Gabriella helped Claude to his feet, her firm grip steadying him as she guided him away from the dispersing crowd. The echoes of murmured disapproval and sidelong glances weighed heavily on him. It was as if the priest’s condemning words had turned him into a living embodiment of foul air. Wary neighbors averted their eyes.
"Let me see," Gabriella said softly, her voice the same gentle anchor it had always been. She led him to the fountain and crouched in front of him. Claude turned his dirtied face toward her, and she wiped at the grime and dried blood with her apron. Her touch reminded him of when she used to care for him when he was the same age as Annette. At least Gabriella was still Gabriella.
She examined his arms for further injuries. When she found nothing, she stood up. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You have to be careful, Claude.”
He nodded, his throat too tight to speak. Before either could say more, a slurred voice broke the fragile quiet.
“Oi, woman!” Gabriella’s husband stumbled out of the pub, his words thick with ale and his expression sour. He glared at her, unsteady on his feet. “What’re you doing out here? Get back in the house!”
Gabriella stiffened, her hand faltering as she turned to face her husband. Claude stepped back, his jaw tightening as he sized up the man. They locked eyes for a tense moment. The drunkard grunted as he turned and staggered back into the house, slamming the door behind him.
Gabriella sighed, her shoulders slumping as she straightened. “Go home, Claude,” she murmured, her tone weary.
Claude nodded, his heart heavy. As he turned to leave, his gaze fell on a small patch of greenery in Gabriella’s garden. He recognized Wilbur’s herbs nestled among the other plants, their delicate leaves thriving despite the grimness of their surroundings.
He allowed himself a faint smile at the sight, but it quickly faded. Kicking a stray stone from his path, he trudged toward home, his thoughts a tangle of frustration and regret. So much for hoping he would return with his sheep.
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Claude did not know what compelled him, but as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in muted hues of orange and purple, he found himself lingering near Gabriella’s home after checking on her boys. His eyes wandered toward the distant glow of the church, its tall windows illuminated like watchful eyes in the dimming light. The sight stirred something in him—memories of where his brother, Nhim, used to hide and listen to the kinder, older priest.
Unable to resist, Claude made his way toward the church. He crouched low as he approached, careful not to be seen, and peeked through one of the windows. The air outside felt colder as he observed the scene within.
Father Clint's church was nothing like Ryne’s. Where Ryne’s chapel had been ancient but welcoming, warmed by the spirit of its caretaker, this place felt sterile and unfeeling despite its grandeur. The polished floors and clean stone walls seemed to mock the struggles of those who sought solace here.
Inside, Father Clint stood at the altar, a commanding figure against the backdrop of flickering candles. The light failed to soften his harsh features; if anything, it accentuated the cold lines of his face, making him seem more like a carved statue than a man. Here, within his domain, the priest seemed younger, his voice strong and unyielding as it echoed through the vast chamber.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The congregation sat with bowed heads, their faces lined with worry and exhaustion. They listened intently, though the priest’s words were in the old language of the Saints, a tongue none of them understood. The hymns of Saint Edmund were sharp and rigid, devoid of the warmth that Saint Gaelmar’s songs brought to Ryne’s chapel. These hymns were meant to sharpen thoughts, to call for clarity, but to Claude, they felt like cold steel pressing against the soul.
What good were hymns when they alienated the very people they were meant to uplift?
Claude’s hands curled into fists as he watched Father Clint extend his hand in a gesture of authority. His movements commanded reverence and fear. The priest seemed to bask in the power he held over the weary townsfolk.
A low growl escaped Claude’s throat as anger surged within him. This was the man who had his kind-hearted brother, Nhim, away. The thought made his blood boil, and he fought the urge to burst through the doors and confront the priest right then and there.
Claude hesitated at the edge of the church garden, torn between slinking away unnoticed and indulging in a small act of defiance by plucking the withered flowers from the soil. He leaned closer, his fingers brushing the brittle stems, when Father Clint’s voice cut through the murmured hymns inside.
“…And be wary of those who think they know better, who conjure fake miracles. Do not be deceived. It is not Saint Edmund. It is not holy.”
Claude froze, his spiteful impulse forgotten. He pressed his ear against the cold windowpane, his breath fogging the glass as he strained to catch every word.
Inside, Father Clint paced the aisle, his spotless white robes flowing behind him like the shroud of a ghost. His voice was sharp and commanding.
“I had a vision from the Saint himself,” the priest continued, his tone heavy. “He warned me of pale and long-fingered people who live in shadows. They burn in the sun. They cannot stand the holy light of the Saints and so they try to fool the faithful with their magics in the dark. They prey on those who are weak of spirit. They lie with warm smiles, offering safety, shelter, and soup, only to trap you forever in their wicked ways.”
Claude’s stomach tightened as Father Clint’s words seemed to pierce through the walls and into his very soul.
“They are a mockery of what is just,” Father Clint declared, his eyes sweeping across the congregation. “And they dare to pretend they are better than the Saints themselves. My friends, this is not merely a dream, but a warning. Saint Edmund has called to me, and I now call to you. Anyone found consorting with these dark forces shall be dealt with swiftly and without mercy.”
The priest’s voice rang with finality, each word like the toll of a bell, and Claude stumbled back from the window. He dropped to the ground, his legs sprawling awkwardly in front of him as his chest heaved. A chill crept into his bones, and his hands trembled as if Father Clint’s words had seeped into the very air around him.
The fear he felt wasn’t for himself. No, he knew who the priest spoke of. The pale, long-fingered people. The warm smiles. The shelter in the dark. He thought of Ealhstan, Wilbur, and Woodrow. Ryne.
He forced himself to his feet and ran, his legs carrying him back home as fast as they could. The houses and shadowed alleyways of Rothfield blurred past him, his breath coming in short, frantic gasps. He didn’t stop until he reached the edge of the dark forest, the ancient trees looming like sentinels in the night.
Claude stared into the depths of the forest, his heart pounding in his chest. His fear wasn’t of Ryne and the brothers, of course. It was for them. For what might come for them if Father Clint’s warning…
He clenched his fists, his breath steadying as resolve began to take hold. Whatever was coming for Rothfield, he prayed that Brother Ealhstan’s superhuman strength would be enough to stand against it. But as he turned toward his home, Claude couldn’t shake the weight of dread that pressed down on his chest like a stone sinking deeper into dark waters.