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Camdyn was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice the riders arriving. The act of copying even the simplest manuscript was an intricate, painstaking process, and the one he had been working on for nearly a month was no exception. It had no colored borders, no illuminations or elaborate designs—just a clean, precise transcription of another work, its black ink made from oak galls carefully applied in a steady hand. Yet, despite the simplicity, it was a project that had taken up nearly all his attention, with only a small gathering of parchment to show for all his efforts.

Just the day before, Camdyn had completed one full page, and today, after prayers and chores and even more prayers, he was determined to finish ruling another set of parchment by dinner. Ruling the pages, that most monotonous step of the whole process, was his least favorite task. The parchment was ready, its edges trimmed, and now it needed the carefully spaced lines to guide the ink. Soaking calfskin in lime and water for days, scraping off the remaining hair and flesh, was the part of the process he found strangely satisfying, as was the task of cutting the stretched and dried skin to the proper size. And while his penmanship was often praised, and he took immense pride in how elegant his letters appeared, he had to admit that he greatly preferred moments where he could get creative—when he could delve into the borders or decorate entire pages with vibrant inks depicting saints, angels, flowers, and intricate designs in hues of green, red, blue, and gold.

But ruling? That was pure drudgery. It was slow, tedious work—one that required such careful attention to detail that it was a test of patience. But if he did it right, he wouldn't have to repeat it. That was the only consolation. So he plodded on, resolving to finish it that very evening, no matter the cost.

“Camdyn,” a voice called from outside his cell, breaking his concentration. “The abbot needs to speak with you outside. It’s urgent.”

The sudden interruption felt unfair. He was right in the middle of his work, and as far as he could tell, he hadn’t done anything wrong that day. With a disgruntled sigh, Camdyn stopped what he was doing, put a stopper in his ink bottle, cleaned his quill, and straightened up his desk before reluctantly heading outside.

As he stepped into the yard, he squinted against the bright sunlight and the sharp, salty breeze from the sea. The first thing he noticed was a cart parked in the middle of the yard, and then the sight of five horses tethered in the stables. It was an unusual sight, one that had never occurred during his time at the monastery. The stable had never been so crowded. His gaze shifted toward the strangers—five men, lightly armored, their faces tired from travel, glancing nervously at the monks moving around them, as if unsure of what to expect, where to look, or what they were even doing here.

The abbot, standing among the strangers, caught sight of Camdyn and waved him over. The group of men turned toward him, and Camdyn noticed three of them, standing by the cart, eyeing him curiously. There was something about their gazes that made him uneasy. One man, around his age, met his eyes and blushed a deep shade of red, quickly looking away. Another man muttered something unintelligible—something about lambs and a wolf’s den—that made his companion elbow him sharply in the ribs. The two men closest to the abbot regarded him with expressions Camdyn recognized—a softness in their eyes that reminded him of how Cenric looked at him before pulling him into a hug or ruffling his hair. But these two men were strangers. Still, there was something oddly familiar about them, something in their faces that tugged at his memory.

The older of the two, a man with dark blond hair and a beard, smiled widely as he stepped forward. “That couldn’t be—you’ve grown so much—I almost didn’t recognize you.”

The other, with curly brown hair, added with a cheeky grin, “Well, certainly bigger, but not that much bigger. I’ve seen children taller than him.”

Camdyn stared at them in confusion, his mind reeling. Something in the abbot’s face, along with the earnest looks from the two men, set Camdyn on edge. He hesitated, looking around at the other monks who were busy with their own tasks—scrubbing the walls, pulling weeds, feeding the chickens. He opened his mouth to protest but then looked at the two men again. As he really looked at them, fragmented memories began to surface—bits and pieces of a childhood long forgotten.

There was the sensation of being tossed into the air and caught again and again, of small hands exploring a young man’s face with curious, clumsy touches. Laughter surrounding him as he tasted food for the first time—slices of lemon that made him cry, spoonfuls of sweet rice pudding that were hurriedly shoved into his mouth.

And then it hit him. He knew these men. Gibson and Kenelm, his older brothers. But it had taken him this long to recognize them because the last time he saw them, he had been three years old, bundled up for the journey to the monastery. His mother, tearfully dressing him, had said her goodbyes. And now, nearly seventeen years later, here they were, standing before him. His heart ached at the sight of them, and yet, a part of him wanted to turn and run.

Gibson, the older of the two, was taller, with a full beard and a wide smile. He stepped forward, clearly eager to embrace Camdyn, but he hesitated and instead pressed a hand to his chest. “It’s me, Gibson. And Kenelm’s here too. It’s so good to see you, Camdyn. I’ve missed you so much—God’s truth.”

