All was quiet, save the sigh of the wind outside the monastery, lazily ruffling the ivy that crept up the thick stone walls. But the air inside the monastery was eerie stillness, as if each room, each darkened corridor, was holding its breath.

Lanterns lit the halls, providing Searly a sallow path as he casually walked the east wing, his mind a restless thing, his heart a troubled well of confliction. Since leaving Faery, Searly had felt a perplexing thrum underneath his skin, a gnawing sensation that left him feeling raw and agitated. Adjusting back to normalcy after his internment in Shadowland, a realm within Faery, proved to be more difficult than he had anticipated. There, he had been beaten and tortured, and he nearly succumbed to the seduction of evil. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to forgive himself. He tried to immerse himself in prayer and monastic activities, anything to ground him in the present. Only his mind ceased to rest, and his worriment further vexed him beyond reason. He had become anxious and ill-tempered. He hated that about himself. Searly had always been calm and levelheaded, a voice of reason in the face of despair and uncertainty. How could he lead his fellow monks if his leadership abilities took leave and left him floundering and toiling about, questioning his own stability and honor?

He had thought coming back to Mirova, his childhood home, would have eased his night terrors. He had told no one he suffered them. But Searly no longer wanted to sleep at night. Thus, he found himself walking the halls when everyone else was snug in their beds. And in so doing, his mind was never at rest.

He often thought of Zeph, the one responsible for killing Thaddeus, his brother monk—the one responsible for his and Elin’s interment in Shadowland—the one who shattered Elin’s world when he killed their parents—all because he was seeking revenge. Revenge, as it turns out, for lies Zeph had been told and had believed. A long story, but the short of it was Zeph had been taken from his family as a child, abused, and led to believe his family never cared for him or sought to save him. The truth was that his family believed Zeph had been murdered and fled Faery to save Elin, his sister, lest the same fate befall her.

It was during their interment that Searly had learned those parts of Zeph’s past and why he had turned out to be so diabolical, so unfeeling. And while a part of Searly felt compassion for what had happened to Zeph as a child, he also couldn’t excuse the murder of one’s own parents, for which Zeph was guilty. Or the cold-blooded murder of Thaddeus, who had been entirely innocent and simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Searly had also witnessed another side to Zeph—troubling glimpses of a soul fighting the evil that lived within. It was those glimpses that kept Searly awake at night, aside from the night terrors. He didn’t know why, because Searly loathed Zeph for what he had done…and yet…

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the thoughts that plagued his mind on a continuous loop. Reconciling the two sides of Zeph only served to vex his already frayed nerves. It wasn’t his place to figure Zeph out. He was gone, and hopefully he would stay gone. They hadn’t seen him since the day they all thought Elin had been killed. Well, she had been killed, but Lochlan brought her back with his ability, his gift, to bring back the dead, but that was a whole other story.

Searly’s place was here, serving, so he needed to recommit himself back to the holy order of business and get on with his life. He had people who needed him, relied on him. Like Arwyn, an elf, who had lived with Zeph inside Shadowland. This was a girl who needed care. Her family had been slaughtered by Unseelie, and surprisingly enough, Zeph had saved her from that slaughter and hid her, keeping her safe inside his keep. For years.

When he, Elin, and Lochlan left Faery, they’d convinced Arwyn to follow. He had told her he could offer her comfort, a place to mend her brokenness, a place to regain a sense of equilibrium. But he couldn’t even offer himself these things. A fool he’d been to think he could offer them to another.

The frustration of it all rose up, and Searly clenched his fists and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from swearing. He stopped his pace and leaned against the stone wall, the coldness of it seeping past his robes and into his skin. He breathed out, his breath uneven and shallow, so he tried for another. In time, he could do this again. He could breathe without feeling like he was losing a piece of himself with every exhalation.

“One day,” he murmured, and pushed himself off the wall.

One, two, three, four…

He had resorted to counting his steps. Fantastic. He had once considered himself a prince of wise men. Now he was babbling like a loon and counting his steps like a sophomoric imbecile.

“Fantastic!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls, his fists clenching again at his sides.

He paused mid-stride and closed his eyes, trying to regain his composure. He needed to get a handle on himself before his inner turmoil affected more than just his own well-being. He had others to consider, others who depended on him to be solid and sure. Resilient in all things.

A door closed somewhere in the distance with a heavy bang and Searly startled, his eyes opening in fright. Dark dungeon. Chained and bound, the sound of a whip tearing his bare skin. Panic blackened the edges of his sight. He bent over at the waist, placed his hands on his knees, and breathed through the memories, his wooden cross dangling in front of him. He gripped it with one hand and repeated a prayer he had said many times.

