Claude followed the instructions carefully, selecting a patch of land near the edge of the dark forest where the soil was untouched. It was still dead and dry, but trusting Ryne and the brothers only ever led to good. With his worn hoe, he worked the ground, turning it over in rhythmic motions. The air smelled faintly of damp earth, mingled with the coolness of the forest’s shade. He paused to inspect the rejuvenated seeds in his palm, running his thumb over their smooth, plump surfaces. They looked just as they had in better days, full of life and promise. He scattered them across the freshly dug rows, letting them fall onto the waiting earth, then watered them, watching the soil darken and settle.
He glanced toward his main brittle fields, where dry, brittle stalks still stood like skeletons of a harvest long gone. A sudden gust of wind snapped one of the tallest stalks, scattering it across the barren land. His chest tightened as he surveyed the rest of the farm, vacant animal enclosures, silent and empty. The absence of life weighed heavily on him. He missed the soft bleating of the sheep, the snorts of the pigs, and the mischievous bleats of the goats. Most of all, he missed Belle, thankfully tended by Ryne and his brothers.
Claude sighed and gave his staff a twirl, the sound of its whoosh breaking the stillness. A few remaining sheep perked up and ambled closer, their soft wool brushing against his legs. He ran a hand over one’s back, drawing a small comfort from their presence as he turned back toward the dark forest, silently willing the seeds to grow.
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Claude blinked in amazement at the vibrant sprouts pushing through the soil. The barley formed slender, upright shoots, their tips tipped with tiny, soft awns that promised future golden grain. The oats grew more robust, with their stems slightly bowed under the weight of their clustered flowers, which swayed gently in the late afternoon breeze. His mother and little sister took turns marveling at the sight, running their fingers over the stalks as they matured. Day by day, the plants grew taller, their vibrant green deepening as the stems thickened and the grains began to form.
At dusk, Ryne arrived, his silhouette framed by the fading light. He carried a pouch of fine, dark granules, fertilizers that smelled faintly of rich earth and ash. Claude accepted it hesitantly, rubbing the coarse material between his fingers.
“These must have been expensive to make,” he said shyly, glancing up at Ryne.
Ryne’s expression remained gentle, his tone soothing. “You make up for it by gathering the resources from the mountain chambers.” That clearly made Claude feel better. He handed Claude some dull-looking pellets. “I also bought your medicine.”
Claude popped them into his mouth without question, feeling himself truly get stronger when he first started taking the medicine Wilbur made. For one thing, he did not feel so tired at midday, having the energy to help around the house or chop wood for the fireplace. Claude then scattered and poured the liquid the fertilizer carefully around the base of each plant. He worked with care, imagining the golden waves of barley and the silver sheen of ripened oats to come.
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Claude felt a quiet pride as he adjusted his grip on the reinforced shield borrowed from the monastery. It bore deep scratches along its face and he found a strange comfort in its weight. It steadied him, especially in the twisting, oppressive corridors of Mount Lhottem. Some nights, he joined the group tasked with exploring the mountain’s labyrinthine chambers. The air inside was damp and cold, carrying the faint scent of decay, and the echoes of their footsteps seemed to chase them like restless spirits.
He felt himself growing stronger and faster with each excursion. Ealhstan’s new moves were still unfamiliar to him. They were a series of sweeping arcs and powerful lunges. So Claude often reverted to the quick, precise parries and strikes he had learned from Woodrow. Those moves had always felt natural, etched into his muscles. Slowly, however, he began to find his footing, standing firm even when shadow beasts lunged at him with their razor-like claws.
On some nights, Ryne joined them, his presence as reassuring as a warm hearth. Everything seemed to flow more easily when Ryne was there. Claude’s sword humed in anticipation, lighting alive whenever Ryne was near and in battle. He couldn’t help but watch for the moment when the blade would ignite with that brilliant blue light, cutting through the darkness like a beacon.
