I cannot charm like Woodrow, but I realized at that moment that I did not need to be like him.

I closed my eyes and summoned mental images of this night, saturated with the warm glow of the communal embers… how Agate and Harlan comforted their people, how the children played with each other, how everyone had a place here provided they contributed with their own set of skills. I saw timid Jerome scurry through post after post, still, a bow in his hand, looking beyond the wall and over his companions.

I remembered the communal fire itself, the pleasant scent of meat and crops cooking in the brass pot, hard skin turning soft, flesh softening... how it was shared amongst everyone, food and drink passed in each hand until everyone had supper sitting on their laps.

I remembered the fluctuating music, how the women and men danced with each other; skirts, pants, and boots dragging and thumping across the grounds. I remembered the way Harlan looked at Agate, how I knew he would do anything to defend her, and how Agate near me would do anything for her village.

“You would all protect each other, I see that,” I whispered. “You have hope of fighting this darkness, so long as you all are working together. This is not the night that hope dies, Agate. Believe that the Saints are here to protect you. To help you protect your people.”

I tried to do what Woodrow did, except the opposite. Gaelmar was the Saint of Hope, and I channeled my hope to Agate. “Be strong elder, and rise. May Saint Gaelmar protect you and keep you warm.”

Agate winced, but slowly, her brows unknitted, her lips parted. Her eyes were fixed on mine; her dark pupils dilating. Our faces were so close to each other that the tips of our noses almost touched. I was pressing my hands to hers, to help block out the dreadful sound. But she was starting to breathe calmly. Her lungs kept pace with my steady breaths.

That’s right, I thought. I channeled all the pleasant images in my mind to her. I saw her expression slowly shift from terrified to determined.

From the corner of my eye, the figure of Woodrow looked right at me.

Agate breathed outward, regaining her composure. The set of her jaw was rigid with determination. She held my hands and helped me up as she stood. The dreadful howling still echoed and all the fighters, including Harlan, still quailed on the ground. But Agate was standing over them all.

He kicked Harlan in the knee. When Harlan stumbled, Agate pinned his arms away from his ears, “Listen to the little brother, Harlan. Rise and fight with me, fellow elder!”

For a brief moment, he looked astonished to see her so fierce. His desperate, watery eyes went to mine. I held them with my own as I dropped to the ground and laced my words with the same images, channeling the warmth they produced and…

And there it is. The word. Rally. Gaelmar was guiding me on its meaning, its warmth. I felt its weight in my heart and let it flow freely. “Rise, Harlan of Kent, and be with your partner. Fulfill your promise to her father, to her, and to the village. May Saint Gaelmar protect you and keep you warm.”

I saw the dread leave him, slowly, He squared his shoulders and nodded at Agate, claiming his weapons from the ground, and turned to the rest of the fighters. He nodded encouragingly at me as I repeated the prayer. I held each chin, each face. I spoke to them.

“Your acting elder here has taken it upon herself to go alone and not harm anyone else when she went into the bandit lair,” I said.

“I see that you work with your weaknesses, and I see that you would lend each other a helping hand. It is just my hope that you will lend a helping hand with not only each other but begin to trust more people outside of it,” I said.

“Only when you allow yourselves to fight the common enemy, and more importantly, not pull each other down, and protect each other will you be truly fortified,” I said.

“May Saint Gaelmar protect you and keep you warm,” I said.

One by one they stood. I thought my strength again would leave me with each fighter whom I healed, but whenever I uttered Saint Gaelmar’s name and they believed in his power, my strength returned to me. I looked at the remaining fighters at the elder’s house and the archers at the towers. They were still on the ground blocking their ears. Although I felt strong, I also felt that I could not heal all of them that night.

Agate suddenly thumped the ground with her shield. Harlan followed. Then, slowly, all the fighters around them did the same. She hummed a hymn that was pleasing and friendly mixed with the wretched howling outside. Harlan responded to her hymn in kind. Then all the fighters did. They spoke of a man with orange robes who always had a smile for everyone. A gentle man who was crucial on the battlefield, cooking food and warming beds, and telling stories. A man who wields a holy flame that banished the chill of darkness. Gaelmar, the Saint of Hope.

Another surge of strength flowed through me, like warm waves of air, filling me with warmth, and then in an instant, I saw how I affected the fighters and Agate when I blessed their food.

I saw motes of different colors hovering in their hearts. I somehow knew what they symbolized. Strength. Without knowing quite how, blessing the food with certain crops and prayers gave them all additional strength. And perhaps courage. It only took this moment for my prayer to activate.

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When I turned around for Woodrow, he was now positively staring at me with wide green eyes. I winked at him as he did at me so many times, and I bellowed to the whole village, surprisingly louder than all the howls.

“Let Gaelmar fill you all with his warmth. Let your courage and hope for this village dispel the dread! You are fighters of Kent! The howls of direwolves will not be your undoing!”

The low embers of the communal fire roared to life once more. And warm wind circled the whole village. I saw it breeze through the guards and the archers above us. Slowly, they heard the hymn to Gaelmar. Confused at first, they were slow in responding, but once they recognized what their brethren and leaders were doing, all joined in the chorus, thumping their wooden poles and spear or stomping their feet.