“Lord, stay with me and feed me Your strength.”

His heart was a drum, pounding with urgency to flee, to run. He gripped the cross tighter. “Lord, stay with me and feed me Your strength.”

He repeated the prayer over a dozen times, and after, he stood, doing his best to ignore the hammering inside his chest. If the other monks could see him now, what would they think?

He scrubbed his hands over his tired face and laughed sardonically. “They’d think me mad.”

Maybe he was mad. Maybe his sanity had finally snapped. Could anyone blame him?

“No,” he murmured to himself. “I haven’t the luxury of going mad.” He had responsibilities and that was that. He pushed himself forward, no destination in mind; he just needed to keep moving. Maybe he would tire and fall into a deep, restful sleep.

If only.

He passed by the communal room where his brothers often gathered to converse. He considered perhaps a fire to warm his soul would help ease his troubles, so he turned back, and only then did he catch something out of the corner of his eye.

The silver disk of the moon hung low, peeking past the corner window, casting a watery haze across the sparsely decorated room. Arwyn sat stiffly on a chair, her spine a straight line, her shoulders square, staring off absently. Her lilac hair fell down her back in thick spirals and her pixie face glowed from the moonlight. She appeared neither young nor old; rather, Searly thought of her as a living relic, preserved for all of time, like the saints he often prayed to for guidance, for she had been a saint to him not so long ago.

He shouldered the doorway, his ruminations carrying him back to when he’d first met her. She had been shy at first, hovering just outside the room where Searly sat vigil at Elin’s bedside, back when Elin had tried to Fade, when she had willed herself to die. Compassion suffused Arwyn’s face, and she had taken one tentative step towards them, catching Zeph’s eye briefly, as if to say I’m coming in whether you like it or not.

Searly’s mouth twitched at the memory.

He had watched Zeph with a sharp eye, waiting to see what, if anything, he would do. Zeph had only stared at her as she crossed the threshold. When she made her way to the foot of Elin’s bed, Searly had held his breath. He knew nothing of her and was prepared to protect Elin against all manner of things. Even from a delicate woman with pointed ears. But she had simply closed her eyes and whispered a prayer for Elin. The lilt of her voice and the kindness in her eyes was enough for Searly to release his breath. When he realized there was nothing to fear from her, he was grateful to her in that moment. Grateful, because he had thought he was alone in his hell—and then she showed up—like an angel sent from God.

It had been an awful time, and Arwyn had helped Elin and him through it.

When he heard a tiny whimper, he pushed off the doorway and walked tentatively toward her. She hadn’t been the same since leaving Faery. She wasn’t the same elf girl he’d grown to care for. She was removed, distant. Sad.

As was he, he’d come to realize.

Softly, he asked, “Arwyn, are you all right, luv?”

When she didn’t answer or acknowledge his presence, he frowned. “Arwyn?” he said, moving closer. “Did you hear me?”

No movement. No response.

He knelt beside her and touched her hand. “Arwyn?”

She blinked when she felt his touch and recoiled slightly, though her eyes were focused on nothing.

Searly placed his hand on her forehead. “Are you feeling well?”

She turned her eyes to him then, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I can’t feel him.”

“What do you mean? Can’t feel who?”

“Zeph,” she said, turning to face the window. “I can’t feel him.” She lifted her hand and placed her palm over her heart. “In here.” Her chin quivered. “I can’t f-feel him.”

“What are you saying?”

“He was so lost,” she whimpered.

Searly sat back on his haunches, not knowing how to respond. Eight days. It had only been eight days since leaving Shadowland behind and the hell they had gone through. If he felt himself unraveling at the seams after only spending a short amount of time there, he could only imagine how Arwyn must be coping, considering she had spent years there.

He sighed an exasperated breath, realizing how selfish he’d been, wrapped up in his own inner struggles. He had promised Arwyn he would look after her, care for her, and he hadn’t. Clearly, her sanity was slipping.

He was about to reach for her hand…convince her rest was in order, when a sharp and sudden pain hit him hard in the chest. It felt as though he’d been pierced with a blade.

Confusion lit his face as he stared up at Arwyn.

She leaned forward and pressed her hand to his head. “I need you to see.”

Visions of Zeph standing along a jagged cliff swam in Searly’s head. Despair and agony overwhelmed him. He watched as Zeph staggered in his bereavement, like a drunkard, succumbing to vomiting, ripping the clothes off his back while drowning in sorrow and desolation.

