Page 53 of Discordant Cultivation

Vale’s expression softened. “I know. That’s what makes this so interesting. You hate me and need me and can’t imagine existing without me, all at the same time.”

I don’t need you. I don’t. I just need—

But he couldn’t finish the thought because he didn’t know what he needed anymore. Structure? Direction? Someone to tell him he was good enough? Someone to push him past his limitations?

All things Vale provided, even if the methods were wrong.

Kieran pursed his lips as tears stung his eyes. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, the words barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Vale said with an understanding that felt genuine even though Kieran knew better. “That’s why you have me. I told you. I’m the architect. You’re the instrument. And together, we’re going to create something extraordinary.”

As if Kieran had any choice in the matter.

As if he hadn’t already become exactly what Vale wanted him to be.

15

For attention is attention, even when it comes with thorns…

Vale

Vale’s phone buzzed for the third time in an hour, vibrating against the nightstand like an insect actively trapped in amber. He ignored it.

He shouldn’t be here. Kieran didn’t know Vale had been slipping into his room each night, watching him sleep like some lovesick puppy instead of the disciplined architect he always prided himself on being. But the need to observe was compulsive—checking on seizure activity, yes, but also just watching the only person who ever made him feel something.

Another myoclonic jerk rippled through Kieran’s left arm, the limb twitching against the mattress in that characteristic shock-like movement. Vale noted the timing—seventeen seconds since the last one.

The phone buzzed again. Vale finally picked it up, recognizing Anderson Nox’s private number—another independent producer and arguably a good acquaintance (though Nox had always insisted they were friends since their college dorm days).

“Nox,” Vale answered, voice pitched low to avoid disturbing Kieran’s fitful sleep.

“Valerian! Jesus Christ, finally. Why the fuck do you have a phone if you won’t answer it? Have you seen this thing that’s been blowing up on socials? Some kid singing his heart out in what looks like a basement?” Nox’s voice carried that particular excitement that meant he smelled money and vulnerability in the water. “Two point three million views and climbing.”

Vale’s gaze never left Kieran’s face as another myoclonic jerk moved through his shoulders—a brief tensing as Kieran’s eyes opened for a moment with that unfocused, vacant look before settling closed again without waking. “I may have come across it.”

“The kid’s got something, Valerian. Raw talent, but completely unpolished. Exactly the kind of diamond in the rough you usually dig up from whatever cave you find artists in.” Nox paused, probably scrolling through comments. “Any chance you know something about him?”

Is right now the time to play games, Nox?

“Actually,” Vale said, tracing idle patterns on the sheet near Kieran’s shoulder, “I’ve just signed him.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, then a low whistle. “You’re up to no good, aren’t you? I thought you were done mentoring after that last disaster?”

Now how do you know about that?

“Special exception. If you saw the video, I’m sure you can understand.” Vale made a mental note to see if Alex Thayer had been signed anywhere. There were only two people on the planet who knew what happened there, and Vale wasn’t dumb enough to tell Nox of his failures.

“So when are you doing a full debut with this sad little guitarist? Or are you planning to social media this kid into fame? Because last I checked you don’t even own a television.” Nox has that teasing edge in his voice that made Vale want to put him through a plaster wall. “I’d be more than willing to get one of myartists to collab with him. You could boost him so fast with the right feature. I still have that guitarist trying for a side solo job signed, and I wouldn’t even ask you for all that much time with your little Bandaid angel.”

Vale’s jaw tightened at Nox’s implication. The industry loved finding fresh meat to chew up and spit out, and Kieran was exactly the kind of vulnerable they’d exploit without hesitation. “We’re taking our time. He needs to find his voice before he plays with your broken toys. Plus, I’m surprised you still have access to Vander Moss, I heard he broke your nose when you tried to touch him.”

Nox scoffed. “So rude, Valerian. Fine. Don’t share your pretty things. Just know that Internet fame has a shelf life, and this kid’s already caught lightning in a bottle. Strike while the iron’s hot and all that.”

Vale ended the call as Kieran’s breathing hitched, another seizure beginning to build. This time Vale watched as the episode progressed—the subtle muscle tension, the way Kieran’s fingers curled against the sheets in that involuntary spasm, the soft whimper that escaped his throat as electrical chaos fired through his brain.

When the seizure passed, Vale reached for Kieran’s notepad to see what he was working on, and froze.

“Temple of Flesh”—even the title made his pulse quicken. The lyrics were devastating, more psychologically complex than “Poison Saviors“ and twice as revealing about Kieran’s internal landscape. Written over the past five days, processing what happened in the basement before the break.