Agate stopped the pounding of her shield and called to the archers. “As one, draw your strings and aim at their mouths.”

The archers nodded. They aimed low, pulled back their arms, and released. I held my breath as the arrows flew. At once, the howling stopped, replaced with many yelps. The howls of dread were gone. Now there were nasty snarls and the return of claws breaking the wooden gates.

Jerome from one of the towers shouted, “The border will break, elders.”

Agate nodded at him and to all of us. “Let them come. We are ready.” I walked back to her and matched her questioning look with what I hoped was a determined face.

“I am ready as well,” I said.

“Ryne!” Woodrow shouted, alarmed. He grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. His face was wild with worry and concern.

“Something about what Agate said… about Gaelmar not being a fighter. I think… he wants me to fight,” I whispered calmly.

“That is too much! These are monsters!”

“I carry the hope of a mighty Saint in me. You saw what I could do. Trust me.” I motioned to the boys and girls my age who had gathered their weapons, before being sent away by Agate inside the elder’s house. “I am old enough. Protect them, Woodrow. I have the power of the Saint in me,” I said again.

And something in me sparked, and I felt a force so fierce, it threatened to tear through my chest.

“Wilbur will kill me. You have no experience in battle!” Woodrow shouted.

“Then let this be an impromptu learning experience.” Before Woodrow argued further, I closed my eyes to the vision of the dark brambles curling and slicing away most of the black direwolves. I saw how the slain direwolves turned to ash, and how the ash went back to the mountains, or were picked up by the cold stray wind. I had an awful hunch that they would manifest back in another village, town, walled city, or kingdom somewhere.

Another vision swam. Gaelmar showed me in that instant where these black direwolves came from. I saw only blackness. No, I saw a dark churning storm cloud, with streaks of lightning occasionally bursting inside its many bellies. As it rumbled, the cloud parted and released a vile smoke of what I now know was miasma. The miasma twisted themselves into a shape—the shape of the direwolves—and they were scattered throughout the realms. In caves, in mountains, in other shadowed areas.

When I returned, I told Woodrow, “The direwolves come from the Unending Chaos.”

“Blast it all,” Woodrow swore.

“It will never end.” I knew what this meant. “Woodrow, we need to get them to the monastery tonight. We need to get them to Rothfield.”

And then another vision blinded me, scattering away Woodrow’s face. Gaelmar showed me the white wolf Woodrow told me about. She licked her paws and looked down at this village and many villages underneath the mountain path. Then she ran back to the mountains. Next, she stood near a lava pool. On its edges were large boulders that had curious black-crimson ores sticking out of them. She circled once and made her bed near the fire opals.

Woodrow yanked me back from the vision.

Snarls came from the village wall; sharp fangs and paws reached through the hole the direwolves had made. The archers kept shooting overhead, but a number of them came down to reinforce the wall, hitting the beasts with poles and wooden clubs. When one of the beasts destroyed another part of the wall and was about to grab a fighter, a skinnier youth came from above and hit the direwolf on the head, killing it and turning it into ash. It was Jerome, the timid scout.

“I won’t let any of you fall,” he said.

The fighters near us cheered him on. Woodrow clapped his hands. Agate and Harlan looked at each other and nodded. “Defend each other as best you can. Protect the children of Kent.”

Woodrow grabbed his trusted weapon. “The only thing these beasts would be tasting is the sharp tip of my dagger.”

Harlan barked out orders. “Man the wall. Hold out as best you can.” He led with the fortifications, pushing against the wall until it groaned. Jerome climbed back on one of the towers and kept firing his arrows until there were no more. Then he went back down to strike any reaching paw or snout.

As more and more archers ran out of arrows, they added their strength to the village walls.

I tapped deep into my heart and tried to sense the dark forest, if it is within reach of my power that night, to see different villages affected like this. To my horror, there were. Direwolves attacking smaller villages. Just on the edge of the dark forest. Some of those villagers that escaped managed to survive by traveling with guards and knights, the banner of which was obscured to me.

The village wall broke down and one, two, three, direwolves darted past us, already scattering the men huddled together. They swiped at them with their paws, targeting a fighter, but they were far enough to only be left with mere scratches.

They were fast!

But Woodrow was faster. He immediately threw his dagger towards the eye of one direwolf, grabbed a sharp pole that a fighter dropped, and plunged it into its chest. The direwolf turned to ash. Agate and Harlan raised their shield to defend against the attacks and swung their swords at any that entered.

The fighters were in good coordination. They screamed, swinging in unison at the beasts. Some tricked them into falling onto another group of fighters’ waiting spikes, while the burliest amongst them took one direwolf head-on.

One direwolf was about to charge through the fighters and aimed at the elder’s house. I saw the guards there ready their wooden spears. A man, young and thin, blocked its path and waved his hand around to try to distract it.

It was Jerome again. He had no weapons.

I looked frantically for Woodrow, but he was in the thick of battle, distracting a few direwolves himself as the fighters around him struck. Ash was falling over them like raindrops. Wildly, I whistled and the lesser direwolf that was licking its fangs at Jerome spun to face me.

I placed my palm out, and said with all my might, “Burn.”