—CLOISTERED GARTH—

Woodrow was worse off. His face twisted in pain, his fangs bared as he groaned, his arms burned and blistered. I knelt beside him, desperately trying to heal him with whatever remained of my power. But when I touched him, it only made things worse. The kindflame I’d used to heal Jerome caused him agony. His shadow nature, his connection to the Chaos, made it so that his body rejected my flame. His brow furrowed, and he winced, turning away from me as if even my presence pained him. Inside me, I heard a sinister, taunting laugh.

I bolted to the infirmary, my hands shaking as I rummaged through many-colored bottles, some faintly glowing, some ordinary, my fingers clinking against glass until I found it: a dark red bottle, blood from a previous night’s offering. I grabbed it, pausing for only a moment to glance at the old man’s clothes we had buried the other night. But there wasn’t time to wonder. I rushed back to Woodrow, tipping the bottle to his lips, watching as he drank, his pale green eyes flickering open.

“Ryne?” he murmured, his voice weak.

I pulled them both back to the church, Woodrow first, Ember doing her best to help by tugging at his sleeve with her teeth. When I returned for Wilbur, I saw the damage I’d done in his garden. Most of the common flowers Wilbur had been painstakingly cultivating were scorched, their fragile beauty now nothing but ash. Guilt weighed on me like a stone as I carried Wilbur to the crypt, my heart heavy with shame.

I set them down iin the crypts. Before they could awaken, I ran. I ran through the dark forest, the branches reaching out to shield me, to hide me from the world. And as I plunged deeper into the shadows, I had no direction, no thought, just the desperate need to escape from what I had done.

—CLAUDE’S COTTAGE—

I thought I’d go to the lake or perhaps the meadow, let the solitude of grass or water soothe my spirits. But before I realized it, my feet carried me to the edge of the dark forest, where Claude’s cottage stood just beyond. Its windows glowed with the warmth of candlelight, spilling soft warm hues onto the ground below, inviting in a way I couldn’t resist. Their light seemed warmer than anything I could find by the water’s edge, more welcoming than the cool, lonely meadow. There was a scent too; something rich and comforting wafting from their kitchen, reminding me how cold and lost I felt.

Before I could second-guess myself, my boots had already taken me to their door. I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and knocked.

“That was sooner than expected,” came Lydia’s voice from inside, lighthearted. My pulse quickened, and I took a step back, bracing myself as the door swung open. Lydia stood there, her brow furrowed in confusion, but her smile was quick to follow. The light from inside washed over me, and I felt a flicker of solace.

Her hand held the doorframe. The moment she saw my face, her expression shifted from warmth to surprise. A loose curl had escaped her wimple, and she looked like she might say something, but instead, she reached out and took me by the arm, pulling me into the house without hesitation, as if I belonged there.

“Ryne!” she exclaimed softly, her eyes sweeping over me. I lowered my head, trying to hide the evidence of what I’d been through, my arms tucked behind my cloak. But I had forgotten the power of a mother’s eyes. She saw everything. They reminded me of Wilbur’s when he checked us for wounds after battle, how he discerned sickness from within the skin. Lydia didn’t need me to say a word; my guilt must’ve been written all over my face. And what reason would a young monk leave the monastic grounds than him getting into trouble. People often forget that young novices are young boys, too. Some prone to making trouble.

“Come, sit by the fire,” she said gently, motioning to the hearth. “Annette, make room for our guest.”

I hadn’t even noticed the small figure at the table, spoon in hand, wide eyes staring at me. I pulled my hood further over my face, afraid to scare her with the dark veins that ran across my skin. But Lydia was having none of it.

“Don’t hide,” she murmured. “We’ve already explained to her what you look like.”

Slowly, I let the cloak slip from my shoulders and caught Annette watching me, her eyes curious but unafraid. She reached out with her little hand, and I knelt beside her, allowing her tiny fingers to brush over the web-like markings on my face.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, her voice tiny and bright.

I smiled at her. “No, it doesn’t hurt.”