But Camdyn, still reeling, could only manage to ask, “What do you want? Why are you here?”

Gibson flinched at the coldness in his voice, and behind him, Kenelm shifted awkwardly, his gaze dropping to the dirt beneath his feet. The silence stretched, and Camdyn’s anxiety grew with each passing moment. The abbot, sensing the tension, placed a gentle hand on Camdyn’s back and suggested, “Why don’t we take a walk by the beach, the four of us? We can talk.”

But Camdyn didn’t want to show them the beach. The beach was his. It was the place he went to think, to breathe, to be alone. His sanctuary. When he was younger, Cenric had held his hand when they walked along the shore, pulling him away from the tide and showing him pretty seashells as they collected seaweed to dry and turn into medicine. The beach was his, and no one, especially not these brothers who had been absent for so long, would take that from him.

“No,” Camdyn said firmly. “I don’t want to walk with you. Not now.” His gaze hardened as he turned to the abbot. “Why are they really here? What’s going on?”

When the abbot didn’t answer immediately, Camdyn’s anxiety blossomed into panic. His heart raced, his mouth dried out, and his hands began to tremble. Something was very wrong. He could feel it in his bones.

Gibson seemed to hesitate, clearly struggling to find the right words. Finally, Kenelm spoke up, his voice forced, filled with a hollow cheer. “We’re here to take you home. Father arranged for you to be married. You’ll—well, you’ll be part of the royal family. The king’s cousin is to be your husband. He’s a war hero.”

Camdyn let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t marry. I’m—I’m a cleric—”

But Gibson, his voice laced with barely contained anger, cut him off. “You’re a novice. You haven’t taken your vows yet. The abbot can’t—Father still has the final say over your life.”

“And this man—this man I’ve never even met? Who is he? Why now?” Camdyn's voice cracked, and he looked helplessly at the abbot, whose eyes were filled with sympathy. “Please, you can’t do this. Everything I have, everything I’ve worked for, is here. I—I can’t leave.”

His voice faltered, and he wasn’t sure who he was pleading with—his brothers, the abbot, or anyone who would listen. The three men behind his brothers looked uncomfortable, and Camdyn could see their faces soften with regret, though they didn’t speak.

The abbot, seeing Camdyn’s distress, pulled him into a warm, protective embrace. Gibson, his face twisted with self-loathing, stood motionless, guilt apparent in his expression. “Camdyn, please,” he said, his voice breaking. “Don’t cry. We’ll look after you. You’ll be fine, I promise—”

But Camdyn, feeling the weight of it all, could only whisper, “Where’s Cenric? Does he know? I need to see Cenric, please.”

The abbot’s voice, softer than Camdyn had ever heard it, responded gently, “He knows. He’s praying in the chapel. Go and speak to him.”

Camdyn, desperate for comfort, rushed toward the chapel without a second thought, his heart pounding in his chest. Gibson and Kenelm started to follow, but the abbot stopped them. “You’ll stay with me. Camdyn needs time to speak with the man who raised him. Do not disturb them.”

With those words, Camdyn fled, his mind a whirlwind of confusion, fear, and sorrow. The life he had built at the monastery was about to shatter, and he wasn’t sure he could hold it all together.

◆◆◆

Camdyn knew every chip in every stone that made up every inch of the monastery. He could trace the intricate patterns of wear in the stonework of the chapel, remembering how each crack had formed over the years, how each weathered patch in the masonry had its own story. The chapel, like the rest of the monastery, was a landscape he knew intimately, a world of corners and crevices where his feet had played and his hands had touched in childhood. When he was a child, it was as much a place to play as any other—sometimes more so. The monks would often find him slipping between the towering columns, his laughter echoing off the stone as he explored the spaces where only the youngest dared to venture. He would run his hands along the walls, delighting in how his fingers found the grooves, the rough patches, the smooth stones that had been worn down by centuries of use. Each mark, each imperfection, became part of his growing understanding of the world, a world he’d come to love as much as the stone itself.

When he was old enough to attend prayers but too young to seriously take part in them, Camdyn had been a whirlwind of energy, zipping between the rows of monks, darting past their robes and nipping at their prayer beads as they bent their heads in devotion. Cenric, ever watchful, would often be the one to catch him—his strong hand wrapping around the cowl of Camdyn’s habit, pulling him back into the calmness of the prayer circle, holding him firmly, but with the care that only someone who had raised him could understand. The firm hand on his shoulder, a weight that kept him in place, reminded him of the security he had always felt in the presence of the man who had watched over him like a father. Even as he wriggled in place, trying to squirm out of the hold, he never felt fear, only a sense of warmth and belonging.

