A curious weight settled upon Julian’s shoulders these days. ‘Silas’s caretaker’—the phrase, though unspoken, echoed in the shadowed halls of Eldoria. Each syllable of that silent moniker chafed, a rough-spun tunic ill-suited for his frame. Julian, ever precise, felt the awkwardness acutely. He navigated the institute’s labyrinthine corridors, a scholar by day, a reluctant warder by dusk. Days bled into nights, a relentless cycle of ancient scrolls and hushed infirmary visits. Truthfully, half his lectures, on forgotten dialects and crumbling dynasties, blurred into a monotonous drone. His mind often drifted to Silas. Housed in the institute’s ancient sanatorium wing, Silas would often be waiting. Julian would push open the heavy oak door, and Silas, as if tethered by an invisible thread, would lean forward, his eyes bright with a feverish intensity. Today, Silas began before Julian had even fully entered. “They demand more rites of purification. Another bloodletting, they say. My arm will be a roadmap of scars. And the broth here, Julian, it’s a vile, grey slop. My stomach churns. I’m not some ancient relic, my constitution is sound. Why must I suffer this insipid gruel that even the carrion-crows would disdain?” Silas’s lament poured out, a torrent of genuine misery. He resembled a frustrated child, despite his years. Julian released a faint exhalation, sifting through his satchel. A faint aroma of something rich and spiced already clung to the worn leather. His lips tightened. The scent was a transgression against his fastidious nature. But carrying the warm, heavy parcel openly would have been an even greater affront. “What is it?” Silas’s voice, a low murmur now, hinted at a hopeful curiosity. Julian almost imagined a pathetic, drooping tail, its fur thick and matted, somewhere behind him. The image repulsed him. He shoved it from his mind with an almost violent internal force. Julian extracted a small, cloth-wrapped box. A forlorn gaze swept over it. The gloom in Silas’s eyes gave way to a nascent flicker of anticipation. “A modest repast.” Julian kept his voice level. “They said you might partake of something more substantial, given the delay in your next procedure.” “A repast?” Silas echoed, a tremor in his tone. “Do not imbue it with undue significance. I acquired it from a stall near the Grand Atrium.” Julian uttered the denial because he had, in fact, already imbued it with significant meaning. He had specifically sought a vendor known for preparing nourishing, palatable fare suitable for delicate constitutions, discreetly asking questions, feigning an interest in historical culinary practices. He would never admit it aloud. He merely wished to appear as a detached purveyor of pragmatic assistance, nothing more. But even that semblance of casual concern seemed enough for Silas. He scratched at his ear with his good hand, almost frantically. The skin, Julian noted, had turned a faint crimson. Julian’s gaze drifted to the other hand, resting on the bedframe. Three fingers, gnarled and slightly bent from the arcane incident that had brought him here, curled inward, a permanent testament to the volatile energies he’d wielded. Julian’s face tightened. Why did those fingers always capture his attention? Why could he not look away? A constriction tightened around his chest. “...Thank you,” Silas whispered, his voice oddly subdued. Their eyes met for a fleeting instant. Silas flinched, then clumsily fumbled with the clasp of the box, as if caught in a transgression. Or perhaps he simply feigned surprise, not wanting Julian to perceive the raw vulnerability in his gaze. Silas began to eat, shoveling the food into his mouth with an almost desperate hunger. Julian leaned back against the hard wooden chair, exhaustion seeping into his bones. The sight was, frankly, grotesque. Morsels of spiced game and roasted root vegetables spilled onto the linen. The pinky, ring, and middle fingers of Silas’s left hand remained stubbornly bent. Julian couldn’t discern if it was genuine impairment or an elaborate charade. Slowly, Julian shifted closer, reaching for the spoon. “What morsel calls to you next?” Silas paused, a smear of sauce on his chin. “The venison?” Julian, if nothing else, felt an inexplicable obligation to acknowledge the reality of Silas’s wounds. Lips still stained, Silas chewed, lowered his head slightly, and smiled. Julian had no comprehension. How could this man, who would never fully regain the dexterity of three fingers, whose body bore the indelible tracery of arcane scars, find cause to smile so readily? He truly did not understand. Julian averted his gaze, unable to face the bright, unsettling joy on Silas’s face. What profound amusement did he find in this