But it made Claude conflicted. Each time Ryne stepped into the fray, Claude’s heart clenched. Ryne was not weak—Claude knew that well—but he lacked the physical skill to wield a sword effectively. Even if he did, Claude wasn’t sure Ryne could hold it long enough to endure a prolonged fight. Fire seemed to always come when Ryne was around, because maybe it knew how special his friend was. Sometimes, when Claude was just about to raise his shield, a fiery orb caught one of the creature’s attacks and push him back. And he would see Ryne behind him, spent and about to fall over.
It was a strange and delicate balance, wanting to shield Ryne from harm while relying on the wonder that only Ryne could bring.
And yet, whenever Ryne was nearby, Claude felt an undeniable surge of strength and a sense of safety he couldn’t quite explain. It was as if Ryne’s presence itself warded off the darkness. Flames, wild and unrelenting, would spring forth as if summoned by sheer will, striking down shadow beasts with precision and fury.
On this particular journey, they found themselves back-to-back in a cavernous chamber where the air felt charged with malice. The dim light of their lanterns flickered, casting shifting shadows along the jagged walls. A greater direwolf, its black fur glistening like oil, lunged at Claude, its teeth bared and eyes glowing with hunger.
Claude’s sword burned hot in his grip, the blade erupting in a golden-orange glow just as he struck. The wolf disintegrated into ash, its haunting growl swallowed by the hiss of fire. Behind him, a sweep of brilliant flames surged outward, engulfing the hind legs of two other wolves. The creatures yelped in agony before crumbling into smoldering remains, the acrid scent of burnt fur and ash filling the chamber.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The chamber fell silent, the oppressive darkness lifting slightly. Claude lowered his sword, its light fading back into cold steel. He glanced over his shoulder at Ryne, who was catching his breath but steady. Claude noticed the faintest traces of smoke lingered around his fingers. Ryne felt hot himself as Claude steadied him.
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Together, they set about gathering their spoils from the adventure. Embedded in the chamber walls, the firelight glinted off veins of precious gems—fire opals shimmering with an inner blaze, denzemonds with their sharp, icy gleam, and deep violet amethysts that seemed to hum with energy. Claude carefully pried them loose, his calloused hands deftly working alongside Ryne’s steadier ones.
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The wheat stood tall, golden, and swaying gently in the breeze, ready for harvest. Lentils and beans ripened in the nearby fields, their pods plump and heavy. Claude couldn’t resist the pull of the moment. Before reaching for the scythe, he went inside his cottage.
He called Annette. His sister undoubtedly heard the excitement in his voice. As she stepped outside, he crept behind her, his rough hands gently covering her eyes. “No peeking,” he whispered, his grin evident in his tone. Annette giggled, allowing him to lead her, trusting his guiding steps through the soft earth of the farm.
When they reached the edge of the wheat field, he stopped and uncovered her eyes. The sight before her left her breathless.
“Claude,” she murmured, her voice filled with wonder.
He couldn’t help but laugh, light and carefree. Without another word, they ran into the field, their laughter mingling with the rustling of the grains. Claude trailed his hands through the stalks and felt their smooth, pliable texture. He closed his eyes, feeling the grains slip through his fingers like silk. This—this was what it was meant to feel like. Soft, strong, enduring.
Caught in the joy of the moment, he turned to Annette, scooping her up in his arms. She squealed in surprise. He held her high, letting her hands brush the tops of the wheat stalks. “Feel it,” he said softly. “It’s all alive again.”
Annette stretched her arms wide, fingertips grazing the golden heads of the wheat. Her laughter softened, and she looked like the carefree child she hadn’t been in so long. Claude spun her gently, their movements parting the wheat in swirling patterns. The joy of the moment etched into the earth as much as it was into their hearts.
Claude waited for Ryne at dusk. As soon as his pale friend emerged from the dark forest, he grabbed his arm and almost yanked him to the golden wheat. Laughing, he pushed Ryne gently through the stalks and tickled his ears with some grain.
