—GRANGES—

“You haven’t been joining us for supper,” Agate said one evening, her brow furrowed in concern. “I see you watching the training sessions, but then you slip back to the church.”

I avoided her gaze, muttering, “Praying.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile, though her eyes were full of concern. “I hadn’t realized such a spiritual journey could be so exhausting.” She paused, her attention drifting to the training ground where Claude and Harlan sparred. Claude, with his wooden sword, moved in quick, precise strikes against Harlan’s spear. “Your friend seems livelier than usual,” Agate noted, raising an eyebrow.

I followed her gaze, my heart swelling with a mixture of pride and unease. Claude was indeed more energetic, his movements fluid and sharp. He had been running more, his leaps higher, his dodges quicker. The vitamins Wilbur had crafted were working their magic, but it was more than that—Claude was thriving.

“He told me he wishes to become a soldier under their lord,” Agate said, adjusting her tunic. I felt a lump form in my throat, but I nodded silently.

“And how did you take the news?” she asked, her eyes searching mine.

I couldn’t hide the sadness in my voice as I replied, “I’ll never stop praying that it doesn’t come to that. But if it does, I’ll help him all the way. And when the time comes, I pray he returns safe.”

Agate rested a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “If only we and your brothers could join him out there. But we’re needed here.”

I placed my hand over hers, offering a weak smile. As she turned to leave, I glanced back at Claude. He was watching me, a bright smile on his face as he waved. A pang of emotion surged through me. I swallowed hard, forcing a smile and waved back.

Later that afternoon, I accompanied Harlan and some of the fishermen to check the weir baskets at the lake. The cold air nipped at my skin as we worked in silence, pulling in the day’s catch.

“The flame seems weak today,” Harlan remarked, casting a glance toward the distant obelisk where Gaelmar’s presence waned.

“Mm,” I replied, barely paying attention as I busied myself with descaling the fish. My mind was elsewhere, focused on the next flameshield. If I could channel one strong enough, maybe it would buy me time, maybe it would give me a week of peace where the flames surrounding the village and lake could stay alive without flickering out.

I let out a slow breath, convincing myself that what I was doing was for the best. I was protecting those I loved: Claude, Woodrow, Wilbur. And those who I gave sanctuary here at Rothfield monastery. He didn’t need to know how much of my strength I was pouring into this. He didn’t need to know how much I feared for him. All that mattered was that he was safe.

That evening, I surprised them all by joining the group for supper. Claude’s eyes lit up when he saw me sit down beside him. As the others gave thanks to Gaelmar, I closed my eyes, letting their prayers wash over me like a warm blanket. For the first time in days, I felt a flicker of peace, the weight on my chest lifting slightly. But as the night wore on, my exhaustion finally overtook me, and I dozed off by the fire, the warmth of the flames comforting against the chill of the night air.

I barely noticed when someone murmured in my ear, their voice soft and distant. My limbs felt heavy, but I was aware of the gentle hands lifting me, carrying me away from the fire. In my half-dreaming state, I knew it was Claude, his presence familiar and grounding. Even in sleep, I could feel his warmth.

—CLOISTERED GARTH—

I awoke feeling unusually refreshed, my senses attuned to the world around me. Wilbur's garden stretched before me, a small patch of life amidst Rothfield's muted hues. The vibrant yellowtongues, the cool-blue shivering maidens, and even the occasional odd flower everbane bloomed with defiant brightness. Their reds, blues, and yellows stood in stark contrast against the grey-tinged grass. The common flowers too—pale whites and yellows—grew steadily, adding a softness to the landscape that had become a rare sight in these times. Even the granges held a quiet beauty; the rye and oats swayed gently in the breeze, resilient and steadfast.

I lingered there for some time, allowing the peace of the garden to seep into me. Today, I did not push myself, nor did I run to join the others. Instead, I kept my focus on Blake, praying five times to keep his darkness in check, careful to reserve enough strength for what I knew would come later. As dusk settled, just before Woodrow and Wilbur woke, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

Gathering every ounce of kindflame within me, I willed a flameshield to life. The moment it appeared—a bubble of warmth and light—I felt a surge of triumph. It held strong, shimmering like a stream-fed orb, steady in its structure. But as I watched, I realized it should be more. It should be stronger. And so I pushed harder, urging it to expand. When it finally solidified, I couldn’t help but smile, the weariness of the effort settling into my bones as a welcome weight. Contentment washed over me as sleep crept in, the warmth of the shield still lingering on my skin as I drifted off.

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—MOUNT LHOTTEM—

The following evening, it was Claude’s turn to collect ores for Wilbur’s vitamins. I could sense the tension in the air; shadowbeasts often lurked nearby, their presence a constant threat. But I was ready. I positioned myself quietly in the dark trees, cloaked by the shadows, my eyes locked on Claude. The moment the beasts attacked, I would protect him.

