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He pressed a kiss to her brow, lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary, as though drawing strength from her warmth. Straightening, he squared his broad shoulders and followed Fletcher from the infirmary. The young monk carried a small lamp, its flame casting a golden halo that pushed back the encroaching gloom of the monastery’s corridors as they proceeded.

Their footsteps whispered over ancient stone, the hush of their passage broken only by the occasional flicker of torchlight and the soft echo of their soles. Gothic arches soared overhead, their shadows like cathedral guardians watching from on high. The vaulted ceilings seemed to breathe with centuries of whispered prayers, while the carved walls bore the silent weight of secrets older than any living soul.

The air cooled as they descended a spiral staircase, chill seeping through the stones. The steps narrowed the deeper they went, until it felt as though the monastery itself sought to swallow them whole. He counted at least four stories before the staircase ended at a narrow corridor illuminated by a string of oil lamps that guttered against the draft.

An iron gate barred their path. Fletcher, with practiced ease,drew a large, iron key from his robes. It caught the lamplight with a dull gleam, and he turned it in the lock. The gate swung open on well-oiled hinges, yielding with only the softest sigh.

They passed an intersecting corridor shrouded in deeper shadow before arriving at a stout wooden door, reinforced with iron bands and studded nails. Fletcher pushed it open and stepped aside, gesturing for Broderick to enter. “Father Beaumont, your visitor,” he announced, inclining his head in a respectful bow before pulling the door closed behind them with a hushed finality.

The room inside was cloistered yet alive with quiet industry. Shelves groaned beneath the weight of countless tomes and scrolls, some so old their parchment edges had curled with time. A broad desk stood beneath an alcove with a dozen candles or more, cluttered with open volumes, scattered notes, and ink pots stained with years of diligent labor. In the center of this chaos sat a monk, roughly Broderick’s own mortal age, the candlelight casting a faint sheen over his tonsured scalp.

Father Beaumont’s quill scratched steadily across the parchment, as though even the presence of an immortal visitor could not distract him from his work. “Just a moment, please,” he said without glancing up, his French accent smooth but unmistakable.

Broderick held back, keen eyes sweeping the chamber. He noted the precision of Beaumont’s hand, the careful arrangement of alchemical diagrams in the open book before him, and the pervasive scent of parchment, beeswax, and iron gall ink. He remained still, respectful of the monk’s focus, yet every muscle coiled, prepared for whatever revelations this meeting might bring.

“Thank you for that,” Beaumont said suddenly, his tonetouched with faint amusement. He glanced up at last, eyes incisive and shadowed by something deeper.

Broderick’s brow furrowed. “For what?”

“For respecting my work and not interrupting,” Beaumont replied, offering a small, knowing smile.

Broderick inclined his head slightly, though suspicion lingered in his narrowed gaze.

Beaumont finished his entry, carefully blotting the ink before closing the heavy tome. He turned to face Broderick fully, his expression composed, yet quietly assessing. “I understand you have a message for me.”

Broderick stepped forward and handed him the sealed scroll canister. Beaumont examined the Army of Light’s insignia with care, then broke the seal and unrolled the leather to reveal the parchment. His eyes flicked over the words, his face a mask of serenity—though one brow did lift, almost imperceptibly, as he read.

“Interesting,” Beaumont murmured, re-rolling the parchment with a practiced twist of his fingers. He set it aside with a casual air and offered Broderick a faint, almost indulgent smile. “Given the…uniqueness of your situation, we will make certain allowances. Your beloved need not remain within the monastery’s walls. She may stay with you. I’m pleased to hear she fares well. And I thank you for delivering this message.”

He turned back to his desk and reopened the tome as if that settled the matter entirely.

Broderick’s frown deepened, his arms folding across his chest. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Father, but what is this business about a prophecy? Sister Evangeline claimed my brother Angus and I are entangled in it.”

Beaumont sighed, setting his quill down once more. The slightdroop of his shoulders betrayed the weight of many such questions, heavier than the tomes stacked around him. “Sister Evangeline acted wisely in bringing this to me, but she does not possess the full knowledge of the prophecy to which she referred. I’m afraid, Monsieur MacDougal, that I have no further instructions for you.”

Broderick’s scowl darkened, storm clouds gathering in his chest. “But what is this prophecy—”

“I am sorry,” Beaumont interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind, “but I cannot say more. Thank you.”

Broderick’s fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening. “If I’m a part of this prophecy, than I have the right tae—”

Beaumont raised a hand, halting him with quiet authority. The monk’s calm expression remained unyielding. “I understand your position. If you wish to know more,” Beaumont said, rising from his chair, “then follow me.”

Beaumont led Broderick back through the monastery, retracing their steps with a quiet efficiency. They passed through the winding halls and narrow corridors until they reached the infirmary once more.

Davina was sitting up in bed now, her color much improved. She smiled when she saw Broderick, though her eyes brightened with curiosity at the sight of the monk beside him.

Father Beaumont approached her with a polite nod. “I see you are up and about. You look healthy enough, my dear. May I examine you?”

Davina hesitated, her gaze flicking to Broderick. He gave her a small, reassuring nod. “All right,” she consented softly.

Beaumont placed his hands gently on her face, tilting her head with practiced care as he studied her features. With the pads of his thumbs, he pulled down the skin beneath her eyes. “Look up,please,” he prompted.

She obeyed but swayed slightly, her balance faltering.

Both Beaumont and Broderick moved at once to steady her. The monk urged her back against the pillows, his tone gentle but firm. “Easy now. Are you all right?”

“A little dizzy,” she admitted, her lips pressing into a faint line.