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Ammon halted mid-stride as Rasheed swept into the Council Chamber, Mikhail storming close at his heels.

Mikhail seized Rasheed’s shoulder, spinning him harshly. “You cannot let them leave this place alive!”

“Are you mad?” Rasheed pointed to the front entrance, where they had watched Broderick and Davina make a hasty retreat. “He has already completed a small measure of the prophecy with this incident. It has already begun. We do not know enough about the prophecy. Killing him may destroy us.”

Ammon stepped toward them and gritted his teeth. “Then what do you suggest we do? We cannot let him walk away to do his own bidding.”

“We will watch him and keep a close account of both him and his brother.” Rasheed paced, his hands clenched behind his back.

Ammon dared to mention, “Rasheed, the Creator cannot know that—”

“I know!” Rasheed closed his eyes, raking his fingers through his jet-black hair. “I was a fool not to see what that woman was up to. Cordelia has obviously learned of the prophecy and has manipulated it to begin.”

“Surely, you are not saying that half-wit of a woman knew what she was doing in bringing these two brothers before us.” Mikhail punched his hands into his hips.

“Have a care, Mikhail! Cordelia Harley is not the fool she pretends to be, and she has tricked us all into starting this chain of events. She is the one we must hunt down and eliminate or the Creator will take great pleasure in torturing us.”

Rasheed paced across the stone floor, arms crossed, eyes lost in his thoughts. After moments of silent pondering and agitation, he turned to Mikhail and Ammon. “No one else must know about this. Watch these two brothers closely. Be sure they do not do anything else to bring about our destruction. And we must delve deeper into the prophecy to find those missing pieces, or their conflict will be the annihilation of our entire race!”

Chapter Thirty

The monastery’s towers clawed at the dark horizon, their jagged silhouettes grim against the bruised sky. Flickering sconces painted restless shadows over the great wooden gate as Broderick approached at a dead run. Davina lay cradled in his arms, her head against his chest, her breath so shallow it barely stirred the night air. Every few moments, she moaned faintly—eyelids fluttering like fragile moths before slipping shut once more.

The cobbled road beneath Broderick’s boots echoed in the quiet gloom. He lifted his voice, raw with desperation.

“Open up! I’ve a blood slave in need of curin’! Sister Evangeline sent me!”

For a heartbeat, there was only silence.

Then—a shuffle. Muffled voices beyond the thick wooden gate, terse and urgent. A moment later, the gate groaned open, spilling lamplight onto the road from the courtyard beyond.

Novices unloaded a supply wagon, barrels and sacks stackedlike fortifications against the creeping dark. Torchlight carved their shadows into towering specters, casting a surreal glow across the scene.

An elderly monk, stooped with age, hurried forward, his robe whispering over the stones. “Come quickly,” he urged, his voice calm yet taut with urgency. “Follow me.”

Broderick fell into step behind him, clutching Davina as though she might slip from his arms and vanish. They passed beneath arched gateways and into the monastery’s depths, the cool, dry air laced with the scent of herbs and candle wax. Shadows pooled in the corners of the narrow corridors, flickering as they moved.

They entered the infirmary—a long, stone-walled chamber off the cloisters. Torches and oil lamps cast a muted glow, as the narrow, high windows offered no mercy of moonlight at this late hour. Rows of austere wooden beds stretched before them, each dressed with rough straw mattresses and coarse woolen blankets.

“Here,” the monk said, gesturing to an empty bed near the center of the room.

Broderick lowered Davina gently onto the mattress, smoothing damp tendrils of hair from her fevered brow. Her skin burned, her body trembling in restless shudders.

Two nuns descended upon them, their habits swaying like shadows given form. One carried an armful of heavy blankets, layering them over Davina’s frail frame. The other knelt at her side, murmuring prayers in a soft, lilting Latin that barely rose above a whisper.

Broderick dragged a stool close to her bedside, never releasing her hand. His thumb traced slow, steady circles over her chilled knuckles, willing her to hold on just a little longer.

“Stay with me, blossom,” he whispered, his voice frayingunder the weight of hope and fear. “Just a little longer.”

A few minutes later, a young monk entered the infirmary, his brown robes swaying as he carried a small tray. He could not have been more than twenty years old, his face youthful yet shadowed with grave responsibility. Upon the tray sat a simple earthenware cup, steam curling in lazy tendrils from its contents.

The monk approached the bed and offered Broderick a respectful nod. “I am Brother Fletcher,” he said softly. “This tea is for her. It will help.”

Broderick shifted to brace Davina, lifting her with care until she sat up and rested against his chest, though she sagged in near-unconsciousness. As the cup neared, a distinct, metallic scent prickled his senses. His eyes narrowed, suspicion hardening his gaze. “Wait.”

Brother Fletcher froze mid-motion, startled.

“What’s in the cup?” Broderick asked, his voice low, edged with steel.