Bound by Shadows and Promises

Chapter 1

The story unfolds three hundred years after a fateful contract, with the return of Aveline Whitefeather, the world’s strongest swordsman and dearest friend of the formidable master, now an unexpected twist in their ages-old saga.
Whispers ripple through the realm of cultivators: Aveline is set to divorce his partner, Lysander Blackwood.
Lysander, believing the rumors wholeheartedly, hastily signs the divorce papers, wheeling away with his spiritual pet in tow.
“What a relief. It’s time to finally let go,” he muses to himself, but he hasn’t gone far before Aveline rushes after him, demanding a reunion.
Lysander’s brow creases into a frown. “Is that really necessary?”
“Remarry, remarry, remarry!” Aveline insists with stubborn fervor.
---
Three centuries ago, Lysander’s elder brother, Dorian Brightstone, betrayed their sect, turning to the Demonic Alliance. As a result, Lysander took it upon himself to cleanse their name and redeem their honor.
Aveline remembers Lysander’s heartfelt vow: “If you choose me as your partner, I will always serve you.” He recalls Lysander’s fragile plea about his unique physiology: “Our cultivation together will yield incredible results.” He recalls those exhausting times of war when Lysander promised, “We’ll get through this and go home,” then softly confessing, “I like you,” under the shelter of their shared warmth.
For years, all Lysander could do was reflect on the divorce letter he had sent Aveline, the line “We have long lost our way, and thus our bond ends.” haunting him.
---
Meanwhile, the Demonic Alliance's rampage led to the destruction of Aveline’s sect, Sword Spirit Mountain, with many members cruelly taken hostage, including his most vital student. From that moment, Aveline had vowed to avenge his fallen brethren.
Lysander recalls feeling the sting of Aveline's rejection, his sharp “Get lost!” ringing in his ears. He remembers Aveline’s dispassionate observations of their partnership—“We are merely using each other”—and the firm denial, “I don’t like you.” Yet, he also remembers Aveline’s tender murmurs, calling out for his beloved disciple, Elena Ravenwood, when all seemed lost.
Even now, Aveline’s constant reminder echoes in his mind: “You are my partner; we will never part, and we’ll come back together in time.”
A captivatingly gentle swordsman versus a hot-headed, stubborn warrior.
The tale kicks off on a bright spring day at Lysander’s Hollow, where Lysander, the acting leader of the Order of the Freewind, indulges in wine, pets his enchanting spiritual beast, and observes his alchemical furnace, savoring the peacefulness of life.
But tranquility shatters with a thunderous yell.
“Lysander! What on earth are you doing? We have a serious problem!”
The uproar comes from a thousand-year-old bear demon named Roland Hawke, Lysander’s closest friend for a century.
The moment Lysander hears the booming voice, he sighs in resignation. “Here we go again. This bear must be worried about my love life.”
Without delay, Roland storms into the dwelling, voice booming, “Aveline's off on another visit to that childhood friend of his. How many times has it been? You need to deal with your man!”
Before Lysander can respond, his spiritual pet, Silver Wolf Cub, bristles with fury, its sharp green eyes blazing as it growls, ready to pounce.
“Calm down,” Lysander reassures, patting the wolf’s head before reaching for Roland's claw. “Don’t let anger consume you. Let’s have a drink instead.”
Roland plops down, still fired up. “Let’s do this! Once we finish, I’m going with you to confront Aveline and show him who’s really in charge.”
Lysander strokes Silver Wolf Cub and asks, “Where did you hear this nonsense? Surely it isn’t true.”
“I just helped you chase down some wild types. I saw it with my own eyes! If I’m lying, grill the moon for dinner!” Roland huffs. “I wanted to punch that ice-cold face off Aveline!”
Lysander chuckles, “You really think you’d win? He’s almost at the major ascension level.”
“Winning doesn’t matter—I’ll still give it a shot!” Roland swings his fists, but then his mood changes. “You can’t just sit here sipping wine while your partner is out with someone else. Haven’t you seen the gossip? It’s been buzzing around like bees!”
