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Ryne knelt in the quiet church, his hands clasped tightly, his voice a soft whisper in the sacred stillness. He prayed for Claude. He thought he always will.
“May their spears pierce the monsters’ chests. May their shields protect them from fangs and talons,” he prayed, his heart heavy with worry for Claude and the others venturing into Mount Lhottem. The pale light of the early sun streamed through the stained glass, casting soft hues on Ryne’s pale blonde hair, illuminating his weary face.
If only he were stronger. If only he could control Gaelmar’s shieldflame for more than a fleeting, feeble moment. But he couldn’t. His strength lay elsewhere—in tending the land, healing the wounded, and bolstering the spirits of those who relied on him. He was the caretaker of Rothfield, tied not by chains but by something deeper, like the gentle embrace of vines or the hum of bees swarming protectively around their hive. He could leave the monastery and its grounds if he wished, but he knew that his connection to the land would weaken, and with it, the ability to call upon Gaelmar’s kindflame.
The door groaned loudly as it opened, shattering the solemn quiet. Ryne sighed, his prayer interrupted. Rising to his feet, he turned toward the sound and saw Agate hesitating in the doorway, her figure half-hidden in the morning light.
He nodded, a gentle permission. “Come in.”
Agate entered with confident strides, her gaze sweeping the space with approval. Her lips curved into a small smile as she took in the newly completed wooden pews, their polished surfaces gleaming faintly. “The craftsmen have outdone themselves,” she said, her voice warm with admiration. “It looks more and more like a church,” she commented.
Agate smoothed her short hair with practiced precision before settling next to Ryne on one of the front benches, her eyes fixed on the serene statue of Saint Gaelmar. The saint’s carved face bore a look of quiet resolve, a fitting reflection of the burdens carried by those in the room.
“I have to tell you,” Agate began, her tone measured, “there have been some missing items from our camp.”
Ryne turned to her, his brows furrowing slightly in concern.
“It started with little things,” Agate continued. “Bowls, at first. Then people began noticing threads and needles disappearing. An old hat went missing. A cane. And today…” She paused, “Eggs from the coop. We’re certain it’s not foxes, or else your sneaky brother would have spotted them by now.”
Ryne lowered his gaze, his fingers lightly tapping against the wood of the bench. “There’s a thief in Rothfield,” he murmured, his voice soft but tinged with certainty.
Agate nodded. “A petty one, so far. But thieves usually start with the small things, don’t they?”
Ryne let out a quiet sigh, his mind already racing with thoughts of the monastery’s fragile stability. “I understand,” he said after a moment. “I’ll call Woodrow tonight.”
Agate gave a short nod, satisfied. She leaned back slightly, her gaze returning to Saint Gaelmar’s statue. “Best to handle it before it becomes more than a nuisance,” she said. “The people are already anxious enough.”
Ryne didn’t respond immediately. He stared at the flickering candles illuminating the saint’s likeness, their light casting dancing shadows along the church walls.
“I’ll handle it,” Ryne finally said, his voice steady. “And if it’s someone in need… we’ll address that too.”
Agate glanced at him, her lips curving into a faint smile. “You’re too kind, Ryne,” she said softly.
“Kindness is what keeps Rothfield alive,” Ryne replied, though his thoughts remained heavy.
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They returned early that night, their silhouettes emerging from the dark forest under the faint glow of the moon. Despite the dangers, they bore only minor injuries. Wilbur and Ryne were waiting anxiously at the border of Rothfield, carrying bundles of food and vials of medicinal tinctures.
As soon as Claude stepped into the clearing, Ryne ran to him, scattering dried leaves with his hurried steps. Without hesitation, they embraced, Claude's grin widening as he effortlessly picked Ryne up and spun him around, laughter filling the cool night air.
When he set Ryne down, Claude reached into his pack and pulled out a good-sized chunk of amethyst, placing it gently in Ryne's open palm. The gemstone sparkled faintly in the dim light. Behind him, Ealhstan carried a much larger piece in his arms, his powerful frame steady despite the weight.
Wilbur’s face lit up at the sight, his excitement unmistakable. “Magnificent,” he murmured, already retreating toward his lab with the treasures in tow, his mind undoubtedly racing with the medicines he was about to concoct.
“You should not have worried,” Ealhstan said, clapping a reassuring hand on Ryne’s shoulder. “The lad is a natural fighter, just as I said. Even Harlan was impressed with him.”
But Ryne could not help worrying. He always would, especially when it came to Claude. His concerns faded only slightly as he and Claude talked, the latter’s face flushed from the rush of adventure and his hair damp with sweat.
Later, they cooled off in the monastery’s secluded pool. The night air was cool against their skin, and the water rippled gently as they waded in. Ryne sat beside Claude, his hands pressing down on Claude’s swinging arm to relieve the tension in his muscles.
“You overdid it again,” Ryne chided softly, though his voice carried more fondness than reproach.
Claude chuckled, leaning back against the edge of the pool. “Maybe. But we made it back, didn’t we?”
