My hands tremble as I close the door to the art guild.

How can my soul's mate, the very person who is supposed to make me feel safe and whole, be the one causing me such fear?

I lean against the wall, breathing deeply. My heart is racing, and my mouth feels dry.

The thought that I was about to be attacked-possibly violated-by those three men sends a chill down my spine. If not for Ciaran's intervention, who knows what would have happened? But I still cannot help but fear him.

I push myself off the wall, taking a few shaky steps before steadying myself. The street is quiet, illuminated only by the faint glow of the festival lanterns.

I have to get back. Serena is probably wondering where I am. I grab the canvases she requested and open the door.

I try not to look at the men on the floor, but I cannot help it. My stomach rolls and I immediatly avert my gaze. I should probbaly clean up this mess, but I do not have it in me. Not tonight.

I stumble outside and breathe in the cool, night air. It helps calm my nerves, and I make my way back to the festival.

The sound of music and laughter reaches my ears, and I follow it to the main road. The crowd is still thick, and the festivities are in full swing.

I spot Serena by a row of paintings and make my way towards her. She turns, her expression one of relief.

"There you are," she says, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I was about to come check on you."

"Sorry, Serena," I mumble, handing her the canvases. "I got a little held up."

"That is quite alright, Adwin," she replies, studying my face. "Are you feeling alright? You look a bit pale."

"I am fine," I lie, forcing a smile.

She does not look convinced.

"Well, if you are sure," she says, placing the canvases on a nearby table. "We have a few more pieces to hang. Would you mind helping me with that?"

"Of course," I reply, grateful for the distraction.

We spend the next few hours hanging paintings and answering questions. The event is a huge success, and by the end of the night, our display is nearly empty.

"It looks like we will have to place another order of canvases," Serena comments, surveying the remaining pieces.

"Yes," I agree, still a bit numb from the day's events.

"You should head home, Adwin," she says, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You look exhausted. Go rest, and I will finish up here."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. You have done more than enough. I will see you tomorrow."

"Okay. Goodnight, Serena."

"Goodnight, Adwin."

I head home, my body aching with fatigue.

As I open the door, a wave of anxiety washes over me. Ciaran could be inside, but I already know he is not. I would feel it in the bond.

I lock the door behind me, sliding down against it until I am sitting on the cold floor, my knees drawn up to my chest. My mind races, replaying the evening's horrors. How can I reconcile the tender moments we have shared with the deadly force he wielded tonight?

Is he truly who he seems, or is he like the manipulative devils I have read about?

Exhausted, I drag myself to my feet and head upstairs. The need for sleep weighs heavily on my eyelids, but the fear of what dreams might come keeps me alert. The loft is dark and quiet, the soft hum of the night creating a soothing backdrop.

It does not take long before the weariness overtakes me, and I drift into a restless slumber. My dreams are vivid, more vivid than usual. I am standing in a shadowy forest, the moon casting eerie light through the dense canopy above.

It almost looks like the Enchanted Forest, but different. Wrong.

The air is thick with mist, and my heart pounds in my chest as I walk through the underbrush. I have an overwhelming sense of unease, but I am not sure why.

Suddenly, Ciaran appears, stepping out from behind a large oak. He smiles, reaching for my hand, his touch warm against my skin. We walk together, the forest parting before us, revealing a path lined with glowing flowers. The beauty of it is overwhelming, the colors more vibrant than anything I have ever seen.

As we walk, Ciaran talks softly about his world, his voice soothing. But as he speaks, the forest around us begins to darken. The path narrows, and the air grows colder. I shiver, pulling my cloak tighter around me. Ciaran's grip tightens, reassuring yet possessive.

Suddenly, a shadow darts across the path, quick and silent. My breath catches, and I stop, trying to peer into the darkness. Ciaran pulls me forward, urging me not to worry. But as we advance, I see it again-this time, closer, more defined. A figure, shrouded in darkness, watching us.

"Ciaran," I whisper, "who is that?"

He does not answer, pulling me closer to his side. The figure steps forward, into the moonlight, and my heart skips a beat. It is my brother, Silas, but not as I remember him. His eyes are hollow, his face gaunt, as if he has been drained of life.

"Silas?" My voice trembles as I reach out towards him, but Ciaran holds me back.

"Do not," he warns, his voice stern. "It is not him, not really."

I struggle against his grip, my gaze fixed on my brother. "What do you mean? It is Silas! We have to help him!"

"That is not your brother," Ciaran insists. "It is a trap."

The figure of Silas smiles, a twisted, painful expression. "Adwin," he calls, his voice echoing around us. "Do not you want to know what happened to me?"

Tears stream down my face as I fight to reach him. "Yes, please, tell me!"

Ciaran's grip loosens, and I rush forward. But as I approach, the figure dissolves into shadows, and a cold laughter fills the air. I whirl around, finding myself alone. Ciaran is gone, and the path has disappeared. I am lost, surrounded by darkness.

I wake with a start, my body slick with sweat, my heart pounding. The dream felt so real, the emotions so intense. Was it just a dream? The working of an overactive imagination mixed with the events of the night. Or is it a warning?

I have never experienced a nightmare like that, and I cannot shake the fear that lingers. It felt so real.

I climb out of bed and head downstairs. I need something to eat, to clear my mind and calm my nerves.

As I enter the kitchen, a movement in the corner catches my eye. Ciaran. He is here.