For a long while, people have been whispering that the brilliant swordsman, Aveline Whitefeather, the one shining at the frontier of ascension, is set to divorce his ‘partner’ of three hundred years, Lysander Blackwood.
Lysander coughs over his drink feigning surprise. “Who’s peddling these tall tales? No rumors here, my clever friend. Please, omit the gossip.”
Roland’s exasperation mounts. “Why are you being so oblivious? Even if the rumors about separation aren't true, there’s always a seed of truth behind them. You should be cautious—”
At that moment, the alchemical furnace trembles. Lysander, with grace, lifts a finger. “Shh, I’m about to finish a crucial elixir.”
Roland stares at him, suppressing his frustration. The tremors grow more intense, and Lysander’s cheerful expression dims slightly. He pets Silver Wolf Cub, “Come on, Little Gem, give that furnace a good five shouts.”
Silver Wolf Cub swiftly jumps to the furnace, releasing a furious howl infused with vibrant spiritual energy. After five loud howls, the furnace calms down, returning to its normal function.
The pup hops back to Lysander, who pulls the little creature onto his lap, beaming. “Great work, my little champion!”

Chapter 2

Roland Hawke sighed in exasperation. “Are you really this lazy now? You need Little Gem to help you brew a potion?”
Lysander Blackwood lounged back, looking utterly unfazed. “Yep.”
Roland shook his head, unable to contain himself. “Lady Celeste, you’ve single-handedly revived the Order of the Freewind from collapse. You’ve faced the Demonic Alliance, expelled traitors, and battled the Demon Lord. For the past three centuries, everyone has called you 'Master Lysander'. The Order’s current reputation and status are all thanks to your hard work. How did you lose your drive? It’s been a decade since you’ve set foot in the outside world. You don’t teach your disciples anymore, you neglect the Order, and you've even given up on personal connections. I could understand if you were holed up here to cultivate your skills, but every time I come by, you’re just drinking, admiring flowers, or reading some light novel. Now you even need your spirit pet to help with potion-making? Where did your industrious spirit go?”
Lysander smiled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “It’s gone. The world is at peace now, so why worry so much? And the accolades you mention? Those belong to Aveline Whitefeather. She’s the cornerstone of the Order of the Freewind. I don’t know why you keep putting me on a pedestal. Others see their lovers as idealized figures, but you see me as some kind of hero.”
Roland felt annoyed, downing his drink in frustration. “Fine, I can’t argue with your viewpoint. But the emperor isn’t as urgent as his servants; I’m not going to play the role of a mere sidekick. Regardless, since this is already out in the open, I’ll say it—right now, the cultivation world is peaceful. Your promising disciples are managing the Order, but as for your romantic life? You need to put in some effort.”
With a huff, Roland left the room.
Lysander chuckled as he watched his friend go, considering getting up to see him off, but his legs felt heavy, so he simply waved. “Roland, I’ll remember your words. Stop by for drinks whenever you can.”
Once the Cavern dwelling fell quiet, Silver Wolf Cub climbed onto Lysander’s lap, awkwardly kneading his legs like a puppy.
“Thanks, Little Gem,” Lysander said with a warm smile as he gently stroked the Silver Wolf Cub, pulling it into a brief hug. “But you don’t need to take care of me. Can you keep watch over the furnace for me instead?”
The cub wagged its tail happily in his arms before turning to guard the furnace, sitting there like a huge dog.
Lysander relaxed and rubbed his knees, staring at the spiritual flames in the furnace, lost in thought.
He had long heard the gossip outside about Aveline and Elena. The whispers about Aveline wanting to part ways with him weren’t just rumors—they were backed by a formal contract.
Three hundred years ago, he and Aveline had established a mutual assistance pact. They were indeed a false couple; over the years, they had only been partners. Once both were satisfied with their paths, they could discuss parting amicably.
Lysander had already achieved his goals, feeling no regrets. Now that Aveline had recovered her bond with the important Elena Ravenwood, her dream had come true. He knew that sooner or later, Aveline would approach him to discuss their separation. For months he had awaited that conversation.