Searly felt it like it was his own pain. He fell onto his backside and fought the nausea that overtook him.

“Stop,” Searly muttered. “Stop. Please.”

Searly clutched his head, pulling his hair, feeling open wounds along his skin where Zeph had exposed himself to the elements for far too long. He felt blisters that oozed, felt rocks dig and cut into his skin. He felt the rot that consumed him, and he felt his heart breaking—all in the span of a minute.

Searly rolled over and vomited on the floor. “Make it stop,” he begged. “I can’t—I can’t take anymore.”

In an instant, the pain, the heartbreak, and the nausea faded, though the dullest of sensations still lingered. Weak and brittle, Searly lifted his head.

“Why?” he said, his voice sounding thick and desperate. “Why would you do that to me?”

“I’m sorry,” Arwyn said, moving off the chair to cup Searly’s hand, her pixie face tracked with tears. “But I needed you to know.”

“Why?”

“I had a vision. Never has it happened to me before, but I—”

In the distance, another door opened and closed, followed by pounding of footsteps on the stone floor. Two sets. One set heavier than the other. Voices carried and echoed down the corridor.

“Searly!” Lochlan shouted.

Searly did not answer. His eyes stayed on Arwyn.

Arwyn looked toward the sounds coming down the corridor and then her gaze slid back to Searly’s and held on, as though she were begging him to hear, feel, see.

“Searly!” Lochlan shouted again. “Elin said something was wrong. She said we had to come here! Searly, where are you?”

Another wave of pain came over him. This time it was Arwyn’s. It started out small—like a tiny pinprick at the apex of his heart. Then it became more than a pinprick. It grew into something sharper, something wider, until it consumed the whole of his heart. His breaths drew shorter, more labored. He jerked away from Arwyn, needing to stand…move…catch his breath. Anything to make this…this…ache go away.

Then Lochlan’s voice was at his back, directly behind him, calling his name. Searly couldn’t answer. He could barely breathe, for he felt like he’d lost something. Something precious.

Searly surveyed the room. Everything appeared to be in its place. He spun to the left, and to the right. Something was missing. He could feel it.

“Searly,” Lochlan cautiously said.

“Do you—do you see anything missing, milord? I feel like I’ve lost something.”

A crease formed between Lochlan’s brows. “What?”

Searly leg’s wobbled beneath him and Lochlan was at his side, holding him steady.

A flash of silver bedimmed past him and Elin was there, pulling Arwyn into a hug. Searly could only watch them, because, presently, he couldn’t do anything else.

The sound of wood shattering made everyone in the room bristle.

“She’s here,” Arwyn said faintly.

There was a cacophony of shouts and heavy footsteps as Searly’s fellow monks came out of their cells at the sound of invasion.

“Ease. I am not here to hurt anyone,” a feminine voice declared, a soft echo that drifted to Searly’s ears, as though it was meant to soothe him.

The footsteps persisted, and after a moment, a woman carrying a limp body stood in the doorway, flanked by monks on all sides of her, wide-eyed and frightened, yet they each held a weapon in hand, ready to defend if need be.

When Searly recognized the person in her arms, it wasn’t the woman the monks feared, Searly realized. It was whom she carried that drew their harried responses. But Searly’s response was different from theirs. He instantly felt—loss.

“It’s you,” Elin said. She moved toward Lochlan and clutched his arm, confusion imprinted on her face. “From—from the bath—after my parents died. Francesca.”

“Yes,” the woman said. There was a flicker of light behind Francesca’s eyes before she smiled sadly. She looked down at the lifeless body in her arms. “I need to put him down.”

Elin rushed to a long, slender table. “Here,” Elin said. “Put him down here.”

Searly’s breath caught when Francesca raised her head and looked directly at him. She was a woman, yes, but also a thing of otherworldly beauty, not of flesh and blood, clothed in gold gossamer with long, flowing hair as fine as gold threads and eyes that sparkled like crystals. It almost hurt to look upon her, but look upon her he did. Then, suddenly, she appeared wan and fatigued, ordinary, as she had when she first entered the room.

Searly looked around at his friends and wondered if anyone else had seen the seraphic beauty he had, but it appeared not.

The woman, Francesca, carefully placed Zeph on the wooden surface. The moment she stepped away, Elin was there, picking up Zeph’s hand, tracing the lines on his skin with a careful, delicate touch.

“Elin,” said Lochlan.

“He’s my brother.”

“He killed your parents.”

