Ryne woke with a start, Claude’s voice still ringing in his ears. He sat up, his breath sharp in the stillness of the crypts. The air was damp and cool, carrying the thick scent of earth. Overhead, the roots of the great oak tree twisted through the ceiling, their rough surfaces intertwined with pale, budding stems.

Wilbur had admired them once, calling them lovely, even though they looked ghostly. Near his own sarcophagus, Wilbur and Woodrow lay motionless, their arms folded neatly across their chests, expressions calm as stone carvings.

Ryne stood, his heart hammering against his ribs. His gaze fell to the lone candle perched atop a skull at the crypt’s center. Its thin flame reached upward, quivering, as if pulled by an invisible current. The sight unsettled him.

He hurried to the flame, his hand reaching instinctively toward its quivering light. Heat radiated against his palm as the fire flared, curling and twisting unnaturally. Within moments, the flickering glow shifted, pulling him into a vision like that night when the first wave of lesser direwolves had descended on Rothfield town. He saw it clearly as if it happened yesterday: snarling beasts with glowing eyes, their shadows stretching long and menacing under the moonlight. The visions stopped because attacks hadn’t returned since that harrowing night.

Now… Claude’s worried voice echoed faintly in the darkness of Ryne’s thoughts, urgent and trembling. Ryne inhaled sharply, steadying himself as he brought Claude’s image to the forefront of his mind.

“Show me,” he murmured to the flame, his voice firm. The fire flickered violently in response, its light shifting and expanding, revealing the truth he wanted.

The flame flared and spilled outward, its light unfurling to reveal a fleeting image: a young boy in chains, his thin frame slumped over a bed of coarse hay. Shadows danced in the corners, their shapes menacing and unclear. Ryne squinted, willing the vision to expand, to sharpen its focus, but his strength faltered.

Then he felt it—another presence. A force, unseen but undeniable, pressed against him, clawing at the edges of the vision as though to snuff it out. They were like unseen hands working to close the window he struggled to hold open.

Gritting his teeth, Ryne pushed harder, trying to anchor himself to the flame, but the fire sputtered violently. A sharp burst of heat forced him backward, the vision shattering into darkness.

He hit the ground with a jolt, gasping as the weight of the unseen force dissipated. He scrambled to his feet, his mind racing. He bolted up the stairs but halfway up, he froze.

Where would he even begin to search for Claude? The enormity of the task loomed over him. Then he took a steadying breath, fists clenched at his sides.

Ryne glanced back at his brothers, still motionless in their crypts, their features serene in the dim, flickering light. His impatience gnawed at him, but he forced himself to sit on the cold stone steps and wait. Each second stretched, his thoughts churning with worry for Claude.

Finally, Wilbur stirred first, followed by Woodrow. The moment their eyes opened, Ryne was on his feet, his voice urgent as he loomed over them.

“Claude is in trouble. I don’t know where he is, but he’s locked up somewhere in Rothfield. I need your help to find him.”

The brothers exchanged a glance. They rose swiftly. and the three ascended the stairs together, their footsteps echoing in the narrow passage.

Emerging into the crisp night air, they found Ealhstan at his forge in the field, the red glow of his fire illuminating his face. Sparks flew as his hammer struck metal, but he paused as they approached, his brow furrowing at their faces.

Ryne addressed him quickly, his voice firm. “Stay here and protect the people. Tell Agate and Harlan to care for them while we’re gone.”

Ealhstan nodded solemnly, gripping the hammer in his hand like a weapon. Without another word, Ryne turned to his brothers, and nodded, passing through the dark forest, following the well-trodden path to Calude’s farm.

The forest had noticed their presence. It shifted stones and trees to form a smoother path as if the land itself sought to guide them. Ryne kept a small flame alight in his hand, the mist retreating with each flicker.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

They stopped abruptly when two figures emerged from the mist ahead. Ryne narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the shapes. Slowly, the forms became clear—Lydia, clutching little Annette tightly, both shrouded in thick cloaks with hoods drawn low.

“Lydia?” Ryne called, stepping forward. The flame in his hand extinguished with a snap of his fingers.

Her head whipped up at the sound of his voice, her expression stricken. Tears streaked her face, her hair disheveled as if she had run the entire way. Annette clung to her side, her wide eyes fixed on Ryne.

