Another wave of sickness swept into Rothfield as the eerie mist descended.
Ryne felt it before anyone else. He had been meditating in the belltower, the high winds stirring the edges of his robe, when the sensation hit him; a faint, unnatural vibration in the air that prickled his skin and whispered of decay. He opened his eyes, his expression grave.
Without hesitation, he called for Brother Ealhstan, his voice echoing through the monastery halls.
“This one will be strong,” Ryne said, “I’m going to have to cease giving light to the meadow and lake for this to recover.” It was a shame. The children were looking forward to letting their sheep graze in the fields and Claude wanted to catch eels. But it will have to wait.
Together, he and Ealhstan climbed the winding steps of the belltower. Once at the top, Ryne placed his hands on the great bell, its surface cold beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes and began to channel a prayer of banishment, his words low and steady, carrying the warmth of Gaelmar’s spirit into the very core of the bell.
The night was silent but for the ominous rustling of the mist below. Then Ealhstan struck the bell.
The sound sent a wave of light and warmth that surged outward, pushing back the encroaching fog. The air around the monastery grew warmer as Ryne’s power flowed into the bell and through its clamor, rippling out over Rothfield. Wherever the sound reached, the mist recoiled, hissing as if scalded. The people of Rothfield, huddled in their homes, felt the warmth wash over them. They will continue to be at peace.
“I hear you,” Claude had once told Ryne on a peaceful day in the meadows. “Whenever you strike that great bell of yours, I know we’ll be safe.”
Ryne had smiled then, but tonight his face remained somber as he leaned heavily against Ealhstan on their descent from the belltower. His steps were unsteady, his strength drained from the effort.
Ealhstan guided him down the final steps, concerned. “Do you still have enough strength to bless our arms?” he asked, his voice low but steady.
Ryne nodded, though his exhaustion was evident in the faint tremor of his hands. “A few,” he replied, his voice soft.
They entered Ealhstan’s warm forge. The blacksmith’s tools glinted in the firelight, and the unfinished weapons on the anvil seemed to shimmer. Ealhstan carefully guided Ryne to a bench, ensuring he was seated before retrieving a steel-tipped wooden spear.
As Ryne reached out to bless the weapon, his hands trembling slightly, Ealhstan placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “We’ll hold the line,” the blacksmith said.
Ealhstan's forge burned bright late into the night, the firelight casting long shadows across the stone walls of the monastery. Sparks flew as he hammered steel into shape, molding it into sharp, deadly weapons. He sighed deeply, watching the flames dance over the steel. Blessed weapons were powerful, but they lacked durability. It was a frustrating tradeoff when facing unrelenting darkness.
Across the forge, Ryne sat cross-legged, his hands clasped tightly together as he murmured prayers to Gaelmar. The faint glow of kindflame flickered around him. With each whispered prayer, Ryne kissed the steel-tipped weapons Ealhstan presented, infusing them with a protective blessing. But the exertion was taking its toll.
Ryne’s movements slowed, his breaths growing heavier. Just as he reached for another weapon, Ember darted forward, pulling at his sleeve.
“That’s enough,” Ealstan said firmly. “You’ll burn yourself out.”
Ealhstan cared for Ember. She channeled her own flame to support Ryne when his was weak. Though her fire lacked the potency of Ryne’s divine blessings, her fire added power when he was sputtering out,
“Thank you, Ember,” Ealhstan said as he handed her a cool cup of water.
Ember placed herself protectively between Ryne and the weapons he was so eager to bless. While Ryne relied on prayers and Gaelmar’s kindflame—gained through devotion and sacrifice—Ember’s fire was innate. It flowed from her, unbidden but limited. She could hurl fireballs with ease but the grand feats Ryne performed were beyond her reach.
Ealhstan led him outside and told him to back to the crypts. Outside the forge, peace had settled over the monastery. In the courtyard, Woodrow entertained the new children with juggling.
One by one, the children began to approach Ealhstan as well, their initial fear replaced by curiosity and tentative smiles. The giant grinned and allowed th ebravest of them to climb hid legs.
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“Careful now,” he said.
For one night, at least, they could rest knowing that their light held strong against the encroaching shadows.
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The night air was heavy with a faint chill as Woodrow carried the bundled, cloth-wrapped form through the quiet halls of the monastery. The scent of decay clung to the fabric, sharp and unpleasant, but Woodrow bore it without flinching. His destination was Wilbur’s infirmary. Ealhstan joined him.
Wilbur was already waiting, his sleeves rolled up and his hands meticulously clean. He motioned Woodrow to place the bundle on the stone slab in the center of the room. Wilbur explained his experiments to Ealhstan.
He straightened, his gaze steady. “We unearth the bodies of those recently buried. Their organs are harvested for study. By understanding how this sickness ravages the body, I can prepare treatments—or preventions—for future waves. The rest is… repurposed.”