Now, as an adult, Camdyn stood in the same chapel, his hands no longer small and eager but strong and steady. Cenric stood at one of the chapel’s windows, his eyes closed, his face bathed in the soft, golden light of the sun that filtered through the stained glass. The sun’s rays highlighted his weathered wrinkles and the thinning patches of gray in his hair, but to Camdyn, he was still the man who had shaped so much of his life. There was something timeless about Cenric, something that seemed to transcend age and time itself. Camdyn felt a sense of calm settle over him, even as his cheeks were still streaked with the remnants of tears. The weight of the moment—of everything that was changing—pressed on him, but looking at Cenric, he found himself grounded, a stillness returning to his heart.

As he approached, Cenric opened his eyes, and without a word, he pulled Camdyn to his side, just as he had done when he was a child, holding him close. The gesture felt so familiar, so natural, that for a moment, Camdyn was a boy again, nestled beneath the shelter of Cenric’s presence. It was as if time had bent around them, and they had returned to the place where everything had begun.

“I’m praying,” Cenric murmured, his voice soft and steady. “I am talking to God. Do you know what I’m telling Them?”

Camdyn shook his head, his voice thick with emotion. “No.”

Cenric’s hand, though no longer as strong as it once was, squeezed Camdyn’s shoulder lightly. “Oh, I’m telling Them what a fine young man you’ve become,” he said, his voice filled with a quiet pride. “And that I’m thankful to Them for bringing you into my life and for all the joy you’ve given us here.”

Camdyn chuckled through his tears, a bitter-sweetness in his heart as he wiped his eyes. He thought of the countless times he’d gotten into trouble in his younger years—of the time he’d forgotten to close the livestock pens, of the many questions that had made the monks raise their eyebrows in confusion, and of the times he had caused a minor panic by running away, hoping for the excitement of being found. “All the irritation, more like,” he said, his voice cracking with laughter that was tinged with sadness.

Cenric’s smile softened, his eyes gleaming with affection. “It was a gift to have you, even for a little while,” he said quietly. His voice held a tenderness that made Camdyn’s heart ache.

Camdyn, feeling the weight of everything that had led him here, nestled deeper into Cenric’s side, feeling the familiar roughness of his robes against his cheek. “I thought I had time to wait, still. To take my vows. And now—someone else has chosen my path for me,” he said, his voice faltering. “I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave you.”

Cenric’s arm tightened around him, a warmth that reminded Camdyn of countless moments when they had stood side by side, working, laughing, living. “I certainly wished that you could have stayed by my side for the rest of my days,” Cenric said, his voice laced with quiet longing. “But come now, you could still write to us. I know we taught you how to use a quill, at least. Letters from you would be very welcome. Especially if they happened to coincide with the wine deliveries.” His voice lightened, a joke to ease the tension, and Camdyn couldn’t help but smile, a tear slipping down his cheek.

They shared a brief, quiet laugh, the sound a rare joy in the weight of the moment. Then they fell silent, both gazing out the window at the hills stretching far beyond the monastery walls. Camdyn felt the pull of the world outside, a world he was about to leave behind, and the knowledge that it wouldn’t take long to prepare to leave. All he owned were his robes, his knife, and his prayer beads. Everything else—everything he had once called his own—belonged to the monastery: the blankets, the bed, the desk...

The manuscript.

His heart twisted in his chest as he thought of it. All the hours spent working on it, all the careful words he had written, all the passion poured into the pages. It was going to be so beautiful when he finished it. He had dreamed of it. “Who’ll finish my manuscript?” Camdyn asked, his voice tight with emotion, the words almost too difficult to say. He blinked back the tears, but they came anyway, unbidden, stinging his eyes. He felt torn between the two possibilities: that they would simply replace him with another monk to finish the work, or that it would remain incomplete, left unfinished, a silent testament to his absence. In his heart, he selfishly hoped for the latter—that the monastery would feel the loss, that his absence would be noticed in the work left behind.

Cenric considered the question as Camdyn clung to him, holding him tightly, unwilling to let go. After a long silence, Cenric spoke, his voice thoughtful. “I think I’ll suggest to the abbot that we keep it as it is,” he said, his hand stroking Camdyn’s hair gently. “As an example of skillful work for the others, and something they should strive towards in their own efforts.”

And then, as Camdyn wrapped his arms around him and held him tight, sobbing into the rough cloth of his robes, Cenric whispered, “Oh, my boy. I do love you so.”

