—DARK FOREST—
They slipped between the trees of the dark forest, escaping the noise and seeking fresh air. Ryne glanced back at the warm glow of the church, his steps faltering. Laughter. He couldn’t believe it—laughter from the church. He was certain Gaelmar would have approved of the scene: the glow of flames bathing his statue as people smiled and ate beneath his stone feet.
Ryne turned his gaze to Claude, taking in his thick brows and untamed hair, and on impulse, he hugged him. Claude paused, startled, before hugging him back, blinking in surprise.
They lingered in the woods for a while, playing like children, ducking behind tree trunks and grabbing at each other. Ryne kept an eye on Claude, making sure he didn’t stumble over the tangled roots beneath their feet.
He thought he was the one watching out for Claude, but Claude surprised him, catching his arm and spinning him around to face him.
“You look tired,” Claude remarked, his tone hovering between a gentle scold and a plea.
“It’s nothing,” Ryne replied, brushing off the concern. “We have more important things to focus on.”
Claude stopped abruptly, his grip tightening on Ryne’s arm. The sudden movement made Ryne wobble, but Claude steadied him again, his hands lingering just a moment too long.
Ryne opened his mouth to argue but stopped when he saw the intensity in Claude’s eyes. The mist curled around them, silencing the world and leaving them alone in a moment suspended in time.
“Why do you always do that?” Ryne asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Do what?”
“Put me first,” Ryne said, his brow furrowing. Friendship was still foreign to him, and he wasn’t used to this kind of care.
Claude exhaled a soft laugh, the warmth of it visible in the cold night air. “Because someone has to.”
Ryne’s heart thudded in his chest. Before he could respond, Claude patted his shoulder and started walking again, his frame cutting through the mist. Ryne stood there for a moment, watching him, his emotions tangling in his chest. He gulped.
“Come on,” Claude called back, his voice soft, his smile softer.
With a faint smile of his own, Ryne followed.
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Claude stared at his father’s sword, as though the hilt might somehow reveal his father’s whereabouts. Ryne placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He remembered seeing that same look on children clutching their straw dolls, and he knew it mirrored the expression he’d worn while gazing at Gaelmar’s sigil.
The two boys exchanged a quiet glance. Claude closed his eyes as Ryne gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
Harsh whispers and hurried footsteps broke the stillness near the church. Ryne quickly withdrew his hand when a handful of villagers from the war-torn lands passed by, their glares sharp and unkind. Ryne didn’t want to mark Claude with the animosity the newcomers so freely directed at him. Not all had been moved by their words on that stormy night in the church. He wanted to protect Claude from the scorn, especially since the villagers of Kent held him in such high regard.
But Claude made an impatient sound, his thick brows drawing together as he glared back at the villagers.
Woodrow’s whistle cut through the tension, signaling for Claude to return to their training. Claude was improving—his strikes more assured, his movements fluid. The newcomers murmured at the sight, their gasps audible. They hadn’t yet witnessed Woodrow’s fierce swordplay sessions. Some shook their heads in disapproval, while others stepped forward, curious.
Ryne, for his part, was simply glad Claude was getting better at both attacking and defending. He would need those skills to survive the lower depths of Mount Lhottem, where Wilbur had requested amethysts. But first, there was training to complete. Claude needed to learn how to dodge in rapid succession, to avoid the talons of the corvus beasts.
Woodrow mimicked their attack patterns as he sparred with Claude—leaping and slashing, diving and hacking. His dagger became the monstrous beaks, and his swirling cloak, the beasts’ flapping wings.
In the nights that followed, Ryne found himself heartened by the sight of the villagers of Kent teaching the newcomers how to fight, integrating them into their training sessions. He silently thanked Agate and Harlan for their efforts.
When Woodrow dismissed Claude from training, he would return to Ryne at the church steps. They often sat together, talking as Claude stared at the sword in his hand.
“Lord Bahram hasn’t summoned me since the night we found your brother, Ealhstan,” Claude said one evening. “But he keeps sending other common soldiers beyond Rothfield.”
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“Is that a bad thing?” Ryne asked.
Claude’s tone turned sullen. “I think it means he doesn’t want to pay me. He wants to remind us that we’re under his rule and powerless without him.”
Ryne opened his mouth to respond, but Claude continued, his teeth flashing in a rare, bitter grin. “And yet it burns him that we still manage to send him tribute. That I look well-fed and strong. Even Vincent seethes. They want me gone the moment I toss the rich grains you make.”
Ryne chuckled. “You’ll make a fine soldier indeed. He’s a fool to waste your talent.”
Claude beamed at the words, his shoulders straightening.
It was true—Claude had saved men before. On the night direwolves attacked the village, it was Claude who stood firm, thanks to Woodrow’s training.
Soon, they would journey to Mount Lhottem again, if they were to heal the sick languishing in Wilbur’s infirmary.
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Ealhstan emerged from the dark forest, heaving a great boulder on his back. He set it down with a resounding thud that shook the earth, sending smaller pebbles jumping into the air. Some of the frightened children peeked back, inching closer. Ealhstan smiled at them. Like Wilbur, he would wait patiently for their trust.