More than three hundred years ago, when Lysander was the weakest disciple under the Order of the Freewind's master, his older brother betrayed them and joined the Demonic Alliance, plunging the cultivation world into chaos and dragging the Order into the storm. Lysander, ranked sixth among his brothers, had been left to guard the monastery while four older brothers and two younger brothers followed the master to clear their names. Unfortunately, they fell short, and most of their sect perished on the battlefield due to his brother’s betrayal.
The Demonic Alliance sought the rare Chalice of Shadows from the Faction of Humanity, requiring a suitable vessel. Elena Ravenwood from the Mountain of Sword Spirits was that vessel. The Mountain of Sword Spirits had formidable strength and was not scared initially, but the Demonic Alliance devised insidious tactics that caused infighting within the sect, leading them to swift defeat.
As the Mountain of Sword Spirits fell, Aveline Whitefeather, a young disciple, heroically safeguarded Elena as they fled. With no sect willing to take them in, the two soon found themselves cornered by the crazed forces of the Demonic Alliance.
In the chaos, Aveline was overwhelmed, losing track of Elena.
On the fateful day Aveline lost her, she was so emotionally devastated that she advanced to the Nascent Soul stage prematurely, sparking a celestial tribulation that forced the Demonic Alliance to retreat. However, her spirit veins couldn’t withstand the thunder, leaving her gravely weakened and collapsing into the mud.
It was during this moment that Lysander discovered her.
Weak as he was, barely steady in his foundational cultivation, he had showed up at the battlefield merely to end it all. But the following disciples from the Order of the Freewind had caught up to him, desperate and tearful. They pleaded with him not to let the Order become extinct, as he was their only remaining inner sect disciple.
After much thought, Lysander turned back to the monastery, taking Aveline with him.
That fateful encounter marked three hundred years of companionship.
His memories were interrupted by a surge of spiritual energy from outside the Cavern dwelling. Lysander turned, exasperated. “Roland, I understand now; you don’t have to—”
His words caught in his throat as he saw Aveline's strikingly handsome face. He was taken aback, his eyes widening. It had been over a month since he had last laid eyes on her.
Aveline approached him, her expression cold as she sat down beside him, speaking with the sharpness of a blade. “Will the Gathering of the Elders proceed as scheduled next month?”
Snapping back to the present, Lysander nodded with a smile. “Everything for the Gathering of the Elders has been arranged. The disciples are all capable—it’s well handled. Don’t worry; we can hold it tomorrow if needed.”
Aveline's gaze flickered toward him, her thick lashes casting shadows over her unsettlingly intense eyes, like cold stars piercing through the darkness.
For a moment, Lysander felt a chill run down his spine. The warmth in his laugh faded. He thought to himself, this guy is still as frigid as ever. With a pretty face like that, she should lighten up a bit. But when she’s icy like a winter night, all you want is to retreat under warm blankets.
He wondered if she acted this way around Elena. Probably not; after all, Elena was the one she had always cherished deeply. Now that they had been reunited, Aveline should be smiling more. Perhaps the burdens of the years weighed heavily on her, keeping that fierce warrior on edge.
The Cavern dwelling fell into silence, and Lysander pondered, unexpectedly recalling something humorous. In his memory, Aveline had always been cold, only showing some emotion when they were alone.
Lost in his thoughts, he was jolted back to reality when his aloof partner asked, “It’s the ninth day now; how is your health?”
Lysander blinked, finally realizing, “It’s already the ninth?”

Chapter 3

The ninth day of the month was a grim anniversary for Lysander Blackwood, marking a century since he had killed Brother Gregor. He never anticipated that Brother Gregor would conspire with the Demonic Alliance, letting dark energy seep into his very being, entangling it with his spirit veins. Now, the malevolent energy plagued him monthly, tormenting his mind and soul.
"Alright," Aveline Whitefeather said softly, "I'll help you heal."
Lysander let out a dry cough, a hint of guilt twisting his lips into a faint smile. "No need... I’ve found a way to heal without the dual cultivation. The Chalice of Shadows has been brewing a spirit elixir; I've tried it these past few days, and it effectively stifles the dark energy within me."