He rushes to me, assessing every inch of me. "I could feel your panic, your fear. What is wrong?"

I am frozen.

"Adwin, what happened?"

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart.

"I had a dream...or nightmare, or something."

"What did you dream about?"

I pause. My first instinct is to tell him immediately, but something is holding me back.

"Nothing specific, just a feeling of dread," I say, brushing off his concern with a forced smile that I hope looks convincing. Ciaran watches me, his eyes searching for something deeper in my expression, but I turn away, busying myself with making tea.

He is quiet for a moment, then he says, "If it was nothing, why do I sense such unease within you?" His voice is soft, worried, but I cannot bring myself to confide in him, not yet.

"It has merely been a long night," I reply, focusing on the kettle. The whistle of the steam fills the awkward silence between us.

Ciaran does not press further, sensing my reluctance. Instead, he moves closer, his presence both comforting and overwhelming. "Let me help," he offers, taking the cups from my hands and setting them on the counter.

We sit at the kitchen table, the tea steaming in front of us, an unspoken tension hanging in the air. I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into my palms, trying to gather my thoughts.

"Adwin," Ciaran begins, his voice breaking the silence, "I know things have been... complex between us. But remember, I am here for you. Whatever you need, whatever you feel, you can share it with me."

I nod, my eyes on the dark liquid in my cup. "I know, Ciaran. And I appreciate it, really, I do." I pause, taking a sip of the tea to buy some time. "It is hard to explain. The dream mixed things from the past and fears of what could be. It felt so real, so vivid."

"Was I in this dream?" His question is direct, his gaze intense.

"Yes," I admit, and his eyebrows raise slightly in response. "But it was not you, not really. It was more like you were part of a story my mind was telling me." I am careful not to reveal too much, not to mention Silas or the shadows that remind me too much of the darkness surrounding Ciaran.

Ciaran reaches across the table, his hand over mine. "Sometimes, our minds try to process our fears through dreams. It does not mean they are prophetic or warnings. But if it helps, we can try to unpack what you saw, make sense of it together."

I smile, grateful for his understanding, yet still wary. "Maybe," I say softly. "But for now, let us just sit here. I am not ready to delve into it."

"Okay," he agrees, squeezing my hand gently. "We will sit here as long as you need. Or until the sun begins to rise. I do not have long before I need to get back to my home."

As we sit in silence, my mind cannot help but race. The dream had felt like a warning, a puzzle piece given to me by the subconscious mind trying to alert me to danger, to secrets that needed uncovering. Could there really be a connection between Ciaran and Silas's disappearance? The thought lingers, a persistent whisper that I am both drawn to and afraid to explore.

We sit long enough that Ciaran has to leave, promising to return tomorrow night.

After Ciaran leaves, the house feels eerily quiet. My heart still races from the dream, the intensity of the emotions making it impossible to sit still. I decide to revisit Silas's belongings-maybe I missed something before.

I pull out the old chest from under the bed, the same one I have gone through countless times. Each item is a memory, a piece of Silas that I cannot let go. But tonight, driven by the haunting images from my dream, I need to look deeper. As I sift through his things, my fingers brush against the familiar texture of his old leather-bound sketchbook. I have leafed through it many times, tracing the lines he drew, but tonight, something feels different.

The cover is thick, more so than most sketchbooks. I always found it peculiar but did not think much else about it.

Silas was not an artist like I was, but he purchased this sketchbook to draw with me. We would sit outside for hours, drawing and painting away. He did not care for art, but he cared for me.

On impulse, I inspect the sketchbook more closely, running my fingers along the edges and spine. To my surprise, I feel a slight irregularity in the binding. Has that always been there?

Curious, my fingers feel along the leather until I reach the inside of the front cover. It looks as though it can be pulled back. I carefully peel back the leather, revealing a small, thin journal hidden snugly under the cover.

My hands tremble as I open the journal. The pages are filled with Silas's tight, meticulous handwriting, much of it in a code we devised as children. My heart pounds as I decode the words, the reality of what I am reading sinking in. Silas wrote about his dealings with a devil. The entries speak of deals and promises, of power and danger. It is cryptic, yet there is an undeniable sense of foreboding in his words.

"Met with the Devil's associate again today. He demands more than I can give. I fear what might happen if I fail him. I must find a way out before it is too late."

The more I read, the more a chilling realization dawns on me. Could Ciaran be the Devil my brother mentioned? Or the associate? What are the chances?

I continue reading despite the logical part of my mind pleading for me to stop. This entry is an earlier one. More coherent.

"Devils are as varied as humans, but with more magic. The Devil's associate I have been meeting with showed me the most spectacular trick with shadows. It was almost as if they were alive, free-thinking."

I think back to the night Ciaran first stepped into my home. He was downstairs, staring at a painting of Silas. Was it sadness, perhaps regret, I had seen in his eyes that night?

A sudden wave of dread washes over me. The journal slips from my hands, landing softly on the carpet, as I lean back against the wall, trying to breathe. The room feels smaller, the walls inching closer.

How do I confront Ciaran with this? Can I confront him? The questions swirl in my head, each one a heavier burden than the last.

My brother could be referring to any shadow devil, but something tells me it is Ciaran.

As I sit here, surrounded by the remnants of my brother's life, I realize that I cannot ignore this. I need answers, and the only person who can provide them is Ciaran.