Ryne’s chest tightened. The people’s loyalties were shifting before his eyes, drawn to Claude’s bravery and the spectacle that happened a few days ago. Lord Bahram was seething. Was he angered by the cheers for a farmer-turned-hero? Or was he quietly acknowledging that the young man before him had earned the people’s respect?
Whatever the case, Ryne knew the victory was not yet secure. Shadows still loomed at the edges of the square, and the battle was far from over. He took a step closer to Claude, his sparrowflame reigniting in his hands, ready to support his dear friend.
Then Lord Bahram's face twisted with rage, his jaw set and his eyes burning with indignation. It was clear he couldn’t stomach the sight of a commoner being hailed as a hero. With a deafening roar, he lifted his warhammer and charged, the ground trembling beneath his heavy steps.
Ryne’s heart leaped into his throat. For a fleeting, wild moment, he thought Bahram would swing the hammer directly at Claude.
Claude, frozen in place, still had his sword lodged in the belly of a corvus as it disintegrated into ash. He glanced at Bahram, confusion and disbelief written on his face. Was Bahram aiming for him, or for the shadows still circling nearby?
Ryne reacted instinctively, throwing out his hand and screaming, a burst of sparrowflame igniting in his palm. But before he could intervene, a towering figure stepped between Bahram and Claude.
Ealhstan.
The sound of metal rang out as Bahram’s hammer struck Ealhstan’s braced arm. The force of the blow rippled through the air, but Ealhstan didn’t flinch. Instead, he snarled, his lip curling to reveal his sharp fangs.
Bahram’s eyes widened in shock at the sight of the inhuman strength before him, but his hands still gripped the hammer. Ealhstan’s strength was immeasurable, and with a sharp jerk, he lifted Bahram clean off the ground, the lord dangling helplessly as though he were nothing more than a child’s doll.
With an effortless motion, Ealhstan flung Bahram across the square. The lord tumbled through the air, landing heavily on the cobblestones with a grunt of pain. Before Bahram could rise, Ealhstan turned his attention to the pack of lesser direwolves closing in.
He swung the hammer that had once been Bahram’s, smashing it down onto a direwolf’s back. The creature crumbled into ash. Ealhstan didn’t stop. He swept the hammer in a wide arc, striking three more wolves in one swing. Shadows scattered and fled under his relentless assault, their forms disintegrating as they were struck.
The square fell silent for a moment, the soldiers and townspeople staring in awe. Ealhstan stood tall amidst the chaos, the hammer resting heavily in his hand.
Ryne rushed to Claude’s side, grabbing his arm. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice breathless.
Claude nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on Ealhstan, facing the remnants of the shadows, unyielding and unstoppable.
A deep, earth-shaking howl tore through the battlefield, reverberating like thunder and sending tremors through the ground beneath their feet. The townsfolk and warriors alike stumbled, fear rippling through their ranks as a massive shadow emerged from the mist.
An alpha direwolf, nearly as massive as Ember’s corrupted form, loomed over them. Its glowing red eyes pierced the darkness, and its fangs gleamed like jagged steel. Its growl rumbled like a storm, freezing everyone in its presence.
Ember stood in front of Ryne and Claude. She barked fiercely, avoiding Ryne as he reached for her, her flames bursting from her jaws in defiance. She hurled a fiery burst at the beast, momentarily stunning it. The flames lit up the square, revealing its matted fur and the bloodied marks of battle etched into its hide. The beast recoiled, snarling with rage, and then lashed out with a powerful kick that sent Ember flying across the square.
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“No!” Ryne shouted, already sprinting toward Ember’s crumpled form. But the alpha’s attention shifted. Its glowing eyes locked onto Ryne—and then to the weakened figure of Claude beside him.
Ryne froze. The direwolf took one menacing step closer, its massive claws scraping against the cobblestones.