Aveline fell silent, the atmosphere growing heavier. Lysander poured a drink and offered it to him, grinning slightly. "Sir Gwynn, I’ve burdened you for far too long."
Aveline made no move to take the drink, his tone icy. "There’s no need."
Lysander retracted the glass and drank it himself, nostalgia flooding his thoughts. The alcohol loosened his tongue as he confided, "Sir Gwynn, I’ve always feared you held a grudge against the Order of the Freewind. If it weren’t for my alliance with Brother Gregor, your sect would still be thriving, and Elena Ravenwood wouldn’t have suffered so..."
Aveline interrupted sharply, "Leave the past alone."
Coughing, feeling the intense pain in his legs, Lysander took another sip of his drink. "Fine, I won’t dwell on it. Now that Elena has returned, Sir Gwynn, I couldn’t be happier for you. The rumors outside—they misunderstand you completely."
A subtle change flickered in Aveline’s eyes, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"They don’t understand the pact between us, nor the depth of your bond with Elena," Lysander continued, a restless energy bubbling in him. He felt the ticking clock of their lives, the impending urgency of words unsaid. "Sir Gwynn, in these three hundred years, you’ve helped elevate my cultivation, restored the Order of the Freewind, and redeemed my family’s honor. I’ve always wanted to thank you…"
The wine glass on the table was suddenly knocked from his grasp, shattering against the floor. Aveline stood rigid, an icy presence as if plucked from a millennial ice cave.
Lysander managed to squeeze out a hurried, shaky, "Thank you."
Aveline’s hands shook with uncontained rage as he leaned closer, glaring at Lysander. "No need for thanks. I should be thanking you for the Chalice of Shadows you wield."
The tension crackled between them, and Lysander felt a rhythmic thud in his chest. Memories of past feelings surged—years entwined not just as allies but as something deeper. The earlier days when they shared their cultivation, aiming for vengeance, were the fierce drive fueling them.
"Aveline, just bite me already," he blurted, a desperate attempt to lighten the mood.
With just those words, Aveline turned sharply and left, the air chilling with unresolved emotions. Lysander wanted to call out, to discuss Elena, their past, or perhaps even the idea of separation, but his voice remained lodged in his throat.
Pain surged through his body, becoming unbearable. He called out to his companion, "Silver Wolf Cub, come here and guard me for a moment. The Chalice will take over later."
The little wolf perked up its ears and promptly dashed to his side, nuzzling his leg and sending waves of energy towards him while whining anxiously.
Lysander held back a wince, forcing a smile as he petted its fluffy coat. "It’s alright, just a bit painful, nothing major."
His mind drifted, aware that Aveline’s intentions were never malicious. Yet, his heart ached unexpectedly. In peaceful times, as he managed to settle down, lingering thoughts of the past clawed at him, unraveling memories he could not ignore.
He reminisced about their first day of cultivation, sleepless nights murkily blending together until dawn broke through the mist. They had struggled to find the right way to connect, resulting in an entanglement that was anything but conventional. Aveline had appeared steadfast while Lysander barely kept it together.
As time passed, they learned from their mistakes, refining their skills sharply. Unlike regular Chalices who met empty ends, Lysander and Elena, as pure Chalices, enhanced their partners' cultivation significantly.
The early days were draped in raw ambition, obsession with revenge, with Lysander hardly touching the ground—mostly entwined around Aveline’s waist or hand.
Now, it all felt like a chilling dream, laced with frost that covered all background of a once fiery passion.
Later that night, as Lysander rested beneath his silken covers, he realized that if Aveline hadn't come to remind him about the ninth day, he would have completely forgotten. The dark energy remained, a daily adversary, barely spiking on this day yet still a familiar annoyance. After living with it for a century, he had grown used to it and hardly considered it a terrible burden.
At that moment, the Chalice completed the latest batch of elixirs, and Little Gem scampered over, proudly presenting Lysander with two glowing pearls, nudging him insistently to take them.
Lysander rolled over to inspect the potions, marveling at their brilliance. "They look incredible, all thanks to you, Little Gem."