“Oh, Ryne…” Lydia choked out, her voice trembling. She stumbled toward him, nearly collapsing in her haste. Ryne reached out instinctively, but it was Wilbur who steadied her with a firm, gentle grip.

“One of Gabriella’s boys came knocking on my door,” Lydia managed, her words tumbling out between gasping breaths. Her eyes were wide, wet with desperation. “They’ve taken my Claude. Accused him of consorting with darkness.” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, fighting back a sob. “And Gabriella…” Her words trailed off as fresh tears welled.

A sharp anger flared in Ryne’s chest, his fists clenching at his sides. He opened his mouth, but Wilbur spoke first, his voice low and calming. “I’ll take Lydia and Annette back to the monastery. They need rest and safety.” He crouched slightly, his tone softening as he addressed the little girl. “Come, little one.”

Annette gazed up at Wilbur, her small hand tightening around Lydia’s cloak. Recognition flickered in her eyes—she knew him from the stories Ryne and Claude had told her. Slowly, she let go of Lydia and placed her tiny hand in Wilbur’s.

Ryne watched as Wilbur led them back into the mist. He knew Lydia would soon be given a calming draught, and Annette would be fed and comforted at the monastery. They would be safe there.

Ryne’s jaw tightened as he turned back toward the path. There was no time to waste. Claude needed him.

They passed Claude’s cottage, its familiar warmth replaced by an eerie stillness. The shutters were closed tight, and no light flickered within. It was as if the house itself had retreated into silence. Ryne didn’t slow, vaulting over the wooden fence that bordered the farm and heading down the narrow path connecting the fields to the town.

Woodrow followed, his feet crunching against the dirt, his senses on edge. The closer they got to the town, the stronger the weight in the air became. It was a palpable pressure that seemed to press down on their chests and shoulders, making each step feel harder than the last.

Woodrow winced, instinctively hunching against the unseen force. He bared his teeth, his sharp canines glinting briefly in the dim light. “What is this?” he growled, his voice a low rumble.

Ryne slowed, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the path ahead. His hands twitched at his sides, ready to summon flame if necessary. Without another word, they pressed forward, their movements cautious.

Ryne recognized thought the fource was faintly familiar. Whatever it was, it was suffocating them; Woodrow more than him. Gritting his teeth, he summoned a small flame, and the sensation eased, though it lingered at the edges.

Woodrow glanced at the flickering light. "What is this?"

Ryne did not answer. The two moved through the town's shadows, the flame low in Ryne’s hand. He tried to use it as a guide, as before, but it sputtered and spun erratically, confused. The force around them was interfering, twisting its direction.

“It’s struggling, but it’s pointing somewhere,” Ryne said, following the faint pull deeper into Rothfield.

Woodrow frowned. “You are certain?”

“It’s all we have,” Ryne replied, gripping the flame tightly. Together, they pushed forward, the dark streets growing heavier with each step.

They skirted the town square, where villagers were constructing a wooden post surrounded by hay and a large cauldron. Ryne didn’t stop to look, but Woodrow slowed, his eyes narrowing at the grim scene before hurrying to catch up.

Through shadowed alleyways, they finally spotted a building with two guards stationed outside. Ryne moved to sneak closer, pressing against the outer wall, but Woodrow grabbed his arm.

“There are no windows low enough for you to climb inside,” he whispered, his tone firm.

Ryne clenched his jaw, glancing at the guarded entrance. “Then we’ll have to find another way.”

Woodrow lifted his hood, revealing his bright red hair, and stepped out into the empty streets. Ryne stayed hidden, moving quietly through the shadows, while Woodrow approached the guards. The mist swirled around him, his steps sure. The guards shivered as they noticed the growing shadow in the fog. Only the green glow of Woodrow’s eyes cut through the darkness, the only hint of color in the mist.

“Stop!” the guards shouted, raising their spears. One jingled the keys at his belt.

“Come now,” Woodrow’s voice oozed smoothly through the cool air, thick with his charm. Ryne could almost feel it wafting through the space. He waited, patient. The guards hesitated as Woodrow moved closer. “Drop your spears,” he said, inches from the soldier with the keys.

Suddenly, one guard swung his spear, striking Woodrow in the head. Ryne’s instinct urged him to leap to his brother’s aid, but he held back, unwilling to blow their cover. Woodrow blinked, swaying as he hit the ground.

“I think not!” the guard sneered. “Who are you? You’re not from around here.”