Lysander’s title—‘Cassian Thorne’s appointed guardian’—was a brand burned onto his very soul. Each utterance brought a fresh sting, a cruel reminder of his forced ascent into a maturity he neither sought nor felt. Adulthood sat on him like a borrowed robe, ill-fitting and heavy. He had spent countless nights wrestling with the intricate coils of this inherited responsibility. Mornings were for the sterile halls of Aurelian Academy, evenings for the hushed, cloying air of the infirmary. Truthfully, his attendance in lectures had become sporadic, his meticulous notes suffering from a constant, gnawing distraction. With a leaden heart, he would push open the infirmary door. Cassian Thorne, confined to his cot, would stir, his gaze snapping to Lysander as if he were a long-awaited beacon. And then, as if a dam had burst, Cassian would unleash the day’s grievances, a torrent of frustration and boredom. “They say I need another grafting procedure. Gods, not again… my leg will be a patchwork of scar tissue. And the infirmary slop is beyond vile; I swear, I’m wasting away. I’m not some ancient relic, my appetite is perfectly sound, so why must I choke down this gruel fit only for a pauper?” His voice, usually laced with aristocratic disdain, now carried a raw, petulant edge. The genuine misery contorting his features made him seem no different from a spoiled child, trapped and helpless. Lysander sighed, a faint puff of air, and rummaged in his satchel. He despised the scent of prepared food clinging to his academic scrolls. The aroma had already permeated the leather, causing his lip to curl instinctively. Still, it was preferable to carrying the offending package openly. “What?” Cassian asked, his eyes narrowing slightly, a flicker of something akin to a puppy’s hopeful gaze in their depths. Lysander suppressed a shudder. That repulsive thought needed immediate banishment. He withdrew a small, lacquered bento box from his bag. Cassian’s initial gloom gave way to a flicker of genuine curiosity, his gaze sweeping over the offering. “What is this?” “A meal box,” Lysander replied, his voice flat. “They assured me you’re still some distance from surgery, so you may consume this.” “A meal box?” Cassian repeated, a strange wonder in his tone. “Do not imbue it with significance. I simply procured it from a nearby vendor.” His dismissive tone was a shield. The truth was, he had already imbued it with too much meaning. Lysander would never admit to the careful research, the discreet inquiries made to find a purveyor of fine, yet easily digestible, fare suitable for patients of noble birth. He had wanted it to appear as an act of purely incidental kindness, nothing more. Yet, even that minimal gesture seemed to be enough for Cassian. Cassian’s barely functional right hand rose, scratching distractedly behind his ear. The skin there, Lysander noted with a jolt, was flushed crimson. His gaze drifted lower, to the hand itself. The pinky, ring, and middle fingers curled inwards, stiff and unnaturally bent. Deformed, a constant reminder of the magical backlash that had nearly claimed his life during a reckless experiment. Lysander’s face tightened. Why did those wretched fingers always draw his attention? Why could he not simply look away? A crushing weight settled in his chest. “……Th-Thanks,” Cassian murmured, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. Cassian glanced at Lysander, his eyes meeting Lysander’s for a fleeting instant before he flinched, hastily fumbling to open the box. Or perhaps he merely feigned surprise, as if being caught looking was a transgression. As if he wished his sudden blush to go unnoticed. Watching Cassian devour the food with an almost mechanical urgency, Lysander leaned his exhausted frame against the plush infirmary couch. It was a grotesque sight, crumbs scattering across the pristine white sheets. Cassian’s injured fingers struggled with the utensil, food spilling from his lips. He had no idea if the clumsy fumbling was genuine or an elaborate act. Slowly, Lysander moved closer. He reached out and took the spoon from Cassian’s hand. “Which dish do you desire?” Cassian merely blinked at him, mouth full. “The spiced fowl?” Lysander felt a profound, grudging responsibility to acknowledge the authenticity of Cassian’s suffering. His lips smeared with sauce, Cassian chewed, his head bowed slightly, a small, knowing smile playing on his face. Lysander simply could not comprehend it. How could this heedless wretch, whose fingers would forever bear the twisted