The sun had barely cleared the rim of the sea when the first stirrings broke the convent quiet.
Aldous was the first up, as always, his voice a growl before the day had even begun.
"Straw's too soft to be holy," he muttered, kicking at his bedroll. "No wonder monks never get any work done."
From the next tent came a muffled snort that turned into a giggle. Rufus crawled out on all fours, hair in wild tufts, clutching his leather pouch like treasure. He squinted at the light, then blinked toward the fire where a loaf of bread was cooling on a flat stone.
Adam, sitting cross-legged beside it, didn't even see the theft happen. One second he was rubbing sleep from his eyes; the next, Rufus was halfway across the cloister with a mouthful of breakfast.
"Pup!" Adam barked, lunging to his feet. "You're too small to be this quick!"
Rufus laughed, crumbs flying, and ducked behind one of the cloister pillars.
"You were too slow!"
"Too slow?" Adam stalked after him, pretending outrage. "You calling me old, is that it?"
Rufus squealed as Adam caught him around the waist and hoisted him clean off the ground.
"Say sorry before I eat you instead."
"Sorry! Sorry!" Rufus gasped, laughing so hard the pouch nearly fell. Adam set him down and ruffled his hair until it stood worse than before.
Across the fire, Emma was already awake, sleeves rolled up, stirring the morning's thin stew. The smell of onions and saltfish drifted through the cloister garden.
"Good to see you teaching him manners," she said without looking up.
Adam pointed at Rufus, who was trying to hide behind her skirt.
"Manners? He's a thief."
"Then he's learning from the best."
Before Adam could reply, the flap of the last tent shifted, and Victor stumbled out into the light. His dark hair was a tangle, his bandage still perfectly in place. He squinted toward the fire like a man returning from war—which, given last sparring accident, wasn't far from the truth.
"Morning," he said, stretching.
Emma looked up at him with a mixture of fondness and warning.
"Careful. Move too fast and I'll have to wrap the other side."
He grinned, lopsided.
"And deprive you of your patient? Never."
She shook her head, smiling despite herself, and ladled stew into a tin bowl.
"Sit down before you fall down, hero."
Édric appeared next, silent as the sea wind, adjusting his sword belt. His gaze swept over them—the boy still giggling, Adam pretending he wasn't soft, Victor shamelessly milking his wound, Emma rolling her eyes but watching Victor all the same—and the faintest crease touched the corner of his mouth.
Aldous caught it and snorted.
"You smiling, old man?"
"Must be the sun in my eyes," Édric said.
Adam grinned at that, clapping Rufus on the shoulder.
"See that, pup? Even the hard ones crack eventually."
Rufus nodded solemnly, then whispered,
"Does that mean he's happy?"
Adam looked toward Édric again, the man's face calm in the morning light, then back to Rufus.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "It does."
---
Victor sat on the grass, back against a pillar, his bandaged head tilted toward the light like a lazy cat. Emma knelt beside him with a roll of clean linen, lips pressed in that thin, concentrated line that meant she was trying not to say something sarcastic.
He sighed dramatically.
"I might swoon again."
"You'll swoon if you don't shut up," she said, pulling the old bandage loose.
He winced, half for show.
"You have no compassion for the wounded."
"You're not wounded," Emma said, holding up the stained strip with a sniff. "You're inconvenient."
"She's cruel, Edric, tell her she's cruel."
Édric sat nearby on a low stone, skinning a rabbit. Without even glancing up, he said,
"She's right."
Victor groaned.
"Not you too."
Rufus, sitting cross-legged by the fire pit, giggled into his cup.
"You sound like old people."
"Old?" Victor said, turning his one good eye toward the boy. "I'm in my prime."
Rufus tilted his head.
"What's a prime?"
Emma smiled faintly.
"Something men talk about when they want to sound important."
Adam's voice came from behind them.
"Or when they want sympathy."
He strode into the courtyard carrying an armful of firewood, boots thudding on the stone.
"You're milking that cut like a prize cow, Vic."
