Page 109 of Discordant Cultivation

“I’m fine,” Kieran insisted, his post-performance breathlessness masking what his body was actually processing. “I’m okay, just need a second to—”

His face twitched mid-sentence, a wave of involuntary movement that rolled from his left brow down across his cheek like water over stone. Vale’s grip tightened—he recognized the telltale signs of ongoing neurological disruption even as he forced his expression to remain calm. He had spent hours watching videos of what focal seizures looked like so he could catch them.

Focal seizures. Cascading through his left temporal lobe. This isn’t good.

“You’re not fine,” Vale said quietly, steering him toward the dressing room door.

Jericho opened the door before they reached it. Her expression shifted to immediate concern as she took in Kieran’s appearance—the continued facial twitching, the way he leaned unconsciously into Vale’s support.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, stepping aside to let them enter. “How can I help?”

Vale pulled out his phone, tossing it to her. “Find the video recording of the performance. Tell me the exact time when yousee Thorn’s face start twitching, then calculate how long it’s been since then.”

She caught the device with blood-sticky fingers, scrolling through rapidly while Vale guided Kieran to the dressing room’s small couch. Another wave of twitching rolled across Kieran’s face, more pronounced this time, accompanied by what Vale recognized as abdominal atonia—muscle tone dropping out completely for several seconds that caused Kieran to slump forward against Vale’s shoulder.

“Here,” Jericho said, studying the phone screen. “Right at the end, just before I grabbed his arm. Eight minutes ago, almost exactly.”

Eight minutes.

Fuck. This is bad. This is really bad.

But he couldn’t show that. Not in front of Jericho, not when maintaining control of the situation meant maintaining control of his own reaction. Vale was already reaching into his jacket pocket, finding the small nasal spray he’d carried since witnessing Kieran’s first seizure.

“Kieran,” Vale said softly. “You’re having small seizures. Focal seizures that have been going on for eight minutes. I need to give you rescue medication.”

“I’m not—” Kieran started to protest, but another wave of twitching cut off his words, this one followed by a brief absence where his eyes went unfocused for several seconds.

Too long. Way too long.

Vale administered the midazolam, one hand supporting Kieran’s head while the other delivered the medication through the nasal spray. It took a few minutes, the facial twitching subsiding as pharmaceutical calm entered his blood stream and calmed the tension in the muscles he still had control over.

Kieran’s expression transformed as the medication took effect, anxiety and confusion giving way to the drugged euphoriathat benzodiazepines provided. His pupils dilated slightly and his eyelids drooped as his body finally stopped fighting itself, consciousness softening into something manageable.

When he looked up at Vale, his voice was barely above a whisper, slurred but urgent with need: “Was it g-good enough?”

Even sedated, even post-seizure, even after eight minutes of his brain misfiring and potentially causing permanent damage—Kieran’s first concern was whether his performance had satisfied Vale’s standards. Whether the blood he spilled, the wounds he opened without permission, the pieces of himself he sacrificed had been sufficient to earn approval.

“It was perfect,” Vale whispered. “It was everything I knew you could be and more. You were magnificent, sweetheart.”

Kieran’s eyes fluttered closed at the praise, leaning into Vale’s touch like a cat seeking warmth. The trust in that gesture—complete, absolute, and unquestioning even after everything—made Vale’s chest tight with emotions he didn’t want to examine too closely while Jericho was watching.

Vale’s attention shifted to the red coating Kieran’s chest and hand. He began peeling back the blood-soaked wrapping, revealing the damage underneath while keeping his expression neutral despite the horror still coiling in his gut.

Dozens of puncture wounds dotted the skin over Kieran’s sternum and ribs—jagged, irregular shapes. They were still oozing, red beading at the surface with each heartbeat.

He used broken glass to open himself up. Without asking.

“What was the thought process?” Vale asked, keeping his voice even as he assessed the wounds for glass fragments that might still be embedded in his skin. “Behind the blood?”

Jericho looked up from where she was picking glass shards from her own palm with tweezers, treating the self-inflicted damage like a minor inconvenience rather than harm.

“That was my idea,” she admitted, very matter-of-factly. “Accusations carry more weight when they’re written in blood. It makes them feel more like testimony than performance.” She held up a particularly large shard, studying it with detached fascination. “The glass from that shattered bottle seemed... appropriate. Symbolic.”

So that’s what she was doing while I was handling logistics. Collecting weapons from the wreckage.

“I didn’t know Thorn was going to do the same thing,” she continued, glancing toward where he sat sedated and peaceful in Vale’s arms. “He watched me pick up the pieces, asked what I was planning. I told him, and he held out his hand without a word.” She shrugged, respect flickering across her features—or maybe recognition. “When he slammed his palm against his chest during the performance, I thought he’d changed his mind about using them. Then the blood started spreading and... it worked. The crowd went dead silent.”

Something unfamiliar stirred in Vale’s chest—the strange vertigo of beingunderstood. Jericho spoke about blood and glass the way he thought about lessons and breaking points. No flinching, no moralizing. Just the clean recognition that art required sacrifice.