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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 stacked like 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 fraying under 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.

“I…am not permitted to share its contents,” Fletcher replied, his tone hesitant but steady.

Broderick’s jaw clenched, his gaze piercing. “I smell blood. Whose blood is it?”

The young monk’s lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across his expression. “You are a Vamsyrian,” he breathed.

Broderick inclined his head once, a grim acknowledgment.

Fletcher’s eyes darted around the infirmary, as though afraid the shadows themselves might overhear. He lowered his voice to a thread. “We are bound not to reveal the source,” he admitted, near a whisper. “But know this—it is Vamsyrian blood. It is the core of the cure.”

“But Vamsyrian blood will only help her temporarily.” A muscle feathered in Broderick’s cheek as he weighed the revelation, battle warring within him. This was a mistake.

“This is no ordinary Vamsyrian,” the monk whispered even softer. “That is all I can say. She will be cured. You have my word.”

Davina whimpered softly, her frail body sagging against him like a wilted flower. That small sound unraveled his hesitation.

“Go on, then,” he said, voice rough.

Brother Fletcher inclined his head and lifted the cup once more. He held it to Davina’s lips. With Broderick’s support, she sipped, weak and tentative at first. The brew passed her lips, and about halfway finished, color bloomed faintly in her pallid cheeks.

Davina lifted her hand to the cup and finished the rest of the brew on her own. Her shivering eased. Her breaths grew steadier, deeper. Slowly, her lashes fluttered open, and her gaze, though hazed with weariness, found Broderick’s face.

She smiled.

Relief shattered his tension. He swallowed hard, his thumb brushing tenderly over her knuckles.

“I’m here, Blossom,” he managed, a smile tugging at his lips. “Ye’re goin’ tae be all right.”

The nuns removed all but a couple of the blankets, adjusting them over Davina as she grew more aware. One of them offered a gentle smile. “Rest now, dear. We will prepare a permanent room for you shortly.”

At this, Broderick’s head snapped up, his gaze hardening. “Nay,” he said, voice firm as iron. “She’s no’ stayin’.”

The nuns exchanged wary glances, and Fletcher stepped forward, uncertainty shadowing his expression. “But…that is not the arrangement. Those who seek the cure must remain within th e monastery for their protection. The Vamsyrian Council may come looking for her.”

Broderick shook his head once, slow and resolute. “Trust me when I say the Council doesnae typically trouble themselves with those who go wi’ the Army of Light—at least, not in Aberdeen. Unless someone here shares her identity, none will come after her.”

“But—”

Broderick rose to his full height, cutting him off. “I also have other business. With Father Beaumont.”

Fletcher’s eyes widened slightly. “Father Beaumont does not receive visitors.”

Broderick slipped a hand into his cloak and withdrew the sealed scroll canister, holding it aloft in his fist. “Perhaps this will change his mind.”

Fletcher examined the seal, his features tightening with recognition. For a heartbeat, he looked as though he might take the scroll—but Broderick’s grip tightened, and he drew it back. “I was instructed to deliver it to him personally.”

The young monk hesitated, then bowed his head in reluctant acceptance. “Wait here.”

As Fletcher disappeared into the shadows of the corridor, Broderick turned back to Davina. His gaze softened, the hard edge of battle-weariness fading from his features. “How are ye feelin’ now, Blossom?”

Davina offered a weak but genuine smile, her eyes bright despite her lingering fatigue. “Like myself again,” she whispered. “No pain. No strange…cloudiness in my mind. Just…me.”

Relief swept through him, raw and fierce. Without thought, he bent toward her, claiming her lips in a brief but fervent kiss. Her cheeks flushed, her smile blooming warmer as their mouths parted.

“Thank God,” he breathed, his voice rough with unspoken prayers.

A short while later, Brother Fletcher returned, his expression more composed yet still tinged with unease. “Father Beaumont will see you now,” he announced, bowing slightly. “Please, follow me.”

Broderick glanced down at Davina, who met his gaze with a reassuring smile. “Go on,” she whispered. “I’ll be fine. I feel stronger by the moment.”

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.