Victor raised a hand, tragic.
"Head wounds are delicate, you brute."
Adam dropped the wood beside the fire.
"So's your ego."
Édric huffed quietly, the ghost of a laugh.
"He's not wrong."
Emma shook her head, trying to keep a straight face as she cleaned the wound with a damp cloth. Victor flinched but didn't move away.
"Still hurts?" she asked softly.
"Only when I breathe."
"That's convenient," she said dryly.
When she leaned closer, the faint smell of salt and herbs clung to her hair. Victor's grin softened; he caught her wrist, thumb brushing the pulse beneath her skin.
"If you keep fussing like this, I'll start getting hurt more often."
Her eyes flicked up, sharp.
"Try it and I'll finish what Édric started."
He kissed her fingers anyway, quick but deliberate.
"Worth it."
Her cheeks flushed pink.
"You're insufferable."
"Admit it," he murmured, leaning back with a smirk. "You'd miss me if I stopped talking."
"I'd get some peace."
Adam laughed so loud it startled the pigeons off the roof.
"Look at that—romance and head trauma. Truly inspiring."
Victor raised his voice without looking at him.
"Jealous?"
Adam grinned, tossing a stick onto the fire.
"Of you? Not while I still have both eyes."
Even Rufus snorted at that, clutching his cup with both hands.
"That's funny."
Victor feigned outrage.
"You're all heartless."
"Heartless?" Emma said, retying the clean bandage firmly enough to make him hiss. "Hold still, or I'll wrap it over your mouth."
"Violence," he said, muffled, "I live with violence. Violent brothers, violent woman."
"You live because of violence," Édric muttered. "And luck."
That made Adam chuckle.
"More luck than sense, if you ask me."
Victor shrugged one shoulder, his grin crooked.
"Then it's working."
Emma sat back at last, wiping her hands.
"Done. Don't touch it."
"Yes, ma'am," Victor said sweetly, immediately reaching up to adjust it.
She smacked his hand.
Adam barked another laugh.
"I'm telling you, Edric—these two are worse than a married couple."
Édric didn't look up from his knife.
"They're quieter than one."
That earned him a glare from Emma and a triumphant look from Victor.
"Ha!" Victor said. "He's on my side."
"I'm on the side of peace and silence," Édric said dryly.
For a moment, no one spoke. Just the sea wind through the arches, the crackle of the small fire, the smell of salt and rosemary.
Then Rufus tugged at Édric's sleeve.
"He's better now, right?"
Édric's knife paused. He looked down at the boy and nodded once.
"He'll live."
Rufus grinned.
"Good. He's funny."
That made Emma laugh—soft, unguarded—and Victor smiled at the sound. Adam threw a stick at him.
"Careful. You'll get used to her laughing."
"I already am," Victor said simply. "And I won't ever get bored of it."
The warmth in his tone was enough to make Emma glance down, pretending to fuss with her belt, and enough to make Édric's hands still over the whetstone.
---
The morning passed slow and bright, the kind of light that made everything look a little too clean.
After breakfast, Aldous divided the work like a commander dividing spoils.
"Earn your keep," he grunted. "We're guests, not beggars."
Bran went with him toward the main gate, hammer and nails clinking in a leather pouch. The heavy doors had sagged on their hinges; by the sound of their grumbling, the repairs would take most of the morning.
Emma and Victor were sent to the herb terraces beyond the walls, baskets swinging between them. The sisters who guided them moved with quiet precision, habits brushing against rosemary and thyme. Emma followed their lead easily, sleeves rolled, smile disarming. Victor trailed close, his bandaged head earning him soft, worried looks from the nuns — which he did nothing to discourage.
Édric stayed near the camp, sitting on a low stone bench under the cloister's shade, polishing blades with the same patience he used to tame tempers. His hands were steady; his eyes, less so. Every so often he glanced toward the distant line of the sea.
That left Adam and Rufus with the simplest task: hauling firewood to the laundry courtyard.