Claude groaned, struggling to rise, his sword slipping from his grasp. “Stay back, Ryne,” he rasped. But Ryne ignored him, racing to Claude’s side. He knelt down and clasped Claude’s trembling hand, his other hand gripping the hilt of the fallen sword. A surge of determination coursed through him, and the blade ignited with a brilliant blue light.
“Together,” Ryne whispered, his voice steady despite the chaos.
Claude nodded weakly, and with a shared cry, they drove the glowing sword straight into the alpha direwolf’s chest. The blade cut through its thick hide, embedding deep into its heart. The beast howled in agony, its voice splitting the air and echoing into the darkened skies. Shadows swirled around it as its massive form disintegrated, vanishing into the darkness once more.
For a moment, the square was eerily quiet, save for the labored breaths of those still standing. It was almost over.
Woodrow, Agate, and Jerome were driving the last of the shadows away. Jerome let loose arrow after arrow, his strikes sharp and true. Ryne glanced at him, noting how far the young man had come. There was a time when Jerome had been unsure of his place, but now he was a crucial player in the battlefield.
Turning back to Claude, Ryne knelt beside him. Claude’s chest heaved with shallow, ragged breaths, his shield scratched and bloodied. Claw and talon marks marred his skin.
“Rest now. Close your eyes.” Ryne said softly, placing a hand over Claude’s chest. His friend shut his eyes and winced, thinking that Ryne would apply the potion Wilbur used. Ryne’s palm glowed faintly as he channeled his healing kindflame, mending the torn flesh and sealing the worst of the wounds. He stopped just short of erasing the scars, his power almost depleted.
Claude’s eyes fluttered open briefly, a faint smile playing on his lips. “You always have my back,” he murmured before his eyes closed again, succumbing to the pull of rest. He mumbled, “Don’t know what the others are crying about. The potion didn’t hurt at all. Kind of tickled, actually.”
Ryne exhaled slowly, brushing the sweat from his brow. The battle was done. He looked around at the remnants of the town, battered but still standing, and allowed himself a small, fleeting moment of relief.
Ryne needed to sustain his powers to help if there were any grave injuries. But when he looked around, he saw most of the people, including Lord Bahram and Father Clinton, who had appeared out of nowhere, staring in their direction.
He turned—and realized.
Claude still held the flaming sword. Though its fire was weakening, the blade still burned in the air.
Ryne’s breath caught. The sacred weapon of Saint Oswald. The mightiest of the Saints. He had not realized it before.
A hush fell over the square. Whispers spread, rippling through soldiers and townspeople alike. Their eyes flickered between Claude and the faintly burning sword in his grasp.
Then, Ryne heard it.
A low, nasty snarl.
His eyes snapped to Father Clinton. The priest’s expression twisted in fury, his gaze locked onto him with unmasked hatred.
He stared right back at him.
It was clear that the priest was not used to a challenge.
Ryne walked slowly forward. Father Clinton tensed, his fists curling at his sides. Instinctively, he shielded himself from Ryne’s approach but did not move away.
The space between them vanished. Ryne stood close enough now to see every line of tension in the priest’s face. He stared directly into Clinton’s gray eyes.
And then, when he spoke, the voice that left him was not entirely his own.
“You have eyes darker than wolves,” Ryne said, his words searing his throat, deeper than his usual tone. “And I feel Saint Edmund is not in your heart.”
Silence stretched between them. Clinton’s hot anger turned into cold wariness. Father Clinton did not respond. He merely stared at the pale young monk, his expression unreadable, as Ryne turned away and gathered the farmer boy, the giant, the redhead, and the lanky healer—leading them back into the shadows.
As they vanished into the night, the priest’s fingers clenched around the mark of Saint Edmund hanging from his chest. They were so cold. Except for the little monk with the dark marks on his face. The common folk did not see what they were, of course. They didn’t see that Clinton saw their sharp fangs hidden under their lips. They didn’t smell the stink of darkness in their blood. Clinton did not understand. He wanted to purge. He wanted to escape. He want back to the church, blood running cold.