mark of his folly, whose leg and back were a canvas of angry scars, still find cause to smile? He truly did not understand. Lysander could not bear to meet that bright, unsettlingly joyful gaze. What amusement could he possibly find in such a pathetic existence? Were it Lysander, he would wish for oblivion. He selected the most appealing morsel and gently raised the spoon to Cassian’s lips. Cassian swallowed, still smiling, his eyes fixed on Lysander. This damnable boy always made him deeply uncomfortable. Lysander had only purchased the meal box because of an earlier encounter—a detour to Cassian’s estate before coming to the infirmary. --- It had been the second time since Cassian’s most recent magical grafting. Lysander still carried the temporary guardian’s pass, a stark reminder of his unwanted obligation. He had encountered Cassian’s blood relatives only thrice within the academy infirmary: once, his father, Lord Thorne, a brief, dismissive visit; twice, his mother, Lady Thorne, whose saccharine gratitude for Lysander’s delegated care had chilled him to the bone. Lysander had gone merely to retrieve some personal effects for Cassian, items to alleviate the crushing boredom of his confinement. He knew, better than anyone, the suffocating monotony of being trapped within four walls. And having experienced a similar confinement during his own childhood fevers, he understood precisely what diversions were needed. He convinced himself it was merely detached pragmatism, not sympathy. Certainly not affection. That day, instead of returning directly to his dormitories, Lysander had deviated. He had sought out Cassian’s private chambers within the sprawling Thorne estate. The manor’s colossal gates, adorned with the sigil of House Thorne, had swung open for him. But Kael, the aged steward, had not. Kael leaned against the polished oak frame of Cassian’s bedroom door, his expression dry and knowing. “Still tending to young Lord Cassian, Master Lysander?” To be honest, Lysander held little warmth for Kael either. How could this man, a servant to the family, remain so detached? His family was hurting. A purely instinctive sense of decorum, of familial duty, made Lysander silently judge him. He had not even realized he was doing so until Kael’s words pricked him. Lysander clamped his jaw shut, stuffing more of Cassian’s arcane tomes into his satchel. “Indeed,” Lysander replied. “He truly committed to it, didn’t he? That wild boy, he’s become quite… fixated on you.” Kael’s voice was a low rumble. Lysander’s hand froze mid-air. He spun around, as if possessed. “……Fixated on me?” “What, does that please you?” Kael asked, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “No, I merely inquired,” Lysander retorted, his voice sharper than intended. “One never ‘merely inquires,’ Master Lysander. You desired to know, so you asked.” “Disgusting,” Lysander muttered, barely audible. Kael ignored him, stepping closer. The entire Thorne family, it seemed, possessed an innate talent for ignoring inconvenient truths, or inconvenient people. Cassian, his father, and now even this steward. “Tell me, where did you disappear to after your last Academy break?” “My private studies,” Lysander answered, vague as always. The entire district, he knew, likely buzzed with rumors. “It’s not as if I sought the information,” Kael continued, his eyes glinting. “But Lord Cassian threw quite the fit. That boy, who rarely bothers with the Ancestral Shrine, suddenly began praying, then screaming. Not long after, he tore apart the Consecrated Pendant his father had given him. Said something about the Divine being a ‘worthless cur.’ Then he barricaded himself in his room for days. The manor was finally quiet for once. He doesn’t even realize who the true cur is. Fool.” “The Pendant?” Lysander asked, a chill running through him. That relic, said to protect its wearer from reckless magic, had been Cassian’s only cherished possession. Kael’s voice, which had been mocking, softened, perhaps at the sight of Lysander’s expression. “What ails you? Your face is quite pale.” “It is not.” “Nonsense. Do you truly care for him? You… like him?” “I stated no such thing.” “……By the Ancestors,” Kael gasped, covering his mouth as if horrified. “You’re truly a madman, Master Lysander. Utterly.” Why did Kael persist, despite Lysander’s clear denial? Annoyed, Lysander yanked his satchel’s zipper shut with a decisive snap. He longed to retort, to criticize the steward’s casual cruelty. “Why did you relay such things to me? Your master, Lord Thorne, informed me Cassian was merely his second son, of no great import.” “A true contradiction, that boy is.” Kael’s words hung in the air. --- Lysander knew it, too. Even his perpetually irritating peer, Seraphin Vayne, had once remarked on it: ‘Lysander Thorne, for all his frosty exterior, always ends up performing acts of profound kindness.’ Regardless of his intentions. But now, Lysander possessed an excuse: the angry, brown scars that marbled Cassian’s back. Just as Cassian struggled to meet Lysander’s eyes, Lysander found himself unable to fully gaze upon that ravaged skin. “Lysander.” “Yes,” he replied, his voice barely a breath. “Then… may I believe in you?” Cassian’s hoarse voice crept closer, intimate and unsettling. Lysander feigned indifference, but every nerve ending prickled. He listened. “What are you speaking of?” Lysander asked, pulling back slightly. “I won’t… harbor affection for you.” In that instant, Lysander’s heart plummeted, a leaden weight striking the floor of his chest. His stomach twisted into a knot. Something tightened, suffocating him. He almost asked—without conscious thought—*Why not?* The words hovered on the precipice of his lips. The realization of what he was about to betray, of the hidden, monstrous truth of his own desires, struck him with the force of a physical blow. *Lysander, you are a fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the unspoken question, the confession of a twisted longing. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. “Instead, I’ll simply believe in you.” Cassian’s words were strange, a tangled weave of sorrow and profound joy, like a supplicant receiving a revelation. Lysander did not comprehend. Yet, he did not pull his hand away from Cassian’s. He did not flee. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer merely squeezed; it pierced him, a sharp, cold blade. “I am an atheist now. Honestly, you are far more instrumental to my wretched life than any distant deity in the celestial sphere.” “Silence your blasphemy.” This damnable boy… “You insult the Divines every day.” “No, that’s quite untrue! I was raised a devout follower, you know!” Cassian protested, shaking his head frantically, as if his very life depended on Lysander’s belief. His tone was desperate, on the verge of tears. If Lysander did not believe him, he might genuinely weep. Caught off guard, Lysander found himself speechless. Then, as if a sudden resolve seized him, Cassian slid off the couch. He dropped to his knees before Lysander. “Then I shall prove it.” “Cassian. What are you doing?” Lysander’s voice was sharp with alarm. A large, warm hand grasped Lysander’s ankle. Having been seated with his legs propped, he slid forward, barely clinging to the edge of the seat. His foot dangled in the air, held captive by Cassian’s grip. Then, Cassian’s gaze fell upon the faint, pale scar on the sole of Lysander’s foot, a mark from a childhood accident—a shard of glass, long forgotten. Cassian’s brow furrowed. And to Lysander’s utter disbelief, his eyes welled with tears. Lysander recoiled in shock, attempting to wrench his foot free. Before he could escape, Cassian lowered his head. “What are you—?” “In the name of the Ancestors, the Archons, and the Sacred Lumen.” Cold fingertips brushed against Lysander’s ankle, sending a sharp ache shooting up his calf, deep into his stomach. *What madness is this lunatic performing?* Lysander tried to yank his foot away, but his strength utterly abandoned him. Cassian looked up at him once more, his eyes brimming. Then, with a face devoid of even a trace of disgust—like a devout acolyte touching a holy relic— “I greet my Lord.” He pressed his lips to the tip of Lysander’s foot. Cassian’s fine, soft hair brushed against Lysander’s ankle, a faint tickle against his skin. The gentle pressure of his lips rubbed against the base of Lysander’s toes. “S-Stop this….” Lysander threw his arm over his face, obscuring his vision. Cassian’s right hand, the one with the twisted fingers, tightened around Lysander’s ankle. And in that moment—Lysander ceased resisting. Three weak, crooked fingers held him captive. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that cursed the Divines daily now traced a path up his calf, a slow, unbearable caress. Lysander did nothing to stop him. That’s when he understood. This relentless, incurable disease—this suffocating nightmare of being forever tethered to Cassian Thorne—was far from over. It had only just begun its insidious bloom.

The Weight of Unbidden Veneration