The air there was thick with steam and soap. Linen hung in long, pale rows, snapping faintly in the breeze. A few nuns worked at the basins, sleeves wet to the elbow, their movements a rhythm of labor and murmured prayers.
Adam hoisted a bundle of logs onto his shoulder, the muscles in his forearms flexing against the weight. Rufus struggled beside him, dragging two smaller pieces that left trails in the dust.
"Don't you drop those, pup," Adam called over his shoulder.
"I'm not," Rufus huffed, though his arms shook.
Adam grinned, slowing just enough to let the boy catch up.
"You've got to walk like you mean it. Wood listens to confidence."
"That's not true."
"Sure it is. Everything listens to confidence — even people."
That earned him a giggle from one of the novices wringing out linens nearby. Her veil shadowed her face, but Adam caught the flicker of amusement before she ducked her head, pretending to study the wash basin.
He gave her a friendly nod, tone easy, unthreatening.
"Wouldn't want to steal your good graces, Sister."
"Then don't," one of the older nuns said sharply, though her mouth twitched as if she were fighting a smile.
Adam laughed softly.
"I wouldn't dare. Not with so many witnesses."
That brought a few more quiet smiles, even a laugh quickly stifled in a sleeve. The air around the laundry yard loosened. The wary looks didn't vanish, but the tension melted a little, replaced by curiosity — the kind the sisters tried to hide behind lowered eyes and murmured questions.
Rufus, oblivious to the undercurrents, dumped his wood beside the stack and brushed his hands on his trousers.
"Can we help more?"
A younger sister — barely older than Emma — smiled at him.
"That's very kind, but I think we have it."
Adam crouched beside the boy, lowering his voice.
"See that? Polite, gentle, and efficient. That's how you earn trust."
"By carrying wood?"
"By being useful and kind. That's all most people need."
Rufus thought about that, frowning with the effort.
"You think they like us now?"
Adam looked up, taking in the older nuns whispering near the far basin, the sidelong glances at the swords stacked neatly by the wall, the faint curiosity in the novices' faces.
"Not yet," he said quietly. "But they will. They just don't know us."
The scent of lavender and wet linen filled the courtyard, mingling with the faint tang of sea salt. Sunlight cut through the arches, warming the damp stone.
Adam wiped his hands on his shirt and leaned back on his heels, watching the sisters move about their work. Some were still wary, others simply tired. All of them had built their lives inside these walls, far from the chaos outside — and now here he was, a man with a scar, a sword, and laughter too loud for cloisters.
He couldn't blame them for looking twice.
Men like him didn't belong here.
At least, not the kind who carried both scars and warmth in equal measure.
But as Rufus tugged at his sleeve, holding out a tiny splinter like a battle wound, Adam smiled anyway — gentle, grounding.
He carried another bundle of firewood across the flagstones, boots soft against damp stone. Rufus trudged behind him, arms full, leaving a trail of twigs and sawdust.
"You're dropping half the forest, pup," Adam said, glancing back.
"I'm not!" Rufus puffed. "It's slippery!"
"Blame the soap, then," Adam chuckled. "Sisters wash everything here but sin."
That earned him a disapproving cough from somewhere behind a sheet. He grinned faintly, biting back another joke. He'd already learned where the line was drawn.
He shifted the weight of the logs against his shoulder, ducking beneath a line of hanging linens that brushed against his hair, smelling of lavender and sun.
Then he heard it.
A voice — soft, low, half-laughing at something another sister said.
It cut through the quiet like a bell under water. Not loud. Just familiar.
Adam froze mid-step, every muscle in his body going still.
That voice.
Ten years gone, and it hadn't changed.
The log slid a little against his grip. He blinked, the sunlight too bright all of a sudden, and then he was moving again, slow, cautious, like approaching something fragile that might vanish if he breathed too hard.
He stopped just before the next row of linens. The white fabric rippled in the sea wind, translucent where the light hit. Through it, he saw her.
Livia.