When they finally left the chapel, the rest of the monks had gathered out in the yard. They were whispering quietly amongst themselves, their voices low as they busied themselves with the task of bringing supplies to the group of men who, when they departed, would have Camdyn amongst their number. The monks took the time to give Camdyn a reassuring pat on the head or a gentle clap on the shoulder as he walked by, offering quiet words of farewell. It was a strange feeling to be the center of so many unspoken goodbyes. Gibson, Kenelm, and their men were further along, organizing the cart for the journey ahead.

“We’re leaving today?” Camdyn asked, his voice breaking the stillness in the air. It startled the men near him, and one of the young servants, a man about Camdyn’s age, dropped a crate in surprise. His face turned an alarming shade of red when he realized that Camdyn had caught him in the act of clumsiness. He quickly scrambled to pick up the crate and stuffed it hastily onto the cart, his hands trembling slightly.

Gibson looked at Camdyn with a note of regret in his voice. “I wish we could stay the night, Camdyn, but we had to leave as soon as we could. I’m so sorry. The wedding—“ His voice trailed off, unable to explain fully the weight of what had happened. The urgency was there, though, and Camdyn understood.

“What can I help with?” Camdyn asked eagerly. He gestured to the supplies, the horses, anything he could manage. The group of men exchanged curious looks, unsure of how to respond.

“No, Camdyn, it’s all right,” Kenelm said, his voice soft and reassuring. “Just rest in the cart. We’ve cleared a space for you.” And indeed, they had: a small area large enough for him to sit comfortably, lined with soft furs to make the journey more bearable.

Climbing into the cart, however, proved to be more difficult than Camdyn had anticipated. He lifted his robes a little to move his legs more freely, but even so, the task was awkward and uncomfortable. The young servant nearby let out an exasperated sigh, while another servant made a sound that quickly turned into a loud, hacking cough. Gibson noticed Camdyn’s struggle and immediately stepped forward to help. With a hand on his waist, Gibson gently lifted him, pushing him up into the cart with surprising strength. As he did, he spoke casually, as though the memory was fresh. “I used to carry you all the time. Do you remember that? I’d throw you up in the air and catch you, too. Used to drive Mother crazy, but you loved it. I suppose that was too long ago, though.”

“No,” Camdyn said softly, looking down at his eldest brother. “I remember that. I remember you.” Gibson smiled, a rare, fond smile that spoke of long-gone days.

As the men continued to pack the cart, Camdyn settled onto the furs and watched the flurry of activity around him. Kenelm and Gibson were mostly silent, their focus on directing their servants or speaking quietly to each other. The three men discussed the weather, squinting up at the sky with suspicion, almost daring the clouds to pour down rain. From the corner of his eye, Camdyn noticed the young servant—the one with the perpetually red face—was frequently stealing glances at him. Every time their eyes met, the young man quickly looked away, only to be nudged along by the other two servants. It made Camdyn feel self-conscious, knowing that he was the subject of their curiosity.

This, in turn, brought up a question that had been gnawing at him ever since the news of the marriage had first been mentioned. He cleared his throat before asking, “Gibson? Kenelm?”

Immediately, both of them stopped what they were doing and approached the cart. “What do you need, Camdyn?” they asked, their expressions softening.

“Who is he? My—my future husband?” Camdyn’s voice was quieter now, a little uncertain.

Gibson set the crate he had been holding down with a sigh. Kenelm spoke, his tone matter-of-fact. “The king has two cousins that he favors above all else, because they’re his finest warriors. Father arranged for you to marry one of them, the Beast.”

“The Beast?” Camdyn repeated, raising an eyebrow. The term was an unpleasant one, and he couldn’t help but feel unsettled by it.

Gibson nodded. He leaned against the cart casually, though there was a hint of concern in his voice. “They call him Everild the Beast. His name is synonymous with devastation, the battlefield a place where he leaves nothing but carnage in his wake. His war cries, loud and fierce, echo through the chaos, a terrifying sound that strikes fear into the hearts of his enemies.”

The way he spoke made it clear that this memory was one that had been seared into his mind, a memory that he couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he tried. There was a weight in his voice, a dark familiarity with the violence he described, as though he could still feel the heat of the battlefield and hear the screams of men in the chaos of war. His words hung in the air, heavy with the grimness of the past.

Camdyn’s shock and unease must have been evident on his face, for he felt his heart tighten in his chest at the thought of Everild, his future husband, being a part of that violent world. His stomach churned at the thought of what kind of man he was about to marry, and the image of Everild as a ruthless killer, surrounded by blood and death, wouldn’t leave his mind.