state? Julian, in Silas’s place, would wish for oblivion. Julian selected a plump piece of spiced venison and lifted it to Silas’s lips. Silas chewed, forcefully, his smile unwavering. This man, Silas, consistently unsettled him. Julian’s rationale for bringing the food, he realized, stemmed from an encounter earlier that day, before he’d made his way to the sanatorium. *** Weeks had passed since Silas’s admission to the institute’s infirmary wing, a consequence of an ill-advised experiment with a forgotten summoning ritual. Julian still held the temporary pass, granted to those assisting Alaric Thorne’s wards during convalescence. He had seen Silas’s true family only twice within Eldoria’s walls. Once, his father, Lord Beaumont, a man of glacial indifference. Then, his mother, Lady Clarisse, whose gentle condescension had grated on Julian like rough sandpaper, a saccharine pretense of gratitude for his 'assistance' in duties she'd gladly abrogated. Silas himself had simply rested his chin on his hand, eyes fixed on his mother’s retreating back, a faint, unreadable smirk playing on his lips. Julian had merely intended to retrieve some of Silas’s academic notes and reading materials. He knew, intimately, the profound tedium of confinement. He’d endured it himself, though for different reasons. He knew precisely what Silas needed. Julian rationalized it, convincing himself it was not empathy, not affection, but a simple understanding of shared experience. Julian had bypassed his own chambers, venturing instead to Silas’s designated study. The room, usually meticulously ordered, lay in a state of disarray. Elara Vance leaned against the archway, her crimson-silk uniform a stark contrast to the shadowy stone. Her voice, usually a languid purr, was dry, devoid of its usual charm. “Still attending to Silas Beaumont, are we?” Julian, to be frank, harbored little warmth for Elara. She represented the privileged, frivolous strata of Eldoria’s student body. How could she, a classmate, show so little regard for a peer who had suffered so greatly? His instinctual sense of decorum flared, though he stifled it instantly. He hadn’t even realized he was judging her. He clamped his mouth shut, stuffing more of Silas’s deciphering tools into his satchel. “Indeed.” “He truly lost his wits, didn’t he? That madman’s fixated on you.” Julian’s hand froze over a sheaf of ancient parchments. He turned, as if compelled by an unseen force. “...Fixated on me?” “What, does that please you?” Elara’s eyebrow arched, a perfectly sculpted curve. “No, I merely sought clarification.” “Few ever ‘merely’ seek anything. You desired knowledge, and so you questioned.” She muttered a further disdainful comment under her breath, but Julian pretended not to hear. She pushed off the archway, advancing into the room, oblivious to his presence, her gaze sweeping over the scattered papers. This entire class, it seemed, possessed an innate talent for ignoring inconvenient truths. Elara. Lysander. Even, at times, Alaric Thorne. “Tell me, where did you vanish after the Winter Convocation?” Julian tensed. “Away.” The details of his academic sabbatical, his retreat to obscure libraries, must have spread like wildfire through the Institute’s gossip channels. “I had no desire to ascertain the specifics,” Elara continued, her voice laced with mock innocence. “But Silas became quite agitated about it. The man, who never once entered the Eldorian Archive without a purpose, suddenly began haunting its most obscure stacks, muttering and pacing. Not long after, he tore apart the Scholar’s Sigil his father bestowed upon him, screaming anathemas.” “The Sigil?” Julian’s voice was barely a whisper. “Indeed. He treasured it, you know? Claimed it was a token from Lord Beaumont, signifying his destined path. He called the Eldorian Patrons ‘witless automatons’ or something equally blasphemous. Then he retreated to his chambers and refused all egress. Our wing, for once, enjoyed a period of blessed quiet. He fails to comprehend who the true fool is. Insufferable oaf.” Her voice, which had been laced with mocking amusement, suddenly dropped, a flicker of something sharper in her eyes. Julian felt a flush creep up his neck. “What on earth? Your face is quite crimson.” “It is not.” “Impossible. Do you truly harbor affection for him? Do you?” “I stated unequivocally, no.” “...By the Elder Roots.” Elara gasped, covering her mouth with a delicate hand, feigning horror. “You are truly unhinged.” Why did she persist with this accusation when he had so emphatically denied it? Annoyed, Julian yanked the zipper of his satchel shut. He wanted to lash out, to criticize her own profound lack of empathy. “Why divulge this to me? Alaric Thorne himself entrusted Silas