Head bent over a basin, veil bright against her shoulders, sleeves rolled high. Her hands were red from the cold water. She moved with that same quiet grace she'd had at seventeen — the one that had undone him even when she was scolding him for tracking soot into her father's yard.
She looked older now. Thinner. The curve of her cheek sharper, the posture straighter, but it was her.
Unmistakably her.
The years collapsed in an instant.
He forgot the smell of soap, the weight of the logs, the sound of the sea — everything except the memory of that laugh, that tilt of her head.
And then she looked up.
Just once.
Through the shifting fabric, her eyes met his.
For a heartbeat, the world stopped moving.
Recognition flared in both faces — shock, disbelief, something like ache.
Her breath caught visibly. Her lips parted like she might speak, then pressed together again.
She turned back to her work, head bowed, hands dipping back into the water as if the moment had never happened.
The sheet between them fluttered, breaking the line of sight.
Adam's chest felt tight. His pulse hammered under his skin. He swallowed her name once, twice, but it wouldn't come out. It burned the back of his throat.
"Adam?"
Rufus tugged his sleeve. The boy's small hand anchored him back to the earth.
"What?"
"You dropped one."
Adam blinked. A log lay at his feet, forgotten.
"Right. Sorry, pup."
He crouched, picked it up, almost dropped it again — his hands were shaking. He flexed them, trying to steady his breath.
Rufus tilted his head.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," Adam said, forcing a smile. "Just— splinters."
The lie hung awkwardly in the air.
He looked back once more, through the fluttering linen, but she was gone.
Only the breeze moved — stirring the sheets, carrying the faint scent of soap and salt, the echo of a laugh that still hadn't left his head.
Ten years, he thought. Ten years and it still hits like this.
He straightened, hefted the wood again, and followed Rufus toward the fire pit — not looking back, because he knew if he did, he might not stop.
---
The fire cracked soft and steady, the sea wind carrying its smoke up toward the open arches. Evening had settled over the cloister, warm and blue-gold, the kind that made everything feel calm — or like it was pretending to be.
Adam sat on a low stool, rolling a smooth pebble between his fingers. The laughter of the others drifted around him: Victor trying to balance Rufus's shell on his bandaged head, Emma pretending not to help, Édric muttering that they'd all gone mad.
He should've laughed with them. Normally, he would have. But his chest still felt too tight, like the air hadn't come back right since that moment behind the laundry lines.
Livia.
Here.
After ten years.
"Hey," Victor said suddenly, dropping onto the stool beside him. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Adam blinked, forced a crooked grin.
"Maybe I have."
Victor leaned closer, eyebrow raised. "And did it say anything, this ghost of yours?"
"Didn't have to."
Emma looked up from the pot she was stirring.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing," Adam said, too quickly. "Just thinking."
She snorted.
"You? Thinking? Saints preserve us."
Rufus giggled from his spot near the fire.
"He does think! He just does stuff before he thinks!"
Adam reached over and ruffled his hair.
"You're not wrong, pup."
Rufus held something out in his small, calloused palm — a new seashell, chipped on one side but polished smooth.
"Want it? It's lucky."
Adam stared at it for a moment before taking it carefully.
"Thanks, kid. But I think I already used up my luck."
Rufus frowned.
"Then you can borrow mine."
That one hit harder than it should've. Adam smiled — faintly, the kind that didn't quite reach the eyes — and pocketed the shell.
Victor was still watching him, head tilted, one eye sharp beneath the uneven fringe of black hair.
"All right, what gives?"
"What?"
"You've barely said two words since lunch. That's practically blasphemy coming from you."
"Just tired."
Victor elbowed him lightly.
"You? Tired? You'd talk through your own funeral."
That got a small laugh, rough but real.
"If I did, I'd make sure to heckle whoever's giving the speech."
"There he is," Victor said, grinning. "Was starting to think we'd lost you to piety."
Adam smirked, leaning back on his hands.
"Don't insult the Sisters like that. They've suffered enough."
