---BREWERY (CLAUDE'S POV)---

Claude brought out the jar of expensive honey, recounting how the traveling merchant was glad of the coppers he was given. “If only your garden could attract bees somehow, eh, Brother Wilbur? Then you can make your own. It’s already attracting butterflies, anyway.”

Wilbur smiled and nodded. “Hopefully. Now then… mead, unlike ale, is simple but fickle,” Wilbur explained, picking up the jar of honey and removing its stopper. “It’s merely honey, water, and yeast. But the yeast… ah, it has a mind of its own. Too vigorous, and the mead ferments too quickly, leaving it sharp and harsh. Too sluggish, and it spoils.”

He poured the honeyed water into a large wooden barrel, his hands moving with practiced ease. Claude watched as Wilbur added a bit of dried elderflower and some cloves for flavor, then sprinkled in a small pinch of yeast from a linen pouch. He stirred the mixture gently with a long-handled spoon, the pale liquid swirling in soft eddies.

“After this, we seal the barrel and wait,” Wilbur said, smiling faintly. “There’s little more to it, really, except patience and the wisdom to know when to let nature take its course.”

“And the grapes?” Claude asked, glancing at a basket of plump, dusky fruits sitting nearby. Claude marveled at how the new crops grew after they harvested the feldspar and unakite ores. He was also shy in touching the dark purple skin of the grapes as if they were the fabrics of nobles, because only the lords and clergy can plant these in their yards. Only they can eat them.

But Wilbur did not notice. His eyes lit up. “Ah, the grapes. Come, I’ll show you.”

He led Claude to a large wooden press, its heavy screw and planks shining with the sheen of recent use. They set the grapes into the press, the dark globes spilling and tumbling like small treasures. With a grunt of effort, Claude turned the screw, the press descending slowly onto the grapes, their skins bursting under the pressure. A thick, purple juice trickled down into the collecting basin below, filling the air with the tart, heady scent of fresh must.

“We’ll mix some of this grape must into the ale and mead during the second fermentation,” Wilbur explained. “It will add complexity, sweetness, and deepen the flavor. A bit of old Roman technique I picked up in a parchment somewhere.”

Claude’s hands were stained red from the grapes, the juice sticky on his fingers. He nodded thoughtfully, watching the juice collect. He marveled at the vast knowledge that Wilbur carried in his head.

For the rest of the evening, they worked side by side. They drained the wort from the barley mash, filtering it through woven sieves to remove the husks. The sweet, golden liquid was then transferred to a large copper kettle where they added handfuls of dried hops, Wilbur explaining how the hops would preserve the ale and impart a bitter counterpoint to the malt’s sweetness. They boiled the wort, the scent filling the brewery with an almost festive aroma; earthy, sweet, and slightly floral.

When the wort had cooled, they racked it into a series of wooden fermenting casks, along with the freshly pressed grape must and a touch of Wilbur’s carefully cultivated yeast. They sealed each cask tightly, and Wilbur marked them with wax seals; a different symbol for each type of brew. One for ale, one for mead, another for the mixed ale and grape blend they’d experimented with.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Now we wait,” Wilbur said, wiping his hands on a rag. “The yeast will do its work, turning the sugars into alcohol and infusing the brew with its own unique character.”

He looked at Claude, eyes shining with a quiet pride. “You did well today, Brother Claude. You’ve the hands of a brewer, steady and strong.”

Claude smiled, his gaze drifting over the rows of sealed casks, already thinking of the festivities.

---GRANGES (RYNE'S POV)---

Weeks passed in quiet calmness. Claude was in his element. He strode through the fields with a confidence I hadn’t seen in him before, sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening on his brow as he directed villagers in the harvest and, surprisingly, the brewing process. Barrels were stacked high, already fermenting the

He waved at us, a grin lighting up his face as he held up a bottle. “Ryne! Ealhstan! Wilbur! Come here. You’ve got to try this.”

We walked over, exchanging curious glances. Claude’s energy was infectious, and the workers nearby watched him. He uncorked the bottle with a flourish, pouring a deep, golden ale into wooden cups he’d brought with him. Foam bubbled at the top, the aroma rich and earthy.

I took a tentative sip, and my eyes widened in surprise. It was good. More than good. It was excellent. The beer was smooth and robust, with just the right balance of bitterness and sweetness, a hint of fruitiness lingering on the tongue.

“Claude, this is…” Ealhstan trailed off, his eyes narrowing in contemplation as he savored the taste. “This is damn fine beer.”

Claude’s grin widened. “Thought you’d like it! I’ve been experimenting with the new grain Wilbur and I developed. We’re calling it Moonspire Barley. Actually, Wilbur says anything we grow here in Rothfield should have a ‘moon’ attached to it. Moonspire carrots, moonspire sheep, moonspire ale–anyway–this kind of barley seems perfect for brewing. It’s so sweet! So unlike the gray barley on our farm, anyway. Or anywhere else.”

“It’s… exceptional,” Wilbur said, examining the cup as if he did not play a big part in cultivating it. “This has the potential to be a true export. People would travel from all over to sample it.”

I thought of a bright possibility just then, my hopes that this monastery becomes a center for trade and innovation. Not just for our own people, but for everyone.

Later that evening, Wilbur confined in me the changes in Claude. “Your friend is growing so much. From a boy plagued by self-doubt to a man with a vision. He could be a leader who could inspire others.” He smiled at me softly. “I see you grow, too.”

I shifted slightly, feeling the faint warmth of the kindflame flickering just beneath my skin. He was right. It had changed, too, evolving as I’d pushed myself further and further. Where once it had been a simple spark of heat, now it could be molded, extended; an aura of flame that wrapped around my allies, bolstering them, amplifying their strength and stamina. With it, I could shield Claude from harm or lend him the endurance to keep going when others would have faltered.

I raised my hand, letting the kindflame dance across my fingers, the light brightening as it spread outward in a shimmering, translucent barrier. There was still so much to be done, so many threats lurking on the horizon, so many battles left to fight. But for the first time in a long time, I felt ready.

Rothfield and the monastery were no longer places of despair. They were becoming sanctuaries, havens of growth and possibility. And it was all thanks to the efforts of a few people who refused to give up, no matter how dark the road had seemed.

I glanced at Claude sitting with the people of Kent, waiting for me, and I felt a fierce surge of affection. He waved his arm, calling me over. Whatever came next, whatever trials awaited us, we would face them together.

And we would not falter.