Elin’s eyebrows knitted tightly together, as if she were holding back tears and memories. “He also saved Arwyn. And healed Searly. I can hate him and love him at the same time. Don’t tell me how to feel, Lochlan. I don’t know what I feel, but don’t tell me what I mustn’t feel—what I shouldn’t feel. Don’t tell me—”

“I’m sorry,” Lochlan said, sounding contrite. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Elin and Lochlan’s gazes met and locked, the moment pulling into an uncomfortable stalemate, until Elin blinked and nodded ever so subtly. She let her eyes fall back to Zeph, who lay lifeless before them. She brushed the hair back from his face with a gentle hand. “Where did you find him?”

“On a mountain,” Francesca said. “He poisoned himself, Elin.”

Elin’s eyes snapped to Francesca’s. “Why?”

“How do you know this?” Lochlan asked. “Who are you?”

“It does not matter how I know. It only matters that I do know.”

“It matters to me,” Lochlan said, stepping closer to her.

“Lochlan,” Arwyn said.

Holding his hand up to Arwyn, he asked Francesca, “Why did you bring him here?”

Francesca stood up straight and walked to where Lochlan stood, meeting him in the eye. “I need you to bring him back.”

Lochlan let out a huff of a laugh. “Bring him back? From the dead?”

“That is your power, is it not?”

He narrowed his eyes at the woman who didn’t cower under his glare. “My power was to bring Elin back. Not Zeph.”

“You have the Kiss of Life. It was bestowed on you for a reason. And you do not get to decide what that reason is.”

Lochlan stepped closer. They were nearly nose to nose. “And you do?”

“Stop,” said Arwyn. “Lochlan, please…” She moved to stand before him, her skirts rustling in her haste. “I beg you…if you can bring him back, and I know you can, please, you must. You have to.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

“Don’t do it for me,” she countered. “Do it for Elin.”

Lochlan bristled at that. “I’d do anything for Elin, but asking me to bring back—”

“Is asking too much?” Arwyn bit out. “Then don’t say you would do anything when clearly that is not the case.”

“Both of you stop,” said Elin.

“Acushla,” Lochlan said, sidestepping the women and briskly walking toward her. “Do you want me to bring him back—the person responsible for your mother and father’s deaths? Are you asking me to do that?”

Elin lifted her chin in a regal gesture. “Yes. I-I believe you are supposed to. I don’t know why. I just feel like you’re supposed to save him. My mother…” Elin swallowed and let her eyes fall to her brother. “She told me to save him.” Her eyes drifted back to Lochlan, who now stood before her, holding her hands like they were precious things. “I have to believe there’s a reason he’s supposed to live.”

“Elin, I don’t know if I can—”

“Do it.” Searly’s voice sounded unusual and Lochlan instantly went still. “Bring Zeph back, milord.” Searly glanced at Arwyn, still feeling all the things she had made him feel: the loss, the pain, the heart-bruising ache that continued to throb. He watched a tear slip down Arwyn’s cheek. Then he looked at Zeph. It felt like someone had punched him in the gut to see him lying there. Something feral rose up within him, and he could no longer separate his feelings from Arwyn’s, and that was the damnable thing of it. Gritting his teeth, he looked Lochlan dead in the eye. “Bring him back. And do it now. Do it now, milord, or so help me God, I will—”

“All right,” Lochlan said, the tip of his mouth curling upward. Everyone knew Searly could not physically take on Lochlan, but at least Lochlan was polite enough not to contradict him. “I’ll do it.” His eyes roamed to Francesca. “What do I need to do?”

Arwyn breathed a sigh, relief washing over her delicate features. She mouthed…thank you… and it was then Searly understood. It was at Searly’s behest that Lochlan conceded. Arwyn had known it would come to that. Still, Searly felt violated.

“Same as you did before with Elin. You need to kiss him.”

Disgust lit Lochlan’s face. “There’s not another way?”

“I would not have brought him here if there was. Truthfully, you are the only one who has this gift. Now please, hurry. There simply is no more time. It has to be now.”

The room went unnaturally still, everyone eyeing Lochlan with expectancy. In the quiet of the room, a clicking sound could be heard, as if Lochlan had snapped his teeth together, a grim expression on his face.

He shifted his position away from Elin to stare down into the face of Lochlan’s greatest enemy. “Ye gods,” he muttered. “I feel ill.”

Elin gingerly placed her hand on Lochlan’s back in an attempt to soothe him. “Please, Lochlan. Please hurry.”

His lip curled like he’d tasted something bitter. “Bloody hell.”

Slowly, Lochlan bent at the waist, hovered over Zeph, and whispered something in his ear. Then, quickly, he placed his lips over Zeph’s and gave him the Kiss of Life.