When they came, swift and snarling, I focused all my power on shielding him, raising my hand and aiming for the spot just above his back, near his head. But nothing came. Agate and Harlan were already by his side, their spears flashing as they tore through the thick, matted fur of the direwolves. Panic surged through me, my kindflame sputtering as I desperately tried to channel it. Still, nothing.

The dark forest moved in sync with the battle, its branches and vines assisting Agate and Harlan as they fought. But I stood frozen, watching helplessly. The kindflame within me flickered, but no matter how hard I willed it, it refused to manifest. My heart stuttered when a shadowbeast lunged at Claude. I saw it coming, saw its claws aiming for his chest, and I felt powerless to stop it. But then, with a swift motion, Claude leapt, his body moving with fluid precision. His sword struck true, slicing through the beast’s thick hide and reducing it to ash.

Agate and Harlan clapped him on the shoulder, their faces lit with pride, but Claude stumbled slightly under their touch. He looked back toward the ores, unbothered by the praise. I couldn’t shake the shame rising within me. They were celebrating his victory, yet I had failed. I had stood by, useless. The ores were gathered, the beasts vanquished, and still I wished for the ground to swallow me whole.

“Take me back,” I whispered to the trees, my voice trembling. They listened, the vines and roots shifting beneath me, pulling me into the earth and carrying me silently back to the edge of Rothfield.

I arrived alone, the weight of my failure pressing down on me. Yet as I emerged, the cold night air biting at my skin, I found my thoughts returning to Claude, not his victory, but the moment just before. The shame lingered, along with the frustration.

—CLOISTERED GARTH—

I slammed the church door behind me, the sound echoing through the empty halls like a gunshot. The rage inside me boiled over, and I ran to the garth, where I dropped to my knees and screamed. My fists met the cold, unforgiving earth, pounding it again and again until my knuckles were raw, and still, it wasn’t enough. I clenched my hand into a tight fist, feeling the sting of my frustration searing through me, and stared at the daisies swaying beside me, innocent and oblivious.

“Why?!” My voice was hoarse, a desperate plea to the sky above, but there was no answer. I opened my palm, expecting something, anything. The kindflame, the power that should’ve been mine to command. But nothing came. I exhaled shakily, and it dawned on me: perhaps it wasn’t the kindflame I’d been summoning after all. I was terrified of losing Claude, of failing the people who looked to me for protection. My heart raced, and I realized I had let that desperation fuel me. But desperation wasn’t the key. It never had been.

I thought back to Claude. I wanted to join them in battle, to prove I wasn’t just a bystander, useless and weak. I wanted to be someone they could depend on, like how Agate and Harlan had clapped Claude on the back, how Woodrow had fought with such grace and skill, his dagger a blur in the moonlight. Even Wilbur, who knew nothing of combat, had thrown himself into the fray, using his body as a shield. Why couldn’t I do the same?

“Let me be strong,” I whispered, clenching my fists so tightly that my nails dug into my palms. “Let Gaelmar’s kindflame burn our enemies.” And suddenly, I felt it—heat surged through me, flooding my veins, igniting at my fingertips. A sphere of flame bloomed in my hand, and I focused on it, shaping it the way glassmakers mold molten glass. It obeyed. For once, I felt in control.

“More,” I breathed, pushing harder. The fire in me grew, fed by the intensity of my emotions. But something was wrong. The orb wasn’t protective: it was destructive. I watched in horror as the daisies near me blackened and withered under the heat, their delicate petals curling inward as they cooked from the inside out.

“No. No, no, no…” My voice cracked, but the flame wasn’t listening. It wanted more. It craved destruction, fueled by my growing anger—anger at Blake, at Knox, at myself for being so helpless. I felt the chains around Blake tighten, but in my rage, I burned them too. I hurt him. And with each burn, the fire inside me blazed hotter, brighter, until I could see nothing but Gaelmar’s face.

It was overwhelming, this power. I felt lightheaded, my arms raised as if I were flying. Was that shouting I heard? Or the crackling of flames? The fire roared in my ears, redder than any flame I’d ever seen, and then, through the haze, I saw Woodrow—his pale face illuminated by the flickering light, his red hair a fiery halo as he ran toward me.

“Ryne!” Wilbur’s voice cut through the chaos, his hand pressed to his chest, his breath labored as he raced to meet me from another direction. But I couldn’t stop. I raised my hands, and the fire burst forth from my palms, a wild and uncontrollable force.

And then I fell. Ember, my loyal companion, was on me in an instant, her small body pressed against my chest, growling softly, her paws on my chest as she licked my face. Her touch snapped me out of it, grounding me back to the present. I gasped for breath, frantically checking Ember for burns, but there were none. Of course, there wouldn’t be. She was of flame too. But the relief was short-lived.

Woodrow and Wilbur lay on the ground, their clothes smoldering, the flames licking at their cloaks and jeans. My heart stopped. I screamed their names, rushing to stamp out the fires with my hands and feet. Ember, sensing my panic, lapped at the flames as if they were mere water, extinguishing them effortlessly. Soot covered Wilbur’s face, and I watched in both horror and awe as his burns began to heal, his skin knitting back together. But Woodrow…