Ryne smiled faintly, his touch steady as he worked out the knots in Claude’s arm. The stars above twinkled faintly, their light mirrored in the pool’s surface. For a moment, the weight of their burdens felt distant, replaced by a shared sense of peace.
Later that evening, Ryne entered Wilbur’s lab, where the room seemed alive with motion and sound. The space was a cacophony of bubbling cauldrons and hissing flasks, the scents of scorched metal and sweet petals blending into a strange, heady perfume. Shadows danced across the walls, cast by the flickering light of the lab’s many fires.
At the heart of it all stood Wilbur, stirring a small iron cauldron that Ealhstan had forged. The mixture inside glowed in shifting hues—yellow, then blue, then back to yellow—as Wilbur stirred it with a long iron spoon. The shivering maidens and everbane flowers in his hands added a delicate touch to the scene, their vibrant petals trembling slightly even as he plucked them apart.
Wilbur’s movements were methodical as he sprinkled the petals into various bottles, pausing now and then to scoop the shimmering mixture from the cauldron and pour it carefully into each container. Ealhstan worked nearby, grinding fire opals and amethysts into a fine, glittering powder, the sound of stone on stone adding to the lab's chaotic symphony.
Ryne took his place among them, his hands steady as he measured the precious powders on a set of iron scales. He worked silently, arranging the bottles as Wilbur completed them, wiping each one clean before setting it on a wooden tray. Each tray bore the name of a patient, scrawled neatly in Ryne’s handwriting.
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The three worked in harmony, their tasks overlapping seamlessly. Wilbur’s focus never wavered as he adjusted the mixtures, ensuring the medicines were perfect. Ealhstan continued crushing the gemstones with precision, and his massive hands were surprisingly gentle. Ryne moved quietly among them, the caretaker of their collective efforts, ensuring nothing was wasted or misplaced.
Ryne wiped his hands on a cloth and looked at Wilbur, who gave him a tired but satisfied smile.
“Another step forward,” Wilbur murmured, voice soft and determined.
When they finished their work, Ryne lingered in Wilbur's lab, meticulously cleaning the counters and tools while Wilbur left to deliver the doses. The air still carried the sharp tang of crushed gemstones and the faint sweetness of flowers as Ryne wiped down surfaces and organized supplies. It was a quiet, meditative task, a way to wind down after the intensity of their labor.
Meanwhile, Wilbur moved through the infirmary, his satchel of medicine clinking softly as he approached each patient. He administered the doses with a practiced hand, offering calm reassurances to those who stirred in their sleep or blinked wearily up at him.
When all the patients had been treated, Wilbur returned to his office where Ryne joined him. They slumped into chairs, the weight of the evening's work pulling at their shoulders.
“They’re all stable,” Wilbur said with a rare, relieved smile. His face softened as he exhaled deeply, but the moment of ease was fleeting. A sharp wince crossed his features as he clutched his stomach.
Ryne’s gaze narrowed. “You haven’t fed,” he stated, his tone caught between concern and reproach.
Wilbur shrugged, brushing it off. “Ealhstan needed it more,” he replied quietly.
Ryne didn’t press him further. Instead, he stepped outside, heading toward the communal fire where Claude, Harlan, and Agate were gathered. Wilbur stood and closed the door to his lab, leaving behind his satchels and the lingering scent of alchemy.
Their laughter and the crackling of flames echoed warmly through the granges, a rare moment of lightness amidst the trials of their days.
Wilbur heard the sounds even from his position further down the granges. He moved silently among the scattered houses, checking in on the families who had sought refuge at the monastery.
Knocking softly at each door, Wilbur offered quiet updates to the worried faces that peered out. “They’re in good condition,” he assured them, his voice steady and calm. “You can visit them in the morning. Look for Brother Ryne.”
Each time, the families nodded, their eyes relieved. Wilbur’s presence, though unsettling to some, carried an undeniable aura of competence and quiet authority.
When he finished his rounds, he stood for a moment in the cool night air, listening to the distant hum of voices from the communal fire. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he turned back toward the solitude of his lab.
He did his rounds until he reached the last house. Then he made his way back to the infirmary to drink the vial of blood that Ryne had collected from the healthier villagers.
He knew something was off the moment he passed the cloistered garth.
Someone was there, hiding behind the bushes he planted. He faced the giant oak tree.
Wilbur’s footsteps slowed as he neared the source of the scent, the faint rustle of movement just beyond the bushes giving away the hidden presence. His eyes narrowed as the shadows shifted, and he could just make out the outline of a figure huddled against the thick trunks of the oak tree.
“Show yourself,” Wilbur called again, his voice low but commanding.
The air grew still, and then, a rustle, followed by the creak of the man’s weight shifting as he slowly emerged from the shadows. A hooded figure stepped into view, the scent of sweat and strong beer now unmistakable, mingling with the earthy aroma of the cloistered garth.