I looked up at Lydia, noticing Annette’s rosy cheeks, the picture of health. “She’s well? She hasn’t gotten sick?”

Lydia nodded, her smile widening. “Not since Brother Wilbur treated her. I’ve always said, since you brothers arrived in this town, it’s as if our troubles were lifted.” She moved toward the hearth, ladling porridge into a bowl and pouring milk over it. “Here, eat. You look like you need it.”

I took the bowl, the warmth of it spreading through my hands. “Bahram took most of your livestock,” I muttered, still feeling the weight of the town’s hardships.

Lydia shook her head, her expression serene. “My family is fed, and Claude is healthier than I’ve ever seen him, thanks to what you’ve shared with him. We’re blessed with neighbors who care for us.”

I managed a smile, and we ate in the comfortable silence, the fire crackling softly beside us. Lydia spoke of Claude, how he was away delivering tribute to the lord. “I’m not sure if they’re pleased or surprised by the eggs, wool, and milk, but if we continue, the lord promises to return more of our livestock. Some have actually already been returned." Lydia pointed to the pens outside.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Claude had mentioned it earlier, his eyes bright with excitement as he swung his sword, grinning like he’d won a great victory. I smiled, remembering the moment.

“I’m glad,” I said, spooning the porridge into my mouth.

Lydia asked me how things were at the monastery, and I reassured her that all was well enough. She already knew, of course. Claude told her everything. I trusted her family, knowing that even little Annette wouldn’t share our secrets when they went to town for supplies.

“That is all well and good. But I worry about you,” Lydia said after a moment, her hand brushing my cheek. I closed my eyes at her touch. It was a strange, welcoming thing, the touch of a mother. It felt like Wilbur's but warmer, softer. It smelled of hearthsmoke and milk. “Claude says you’re overworking yourself. I know there’s much to do at the monastery, but…” She hesitated, her brow furrowing as she searched for the right words. “If you were my son, I’d drag you back inside before you worked yourself to death.”

I chuckled, thinking of Wilbur. “Brother Wilbur will do the same.” I added quickly, "But he's been working just as hard, if not harder.”

“It sounds like all of you need someone to look after you,” she said, shaking her head. “Or maybe you need each other. Be sure you do that. Take care of each other.”

“It’s difficult,” I sighed, my defenses lowering. With Lydia, it was easy to speak, as if I were talking to Claude himself. But just like Claude, I could not tell her the truth. So instead, I told her about Gaelmar, our monastery's chosen patron saint. I mentioned the strange occurrences at the monastery, Gaelmars kindflame and the shadowbeasts.

She nodded knowingly. “Those strang wolves have been spotted near Rothfield’s borders. Thankfully, they haven’t come near the farm yet.”

I slumped in my chair, the weight of my worries pressing down on me. “I just want to do more to protect Rothfield. I’ve been invoking Gaelmar’s name, praying for strength, for power to fight back… but it never feels like enough.”

Lydia was silent, her eyes distant as she considered my words. She stood after a while, picking up Annette, who had fallen asleep at the table, and cradled her in her arms. The child stirred, her little head resting against her mother’s shoulder, and Lydia began washing the dishes, her movements quiet and deliberate. I stood up and helped her. When we finished, she set Annette in her small bed and came back, the candles flickering as she blew out a few.

“Gaelmar wasn’t the one who struck down the great beasts,” she said softly, her back to me. “He could summon flames to shield and protect, yes. But he wasn’t a warrior. That was Saint Oswald’s role. Gaelmar’s weapon was a staff, not a sword. He fought with love and compassion, not anger.”

She turned to face me, her eyes calm. “If you want to channel his power, perhaps it should come from a place of love for the people you wish to protect, not rage. His power was grace and compassion. The other Saints listened to him when he spoke of mercy and chances, and he had countless times turned enemies into worthy allies.”

Her words struck deep, and as we sat in the soft light of the remaining candles, something clicked inside me. I remembered all the times I had called upon the flame successfully; not to destroy, but to protect. It wasn’t anger that fueled me then, but a quiet vow, a promise to shield those in need.