Édric huffed in amusement from where he was sharpening a blade.
"Not wrong."
The banter carried on — light, easy, the usual hum of found family — but Adam's mind wasn't in it. The laughter washed around him, words blurring into sound.
He could still see her through the white linen.
The way she hadn't gasped, hadn't even flinched.
The calm in her face.
She knew I was here first, he realized slowly.
She didn't want me to know.
That thought sank low, heavy.
He looked toward the darkened arches, where the wind still stirred the smell of soap and salt. Maybe she was out there now, praying. Maybe she was pretending, just like him, that nothing had cracked open inside her chest.
A log popped in the fire, spraying sparks.
Victor nudged him again.
"Don't go brooding on me, brother. That's Edric's job."
Adam blinked, dragged his gaze back to the firelight.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Guess it is."
Victor gave him a long look, quiet and knowing. Then, with a grin,
"Whatever you're thinking, stop. It's scaring me."
That earned a low chuckle — genuine this time, though it faded quick.
"Don't worry, kid," Adam said, voice turning lighter, back into the version everyone knew. "I'm too handsome to be haunted."
"Liar," Emma said.
Rufus snorted.
"You do look haunted."
Adam laughed then, full and bright, but it came out wrong in his own ears — a sound made to hide something deeper.
He let them tease him, tossed jokes back easily, grinning at every jab.
But when he looked down later, into the glow of the fire, his hand was still shaking around that little seashell.
---
Night came quietly to the cloister.
The fire burned low, its glow turning the courtyard gold and shadow in turns. The troupe had drawn close without meaning to, a small knot of warmth in the chill air. Rufus had fallen asleep first, head tipped against Adam's arm, the boy's breath deep and even. Adam shifted just enough to keep him steady.
Across the fire, Victor was laughing softly — that private kind of laugh meant for Emma alone. She leaned close, hair glinting in the firelight, and tapped his bandaged head.
"You milk that wound one more time and I swear—"
He grinned.
"What, you'll kiss it better again?"
Her elbow found his ribs. He laughed louder, and she gave up pretending to be annoyed.
Aldous mended a strap in silence, his face unreadable in the flicker of the flames. Édric sat apart but not far, knife laid idle on his knee, eyes sweeping over them all — the sleeping boy, the two lovers. He didn't speak, didn't need to.
There was something almost peaceful in his stillness, something fatherly in the way his gaze lingered on Victor.
The night hummed with small sounds: the sea breaking on rock below, the faint metallic ring of Aldous's needle, the whisper of linen drying overhead.
After a while, Adam eased Rufus down, tucking his cloak around him. "Back in a bit," he murmured.
Édric looked up.
"Where?"
"Stretching my legs."
"Don't get lost in holy ground," Aldous muttered, not looking up from his work.
Adam gave a half-smile.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
He rose and walked beneath the arches, boots scuffing lightly against the stone. The air smelled of rosemary and salt; the wind off the cliffs carried the low chant of Compline from the chapel.
Each step seemed too loud. Every echo came back twice. The fire's warmth faded behind him, replaced by the cold hush of the cloister.
And then — there she was.
Near the far wall, a lamp in her hand, walking with another sister. The light she carried swung gently, gold spilling across the stone. Her veil shifted with the wind; her shadow stretched long.
Livia.
He stopped dead, heart thudding in his throat.
Ten years, and she still moved like that — quiet, sure, like she belonged to the calm itself. He'd found that peace beautiful once. Now it hurt to look at.
She didn't see him. Or maybe she did and chose not to. Her gaze stayed on the path ahead, her lamp steady. The other nun murmured something; Livia nodded, voice low and even, impossible to hear.
He stepped back, behind a column. The stone was cool against his shoulder. His breath came too fast, and he held it, watching the lamplight slide over the walls as she passed.
Say something.
His heart pounded it like a drum.
You're right here. Just—say her name.
But his voice stayed caught somewhere between his chest and his throat, locked behind too many memories — a barn, a shout, her father's voice, the way she'd been pulled from his arms.
