over a cherished volume of astronomical charts. He turned slowly, compelled by an invisible force. “Obsessed with… me?” Aeliana’s lip twitched. “Are you flattered?” “I merely inquired.” “Nobody ‘merely inquires.’ You desired knowledge, so you asked.” Her voice was laced with a venomous disdain. Lyraeus pretended not to hear the soft, derisive snort she emitted. She moved closer, ignoring his presence, a trait common to the Aethelred lineage. Aeliana, Septimus, even their father. All possessed an unnerving talent for dismissing others. “Where did you disappear to, after your graduation ceremony?” “My studies called.” The entire Imperial City likely knew of his temporary seclusion anyway. The scandal had been whispered in every salon. “Septimus threw a fit, you know. Not that I sought the information. That bastard, who never set foot inside a Temple of the Serpent, suddenly began to pray, then scream. Not long after, he tore apart the sacred serpent sigil his father had given him, called the Patron a ‘slithering cur,’ and locked himself in this very room for three days. Our estate was finally peaceful. He truly has no grasp of the true villain in this saga. The fool.” Her mocking tone abruptly softened. Lyraeus’s expression must have shifted. “What is it? Your face is flushed.” “It is not.” “Lies. Do you… do you truly harbor affection for him? For Septimus?” “I told you, no.” Aeliana gasped, covering her mouth with a hand, feigning horror. “You are truly unhinged.” Lyraeus snapped his satchel shut, the sharp click echoing in the hushed room. “Why did you tell me this? Your father informed me Septimus was his second son. Your own brother.” He hurled the accusation, a calculated thrust at her hypocrisy. “What? What are you babbling about?” Her composure fractured for a fleeting instant. --- Back in the Collegium, Septimus ate in silence. Lyraeus’s thoughts returned to the raw, brown scars that marbled Septimus’s back. He couldn't meet Septimus’s eyes, just as Septimus had avoided his own. A true contradiction, Lyraeus considered himself. A pragmatic, rational mind, yet here he was, performing acts of unexpected kindness. Lord Valerius, his mentor and distant kinsman, had once remarked upon it: *Lyraeus, despite himself, always lands upon a path of unexpected compassion. Regardless of his intent.* But he had an excuse, a rationale now. Septimus’s wounds. “Lyraeus,” Septimus murmured, his voice hoarse, drawing closer. “May I… believe in you?” Lyraeus feigned indifference. He listened, though. “What absurd notion is this?” “I will not… desire you.” His heart lurched, plunging into a cold abyss. A sickening knot formed in his gut. His chest constricted. *Why not?* The unspoken question clawed at his throat, nearly escaping. He recognized, in that instant, the dark, insidious truth of his own hidden desires. *Lyraeus, you are a fool.* He clenched his fists, forcing the words back down. Yes. This was for the best. For both their sakes. “Then instead, I will believe in you,” Septimus declared, his voice a strange blend of sorrow and triumph. It was the tone of a zealot receiving a divine revelation. Lyraeus found himself unable to articulate the meaning of Septimus’s words. Yet, he made no move to withdraw his hand. He did not flee. The suffocating pressure in his chest no longer merely squeezed; it pierced. “I am an apostate now. Truly, you are far more instrumental to my existence than any Celestial Patron.” “Silence your blasphemous tongue,” Lyraeus snapped, a practiced reproof. “I was raised a devout believer, you know!” Septimus insisted, shaking his head frantically, as if his very life depended on Lyraeus’s acceptance. His tone was desperate, almost on the verge of tears. Lyraeus was caught off guard, left speechless. Then, as if reaching a sudden resolution, Septimus slid off the couch, dropping to his knees. “Then I shall demonstrate.” “Septimus, what madness is this?” A warm, large hand clasped Lyraeus’s ankle. Having rested his legs upon the couch, Lyraeus slid forward, perching precariously on the edge. His foot, suspended in mid-air, was held captive. Septimus’s gaze fixed on the faint, crescent-shaped scar on the sole of Lyraeus’s foot, a childhood injury from a shard of broken glass. His brow furrowed. Then, to Lyraeus’s utter disbelief, Septimus’s eyes welled with moisture. Lyraeus jerked back in shock, attempting to pull his foot free. Before he could escape, Septimus lowered his head. “What are you—?” “In the name of the Serpent, the Patron, and the Imperial Flame…” Cold fingertips brushed Lyraeus’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, coiling deep in his stomach. *What lunacy is this?* He strained, but his strength abandoned him. Septimus looked up once, his face utterly devoid of disgust, like a devout petitioner touching a sacred relic. “I greet my Lord.” He pressed his lips to the tip of Lyraeus’s foot. Septimus’s fine, dark hair brushed against Lyraeus’s ankle, a soft, startling tickle. The gentle pressure of his lips traced a path across the base of Lyraeus’s toes. “Stop… stop this,” Lyraeus choked, throwing an arm over his face. Septimus’s right hand, the maimed one, tightened its grip around Lyraeus’s ankle. And in that moment, Lyraeus stopped resisting. Three weak fingers, delicate and fragile, tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that had just cursed the Celestial Patron now traced a path up his calf. And Lyraeus did nothing to deter him. That was when he understood. This relentless, incurable disease, this harrowing patronage of Septimus—this blight upon his otherwise ordered existence—was far from over.

A Serpent's Due