1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Z en drew back the hood of his robe and turned to face the sun. His eyes watered almost instantly, even while closed, an itch overtaking his skin like the start of a burn, yet the warmth felt enjoyable for a time.

He couldn't look directly at the sun, his eyes a similar blueish gray to his skin tone, though more reflective, as if made of metal, and far more sensitive to the light. If he did stray his gaze for too long, or dallied outside during the day, he'd see spots for hours and suffer nauseating heat sickness.

He should have hated the sun for that, but he no more resented the golden light in the sky than the god who created it.

The Sun God couldn't be blamed, after all. He never listened to Zen's prayers to begin with. Not the ones that mattered.

The bustle of the market drew Zen's attention back out of the alley, and he flattened himself to the wall, fading into the shadows as he waited for his prey.

Jorgen always took the same route to retrieve his daily grain, which he used to make ale more often than bread. He was a slender human, tall and bony, his skin not properly fit for his form, with prominent features that all seemed to be meant for different men. His outward appearance was not why Zen targeted him, however.

At long last, Jorgen appeared, long strides carrying him swiftly through the market, his eyes narrowed, like a nervous thief.

Zen chuckled, taking what he knew to be perverse joy in this.

As soon as Jorgen walked past where he was hidden, Zen plucked the man's coin purse from his belt without the faintest noise, jostle, or weight change to give him away. He'd become a master of the art of pickpocketing over many youthful years of guile, and Jorgen was his favorite victim.

"Oh dear," Zen said, stepping out of the alley and watching Jorgen's shoulders tense. "Mr. Jorgen, sir, it seems you've dropped your purse."

Jorgen spun.

Zen had shorter strides, but he was still tall for a darkling, and was a hair's breadth from Jorgen's face by the time he'd fully turned. "Here you are, sir ."

"Thank you," Jorgen said shortly and tore the bag from Zen's fingers, careful not to touch him. He'd stopped asking where Zen had found the purse ages ago. He knew the game, Zen choosing a different hiding place each day and never failing to catch him unaware, but there was nothing Jorgen could do about it, since Zen always returned the purse without a single coin missing.

"Why do you do that, Father Zen?" a small voice asked after Jorgen had huffed off.

Beside Zen was a boy, small, eight years old at best, with a pale complexion and long, pointed ears. "Because, young Jax," Zen crouched before him, "it makes him uncomfortable, and some people deserve to be uncomfortable."

Jax giggled.

"It's just Zen though, remember? Or Brother Zen, if you like. Only full priests are to be called Father."

"But… you're grown." Jax's face scrunched in confusion. "Aren't you a full priest yet?"

Zen fought a frown, not wanting to pass his resentments to the boy. Jax had enough problems, being young and small and in nothing but rags as he stood in the market, begging. "Adulthood and titles don't always go hand in hand."

Zen had come of age months ago, but he'd yet to become an anointed priest of the Sun God. He remained an acolyte until he passed his remaining tests—which he kept failing.

"Have you eaten today?" Zen changed the subject, noting how gaunt the boy's cheeks appeared.

Jax shook his head.

The city of Daxos wasn't known for being hospitable to other races, let alone urchin high elves. In elven lands, such as the kingdom of Spearsong, Jax might have lived like a noble, but in human territory, only humans prospered.

Zen wondered why high elves even lived in this country, but everyone's circumstances were their own and not always within their control to change.

He should know.

Bringing a finger to his ash-blue lips, Zen winked at the boy, and then raised his hood to hide his form within the silver and blue robes of the Sun God.

Zen had always found it counterintuitive that the Sun God chose such colors, yet the Dark Goddess, who it was said reveled in chaos, was represented by red and gold—the colors of the sun . Only the Twilight God, considered the Lord of Balance, made sense to Zen, as they were depicted in purple and bronze, which he'd seen many times in a sunset.

The market was crowded enough that anyone who might have spotted Zen lost sight now as he headed into the throng, appearing to anyone bothering to notice as just another robed acolyte. Zen was the only darkling acolyte, the only darkling in Daxos, and the only non-human in the entire order.

It took several paces, passing silk merchants and far too many carts of mundane trinkets, before Zen arrived at an apple cart with a distracted seller filling an order for a family. One good thing about being an Acolyte of the Sun was that people tended to ignore Zen for fear of being proselytized at.

