The moon hung low over the small town, casting a silvery glow on cobblestones slick with mist. Each stone trembled under the sheen, creating a shifting dance of reflections that flowed like liquid silver. Shadows stretched long and dark between the huddled, crumbling buildings, their jagged forms blending seamlessly with the fog that curled through the alleys. This fog was more than just a presence; it was a sickness that clung to the skin, seeping into the breath of every living thing. It whispered doubt into the hearts of those who dared to linger outside, gnawing at their courage like a hungry rat.
The streets were silent, haunted by the distant, uneasy murmurs that seeped from behind shuttered windows and bolted doors. Wooden beams creaked as if sighing under the weight of the fear within. It was a town teetering on the edge of its own heartbeat, caught in a constant flinch.
In an alley, shrouded by the deeper darkness where moonlight dared not reach, Woodrow stood with a calmness that contrasted the tension gripping the village. His crimson hair caught fleeting silver glimmers, threads of moonlight weaving through his vibrant strands. The subtle, predatory glint in his green eyes hinted at both danger and allure, a warning wrapped in charm. He seemed to be carved from the night itself, exuding a quiet power that promised both salvation and ruin.
Ryne stood beside him, smaller and wrapped in the loose folds of his monk’s robe. His fingers, pale as frost, twisted nervously in the fabric, forming restless knots as he tried to steady himself. The strange vein-like markings on his face pulsed subtly under the moonlight, giving him the look of a porcelain figure that was cracked but not broken.
“Steady, Ryne,” Woodrow said, his voice low and smooth. “Your kind of charm is not to deceive. It’s to offer comfort in a moment of doubt, to cradle someone’s fear and soothe it without completely smothering it.”
Ryne swallowed, a shiver running through his shoulders. His eyes were wide, pools of blue reflecting the flickering light above and the deeper, blue-glow flicker of hope within. Tonight was more than just a test; it was essential. If he and Claude were to navigate the corrupted lands where trust was as rare as gold and betrayal grew like wild thorns, he would need to wield this newfound skill with precision.
The air between them was still, anticipating the first steps of their target as she moved from shadow into light. The village seemed to hold its breath, the silence only interrupted by the gentle creak of wooden signs swaying on rusted chains. Woodrow’s eyes remained fixed on Ryne, the slight curve of his smile offering both reassurance and a challenge. The small monk inhaled deeply, allowing Woodrow’s words to settle within him, grounding him as he readied himself to confront fear with something even stronger: trust, fragile and tentative yet flickering like the flame of a blue candle in the dark.
“Who will we practice on?” Ryne’s voice was little more than a whisper, swallowed by the heavy, damp air. The quiet pressed down on them, thick and stifling, as if the night itself was listening.
Woodrow’s smile widened, sharp as the crescent moon above, a spark of amusement dancing in his green eyes. His red hair caught the silvery light, casting fleeting glimmers that seemed almost ablaze. He leaned in, close enough for Ryne to catch the faint scent of aged parchment and rain on stone. “The merchant’s wife,” he said, each word wrapped in a smooth cadence. “She comes to the well after dark, believing no one notices. Her husband drinks himself into a stupor most nights, and she seeks the cool breath of night to soothe her anger.”
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As if summoned by Woodrow’s voice, footsteps echoed from around the corner, a soft, rhythmic patter that paused intermittently. The fabric of a thick wool cloak whispered against the stone, brushing nervously with each stop. The woman’s steps were tentative, marked by the caution of someone all too aware of the dangers lurking in the dark. Ryne’s pulse quickened, each beat pressing against the vein-like markings on his face, making them twitch as if they had a life of their own. He cast a sidelong glance at Woodrow, seeking reassurance.
Woodrow met his gaze and nodded. “Breathe,” he murmured, the word hanging in the air like an unspoken incantation. “Let your eyes soften. Hold your hands as if you’re offering something sacred. Your Saint Gaelmar said you can learn our powers. So you will. Channel your kindflame and instead of merely healing the land, let it warm your voice, your eyes.”
Ryne took a slow breath, the chill of the night seeping deep into his chest, sharpening his nerves into a cold focus. He channeled the kindflame and followed Woodrow’s guidance, feeling the tangible warmth envelop him like a cloak, urging him onward. He stepped into the sickly glow of moonlight just as the merchant’s wife emerged from the mist. Her eyes, wide and dark beneath the shadow of her hood, met his with the intensity of a startled doe.
“Good evening, madam,” Ryne said, keeping his voice low and gentle. There was a softness in his tone, like a warm invitation to a cozy fire. The woman tensed for a moment, but the rigid line of her shoulders relaxed slightly. The tension in her eyes faded, as if she had just recalled a distant memory.
“I didn’t see you there,” she replied, her voice hesitant, gripping the basket she held a little tighter. Her gaze darted between Ryne and the shadowy figure behind him—Woodrow, observing with a sly smile that suggested he approved of the encounter.
Ryne shifted, the fabric of his robe rustling softly. He tilted his head, revealing his marked face in the dim light. The dark veins on his pale skin appeared almost ornamental in the gentle glow, resembling an unusual blessing rather than a curse. “We mean you no harm,” he assured her, his voice carrying a sincere plea. He took a careful step forward, his movement. “The night can be dangerous, and it would put my mind at ease to know you are safe. May we walk with you for a while?”
The merchant’s wife blinked, uncertainty flickering across her face. The silence hung heavily, like a taut string ready to snap. Her lips parted, and for a moment, the miasma seemed to hiss around them. But then, she nodded slightly, the movement as delicate as a moth’s wing.
“If you’d like,” she whispered, her gaze returning to Woodrow, who bowed his head elegantly. The moonlight glinted in his green eyes, transforming them into liquid emeralds, shimmering with a playful hint of secrets.
“Lead the way, madam,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. He stepped aside, allowing Ryne to move forward, the boy’s eyes alight.
As they walked, Ryne’s voice filled the stillness, spinning small tales of blue flames flickering bravely against the cold, words that softened the hiss of the miasma and pushed back the shadows. For a brief moment, as their footsteps echoed against the worn stone of the square, the corruption felt less stifling, and the night less harsh.