I stood, clarity dawning. Gratitude welling up in my chest. “Thank you, Lydia. You’ve given me what I needed.”

She smiled and led me to the door. “Give Claude my best when you see him,” I said softly, adding, “He still wants to be a soldier.”

Her smile faltered briefly, but she nodded. “He does. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“May Gaelmar’s flame bless your home, Lady Lydia,” I whispered, and she closed the door behind me, chuckling.

Though tempted to wait for Claude, I knew my brothers would worry. It was time to face my mistakes.

—DARK FOREST—

The bootsteps that approached my location in the dark forest were unmistakable. I paused, sensing the approach of someone familiar. Sure enough, Woodrow’s unmistakable red hair appeared from the shadowed path, Wilbur close beside him. We stood in silence for a beat, the tension between us palpable.

“I’m so—” I began, but Wilbur reached me first, his hands firm on my shoulders, his touch urgent as he examined me for injuries. “I’m fine, Wilbur,” I said, but he continued checking me for bruises and scorch marks. His eyes softened with relief as he found none, and he gave a huff before standing beside Woodrow.

Woodrow’s gaze cut into me, stern and unwavering. “That was foolish, Ryne. Very foolish.”

His reprimand sent my eyes downward, my throat tightening. “I know.”

“Whatever you did,” he continued, his voice like a drawn dagger, “don’t do it again. Not until you can control it. I warned you about conserving your power. Now we’ve seen what happens when you don’t. If you're not careful, you will be like an unchecked flame, devouring everything in its wake.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, the weight of his words settling deep in my chest.

Wilbur’s hand briefly touched Woodrow’s arm, but Woodrow shook his head and stepped forward. “You’ve never had to manage such power before, Ryne. You must learn control, or it will control you. Don’t let your emotions fuel the flame.” He knelt, his green eyes locking onto mine, softening ever so slightly. “I should know.”

I met his gaze, the intensity of his words sinking in. Of course, Woodrow would know. He fought his own battles with dark power; his thirst for blood, the constant pull to charm, to manipulate. It was difficult for him.

“I promise,” I said, barely above a whisper, “I won’t lose control again. But I still need to train. I have to learn to protect the people.” I saw their protests before they spoke, and I held up a hand to silence them. “Caring for the monastery isn’t enough. You saw what happened in the meadow. The enchantment that holds the dark forest at bay is fading. I need to be ready when it fails. I’ll sleep easier knowing I can fight—" I shook my head and corrected myself. "Knowing I can defend Rothfield from the agents of Chaos. I know now how to channel the flame.”

I recounted what Lydia had shared with me about Gaelmar’s balance; how compassion must temper power, how restraint is the antidote to rage. But even as I told them of this, a tiny drop of doubt splattered on my brow. Could I truly control it?

Woodrow’s gaze softened. “I’m sorry we can’t help you train. This path you’re on… it’s one you’ll have to walk alone.” He paused, his lips pressing into a thin line. “And I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you in the past. Teasing you, calling you Wilbur’s shadow. I didn’t realize I was feeding that desperation you spoke of. Forgive me, Ryne.”

I smiled and touched his arm lightly, my gesture telling him that it was all right. We walked in silence for a while, the trees towering above, their branches intertwining like fingers clasped in prayer. “I’m sorry I burned you,” I finally said, realizing I hadn’t apologized properly.

Woodrow chuckled. “I suppose I deserve it after years of teasing and taunting you. If that’s what we felt from just a fraction of your untrained power, I almost pity Blake, trapped as he is in your flames.” His grin faded, replaced by thoughtful silence. “Then again… Blake is no ordinary foe. He serves the Unending Chaos.” His words trailed off, lost in the evening air as Wilbur shot him a warning glance.

A fresh wave of guilt washed over me, and I turned to Wilbur. “Your garden… I’m so sorry.”

Wilbur’s tone was gentle, a balm to my bruised conscience. “It’s all right, Ryne. The flowers will bloom again. I still have seeds stored away. I’m just glad you’re safe.”