These potions were not just for him but prepared for Aveline, who was nearing a critical breakthrough. Aveline, a natural with a deadly bond to his sword, had advanced shockingly fast, enduring lightning strikes that could rend mountains. Lysander never spoke about the struggles, but it was those very trials that almost left Aveline broken, a reputation that inspired nothing but dread.
Lysander hoped to ease Aveline's burdens somehow, yet the young warrior was fiercely proud, often asserting he did not need assistance. If help were needed, the cultivation they shared had long since sufficed.

Chapter 4

Lysander Blackwood couldn’t help but feel that life had taken a bizarre turn.
For a century, the Order of the Freewind had worked to clear their name, a task that seemed to gain momentum as it went on. Yet, with the tension easing from his mind and the relentless battle with his health dragging him down, he found himself with an abundance of time to delve into the arcane arts of alchemy. He thought of creating more elixirs, hoping to balance the scales for Aveline Whitefeather, his heart heavy with remorse.
Turning his back, he stashed the glowing potions away, feigning that he had partaken in them himself, tricking the Silver Wolf Cub into a comfortable sleep beneath the bed with his playful tail wagging.
As he lay down, he stared at the ceiling, momentarily satisfied with the tranquility surrounding him.
Yet that peace only lingered during the sober daylight hours.
Once asleep, nightmares took hold of him, forcing his consciousness to spiral, half entangled in demonic energy.
In his dreams, he saw his master and his brothers. He dreamt of Brother Gregor, whispering softly to him in his dying moments, “Little Sixth, you ought to understand: you and I are outcasts. You know where we come from, so why do you defend it?”
Lysander, even in the dream, remained calm and serene, replying, “Brother, I don’t have a reason. Perhaps it’s merely because I’m the coward, the weaker one.”
Dorian Brightstone gripped him fiercely, nearly crushing his bones. “Little Sixth, if you don’t stand by me, darkness waits for you…”
Gently patting his back, Lysander reassured him, “No, brother. I’ll take you to Luminous Vale first.”
As the dream with Dorian faded, his consciousness churned on, bound by instinct, drifting aimlessly, unaware of where he was bound until he felt a familiar comfort and finally found peace.
It didn’t matter if it was dream or reality anymore.
*Aveline Whitefeather didn’t venture far after leaving Lysander's Hollow. Concealing his aura, he took a position outside the dwelling, sitting quietly at the door, attempting to calm himself.*
Thoughts of Lysander swirled in his mind, bringing waves of unease.
He shut his eyes, shifting his focus to his junior, Elena Ravenwood, remembering the now-ruined Sword Spirit Mountain.
The nineteen years spent at Sword Spirit Mountain were the most carefree of his life, so peaceful they almost felt unreal looking back.
During his time there, Aveline had seven junior brothers, with Elena being his closest; their bond was akin to family, even stronger than mere siblings. His sense of protection over Elena stemmed from his master’s earnest cautions and his genuine affection.
Three centuries ago, he watched helplessly as Elena was taken away by the Demonic Alliance, a moment forever etched in his memory.
In the three hundred years that followed, he often awoke in the dead of night, tormented by memories of losing her, the pain still raw and bitter.
Fortunately, Elena was back now, albeit against many odds.
Thinking of this sent Aveline’s head down, exerting immense self-control to quell the urge to storm into the Demon’s Domain and claim vengeance against the Demon King for his transgressions.
Elena's return didn’t lessen his deep sense of guilt; if anything, it only intensified it.
Aveline recognized the danger of being consumed by this obsession, snapping his eyes open and scanning the area. He was just one step from achieving his grand aspirations, and the closer he got, the more perilous it felt.
Before him, the Garden of a Thousand Flowers blossomed in vibrant color, swarming with butterflies. With his thoughts settling, he found himself reflecting on Lysander.
His companion was like this resplendent garden, bursting with color yet subtly fragrant, ever so gentle, exuding a charm that captivated him.
As the sky dimmed and the moon rose, Aveline, feeling the cool spring breeze, wished rationally for Lysander to remain within Lysander's Hollow.
