Adam entered the courtyard with a lantern in hand, although he'd never had trouble seeing in the dark. The moon shone brightly overhead and lit the pathway ahead of him, but he'd scared enough servants half to death by walking through the night that he always took a lantern with him if he could remember. If people heard screams coming from their estate, his chances of getting married were going to become even more slim.

He wove through the garden slowly, his body aching from the episode he'd suffered with George the day before. His white gloves clenched around the handle of the light, but his fingertips still tingled in pain as he made his way deep into the yard.

Finally, he came to the gazebo at its center, surrounded by beautiful flowers and freshly swept by George, who sat on the railings with a book in hand.

He looked up as Adam set the lantern down beside him, the taller noble shucking his nice jacket in the warm evening air. George had asked him to meet tonight so they might try the moonlight ritual again in hopes to delay another episode. Adam wasn't sure if it worked, but he was willing to endure it if it gave him more time to recover. His episodes were unpredictable, sometimes months apart and other times days. He remembered one week when he was sixteen that he'd had three in as many days, and it had taken every magical cell in George's body to keep him alive. By the end of it, both of them had to be on bed rest for several days, but they'd recovered and spent the next week afraid to leave the other's side. Their parents had obliged because they'd both nearly lost their only sons, but neither was happy to house the other boy in the meantime. For the Heslers, it complicated their courtship campaign, and the Nattiens fought off rumors that their son had fled for better weather with Adam.

Adam pulled himself out of the memory with a shake of his head, glancing at the moon in the sky and rolling his shoulders back. He was tired and sore, but it was leagues better than that week three years ago, and the moonlight ritual was only as painful as a bee sting, at worst. But as he remembered the ritual, a creeping whisper cooed in his ear, Futile experiments to fix what isn't broken. Adam shuddered, and he turned to George to distract himself.

"Are we ready?"

"Nearly. In fifteen minutes, the moon will be in the right position, and we'll go for an hour, if you think you can take it." Adam nodded, but he let out an exasperated sigh. He hated pacing in front of George, particularly in the shoddy light of their lanterns, but it got the best of him tonight. His fingers buzzed in dull pain, and he massaged his hands as he paced, staying out of George's way as he knelt on the stone and began chalking out symbols.

"You're going to create a draft and blow away my work," he complained, the chalk scraping the ground and grating against his ears. Keep it together, Adam, he thought to himself, his blood pumping.

"I can't believe how long we've been doing this and still nothing has changed."

"It's always changing, that's why," George said evenly, but Adam caught the edge of hurt in his voice.

"The episodes change, and the timing changes, and the symptoms change, but it's still the same curse, George. You'd think there'd be any mention of things like this in your books and we wouldn't have to be up at midnight praying to the moon." Adam ran a gloved hand through his hair.

"There are mentions of things like this, Adam," George countered, his tone as close to scathing as he allowed it to be. "Sons of chaos and the abyss are recorded constantly, but there's only one solution anyone ever tries. Unless you'd like to be buried six feet deep, stop complaining and sit down." Adam did as he was told, his legs aching so badly he thought he might fall over.

Sometimes, he considered that option: death. He was generally against it, like most people were, but there were times he felt like they were denying him the one thing he was good at. He thought of that week three years ago and how he'd almost brought his best friend to the grave with him, like something was determined to bring him back into oblivion. It had been almost a year since Adam had stopped waking up without his mind after episodes, and now he was largely a corpse as he slept off bouts of hellish vomiting. Even before that, when he'd raged unconsciously and wanted to hurt George - his eyes sought the scars he couldn't see under his shirt - he'd been reckless enough to break bones.

George glanced up at him in his moment of quiet, and Adam lost his last resolve as George took in a sharp breath at the look of his face. He should've been more comfortable with all this death, clad in black with his necromantic magic and the family hospital, but Adam was exhausted by it.

"Lay down," George said sternly, moving out of the circle of glyphs to make room for him. Adam did, and he closed his eyes as George moved around and grabbed his book from beside the lanterns.

