Ealhstan wiped the sweat from his brow as the forge blazed hotter than he had ever seen it. The flames licked hungrily at the iron, casting flickering shadows across the crypt walls. The air was thick with heat and the scent of burning coal, but it was the holy presence in the room that made the space feel alive.
Ryne stood nearby, his hands clasped tightly, his face. The prayer he had woken with still hummed faintly in the back of his mind, guiding his actions. He watched as Ealhstan hammered out the glowing spear points, his movements skilled and precise. Each strike echoed around Ealhstan’s forge.
When the spear tips were ready, Ryne stepped closer, his voice trembling with exhaustion. "Hold it steady," he instructed, his hand trembling slightly as he reached out toward the searing-hot metal. Ealhstan hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he watched Ryne's pale fingers move toward the blistering spearhead.
“Are you mad?” Ealhstan growled, his protective instincts flaring. “You’ll burn yourself.”
But Ryne ignored him, leaning in as he kissed the glowing metal. His lips brushed the scorching surface, but instead of burning, the iron seemed to cool and shimmer faintly, as though touched by divine light. He whispered a prayer to Saint Gaelmar, his voice barely audible but heavy with intent.
The moment was still, save for the faint hum of blessed energy resonating through the room. Ealhstan stepped back, his hand involuntarily clutching his chest as he felt the power settle over the weapons. The air seemed to hum with tension, the divine mark etched into the spear points now glowing faintly.
With a sudden, sharp inhale, Ealhstan reached out to touch the tip of one of the newly blessed spears. He recoiled immediately, his fingers tingling as though he’d grasped a live coal. "These are no ordinary weapons anymore."
Ryne swayed, his strength fading as the blessing took its toll. Ealhstan reached out to steady him, his broad hands firm but gentle on the monk’s shoulders. “You’ve done more than enough,” he said, his tone softened by awe. “Rest. You’ll need your strength.”
But Ryne shook his head, his resolve unbroken despite the weariness that clouded his vision. Elastane twirled the spear in his hands. These weapons will strike true. They will cut through the agents of Chaos like sunlight through mist.
He glanced at the spears, their steel tips now glinting with a faint, ethereal sheen. “Let’s make more. The warriors will need every blessed blade we can forge.”
Together, they returned to the forge, the holy fire blazing bright and relentless. Though Ryne’s strength wavered, his faith did not, and Ealhstan worked tirelessly, his every movement guided by the divine marks now etched into their purpose. The crypts echoed with the sound of hammers striking iron and the faint murmurs of prayers.
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In the granges, the clanging of metal filled the night air, punctuated by cheers and laughter. The elders, Harlan and Agate, moved with surprising agility for their age, their sparring drawing a crowd of warriors and villagers alike. The rhythmic clash of their steel-tipped spears against reinforced shields rang out, a sound that resonated with pride and unity. Around them, warriors practiced with their new weapons, their movements steady and sharp, while the onlookers shouted encouragement.
Ealhstan leaned against the edge of the forge, watching it all with a faint smile. Warriors approached him throughout the night, their arms laden with offerings of eggs, meat, and freshly baked bread. "For your work," they said, their gratitude evident. He accepted each gift graciously, though he had no need of food. The gesture was symbolic, a sign of respect he could not refuse.
But as the sparring continued, the scene in front of him began to blur. Ealhstan blinked, gripping the edge of the forge tightly as the cheering crowd dissolved into a different vision. The warriors, clad in leather and chainmail, shifted into figures adorned in gleaming silver armor, their capes flowing behind them in a gentle breeze. The moonlight gave way to brilliant sunlight, yet it did not sear his skin. Instead, it felt warm and comforting, as if welcoming him to a memory.
The leader of the shining guard stepped forward, their armor polished to a mirror-like sheen. They removed their helmet, revealing a youthful face, resolute and determined. The figure knelt before Ealhstan, their voice clear and unwavering.
“We are ready to march, Lord Ealhstan.”
Ealhstan’s breath caught in his throat. He looked around, his surroundings transformed into a golden field stretching endlessly beneath the sun. Rows upon rows of warriors stood at attention, their weapons gleaming, their gazes fixed on him with unwavering loyalty. The weight of their expectation pressed down on him like an invisible chain.
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He tried to speak, but no words came. His hands rested on the hilt of a sword he did not recall carrying. It was intricately engraved, the mark of Saint Gaelmar glowing faintly along the blade.