However, before the moon could reach its zenith, chaos erupted from inside the Hollow.
Aveline shook his head subtly, rising to face the growing commotion accompanied by the frantic whimpers of the Silver Wolf Cub.
The clouds that had masked the moon dispersed, illuminating the frantic figure of Lysander stumbling out of his abode. Aveline could not discern the cause of Lysander's clumsiness; he suspected it was the pull of instinct steering him into disarray.
Lysander’s hair, flowing to his waist, swayed with each erratic movement, his gaze hazed and unfocused, as if he were entranced by something unseen, and his enchanting eyes shimmered with an alluring desperation.
He stepped barefoot into the cool moonlight, his clothes disheveled as he called out into the night, “Aveline!”
Aveline stood still, watching intently.
Little Bear rushed around him in a frantic flurry, worrying and scratching at the ground, trying to tug him back into the safety of Lysander's Hollow. Yet Lysander refused to budge, stumbling forward, exposing his porcelain skin as he teetered, about to fall.
In an instant, Aveline moved, catching him effortlessly with one hand.
He held Lysander firmly, irritation seeping through his tone, “Didn’t you say the elixir would keep this sort of thing at bay?”
In his dazed state, Lysander couldn’t grasp the anger behind those words; he simply yearned for his embrace, pawing at him and breathlessly pleading, “Aveline, hold me close, tear me apart… just touch me.”
Aveline's stoic mask crumbled, and desperation surged as he bent down, capturing Lysander with gentle restraints, biting back his frustration and giving in to Lysander’s needs, “Do you realize this—if any disciples saw you like this, the Order of the Freewind would be ruined?”
But Lysander was lost in his world, crying out, “Aveline, come inside with me…”
As the clouds masked the moon once again, the two figures entwined at the threshold of Lysander's Hollow disappeared. Only Little Bear remained, stuck on the other side of a shimmering Barrier of Protection, clawing anxiously at the powerful shield left by the legendary sword master.
Aveline pulled the delirious Lysander back to the silken sheets, bracing as he bound him with the celestial ropes, keeping him safe.

Chapter 5

Lysander Blackwood felt like he was drowning, thrashing weakly, his clothes in disarray, tears and sobs clinging to him as he struggled in Aveline Whitefeather’s embrace. “Give it to me…”
Aveline gazed down for a long moment, and upon failing to resist again, he untied the binding spell. Instantly, Lysander sprang into his arms like a fish flopping onto dry land, drenched and frantic.
The instinct of the Chalice of Shadows surged within him, intense and consuming, driving him to pursue the source of his pleasure, even if it left him wrecked in the end. Over the years, Aveline had sifted through every record he could find about the Chalice of Shadows, only to discover with dismay that none had escaped its destructive grip. If a normal Chalice couldn’t withstand its call, how could Lysander, who was of the purest essence of darkness? One of him alone was already enough to haunt Aveline, and he didn’t dare imagine the chaos of it all.
Then, Lysander whispered three words, breath hot against Aveline’s ear, and in an instant, Aveline cast a silence spell on him.
After three hundred years of ups and downs, battles fought and lost, injuries endured, and returns home—this cycle had become a rhythm of its own. Lysander had consumed so much of Aveline's time, a strange and uneasy familiarity building through the years.
Yet, every encounter with the instinct-driven Lysander forced Aveline to confront an undeniable truth: he had grown accustomed to everything except Lysander himself.
Just like now.
“Leave me a book of parting.”
When Lysander awoke, his first instinct was thirst. He attempted to rise but then noticed someone sitting at the table in his room, meticulously dressed, toying with a wine flask.
Lysander found it peculiar. He leaned against the headboard, grinning. “Sir Gwynn, what brings you here?”
Aveline turned around, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.
Lysander waited, but when no response came, he pointed to the wine flask and said with a laugh, “Stay a moment, Sir Gwynn. Whatever business you have can wait. I’m quite thirsty—could you pass me that flask?”