Kenelm, ever watchful and protective, noticed the way Camdyn’s face paled. Without hesitation, he shot a sharp pinch into Gibson’s side, his fingers digging into the man’s flesh. The movement was quick and deliberate, a sign of reprimand. At the same time, Kenelm shot a hard glare at Gibson, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of annoyance and concern.

“That was during the war, Gibson,” Kenelm said, his voice low but firm, carrying an unmistakable tone of authority. “Men are different in war.”

His words were meant to soften the impact of Gibson's account, to remind Camdyn—perhaps even Gibson himself—that the horrors of war were not necessarily a reflection of the man Everild had become. But the way the memory had been recounted, with such rawness and intensity, made it hard for Camdyn to shake the image of his future husband as a bloodthirsty warrior, forever bound by the violence of his past.

“I don’t think so,” Gibson muttered stubbornly.

Kenelm, however, was not to be deterred. “I don’t care what you think, because you’re wrong. We’ve been over this. A man’s not going to treat his spouse the same way he fights an enemy combatant, Gibson. You’re being ridiculous.”

But Gibson was insistent. “In battle, you see a man’s true nature.”

“I’m not going to argue with you right now,” Kenelm said with a sharp tone, his voice rising as if ready to continue the debate. Camdyn’s nerves were already on edge, and the last thing he wanted was for this journey to become even more tense than it already was. Besides, there was something else he needed to know.

He cut in before the argument could escalate further, his voice soft and almost pleading, “I mean to ask, will he like me, do you think? Will he—will he be kind to me?” The question had been on his mind since the marriage had been arranged, and now, it seemed like the only thing that mattered. The only thing he hoped for.

His brothers exchanged glances, the silence between them thickening.

Kenelm finally spoke, his voice softer now, tinged with regret. “I’m sorry, Camdyn. We don’t know him personally, just his reputation on the battlefield. But I don’t think you have to worry—“

He was interrupted by Gibson, who scoffed and spat on the grass. His voice was low but resolute. “If he isn’t, you must tell me. As soon as you can, any way that you can. Because I don’t care if he’s the king’s cousin or not, I’ll kill him myself, I swear it.”

The weight of Gibson’s words hung heavily in the air. No one seemed to know how to respond to this oath, and Camdyn certainly didn’t know what to say. He let the conversation fall into silence, his mind turning over his brothers' words. It seemed that the only positive things about his betrothed were the very qualities that had persuaded his father to agree to the marriage in the first place: his status and power through his connection to the king.

Camdyn dearly hoped that Everild would not be cruel to him. They didn’t have to be friends, but it would be nice if they could at least tolerate each other. He would do his best to please his husband, but the road to that would be one he would have to learn to walk carefully.

There were things Camdyn could do that might help. He had been taught to sew well enough to mend clothes. He could bake bread and catch and gut fish for dinner. He could tend a garden, should Everild have one. His voice was clear and pleasant to listen to, and if his husband wished, he could read aloud to entertain him. But as Camdyn thought more on it, he realized there would not be much interesting for him to say. After all, he had spent nearly all of his life at an isolated monastery, with little experience in the world beyond. He didn’t know dances besides the ones he had made up in the forest, and the only songs he knew were hymns.

He also wasn’t sure how attractive a figure he would make, even once out of his monk’s robes. Unlike his brothers, who were tall, strong, and a bit dashing in their armor, Camdyn was slight and delicate. He could only hope that his betrothed would not be too disappointed in him.

Kenelm dropped a sack onto the cart with a loud thud, startling Camdyn out of his thoughts. His brother winked at him playfully, rummaging through the sack before pulling out a fistful of almonds and dried cherries. He popped a few into his mouth before dropping the rest into Camdyn’s lap.

“Well, this is fine hospitality, isn’t it?” Kenelm teased with a grin. “All this food we’re being sent off with. Fresh baked bread, dried fish, fruits, rice, and herbs. Do you eat like this every day, Camdyn?”

Gibson joined in the teasing, his tone gentle but with an edge of mischief. “Got to keep it a secret, eh? Otherwise, everyone would be coming out here for the cookery.”

Near the chapel’s entrance stood the abbot and Cenric, side by side. Despite the height difference, the abbot was holding Cenric up, offering silent support against the heavy weight of grief that hung around the younger man like a dark cloud. The expression on Cenric’s face was one of pain and loss, a look Camdyn had seen before but never wanted to witness again.

Camdyn answered Kenelm’s question with a sad smile, his voice soft. “No, this is a special occasion.”

This, he realized, was his farewell.