Ryne laughed, his voice warm and carefree, as he playfully shoved Claude, dodging the wheat Claude tried to swat at him. Their playful tussle ended with Ryne holding Claude down until they both tumbled onto the soft ground, breathless and laughing under the golden canopy of wheat.
Claude yawned and stretched, letting the moment linger. Ryne’s fair hair spilled across Claude’s arm, glinting in the late afternoon sun. The scent of ripe grain and earth surrounded them, grounding the moment in the vibrant life of the fields.
“We used to do this all the time when we were kids,” Claude began, his voice softening. “My brothers and I would hide in the stalks and try to catch each other. Sometimes Da would join us. He thought he was sneaky, but we always knew where he’d hide. He could never stop snickering.”
Ryne turned his head, his smile broadening.
Claude chuckled, the memory fresh as if it had just happened. “We’d all jump on him, and we’d tumble like a heap of lambs. Then Ma would come out, hands on her hips, scolding us all through supper.”
Ryne’s smile stayed as they shared that good memory, the lightness of it warming the air between them. After a moment, they helped each other to their feet, brushing the stray bits of grain from their clothes. Claude led Ryne to the toolshed, pulling out a sturdy scythe.
Together, they began the harvest. The rhythmic swish of the scythe cutting through the wheat mixed with the hum of cicadas. Ryne worked alongside Claude, carefully collecting some seeds from the harvested grain. He knelt by the new soil, rich and dark from Wilbur’s liverfert, his special fertilizers, and let the seeds spill into his palm.
Pressing his hand lightly to the earth, Ryne smiled. “The soil is still alive,” he murmured.
Claude nodded, his chest swelling with hope. The land that had once seemed lost was thriving again, teeming with promise and life.
Claude stood at the edge of the main fields, his eyes fixed on the dry, brittle stalks swaying weakly in the breeze. The contrast between them and the full, golden grains from the new fields was stark. He bit his lip.
“Harvest some of those as well,” Ryne said, gesturing toward the brittle grains. “Mix them with these new, healthy ones for tribute. Start with a quarter of the good grains at first, then half, then full. Keep doing that as you plant more of the good seed in your main fields.”
Claude nodded slowly, the plan sinking in. “That way, it won’t raise suspicion with Lord Bahram. He’ll think it’s a gradual recovery.” He paused, glancing down at the plump grains in his hands. “But what about these good grains? What should I do with them now?”
Ryne smiled, his expression warm and practical. “Store them. Eat them. You’ve earned that much.”
Claude studied the grains for a long moment, then split the handful in two, offering half to Ryne. The gesture was simple. Ryne looked at the grains in his palm, then stepped back, shaking his head lightly.
“It’s all yours,” Ryne said, his voice gentle but firm.
“You told me I can do whatever I want with it. I want to share it with you,” Claude said, his voice soft but insistent. He grabbed Ryne’s arm and led him toward his cottage. Inside, Lydia was by the cooking pot, waiting for the water to boil.
Claude handed her the good grains. “We’ll have a bowl for Ryne,” he said.
Lydia smiled warmly, then leaned in to hug Ryne quickly and tenderly. If Ryne wasn’t so pale, he might have blushed, but instead, he simply returned the embrace. They sat down together at the table, savoring the hearty meal made from the full, healthy grains.
Afterward, they spent the evening chasing little Annette through the fields, laughing as the golden light of dusk faded around them. Claude could hear Ryne’s voice calling out to Annette as she hid, his sharp sight never fading, even in the deepening darkness.
As the evening wore on, Lydia called for Annette, signaling bedtime. Claude lingered by the edge of the dark forest, the cool air brushing against his skin. He gave Ryne a hug before he left. “Thank you for helping us. Take the seeds for Wilbur.”
Ryne nodded.
Claude watched as Ryne disappeared into the shadows, heading toward the monastery with the seeds. He stood there a moment longer, his heart full. Then, turning back toward the warmth of his cottage, he felt a quiet sense of peace settle over him.