Aveline remained motionless, memory of the previous night surfacing when Lysander had gripped the blankets, murmuring about his thirst. Aveline had held him close, running his fingers tenderly along his spine in a soothing gesture.
“Let me drink…”
He summoned the wine, and as its aroma wafted through the air, Lysander lunged for the flask. He frowned, raising the flask high. “Lady Celeste, hold back a bit.”
Yet, Lysander heard nothing, too caught up in his longing as he extended his arms to seize the flask, and when he struggled in vain, his eyes glistened with urgency, seating himself on Aveline's lap, kissing him fervently.
His lips found the flask.
Aveline's breath hitched as he watched Lysander tilt his head back and drink, the liquid running down his throat and chest, enticingly reckless.
It took everything for him to restrain himself, holding back until Lysander finished drinking, before he bit down on his throat.
So who was the one truly thirsty?
With a flick of his wrist, Aveline tossed the flask to Lysander, who caught it eagerly, still adjusting from his slumber. He uncorked it with a grin, saying, “I can feed Little Gem without toss—it’s the most casual affair between us, Sir Gwynn.”
Lysander took a sip, grinning, but Aveline’s voice cut through the air coldly. “Casual? We shared a bed all night.”
Lysander nearly choked, his mind racing to unravel the events of the previous night. All he could recall was a fading dream of Brother Gregor with a radiant gem.
“I don’t remember at all…” Lysander’s paled face gripped the flask tight. He covered his left eye with his hand, his entire being trembling.
He knew the reason but never imagined the end of it all would draw so near.
“Last month, on the ninth night, you came to find me.” Aveline’s lips pressed together, leaving out specifics, “You seem to have entirely forgotten. I thought you were just avoiding it, but it was last night that confirmed it. Do you know why?”
Lysander’s voice was thick but quickly regained composure, laughing lightly. “Because I’m the Chalice of Shadows. On nights like the ninth, it interferes with my control, I can't help myself.”
Aveline felt a strange frustration boil within. He had come to realize that Lysander, in their shared bed, was wholly different from the composed figure he presented during the day. At first, he thought it was just Lysander’s skill at hiding his passions, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask, “Why were you so passionate last night?” It felt impossible to voice. But when he discovered Lysander seemed to forget the entanglement they’d shared, an aching knot of confusion tightened in his heart.
Lysander gently redirected his focus. “I sought you out last night. Isn’t that shameless of me?”
Aveline’s brow furrowed deeper. In a path partnership, how could that be shameful? “What’s so disgraceful? We’re partners if you want, I’ll give.”
The words came out in a rush, leaving both men embarrassed in the aftermath. Lysander’s ears burned red—not only from the reckless heat of his actions last night but also from Aveline's blunt honesty that bordered on intimacy.
“Doing this… it will surely affect your training.” Aveline teased, standing up. “I’ll go fetch a healer to help you.”
Lysander’s pupils widened, and he quickly stopped him. “Wait. It’s merely the instinctive wildness of the Chalice—I’ll be fine. No need to bring outsiders here. I’ve guarded my identity carefully. If it leaks, I might become a laughingstock, and the Order of the Freewind's hard-won reputation would be tainted. Aveline, I don’t want to expose it.”
From the moment he understood his origins, Lysander had done everything to eliminate anyone who knew the truth, aiming to keep the secret until the end. His body was in no condition to withstand scrutiny.
“Order of the Freewind, Order of the Freewind,” Aveline snapped, his tone sharpening. “Lysander Blackwood, are you hoarding your wealth? Is there nothing else but the Order of the Freewind on your mind?”
“There’s you,” Lysander said softly. “I recognize your talent and dedication more than anyone. I don’t want my identity to intertwine your achievements and feelings with my secret.”
Aveline choked on his words, spinning away in silence for a moment. It struck him that his own cultivation came so effortlessly because it rested so heavily on Lysander’s shoulders.
Lysander felt a release of tension, but then he heard Aveline’s voice again, “Don’t worry. The healer I’ve arranged won’t leak anything. He’s not just anyone; he’s the most qualified to help you in the entire realm.”
Lysander's heart tightened, quickly flying to memories of the expected visitor.

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