They believed—they'd be shunned if they didn't—but few enjoyed constant reminders of their faith.

As deftly as Zen had removed Jorgen of his purse, he snatched a precariously balanced apple from the cart. He then retraced his steps on the other side of the street, taking his time so as not to seem suspicious. Once he'd returned to Jax, he shined the apple on his robe and passed it to the boy, who bit into it ravenously.

" Restore ," Zen whispered, patting the boy's shoulder, while subtly touching his amulet, a large medallion on a blue cord, depicting a silver sunburst.

A glow overtook Jax, returning his vitality. He still finished devouring the apple, hardly noticing that Zen had healed him, but he was rejuvenated now as though having eaten and slept well for a full week.

"Good day, young Jax," Zen said and turned to take his leave—only to stiffen, as he saw another robed figure watching him from the same alley where he'd laid in wait for Jorgen.

Shit.

Zen pitched to the side as Father Lewis struck him. The older priest was thick of stature, and his meaty palm brought forth a mean sting—which Zen experienced at least once a week

Sometimes once a day.

"The Sun God sees all," Lewis snarled at where Zen had toppled to the floor of the elder priest's chambers. "You know this, yet you continue to defy him, even in the marketplace in broad daylight."

"Forgive me." Zen righted himself but remained kneeling. "I shall endeavor to keep my sins to nighttime."

Lewis struck him again.

Zen had expected that one and didn't teeter nearly as much.

"Do you wish to be cast out? To be stoned in the street without the protection of those robes, or drawn and quartered like some deviant? You spit in the face of your savior and wonder why you have yet to ascend to the priesthood."

Those words were stale in Zen's ears, he heard them so frequently. "I only fed and healed a starving child."

"An elven child."

"I thought the Sun God knew no distinction among the devout."

Lewis raised his hand again, and Zen refused to flinch, but then the priest lowered it with a withering sigh. "That boy has not yet accepted the Sun God. Would you lie, on this holy ground, and say he has?"

Zen often wondered if his amulet would burn him if he sinned on ‘holy ground', but he doubted it. He wore it to bed, and it had yet to burn him after a morning's pleasure with his palm. "I only wished to help him."

Another sigh sounded, and Zen dared look up to meet the stern gaze of the man who was as close to a father as he'd ever known. "Your merciful nature, however mischievous and misguided, is commendable, but you forget your place. Do you think I have time to waste on tallying your sins when we are in dire need of more priests to help against this blight? Our streets are attacked almost nightly now—by vampires, werewolves, vicious beasts—yet you continue to fail to join our ranks.

"Would you prefer for your soul, after death, to hover in limbo for all eternity like those who worship the Twilight God? Or worse, to suffer in the pits of the damned like the monsters that plague us and others embraced by the Dark Goddess?"

Zen said nothing, and Lewis's sigh this time was deflated of anger but deeply disappointed.

"You were abandoned on our doorstep, and despite your lineage, we took you in and raised you to know the Lord of Law. You swore when you were initiated that your soul, your life, belongs to him. Has that vow changed?"

If Zen ever said yes, he would indeed be cast out, and the people would kill him. If not outright in the street by stoning, then by slaughtering him in some back alley during the night while he scrounged for food like Jax.

Other races were derided.

Half breeds were distrusted.

Half dark elves were outright despised.

And so, he lied, "No, Father. I serve the Sun God, always."

Lewis's eyes went cold, like he knew Zen's words to be false, but he merely shook his head. "You will scrub every inch of this temple until it sparkles like your medallion and go to bed without nourishment. You gave up your right to supper when you stole that apple and delivered it to one of the lost. Now, leave me."

Zen ignored the scornful looks of the other acolytes and priests when he left Father Lewis's chambers. There were some beautiful things to be said of the Sun God. If the stories were to be believed about the three gods who made the universe, then he was responsible for flowers, gentle animals, Spring and Summer, renewal and mercy. It was said that he would accept any who accepted him.

If only his worshippers were as enlightened.

One of the female priests went to Zen while he was scrubbing the latrines, a vapid and devout human like most in the order. "Don't you see that Father Lewis only wishes to save your soul? If you wish the same of others, then give them the good word, not a stolen apple."