“Repurposed?” Ealhstan could not bear to look at the body.
Wilbur gestured toward the infirmary’s back corner, where a pile of neatly arranged vials and jars stood. “Organs become fertilizers. The crops grow stronger and faster because of it. Our fields thrive, and so do the people. Better to use what remains of the dead than let it rot uselessly beneath the soil.”
Woodrow said nothing, his sharp features unreadable.
Later that evening, Ealhstan visited the fields, walking among rows of thriving crops under the silver glow of moonlight. He stopped, his hand brushing against the heavy heads of wheat swaying in the gentle breeze. The fields stretched far and wide, thanks to Wilbur’s experiments and Ryne’s prayers.
Ealhstan grunted, his jaw set as he returned to his chopping block. He split logs with precision, each strike of his axe echoing through the night. The wood would fuel his forge, and the shields he crafted would protect soldiers as they braved the treacherous mountains to gather resources.
The weight of what Wilbur had revealed sat heavy in Ealhstan’s mind. It was a bitter truth, one that gnawed at the edges of his conscience. But when he thought of the hungry mouths now fed and the soldiers returning with fewer wounds, he couldn’t argue with the results.
Wilbur’s pragmatism, however dark, ensured their survival.
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The mist crept into the town of Rothfield like a silent predator, curling through the narrow streets and slipping beneath the cracks of doors. It lingered, heavy and damp, carrying with it an unnatural chill that clung to the skin and seeped into the bones.
By night, it wrapped itself around the homes, and its presence invaded the dreams of the townsfolk. Mothers whispered soothing words to their frightened children, but even their lullabies were weighed down. When dawn broke, it brought no respite.
The men of the town began to wander the streets with a hollow listlessness. Shadows darkened their eyes, and their tempers frayed. Arguments sparked over the smallest provocations, their nerves rubbed raw by nights of restless sleep.
Gabriella watched from her window, her brow furrowed with concern. She saw the soldiers stationed at the edges of the town, hands tremblind and shoulders drooping. They even dropped their wooden spears.
By the third day, the change in the town was undeniable. Men stumbled into one another, their movements sluggish and their minds clouded. Gabriella caught fragments of conversations, the words disjointed and often nonsensical. She noticed shopkeepers staring blankly at their wares, their expressions dazed, and children crying out in the streets for parents too distracted to soothe them.
In the quiet moments, Gabriella observed the mist itself, its pale tendrils curling and writhing like a living thing. It seemed to be feeding on their exhaustion, growing thicker and denser as the days passed.
Her thoughts turned to Rothfield monastery. She thought of Claude, of Ryne, and of the strange brothers who lived there. She uttered a prayer to the Four Saints, her heart heavy with dread.
Each day, the town sank deeper into the mist’s grasp, and Gabriella couldn’t shake the feeling that something worse was on the horizon.
The pub was dark and silent. Gabriella passed it cautiously, keeping her head low and her steps swift. Earlier, she had narrowly avoided the chaos of a brawl spilling into the streets. Men who once clinked mugs together and laughed through shared hardships had turned on each other, their frustrations erupting into violence. Brooms and makeshift clubs flew through the air, and curses echoed down the alleys.
Her husband had not joined the melee. Instead, he poured his rage into the dry, barren fields of Lord Bahram’s estate, chopping wood with wild swings and hammering nails into rickety fences. He returned home every evening with his face flushed and his temper barely restrained, cursing the lack of ale, the ache of his stomach, and the weight of his empty pride.
Gabriella tried to shield her children from it all, ushering them to their small room and singing soft lullabies to drown out their father’s bitterness. She kissed their foreheads and whispered promises she wasn’t sure she could keep.
Beggars and orphans lined the alleys, their hollow eyes and skeletal frames haunting Gabriella as she passed. They reached out with trembling hands, their voices hoarse with pleas for shelter or a crumb of bread. Gabriella’s heart ached, but she dared not stop. Even if she had food to give, a single bowl of soup could spark a riot.
She shuddered at the thought of the bodies being carted away, the wagons piled high with the nameless dead. Their final resting place was a patch of unmarked soil beyond the town’s boundaries, far from the sacred blessings of Saint Edmund’s priests. The church’s doors remained tightly shut to the poor souls who banged on them, their desperate cries met with cold silence. No warm candlelight would ever welcome them.
Gabriella hated it. She hated the helplessness that knotted her stomach, the numbness she felt as she forced herself to walk past those in need. She hated the cruel irony of a church that preached mercy but offered none. And most of all, she hated the fear that had settled into her bones, the suffocating knowledge that they were all teetering on the edge of something far worse.
Her only solace was the memory of Ryne and the monastery, the faint hope that somewhere beyond Lord Bahram’s oppressive rule, there was still kindness and light. But even that felt like a distant dream.