She reached the end of the path and turned. For a heartbeat, the light brushed her face. He saw the curve of her mouth, calm, resigned. Not angry.
Not cold. Just... gone.
Then she was walking again, the lamp bobbing faintly, her steps measured until the darkness took her.
The sound of her retreating footsteps was soft, final.
Adam leaned his head back against the stone and let out a slow, broken breath. The night pressed close, thick and heavy. His hands curled into fists.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
The words barely made a sound. They weren't meant for her ears anyway.
He felt the sting in his eyes before he realized it. Not grief exactly — something smaller, sharper. Regret worn thin with time.
He swiped at his face roughly, ashamed of it, of how easily ten years could crack him open.
"Get a hold of yourself," he muttered, voice hoarse. "You already lost her once."
The wind carried the last echoes of the chanting, faint as prayer. He pushed off the column, turned back toward the fire's dying glow.
---
The courtyard had gone quiet by the time Adam came back.
Only the waves below and the wind through the arches kept the world from holding its breath.
Most of the fire had died to embers — a low red glow tracing the shape of the camp.
Édric sat where he always did when on watch, back to a wall, sword within reach, eyes half-shadowed. He didn't look up right away, just flicked his gaze sideways when Adam's boots scuffed the flagstones.
"You're restless," he said simply.
Adam huffed a dry laugh, dropping onto the nearest crate.
"Can't sleep."
"You think too much for a man who plays the fool so well."
Adam smirked faintly.
"Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my charm."
Édric's mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close enough. The firelight caught in the lines around his eyes.
"Charm's a fragile thing to trade for honesty."
Adam leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. The fire painted his knuckles red.
"What can I say? I'm a man of hidden depth."
"Depth or trouble?"
"Both," Adam said, voice quiet.
That earned the faintest grunt of approval. For a while neither spoke. Sparks hissed in the coals, the night humming with the sound of the sea below.
Then Édric said,
"You've got ghosts in your eyes tonight."
Adam didn't answer right away. He stared at the embers until they blurred, the glow pulsing like a slow heartbeat.
When he finally spoke, his voice came low.
"Maybe I do."
"Then pray they stay ghosts."
Adam's throat worked. He looked toward the cloister arches, where the last lamp still glowed faintly in the dark — the one she'd carried, the one that had walked away from him again.
"Can't pray that, Edric," he murmured.
Édric didn't ask. He didn't need to. His gaze softened in the firelight, that rare flicker of understanding that didn't need words.
He only nodded toward the tents.
"Then try sleeping before the boy wakes and steals your boots again."
That pulled a quiet chuckle from Adam — small, real.
"He'll outgrow me soon. Then I'll have to start stealing his."
Édric shook his head.
"God help us all."
Adam stayed where he was, though. Close enough to the heat, not close enough to burn. The silence between them stretched, companionable and tired.
He didn't speak of the woman in the lamplight, of the years he'd spent hating himself for losing her. But the ache sat heavy in his chest, and Édric — perhaps by instinct — didn't look away.
For a while, the only sound was the quiet pop of the coals and the far-off murmur of waves against rock.
Then Édric shifted, leaning forward to stir the ashes with the tip of a stick.
"You carry something tonight," he said quietly. "When it gets too heavy, set it down. Even ghosts lose patience if you keep dragging them."
Adam's jaw tightened, but there was no anger there. Just the ache of being seen.
"Maybe," he said softly. "But some ghosts deserve to be carried a little longer."
He exhaled, long and low, then sat down properly beside the older man. Together, they watched the fire fade — red to gold, gold to grey — until only a thin curl of smoke marked where the light had been.
Neither of them said another word.
But when Adam finally stood to turn in, he murmured, half to himself, half to Édric,
"Goodnight, old man."
"Sleep, boy," Édric replied, voice gentler than usual.
Adam smiled faintly, the kind that lingered as he walked away — leaving Édric alone with the ashes, the quiet, and the long slow heartbeat of dying fire.