—MOUNT LHOTTEM—

We rushed outside, our breaths ragged and uneven. The path wound steeply along the mountainside, the narrow ledge overlooking the cavern’s entrance below. Claude’s arm clutched mine, our fingers digging into each other’s sleeves as we gazed at one another, lips trembling with all we couldn’t say. But before we could find a voice, the entrance below shook violently. A cloud of dust erupted, scattering two survivors, the men from Rothfield, dragging bodies out into the open air.

We bolted down the trail, my pulse hammering in my throat. The survivors staggered, faces drawn and haunted. All of us rushed towards them. My brothers held the bodies of their victims grimly, their expressions set in stone. The torn scarves around their necks failed to fully conceal the bloody wounds beneath. Fang marks. Proof of what they’d done. They paused until I approached them and gently placed my hand on their arms. I tied the scarves securely around the bodies’ necks to cover their bite marks.

A chill slithered down my spine. A dark realization clawed its way into my thoughts, one I’d foolishly overlooked until now: in my certainty that Woodrow and Wilbur could protect Claude, I’d forgotten the darker possibility: that he might become their victim if hunger drove them to madness. Without thinking, I pulled Claude closer to my side. He blinked at me, his gaze curious, unafraid.

“You’ve never seen a lifeless body before?” he asked, his voice calm, almost soft. He mistook my fear for his safety with my queasiness to corpses. He looked over the bodies as though they were bundles of firewood. “When the sickness came to Rothfield and took some of our elders, we helped care for the bereaved and bury the dead.”

For a moment, I could only stare at him, words caught in my throat. There was a resilience to Claude, a quiet acceptance that made him seem older, wiser than he had any right to be. No wonder he could hold himself together when the world around us is crumbling.

“Go back to the monastery,” Woodrow said quietly to Harlan and Jerome. “See to your people and rest. You’ve done more than enough.” His voice was soft, gentle; a stark contrast to the cold set of his jaw. He turned to Jerome, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You did mighty well. You must be proud.”

Wilbur crept to the two other men, who nodded stiffly when asked if he could check their bruises. Wilbur knelt and readied his more common concoctions; harmless vials of healing herbs to clean wounds. I understood that he did this to avoid suspicion when the soldiers came back to town with already-healed bruises.

“Fortunate that we have a physician amongst all that rubble. And pity that our comrades weren’t able to save themselves when they saved you.” The man winced, shaking his head when he realized that his tone could have been taken as accusatory. “I do not blame anyone but the beasts.”

Wilbur only nodded as he tended to his arms and face. The other man with haunted eyes asked only that we pray for the souls of their fallen, that they might find peace in the Miracle’s embrace.

Woodrow’s composure slipped for a moment, but he quickly regained it. We bowed our heads. I was the only one who dared to pray aloud. As I murmured the words, a sudden cold fear gripped me; a shudder that rippled through my veins like ice. I closed my eyes, and the vision hit me like a blow.

Ealhstan. I saw him deep in the tunnels, pummeling beasts into dust. He was battered, weak, yet still strong. But then the vision shifted, pulling me deeper into Mount Lhottem’s heart. There were dens, vast chambers filled with more monsters—creatures with tails and wings and spikes. My breath hitched, the weight of it crushing my chest. My knees buckled, but Claude and Wilbur caught me before I hit the ground.

“Ryne?” Claude’s voice, low and steady, grounded me. I blinked, the edges of reality slowly coming back into focus. Wilbur was asking me with his eyes what I saw.

I shook my head, forcing a smile. I turned to Claude. “I’m fine. Just… exhausted.”

Claude frowned, his grip tightening as if he feared I might collapse at any moment. He glanced at the bodies, one on each of Woodrow and Wilbur’s broad shoulders, their limbs hanging limp and cold. He bit his lip, the weight of grief settling into his gaze. “We’ll carry them home,” he murmured quietly, his voice a thread of resolve.

Woodrow stepped closer, his presence a quiet, unspoken command. “Why don’t you two go on ahead?” he said softly. “Check on Wilbur’s new ores for a moment. Make sure there’s no more danger coming from the blocked entrances.”

Before Claude or I could protest, Wilbur gave us a gentle shove, his gaze pleading. I glanced back, but Woodrow caught my eye and shook his head firmly. He turned to one of the Rothfield men, his voice dropping to a low, insistent murmur.

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“What do we tell Lord Bahram?” one of the survivors asked, his voice trembling.

Woodrow’s eyes glowed a faint green, the air around us seeming to thrum with power. “You will tell them nothing. All of you fought well, and it was Claude who led you back to safety when you did not listen to him.”

The man nodded slowly, his gaze unfocused, and I felt a pang of guilt. Woodrow’s charm washed over them, clouding their memories, turning them into a nightmare.

When he was done, Woodrow left the dazed men and approached us. “Claude,” Woodrow murmured, turning back to us. “Promise me. You must not tell them what you saw in the cave. Not a word. And you must not speak to the men about what happened. We ask this of you, please.”