Wilbur’s gaze hardened as he scanned the man’s face, noting the furtive glances and nervous movements.
The man’s smile twisted into something more sinister as he gripped the bottles tightly in his hand. Wilbur’s gaze locked onto them, the soft clinking of the glass made his eyes shoot up. His satchel of medicines. The man took a step back, his hands subtly shifting in his cloak as he tightened his grip on the stolen items.
“I said drop it,” Wilbur repeated, his voice colder now, every word laced with the quiet fury of someone whose trust had been betrayed. His eyes flashed with something darker as he stepped forward, his form casting a long shadow under the faint moonlight.
The thief hesitated for only a moment, his eyes flickering with uncertainty before he broke into a low chuckle. "You think you can stop me, monk? I didn’t think you’d be so quick to see through me." The bottle rattled again as the man gripped it tighter, his posture defensive, as if preparing to flee at a moment's notice.
Wilbur didn’t budge, his hands steady at his sides. “You’ll regret this,” he warned, taking another step closer, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had seen this kind of desperation before.
The man’s hand twitched, and then, with a swift movement, he flung one of the bottles into the air, his other hand reaching for something hidden within his cloak—a knife, perhaps, or a dagger.
Wilbur was faster. He reached out, grabbing the man’s wrist with a forceful grip, twisting it until the bottle dropped from his hand. Wilbur caught it before it shattered on the ground.
“Now, we’re going to have a talk,” Wilbur said, his voice like stone, “about how you plan to make this right.”
The thief frowned. They had told him stealing from Wilbur was easy. Mild-mannered and busy that he was. But something about Wilbr’s tone worried him. As a thief, he was trained to watch out for danger, and danger seemed to come from this lanky weak person in front of him. He pulled out his weapon, the one that almsot revealed itself to the giant monk when he was walking in that field that windy evening. “Step back. It would be a shame if I kill their only healer. Such a rare skill these days. I wouldn’t want to have to do this.”
“Neither do I. This is your final warning. I’m a bit famished and there’s no telling what I would do, especially with Ryne far away from me.” Wilbur’s tone had become darker and he was losing himself to hunger and hatred. He tried to regain his senses. He tried a different approach. “If you leave with that, then you will kill all the people resting in my infirmary. You don’t have to steal. Who is it that you’re trying to heal? Bring them here and I will care for them, just like any other. You don’t know how to correctly drink those vials.”
“I’m not giving this to anyone but the nobles who’d pay in gold,” the thief said. He moved quickly back into the shadows, but Wilbur could see him clearly as if it was daytime. He was about to run. Wilbur felt his nails get sharper. He felt his muscles tense.
The thief spun around and ran.
He did not make five steps before he stumbled to the ground with a big weight on top of him.
The thief's heart raced, and a cold sweat broke out across his forehead as he tried to wriggle free, but Wilbur’s weight pressed down on him with unnerving strength. His arms were pinned effortlessly to the ground, his struggles futile against the monk's grip. The air around him seemed to grow heavier.
His breath quickened, and he twisted his neck to see the source of the eerie red glow. Behind him were two red eyes gleaming like embers, burning with an unnatural hunger. Wilbur's fangs glinted under the pale light, sharper than any blade he had ever seen, and the thief's blood ran cold.
The monk's voice was low, almost a whisper. He almost sounded sad. "Why did you have to steal? Why did you have to pick this monastery?"
The thief swallowed hard, his mind scrambling for an answer, but no words came. All he could do was lie there, paralyzed by fear.
The sound of Wilbur’s breathing slowed as he leaned closer, his face casting a shadow over the thief. For a long moment, there was silence, the only sound being the faint rustling of the leaves in the breeze. Wilbur’s fangs sank into his neck swiftly. A sharp, wet squelch followed by the thief’s strangled gasp echoed through the stillness of the night. His body stiffened, his struggles weakening, as the life drained from him.
Wilbur did not rush. He fed carefully. The thief's vision blurred, his world fading to darkness as the monk’s cold lips withdrew from his throat. The final thud of his body hitting the ground was the last sound he ever heard.
He looked down at the lifeless body, a faint grimace passing over his features before he turned away. There was no time to dwell on this. The thief had made his choice, and now Wilbur had made his.
With a final glance toward the monastery, Wilbur made his way back to the infirmary and washed the blood from his skin and robes.
After supper, Wilbur did not meet Ryne’s eyes as they passed each other on the grounds. He approached Woodrow instead. “You told me to tell you if I fed on anyone. I did. A thief. He’s in my gardens. Hurry.”
Woodrow’s smile faltered, but he kept it back on his face as they walked easily back to the monastery, passing people on their way. He looked down at the crumpled corpse on the ground. “Help me dig,” he said to Wilbur.
Their sharp nails dug through the dirt as if it were nothing, listening to Wilbur as he explained. It was over quickly: just a fresh mound where Wilbur could plant his next batch of flowers. He was thinking of a plan to deal with the rest of the thieves in their base of operations. He knew how to handle vermin.