to my care, not as a second son, but as a ward worthy of study.” “What is the relevance of that, all of a sudden?” she retorted, dismissively. *** A profound contradiction. Julian knew it, innately. Lysander, his own complicated obsession, had once, in a rare moment of candor, observed that Julian, no matter his initial intent, invariably acted with a peculiar, unsettling kindness. But now, Julian had an excuse. The faint brown tracery of arcane scars that spread across Silas’s back. Just as Silas often avoided Julian’s gaze, Julian found himself unable to dwell on those marks. “Julian.” Silas’s voice, a hoarse murmur, drew closer. “Yes.” Julian feigned indifference, but every nerve ending tingled, acutely aware of Silas’s proximity. “Then... may I place my faith in you?” His voice, a fragile whisper, crept closer still. Julian pretended not to hear. But he listened. “What bizarre notion has seized you now?” “I shall not—I cannot—harbor feelings of affection for you.” In that precise instant, Julian’s heart plummeted, a leaden stone dropped into a bottomless well. His stomach twisted into a knot. Something tightened, a cold vice clamping around his chest. He almost blurted it out, the forbidden question: *Why not?* The words almost escaped, a desperate plea. Julian, you are a damned fool. He clenched his fists, forcing the raw, desperate question back down, down into the deepest recesses of his being. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. He told himself that. Again. “Then, in its stead, I shall place my faith in you.” Silas’s pronouncement, however, was peculiar, tinged with both sorrow and a strange, quiet elation. Like a supplicant receiving a profound, mystical revelation. How else could one describe him in this moment? Julian did not comprehend his words. And yet, he did not pull his hand away. He did not flee. The suffocating weight pressing upon his chest no longer merely squeezed; it stabbed, a sharp, precise pain. “I am an apostate now. Truly, you hold more utility for my existence than any of those pompous celestial patrons in the æther.” “Cease your blasphemies.” Julian’s voice was clipped, sharp. This man, Silas... “You insult the divine at every turn.” “No, that is untrue! I was raised a devout adherent, you know!” Silas frantically shook his head, like a marionette in a gale. His tone held a desperate urgency, as if on the verge of tears. If Julian did not believe him, he might truly weep. Julian, caught off guard, was rendered speechless. Then, as if reaching a sudden, profound decision, Silas slid off the edge of the bed and dropped to his knees on the cold stone floor. “Then I shall demonstrate.” “Silas, what precisely are you doing?” A large, warm hand enveloped Julian’s ankle. Julian, who had been sitting with one leg casually propped, slid forward, barely clinging to the edge of the chair. His foot dangled in the air, held captive by Silas’s grip. Silas’s gaze, solemn and intense, fell upon the faint, pale scar near the sole of Julian’s foot—a jagged mark from a childhood accident, forgotten by all but himself. Silas’s brow furrowed. And, to Julian’s utter disbelief, his eyes welled with moisture. Julian recoiled in shock, attempting to yank his foot free. Before he could escape, Silas lowered his head. “What are you—” “By the forgotten tongues, by the whispered truths, by the enduring memory of Eldoria.” Cold fingertips brushed against Julian’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. What mad ritual was this lunatic enacting? Julian strained to pull his foot away, but his strength inexplicably deserted him. Silas looked up once more, his face utterly devoid of disgust. Instead, it bore an expression of profound reverence, like a devout supplicant touching a sacred relic. “I honor the Vessel.” He pressed his lips, gently, to the tip of Julian’s foot. Silas’s fine, soft hair brushed against Julian’s ankle, a feather-light tickle. The delicate pressure of his lips traced a path along the base of Julian’s toes. “S-Stop this,” Julian stammered, throwing an arm over his face, shielding his eyes from the sight. Silas’s right hand, the injured one, tightened around Julian’s ankle. And in that moment—Julian ceased his resistance. Three weakened fingers held onto him, a delicate, fragile grip tapping lightly against his skin. The lips that had cursed the Eldorian Patrons just moments before, now traced a path upward, along his calf. And Julian, against every fiber of his being, did nothing to stop him. That was when Julian realized. This relentless, insidious malady, this bewildering nightmare of his eighteen years within Eldoria’s shadowed embrace, was far from its end. It had merely entered a new, more dangerous phase.

A Sacred Profanity