The vision wavered again, the golden field fading back into the cool night of the crypt. The cheers of the crowd returned, the elders still sparring, their laughter echoing in the air. Ealhstan let out a shaky breath, his grip on the forge loosening as reality reasserted itself.
Had it been a vision? A memory? Or something else entirely? He couldn’t say. But the words lingered in his mind, heavy with meaning.
We are ready to march.
Ealhstan's vision spun, his balance faltering as the world tilted. He barely registered his name being called before he hit the ground with a heavy thud. The cool stone beneath him steadied his senses as he blinked, regaining focus. Ryne was kneeling beside him, his face etched with worry.
"Are you all right?" Ryne asked, placing a steadying hand on Ealhstan's shoulder.
Ealhstan shook his head and sat upright, his mind still swimming with fragments of the vision. "I saw... something," he began slowly. His voice was hoarse as if the words themselves resisted being spoken. "A memory, maybe. Or a dream. It felt... real."
Ryne’s brow furrowed, his concern deepening. "A memory?" He straightened, calling for the others. Wilbur and Woodrow arrived swiftly, their expressions mirroring Ryne's concern.
As Ealhstan recounted what he had seen, the brothers listened in rapt silence. He spoke of the silver-clad warriors, the blazing sunlight, and the leader's words—Lord Ealhstan, we are ready to march.
When he finished, there was a heavy pause. The brothers exchanged uncertain glances.
Wilbur spoke first, his voice measured. "A memory, you think?" His sharp eyes studied Ealhstan as if trying to pierce through to some hidden truth.
"It could be a trick," Ealhstan admitted. "Or some fragment of the past trying to surface."
The wonder was evident on Ryne’s face. "And you recognized them?" he asked cautiously.
Ealhstan hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground. He grunted, then gave a slow, reluctant nod.
"Lord Ealhstan, you said." Woodrow's tone was light, but his expression was thoughtful. "If you were a noble in your past life, it would explain a lot. I've always said you were too gallant for your own good."
"Gallant?" Ealhstan raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching in the ghost of a smirk.
The comment drew a faint chuckle from Ryne, though his worry lingered. "But why now? Why would you remember this now?"
Wilbur tapped a finger against his lips. "The weapons you blessed earlier—the ones marked with Saint Gaelmar's seal. It might have awakened something in you. A connection to the past, to whoever you were before..." He trailed off, his red eyes narrowing slightly in thought.
Ealhstan rubbed his temple, the memory still vivid in his mind. "Who I was before doesn't matter," he said firmly, though his voice wavered ever so slightly. "What matters is here and now."
"Still," Ryne said gently, "if these memories are real, they might hold meaning. They could guide us. Or warn us."
Ealhstan grunted in acknowledgment but said nothing more. The brothers’ questions swirled around him, but his thoughts were elsewhere, lingering on the sunlight-drenched field and the warriors who had looked to him with such trust.
For now, he would focus on the present. But the weight of the vision lingered, a reminder that some shadows of the past never truly fade.
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Woodrow rapped firmly on the weathered wooden door of the thieves' hut. The hollow thuds echoed in the stil night. He had asked Jerome to play loudly this night. A scuffle would soon arise in this part of the monastery. He already suspected the group operating here; their shadowy dealings were all too familiar. But it was Ryne's words that held him back—be more open, Woodrow.
He sighed, his patience thin as he waited. Behind the door, he could hear muffled whispers. They sounded worried, hurried. The sound of furniture scraping against the floor confirmed they were barricading themselves.
The door creaked open just enough for a tall, scowling man to fill the frame. He glared down at the monk, taking in Woodrow’s calm demeanor and unassuming robes.
Woodrow offered a disarming smile and lightly tapped his cheek with two fingers. "Let me in," he said, his voice smooth and firm.
The guard's expression softened immediately, his glare fading into a blank stare. Wordlessly, he stepped aside, leaving the door wide open.
From inside came startled gasps and murmurs of confusion. The other thieves glared at the man who had opened the door, anger flaring in their eyes.
Woodrow raised his hands in mock surrender as he stepped inside, the polite smile never leaving his face. "It's not his fault," he said lightly. "I can be very persuasive."
The tension in the room thickened as the thieves sized him up, realizing too late that the monk was no ordinary visitor. In one swift motion, Woodrow pulled a dagger from beneath his robes, the blade gleaming in the dim light.