The pressure of the Pontiff's expectation, Deacon Averey's oily ambition, and the constant, assessing stares of his peers hung around Elias Vance like a shroud woven from lead thread. Each step through the Grand Cathedral's labyrinthine corridors felt heavier than the last, the ache in his bones a persistent, grinding counterpoint to the throbbing tension behind his eyes. He craved the quiet sterility of the infirmary, a place where pain was physical, understandable, and treatable, unlike the insidious ache of his current predicament.
He chose a route less frequented, a long, vaulted gallery lined with towering statues of stern-faced saints, their stone eyes seeming to follow him with judgmental stares. The fading afternoon light slanted through high, narrow windows, painting stripes of dusty gold across the cold marble floor and casting deep, elongated shadows from the statues' bases. The air here was cooler, quieter, thick with the scent of old stone and undisturbed air. It offered a temporary, fragile respite.
He was lost in the familiar loop of his worries – the impossible choice between the crimson robes of the Conclave and the forbidden warmth of Theron Blackwood, the Pontiff's veiled warning echoing like a cold bell – when a shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom between two particularly imposing saints.
Elias froze mid-stride, his heart leaping into his throat. Instinct screamed threat, but a deeper, treacherous sense recognized the sheer, contained power of the silhouette even before his eyes adjusted.
Theron.
He materialized from the gloom like a predator stepping from cover, utterly silent. He was back in his full Commander's regalia, the black leather and steel polished to a muted sheen, but the usual aura of controlled command was replaced by something taut, almost furtive. His sharp features were set, his amber eyes scanning the gallery behind Elias with a swift, predatory intensity, ensuring they were truly alone. The fading light caught the hard line of his jaw, clenched tight.
Before Elias could utter a sound – a gasp, a question, a plea – Theron closed the short distance between them in two swift strides. He moved with the lethal grace that was uniquely his, but this time it felt constrained, hurried. He didn't speak. He didn't meet Elias's wide, startled gaze.
Instead, his hand shot out, swift and sure. Something small, solid, and surprisingly warm was pressed firmly into Elias's unresisting palm. Theron's fingers, calloused and strong, closed Elias's own fingers around the object for a fleeting, electric moment. The touch, brief as it was, sent a jolt of forbidden warmth up Elias's arm, momentarily eclipsing the deep-seated ache.
Only then did Theron's eyes flick down to meet his. The intensity in them was staggering – a fierce, protective urgency that stole Elias's breath. It wasn't the awkwardness of the dawn after the vigil, nor the cold distance he'd enforced. This was raw, focused concern, blazingly clear despite the shadows.
"Don't refuse it." Theron's voice was a low, urgent rasp, barely more than a vibration in the quiet air. It brooked no argument, a command wrapped in something softer, something desperate. "You need it."
The words hung between them, stark and undeniable. He knew. Knew about the pain Elias tried so hard to hide beneath layers of composure and cardinal robes. Knew about the exhaustion, the strain that had culminated in his collapse. The knowledge, and the sheer care implicit in the act, was overwhelming.
Then, as swiftly as he had appeared, Theron was gone. He didn't wait for acknowledgment, for thanks, or even for the inevitable protest. He simply turned on his heel, his cloak swirling briefly in the dusty light, and melted back into the deep shadows between the statues, disappearing down a side passage with the silent swiftness of a hunting cat. The gallery was empty again, save for Elias, the silent saints, and the echo of Theron's low voice.
Elias stood rooted to the spot, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The frantic rhythm was almost painful. He looked down at his hand, still curled around the small, warm object. Slowly, almost afraid, he uncurled his fingers.
Nestled in his palm was a small, unadorned wooden box. It was smooth, polished by handling, and still radiated the residual warmth of Theron's grip – or perhaps something contained within. It felt alive in his hand, a small, secret furnace. With trembling fingers, Elias lifted the lid.
Inside, resting on a bed of dark velvet, was a tiny crystal vial, no larger than his thumb. It was filled with a liquid that seemed to capture the very essence of moonlight. It wasn't merely clear; it shimmered with an internal, pearlescent luminescence, shifting between pale silver and the faintest lavender-blue as the light caught it. Even through the crystal, a subtle, complex fragrance reached him – cool and floral like night-blooming jasmine, but underpinned by a deep, green, herbal earthiness and a whisper of something sweetly resinous, like crushed pine needles warmed by the sun. It was intoxicatingly soothing, the scent alone seeming to ease the tight band of tension around his temples.
Moonbloom Essence. The name whispered through his mind, a fragment of lore from his extensive studies of rare medicinals. He'd only ever read about it. Extracted from the elusive Moonbloom flower that supposedly only opened under a full moon in specific, perilous high-altitude valleys. Prized by emperors and high clerics of old for its unparalleled ability to calm shattered nerves, ease deep-seated chronic pain, and promote profound, restorative sleep. It was fabulously rare, prohibitively expensive, and acquiring it… Elias shivered, thinking of the dangers involved. How had Theron obtained this? What risks had he taken?
The implications crashed over him, a turbulent sea where gratitude, guilt, fear, and that treacherous, persistent warmth swirled chaotically.
Gratitude. The sheer, potent relief the essence promised was a physical ache in itself. To be free, even temporarily, from the grinding pain, the bone-deep fatigue… it was a gift beyond measure. Theron had seen his suffering, truly seen it beneath the facade, and acted with this breathtaking, illicit kindness.
Guilt. This was a forbidden luxury. A Cardinal-elect, especially one under the Pontiff's direct scrutiny for needing to "guard his reserves," should not possess, let alone use, something so rare and worldly. If discovered… The Pontiff's warning about "unnecessary drains" took on a terrifying new dimension. Theron's gift was a potential weapon in the hands of his enemies, like Averey or Marcus.
Fear. Not just for himself, but for Theron. How had he gotten this? Bargained with dangerous merchants? Ventured into treacherous territory himself? The thought of Theron facing peril for him, especially after his own enforced distance, sent a fresh wave of icy dread through Elias's veins. The Commander already walked a razor's edge with his secret; this act of compassion was another layer of vulnerability.
Warmth. Despite everything, it bloomed fiercely in his chest, a stubborn counterpoint to the chill of fear. Theron's actions screamed what words could not: I see you. I know your pain. I care. Distance be damned. The warmth of the box in his hand, the lingering phantom pressure of Theron's fingers closing his own, the potent symbol of the shimmering essence… it was a lifeline thrown across the chasm the Pontiff and the Church had forced between them.
He snapped the lid shut, the soft click echoing loudly in the silent gallery. The saints seemed to loom taller, their stone faces stern with disapproval. He quickly slipped the small box into the deep inner pocket of his robes, close to his heart. The warmth of the wood bled through the fabric, a secret, comforting weight against the cold dread.
He stood there for a long moment in the striped shadows, the scent of the Moonbloom essence a faint, haunting whisper around him. Theron's low command echoed: Don't refuse it. You need it. The Pontiff's warning clashed violently with Theron's fierce care. The gift was a perilous blessing, a tangible manifestation of the impossible tangle of devotion, desire, and duty that defined his existence.
His fingers brushed the hidden box through the robe. The warmth was undeniable. So was the danger. So was the profound, aching need it promised to soothe. Elias Vance turned and continued his walk towards the infirmary, the familiar corridors feeling even more like a gilded cage, but with the illicit warmth of a dragon's gift burning a hole against his heart. The path ahead was shrouded in deeper shadows now, illuminated only by the treacherous, shimmering light of forbidden solace.