"I'm so tired," he whispered, and he felt George's hand on his chest, over his heart.

"I know, dear. Now relax and tell me if I need to stop."

He began to mumble, and a low hum filled the air between them, a noise that reminded Adam of the ocean. His fingers trembled in his gloves as he felt pinpricks in his palm, but he bit his tongue and tried to ignore it. He opened his eyes to find distraction. George was crouched next to him, eyes buried in the text and reading aloud in a language Adam had learned as a young boy but he'd never quite mastered. The language of angels had always felt awkward and clumsy on his tongue, and he pretended it was because he'd had a sub-par teacher.

Adam found himself disappointed again to notice there was no aura of light emitted by his cleric, just a mumbling of words as he read the first cant of the ritual and prayed to whichever god he felt like. It was wasteful, Adam thought, watching George's eyes scan the page and feeling his fingers pressed against his chest, that all he had to prove how powerful he was was his faith.

George finished the first passage and set the book down, beginning to wave his free hand through the air in intricate patterns. Adam watched from the ground, relearning the twisting dance as he'd done last time, preparing to lay here for an hour as the pinpricks in his palms moved up into his wrists. If he managed to last that long, he'd feel it creep up into his chest and heart, supposedly staving off another episode for a week or so. That, or it had been a fluke last time, and they were wasting time laying on the uncomfortable stone ground.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

"Did you send someone to get Brady a cane yesterday?" Adam asked, and George's hand faltered in the air. The pinpricks turned to needles in his arm, and Adam hissed as George resumed quickly.

"Don't scare me like that," he chastised.

"Did you think I'd fallen asleep?" George spared him a quick glance.

"You're so pale," he said, pushing hard against Adam's chest as he adjusted himself on the ground. "And it's hard to feel your heartbeat." Adam wished he hadn't asked.

"Did you send someone to the hospital?"

"I went. He has a new cane." Adam let out a sigh of relief, settling into the pain in his arms. He felt it down at his shins, too, creeping up his legs. Maybe a bee sting wasn't quite right, Adam thought, considering what it would feel like when the two fronts met near his heart. Maybe it would be like a shock of lightning.

"He's a troublemaker," George continued, his hand twisting in the air around them. "He said his name was Brady 'Canely', and somehow no one threw him out of there. Would not stop asking me questions."

"I'm sure you loved his company then," Adam joked, imagining the thinly veiled distain on his friend's face. "Did he look like he'd eaten?"

"Probably not much in a few days. He wanted me to pass on an invitation for a date, actually." There was a moment of silence.

"Where?"

"Adam!" George turned around and Adam felt the needles return, but George still kept his hand weaving hypnotically at his side. "You can't be seriously considering it."

"I promised him I'd meet him at the hospital, and I didn't. I can't just let him starve and tell everyone that I didn't keep my word."

"But you did keep your word, he has a new cane. I don't see why you care about him so much," George hissed, turning around and the needles retracted. Adam was growing weary of the pain, but he felt the prickling sensation moving up his arm faster, to his elbows now. He wasn't sure he could make it all the way to his heart. "He doesn't deserve your charity any more than the other homeless street-rats. Unless you intend to buy all of them dinner, too."

"You're one to judge for being penniless."

George clamped his hand shut and Adam gasped as the tingling feelings shot up his body and converged at his heart, like he'd been dunked in ice cold water that made his lungs stop. George stood up in one fast motion and was reaching for a lantern, book in hand.

Adam had just managed to push himself to a seated position as George stepped out of the gazebo and turned to face him.

"He wanted to meet you at the Honey Mead Inn. And if you ever think for a second that I'm helping you for the money, you should reconsider what I've gone through to keep you alive." He disappeared in the foliage as Adam fought for his breath.

George collected his escort from the parlor, and they rode the carriage home in silence. The carriage was a luxury George often wasn't allowed, but on account of the late hour and the distance across town, his father had permitted it tonight. He'd grumbled about it, pulling at his thinning hair and disappearing into the study to consult his books for the wage of the coachman, but George told himself to forget about it. He was doing everything he could to help with his family's expenses, and getting kidnapped on the way to a moonlight ritual was not conducive to that end.

