Heavy Heart

Kael had made a conscious effort to fade into the background, hoping that the edges of his figure would fade into the bleeding inks of a watercolour painting.

For the first time, his uncle’s gaze paid sole attention to the sorcerer hanging back by the door. So precise that it was almost a bit suffocating, as if he were a firefly caught in the tight constraints of a lantern. Only to be admired, never to be free.

“Young man, are you also of the name Reuben?” His uncle smiled, something soft and feather light. It was the kind of smile pinned down to memories from childhood, before the strain of distance and danger crept into their relationship and chipped away at the seams.

If only he knew that the Reuben standing before him was none other than Kael - the most shameful of all his relatives, marked in an equally shameful death.

Kael nodded, fearing for how his voice might come out as he spoke, “Indeed so.”

Reuben stood almost static, as if he were hanging onto the two words offered up.

“My, you have quite a resemblance to my nephew.”

A genuine happiness flickered like the last twitch of a passing candle, only a little away from extinguishment.

Back in Lucian’s manor, he’d found himself to be rather unrecognisable. Years of no exposure to sunlight had paled his skin and hollowed his cheeks, chipping away at stolen youth.

“Is that so?”

Just as his uncle opened his mouth to speak, Miria brushed past and startled the man, who was not yet familiar with her silent entrances.

A neat cup of tea was placed at the table before him, the fragrant steam drawing both the uncle and Kael closer.

“Ah, you are awfully quiet, miss. Gave me a good scare there. It’s a shame you didn’t pass by at a younger age, we used to have an outstanding academy for sorcerers. I think they might’ve bitten your hand off at the chance to get you studying there,” His uncle spoke as if he were in a nostalgic haze, swirling the liquid within his cup before lifting it to his lips. His brow furrowed an inch at the heat, before softening into a satisfied droop.

They always did have a similar taste in teas.

The unfamiliar yet very welcome smile smoothed across Miria’s face as she slid into the chair next to him, “Sorcery isn’t for me. That talk is best kept to these two.”

“What happened to the academy? And the rest of the city? It certainly has its own beauty, but it seems a bit drab, uninspired,” Lucian hummed, leaning against the propped up palm of a hand. From this angle, it was surprising how long his eyelashes were, as if they were placed there just to charm.

His uncle didn’t seem the least bit offended by the critical words, pausing to take another sip of the liquid.

“The Priestess shut it down. Said that the academy would only encourage troublemakers. Nonsense if you ask me, just a ploy to drive out our most capable sorcerer,” Reuben sighed, resentment a little clear in his tone.

The Priestess.

The Priestess?

Drew out their most capable sorcerer. Those were his words.

Was there a scholar more fit for that description besides Nico himself?

A lump hard as a rock sphere shifted around within his throat, hard enough to choke upon so long as he stopped gasping for air. Air constricted around his heart much like the overwhelming embrace of Bloodseek Blade, cutting into the fatty organ.

It couldn’t be Daphne. He saw her body, everyone did. It was the only thing he could see each time his eyes closed over to blink.

Her hand of mercy would never cast away such a righteous man. Nico had been like an iron pillar that night, turning a blind eye to his disgraced friend, covered in the blood of a comrade. Impenetrable morals, an unforeseen stroke of ice in his heart, holding duty above all else.

Driven away by the Priestess? Never.

Even the hands of the gods had breathed new life into her cold body, such a dishonour would never befall Nico.

But a loose strand plucked and tugged at the others, a sliver of disbelief amongst all else.

His uncle never told lies.

Kael’s voice came out lower than he expected, as if to dip in doubt, “I heard the Priestess died.”

“Our last proper one did. A damn shame, she was a lovely girl,” Reuben forced out, two fists resting against the table. It appeared he opted not to mention his nephew’s aforementioned involvement in that death.

All at once the pressure released, and Kael could only slump back against his chair. Of course. He’d seen the blood himself. Only delusion could bring the woman back.

Their Daphne would never turn her back on a friend, even if they’d fallen into the deepest depths of the gutter.

“All we’ve got now is a fraud. If you ask me there’s not an ounce of divination in her. She’ll only show her face when she gets bored.”

After the Priestess had perished, another had taken her place?

The concept in itself wasn’t too odd, only that there was no other even remotely comparable to Daphne. Not in skill or merit or even likability. Not one could even hold a candle to the High Priestess, how had one sky rocketed to ascension so fast?

The three exchanged looks across the table, the demon pair clearly noticing the crumple in Kael’s features.

“Is there a way to meet this Priestess?”

A strange sense of recognition swept over him like the bite of revelation. This had to be it.

Surely whatever god had pulled him from the chasm had intended for him to discover this fact. The only breadcrumb he could follow stemmed from the Priestess’ death. Now, all of the sudden there was another?

A puzzle piece as clear as day.

“Afraid not. After the previous one perished, no one is permitted to visit this one. She’ll only come out after dark, once the curfew has started.”

“Curfew?” Kael burst out, utterly shocked. White Lily City of all places, big on its night shows, taverns and buzz alike? Under a curfew?

Across from where he sat, Miria seemed very unfazed. Perhaps her sleeping habits shared with Coffin Town were not born from choice, but from expectation.

“That’s right, young man. You’d best be on your way if you intend to find a bed to sleep in, with so few inns these days,” Reuben informed the three as the last drops of the tea trickled down his throat, marked by a satisfied ahh.

As the noble began to rise, the elder grasped a gentle loop around his wrist, “I’m afraid I haven’t the time to look over your blade today. If you have the time tomorrow, leave it with me.”

With a grin and a nod, Lucian gathered up his ever sheathed sword and circled over to Miria, who’d already began her quiet exit.

For a moment, Kael allowed himself to hover. His mind danced into the past, ghosting over every old memory, every dish and conversation that had been shared here. The years between himself and his uncle, and the years his uncle persisted on alone.

“Young man?” The man’s gruff voice pulled him from his reminiscence and back to the present. Only then did Kael realise the absence of his two friends, and the implicit presence of himself.

“Sorry, Sir. Thank you for your hospitality,” He muttered out, gathering up his items as he made a break for the exit.

Just as his fingers fell upon the rounded hoop of a door knob, a chaste screech of a chair drag held him hesitant.

When his gaze lifted, it was met with a shy hand that grazed upon his shoulder, firm yet infused with a softness that couldn’t be replicated by another.

For a brief moment, Kael felt as if he were a boy once again, hollowed by the loss of his kin and drawn into the subtlety of an old blacksmith. His weakened heart longed to rush back in, hide away from the past and present that compelled him forwards, to find the truth of that night.

“Young man, I don’t wish to cause you any discomfort, but my nephew passed away many moons ago. You share quite the resemblance with him, if it’s no trouble, would you visit me once more?”

“Of course,” Kael promised, hoping true to his core that the time really would come.