What makes my soul damned? Zen used to ask, but he knew the answer.

He stood to wring out his cloth, and the priest lurched backward, as if afraid his movement might cause them to touch.

He was damned because of his dirty dark elf blood, and he hated hearing about it.

"Yes, Mother," Zen said and gave her a wide berth.

That night, before falling into an exhausted sleep—in his tiny, wooden bed with minimal padding and coarse blankets—Zen gently touched the scar that ran full circle around his neck. He tried ignoring it during the day, hidden by the high collar of his vestments, but in bed, out of his robes, his fingers often strayed there.

He didn't know what had caused the wire-thin line. He'd had it all his life and often wondered if it had been a failed attempt to kill him as an infant. Like Father Lewis had said, he'd been abandoned on the steps of the temple.

No one wanted a darkling child.

Zen's existence, his life, was most people's nightmare, which was why it amazed and yet soothed him that he never experienced nightmares himself. His dreams were sweet. There he had no scars. In his dreams, he was whole and wanted.

Desired , even .

A warm, human hand trailed slowly across Zen's unmarred neck and down his naked body. Here his bed was plush and opulent, or perhaps it belonged to the man he imagined himself with. Zen had never met anyone like him in waking life, yet every dream he'd had since he first knew he desired men starred the same mysterious figure.

Zen never saw his face clearly, but he was still a vision of noble beauty. Skin pale as cream with soft color in his cheeks, neatly trimmed black hair that occasionally fell into his eyes—and oh, his eyes. Some might think them haunting or eerie, being such a rich, ruddy brown that they almost looked red, but Zen adored them. He adored the smooth, flawless form laid out beside him, trim but well-muscled, and as naked as he was.

Still, all those features painted an incomplete picture that he could never quite bring into focus.

The man's sex was impressive though, no doubt conjured from Zen's most carnal fantasies, as ruddy as his eyes, swollen and leaking wetness onto the sheets. Zen had often longed to know the feel of it in his hands, his mouth, and deep inside him, but his dreams never allowed more than a tease.

Zen didn't know the man's name and had never made one up, but he thought of him as an angel, giving him pleasures where real life never could.

"You are a beautiful crystalline snowflake, my love, silver and blue and pure blinding white." He kissed Zen's cheek, his fingertips tracing mischievously down Zen's stomach. His other hand ran blunt nails through Zen's short white hair.

That wasn't right. Zen kept his snowy-white locks tied back, but his hair fell well past his shoulders. Like the missing scar, he was different here in the dreamworld.

"I miss you," his angel whispered and bent to kiss Zen's lips.

Then touch me, Zen thought, pressing upward and opening his mouth to connect them more deeply, while instantly wanting more.

He didn't know why his mind created a human man instead of someone more like him. Maybe because humans were all he'd ever known. The man was stunning regardless and saw Zen the way he'd always wished someone would.

"Come, my love."

Zen wanted to—

"Come to me. Come for me, my beautiful darkling, but come to me as well."

Zen didn't understand. How much closer could they get? His angel was between his legs, warm hand curling around him and squeezing with promise. Still, for all the lust that stirred in Zen, it was the intimacy of another kiss to his cheek that filled him with the most want.

"Please, love, come to me. Come…" He stroked Zen firmly while licking up along one of his pointed darkling ears, inducing a deep shudder from low at the base of Zen's spine. "Come… my Zenos."

That wasn't—

"Now!"

Zen's eyes snapped open as if triggered by a spring, his sheets sticky and damp atop him from how he'd come before waking.

Damn it . He rarely did that, usually waking hard and unfulfilled, and then taking himself in hand. Today he'd made a mess, and it wasn't even morning.

He must have only been asleep for an hour or two, because his window betrayed no light, and he could still hear the faint rustle of others going about their nighttime chores.

After throwing his covers aside with a grimace, Zen used them to clean himself. At least he hadn't bothered with a nightshirt. He'd have to replace the sheets to get any sleep and leave these in the washing room to be laundered. After his dream, however, Zen felt wide awake, and as much as he would have enjoyed a return to his angel, he felt the sudden urge to be as far from the temple as possible.