Unfortunately for him, earning trust was far easier for Wilbur. Wilbur looked harmless and soothed the sick, healing the injured with gentle care. Ealhstan, however, was seen as a brute, someone who crushed iron and stone with his bare hands. When outside, he pretended to use tools—hammers and chisels—so people might grow accustomed to him. He used this ruse while constructing the stone wall that would encircle the monastery.
Ealhstan glanced back at the dark forest. It served as a natural defense, warding off the dark things slithering in Mount Lhottem. But Ryne had warned him that the force protecting the forest was weakening. Even so, the forest didn’t harm living people. Trouble, as Ealhstan knew too well, often came from the living.
Some shifty characters had recently taken refuge in the monastery. He and Woodrow had sensed it while Wilbur and Ryne were preoccupied with tending to the sick. That was when Ealhstan began building the wall. For now, it would be low, but he planned to add height and width over time. He crushed the boulders he had gathered from the dark forest, cutting them crudely. Piece by piece, he laid the stones, binding them together with lime mortar and rubble.
Ryne’s small footsteps echoed softly in the still night. Ealhstan straightened, ready to show him the progress he had made. When Ealhstan had shared his plan to build the wall, Ryne had told him precisely where it should stand. Ryne had consulted their patron saint, Gaelmar, for guidance, learning that a massive wall had once divided the land in the saint's time.
Ryne explained there were natural, mystical lines running beneath the ground, lines that bolstered the monastery’s defenses. The power they offered was not strong, especially now, with the darkness corrupting the land, but it was something. Ryne carefully mapped out the areas where Ealhstan should place the stones.
Ealhstan watched as Ryne moved along the wall, running his small hand across its surface as if testing its strength. Unable to resist, Ealhstan chuckled and scooped Ryne up, placing him atop the wall so they were eye to eye. Ryne let out a soft laugh, spinning around to take in the view of the small fires burning in the granges below.
Ealhstan studied the boy’s face in the flickering light, noting the weariness etched into his young features—a weariness that seemed eternal. To think this boy was harmless in our time…
Ryne spoke softly, his gaze lingering on the distant fires. “I am glad for these flames. Back when we first came here, Rothfield was nothing but black and grey. Gaelmar approves of the life slowly lighting his land.”
“Is he a spirit, this Gaelmar? He does not pass to the Great Miracle?” Ealhstan asked, curiosity evident in his tone.
Ryne shook his head. “He is a Saint. A guardian. Back when he and his comrades were on the verge of felling the Chaos, something happened. Somehow, they could not move on.”
“And what of the others?”
“The other Saints?” Ryne shook his head again, a trace of sorrow crossing his face. “He does not know. But he still feels them.”
Ealhstan nodded thoughtfully and then reached for something at his side. He held up a metal contraption—a lantern designed to protect the candle within. He showed it to Ryne with a spark of pride. “I thought that since your fire keeps the shadow at bay, it would be better if it ran along the walls, don’t you think?”
Ryne smiled gently and lit the candle inside the lantern. He whispered a small prayer of protection and carefully closed the latch. His eyes traveled the length of the wall, envisioning what it would look like once completed.
Ealhstan shifted slightly, his brow furrowing as he voiced a concern that had been gnawing at him. “I’m keeping a close eye on some of these new people. We can’t be too sure if they’ve come as refugees or if they’re here to take advantage of the poor. One of them caught my attention, It was a glint when he passed me. Could be hiding a dagger in his cloak.”
Ryne’s expression grew thoughtful. He, too, had noticed peculiarities among the newcomers. Some had avoided attending even a single Saintsday sermon, preferring instead to wander near the makeshift houses. One, in particular, had pressed his ear against the monastery wall as if listening for something, only to shuffle away quickly when Ryne’s gaze fell on him.
Ryne didn’t speak immediately but eventually nodded, conceding Ealhstan’s point. He allowed the larger man to carry him back to the ground.
Ryne patted Ealhstan’s arm with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. It always takes time for people to warm up to us.” But then, his voice dropped, becoming more somber. “You’ll be joining Claude in Mount Lhottem to gather the supplies, yes? Be careful.”
Ealhstan caught the weight in Ryne’s tone and smiled faintly to reassure him. “I’ll protect him. Not to worry. But I must say, your friend is quite capable. Stronger than most his age, I’d wager. He’s got the bearing of a fine warrior.”
Ryne offered no reply, his steps growing quieter as he walked away. He did not see Ealhstan’s brow knit in curiosity as a faint memory stirred.
It came like a spark—a sharp, fleeting image that struck his mind’s eye with the force of a flint. He saw himself polishing a great suit of silver armor, the gleaming surface catching the sunlight. Around him, the rhythmic sound of marching footsteps echoed. Soldiers, perhaps? And then, just as quickly, the vision was gone, leaving Ealhstan standing alone, puzzled and haunted by the fleeting glimpse of something long buried in his past.