Claude was taken aback by the new tone in Woodrow’s voice. He looked at me and I nodded, pleading with my eyes. He fixed Woodrow with a resolute gaze. “I promise. I haven’t told them anything about what happens at Rothfield.” Then he added quietly, “But… I’m not sure your monastery will be able to hold its secrets much longer.”

Woodrow’s mouth tightened, a shadow crossing his face. He nodded. We set them home, Claude and I clasping our arms together, before leaving.

“The boy speaks truth,” one of the Rothfield men muttered. “Try as we might to keep our secrets, the world has a way of uncovering them.”

There was nothing more to say. The truth hung heavy between us, unspoken but undeniable. With a silent nod, we made our way back to the monastery. Exhaustion seeped into my bones, my sight blurring as I recounted what I’d seen in the vision, the weight of it pressing down on me like a shroud. We trudged through the trees, three weary souls returning home.

We should have been glad. Ealhstan was safe. We had new ores to strengthen us. We had survived.

But mixed with the relief was shame for the lives we took, and fear of the dark things still lurking deep within Mount Lhottem.

Ember rested on my lap and I stroked her fur as sleep took me in its arms. Tomorrow evening, we will prepare for our brother’s return. And on the next moon, Rothfield Monastery would welcome a new monk into our fold.

—ROTHFIELD MONASTERY—

A chill wind swept through the monastery’s courtyard. The dark stone walls seemed to close in on me as I made my way down the winding path that led to the chapel. My boots scuffed against the flagstones, the soft thud of each step echoing louder than I liked in the evening quiet.

The blood vials in my satchel clinked together, a sharp, accusing sound.

I paused at the chapel doors, taking a deep breath. The heaviness in my chest tightened, and I pressed a hand to my sternum, as if I could ease the guilt that coiled there like a living thing. I glanced up at the sky, where clouds drifted across the sliver of moonlight, casting fleeting shadows over the monastery grounds.

I wondered if Gaelmar saw everything that I did tonight. His statue looked at the church, still and unmoving; sometimes he looked more like a stern figure than a solemn one. I did not look into his eyes, fearing he would glare down at me, the colors dulled and darkened in the fading light.

“I’m not sure if you’re watching,” I murmured, my voice barely more than a whisper. “But I feel it. Your disappointment.”

The silence pressed in around me, and I bowed my head. Gaelmar’s gaze bore down, cold. Each week, I drew more blood than I should. Each week, I crossed the line between necessity and greed. And each week, I felt the sting of shame burn deeper.

The worst part was knowing they trusted me. The villagers came willingly, offering their blood without complaint. I saw the way they looked at me, hope mingled with acceptance. Even the children came, their tiny arms outstretched, eyes squeezed shut against the sharp prick of the needle. I tried to steel myself against the sight, tried to focus on the task at hand, but each time, my resolve wavered.

I offered them nothing more than a weak smile. No honey-dipped petals like Wilbur had. No soothing words. Just a tired, strained smile that Agate noticed never reached my eyes.

With a weary sigh, I turned away from the chapel and made my way back to the village. Evening shadows lengthened. The trees and their branches looked like arms crossed in disappointment. I shuddered. I promised only that I will make it up to them, so each time I gathered prayers, I offered it all to strengthen Gaelmar’s holy hopeflame in the lake and meadow, making it brighter.

Thankfully, I can reserve more of my kindflame now with the miasma lessening along with Wilbur’s many experiments. I thanked him, thanked Woodrow as well, telling them both that I could not have done this without them. They smiled, but Wilbur crept close to me and held my lowered gaze. I admitted I felt awful harvesting their blood.

“You’re doing what you have to,” Wilbur said softly. “For Ealhstan. For all of us. You’re not betraying anyone.”

“But the blood—” I faltered, my voice breaking. I clenched my fists, staring down at the ground. “It’s too much. I’m taking too much.”

“And yet they still trust you,” He murmured. He lifted a hand, his fingers brushing against my arm. “Because they know you’d never take more than you have to. Because you’re you, Ryne.”

I swallowed hard, the knot in my throat tightening. I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that the villagers trusted me and what I was doing will benefit them. But doubt gnawed at me, whispering dark thoughts at the edges of my mind. I will make it up to them.

—LAKE—

I approached the edge of the village. A familiar figure came into view. Claude leaned against a low fence wall, arms crossed, his gaze distant as he watched the flicker of lantern light from the cottages. His face softened when he saw me, and he straightened, his easy smile a balm to my frayed nerves.

“Ryne,” he called softly, stepping forward. “Finished already with your bloodletting? What did Wilbur find?”

I nodded, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. “For now, yes. And Wilbur has found nothing yet.”

He studied me for a moment, his gaze lingering on my face. There was concern in his eyes. He reached out, resting a hand on my shoulder. The warmth of his touch seeped through the layers of fabric, grounding me, as it always did.

“Come on,” he murmured, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Let’s go to the lake. Get some fresh air. We can fish a bit, if you want.”

I blinked, surprised. “Now?”