By the time the carriage rolled to a stop in front of his estate, there was no more anger in George's body, just a rattling of thoughts as he made his way through the darkened house to his bedroom. He lit the lamps in his room with a wave of his hand, changing into a sweater and sitting down at his desk, one of the few pieces of furniture he had.

His leather patient book was open in front of him, and he scribbled a quick note about the ritual in it, admitting he'd rushed it and likely wasted their time tonight. Being called penniless shouldn't have gotten to him like it did, it wasn't a well-kept secret as the papers published article after article on his family and their missteps. Adam and his family were certainly aware of their dire straits but talk of Brady had put him on edge. George's whole purpose was to fix Adam's affliction, but for some reason Adam's only job was to entertain beggars.

George closed the book carefully and slipped it back in his medical bag, reaching for a sheath of papers stuffed in a drawer. Then he went to his bookcase - possibly the single most expensive collection of titles in the house - and picked through volumes on possession and devils.

He returned to his desk and set them down in a heap, beginning to thumb through pages and annotations to find the rituals scattered between useless stories. In his notebook, he listed the ones he'd tried and their results:

Salt and Blood - Failed

Twelve Cuts by Midnight - Failed

Trial by Fire - Failed

Dog's Liver Tea - Failed

The list grew and so did his desperation, as he penned "Failed" next to every entry. There was a handful left that he considered with a heavy weight in his heart, but he was constantly evaluating the risks. Some had dire consequences for a botched ritual like tonight: a lost limb, madness, vision loss. Even the symptoms from a perfect trial worried him: tremors, touch sensitivity, hearing loss in one ear. Ideally, the consequences would be a broken curse and wealth for generations to come, George thought bitterly, but of course it wasn't going to be thatsimple. If it was, he might've broken the curse five years ago, when he only studied one god and had perfect ritual procedure, even for such a young teen.

George leaned back and let his eyes wander around the room to give his mind a break. Getting worked up over impossible odds was useless - they'd been impossible since birth and crying over it now wasn't going to change that.

His eyes found the cheap ornaments of Gods hung on his wall, six of them above his desk and pointed towards his bed, like he'd forget any of them. A sun carved into wood and painted yellow, three eyes woven into a tapestry, a painting of a raven on a snow-covered branch, the profile of a beautiful platinum dragon in metalwork, a drawing of a woman sitting in front of a hearth, and a statue of scales balancing an all-seeing eye.

George grabbed for the pendant at his neck as he inspected each symbol, like he was kneeling before six parents in confessionals. His whole family worshiped Pelor, the Dawn Father with his blue skies and yellow suns. His pendant was of a sun, eight small rays radiating from the center that slipped between his fingers as he held it to his lips. He closed his eyes and prayed.

Dawn Father, let morning come without another episode. Wipe away the skeletons on poor boys' faces. Then he switched Gods.

Platinum Dragon, forgive me for considering this. George opened his eyes and reached for the stash of heinous rituals he'd hidden in his desk.

He unfolded each paper carefully, reading the titles and organizing them in front of him as his memory returned. "The Lost Son Acts", "Closure of Realms", "Winter Ritual", the one his mother recommended. He grabbed his notebook and began comparing the consequences of these rituals to what he had left. Death, permanent maiming, loss of function, insanity, more death . . . He picked up one page from the lot of them - torn out of books so he could keep them separated - and flipped through another volume on the desk. He prayed for forgiveness and added the ritual to his list of final options, ignoring the cold words written on the page: incurable blindness.

George sat back in his chair and fought for a second of calmness in his mind. He'd been working to cure Adam for over a decade, only 18 years old, he was not going to succumb to bouts of frivolous emotions now. The feeling of his hand on Adam's chest, even above his shirt, clouded his mind but he was an expert at repressing the thought of him. Instead, he imagined a hug from his father as he finally changed the family's fortune and kept his best friend. Then he could afford to think of him like that.

George went to bed and dreamed of a famished winter.