Woodrow blinked, momentarily confused, then shrugged. “That’s on me for being careless.”

In one fluid motion, he stomped down on the guard who struck him. The man barely hit the ground before Woodrow’s fist collided with his head, knocking him unconscious.

Both guards crumpled to the dirt. Ryne joined Woodrow’s side, sharing a glance of quiet confusion.

“That isn’t good. I used my full power on them. I fed,” Woodrow muttered, eyeing the men. He noticed something odd hanging around their necks. When he touched it, he swore, his fingers smoking.

Ryne tentatively reached out, but the charm didn’t burn him. He recognized it immediately from the many illustrations Knox had made him study.

“It’s the mark of Saint Edmund,” he said, holding it up before letting it rest back on the guard’s neck.

“The Saint-King? The one on the throne in the middle of the realm? He exists?” Woodrow asked, looking up at the blank sky and the oppressive mist. “Then… why isn’t he doing anything? Shouldn’t Gaelmar…?” Ryne shrugged, just as lost. He shook his head. “We’ll discuss it later. You go ahead. I’ll stay and charm them into thinking a random bandit stole from their food stores.”

Ryne rushed through the cramped, musty prison. The air was thick with the stench of mildew, and the dim space was divided by steel bars on one side, with smaller wooden cages on the other. He recognized the cages. Sheep and goats bleated weakley, their hooves scattering the hay on the ground. They were Claude's. Bahram had stolen from him again.

A soft, strained breath broke the silence from the farthest corner. Ryne moved quickly, grabbing a wax candle from a nearby table and lighting it with a flicker of his flame.

In the glow, he saw her. Gabriella, trembling, curled up in the corner.

“Gabriella,” Ryne whispered. Her head turned upm squinting against the flame. She whispered his name and her fingers closed around the bars.

“What are you doing here?”

“Lydia told me what happened,” Ryne said urgently. He found the key to Gabriella’s cell and unlocked it with a click. As the door swung open, she collapsed into his arms. He quickly checked her for signs of harm but found none.

“He didn’t hit me,” Gabriella whispered shakily. She must mean her husband, Ryne thought. “He was going to, but something stopped him. He called the priest, thought I’d cast a spell on him. They brought me here without question.” Her eyes widened with fear. “Ryne, my children... Claude... they took him deeper into the lord’s keep. He’s about to be tried... in the square.”

The image of the haystack and wooden post flashed in Ryne’s mind. It had been too long since the last witchhunt he witnessed, and he had dared to hope that Rothfield’s peace would last. He sprang to his feet and helped Gabriella stand.

“Woodrow’s outside,” he said quickly. “Go to him. Tell him to gather your sons and get back to the monastery.” He called out for Woodrow, then added, “Take the animals, too.”

Gabriella clung to Woodrow as he lifted her. “Where are you going?” she asked, her voice full of worry.

“I’m going to find my friend,” Ryne replied firmly, turning toward the door.

A quiet, burning anger surged through Ryne, and he didn’t even realize that he no longer needed fire to push away the mist; it simply parted as he passed. As he neared the village square, the rhythmic tap of a staff on wood rang out, calling for order. He slipped behind the shadows of a nearby house, heart pounding, nearly rushing into the street when he spotted it.

A small cart sat near the wooden post, and on top of it knelt Claude. Lord Bahram stood nearby, grinning alongside the priest, their faces gleaming with malicious pleasure as the crowd gathered.

“Bring out the prisoner,” Lord Bahram commanded.

The bailiff seized Claude by the scruff of his neck, and Ryne’s teeth ground together in fury. “Bring him close to the cauldron,” the priest murmured, his voice barely audible over the crowd's murmurs.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Ryne’s eyes shot open. He hadn’t noticed the cauldron until now; the thick, bubbling smoke rising from it was unmistakable, and the sound of it simmering filled the air. Claude recoiled slightly as he braced for what was to come. He squeezed his eyes shut, fearful, bared his teeth in pain, and made a strained sound, the dread clear in his posture. The priest, standing by with a wicked smile, watched with growing satisfaction.

“You know the penalty,” the priest announced to the gathered crowd. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if offering a prayer to the heavens. “If this farmer is truly innocent, Saint Edmund will spare him from pain and heal his burns.” He opened his eyes and gave a subtle nod to the bailiff, signaling for the next step.

Ryne’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched the bailiff drag Claude closer to the cauldron. The crowd gathered, some sneering, others horrified but too afraid to speak out. A hot surge of hatred filled Ryne's chest, more intense than anything he’d ever felt before. The heat surged through his veins, his hands practically crackling with energy, sparks jumping from his knuckles. He barely recognized the sensation before he let out a roar, his anger fueling the flames that shot up from the cauldron.

The fire under the cauldron leaped into the air, twisting into wild shapes before transforming into a flock of sparrows, darting through the air. The sudden explosion of heat sent Lord Bahram, the priest, and the onlookers scrambling backward in shock. The bailiff stumbled and dropped Claude, who fell to the ground, instinctively shielding himself from the fiery outburst. The crowd fell silent, caught between fear and awe at the strange and powerful force Ryne had unleashed.

What is he scared for? He knows my flame will not harm him, Ryne thought. Silly boy.

Ryne’s finger stayed pointed as the sparrows descended, their fiery wings flickering as they swooped down. Claude stood still, eyes closed in preparation for the pain he expected. But the flame didn’t scorch him. Instead, the sparrowflames cut through the ropes binding him, the heat dissipating as they flitted around him like an ethereal dance. One of the birds gently landed on Claude’s shoulder, its fire fading as it nestled in his warmth, offering no harm.

The sparrowflames swirled around Claude, gathering on his head until they formed a curious pattern. The onlookers squinted, then gasped as they realized the unmistakable mark of Saint Gaelmar, a fiery sigil that glowed in the air above him. Father Clitn’s face twisted with disbelief, his arrogance replaced by something darker. Lord Bahram, too, stood frozen, staring at the mark as if he had just witnessed the impossible.

Claude, for the first time, took in his surroundings. His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for the source of the flames. His gaze finally settled on Ryne, who stood in the shadows, a quiet smile curling on his lips. With a sharp motion of his thumb, Ryne commanded the sparrowflame to shift. The fiery birds gathered together, growing in size until they became a single giant sparrow.

With a sudden swoop, the sparrow-flame flew down toward the priest and the lord. The two men barely had time to react before the flame sent them crashing into the haystack. The crowd scattered, some stumbling back in fear, while others watched in shock.

The haystack caught fire, and the flames quickly began to spread. Lord Bahram's clothes were set ablaze, and he flailed, shouting for help. His voice cracked with panic as the heat intensified.

“Get me water, you fools!” he screamed.

In the thickening smoke, Ryne ran to the open street where people bumped into each other. He grabbed Claude’s arm, pulling him away from the chaos. They locked eyes for a brief moment before Ryne dragged him into the shadows. They moved quickly, slipping past his cottage and onto the winding path that led to Rothfield monastery. Ryne’s legs felt heavy, each step harder than the last.

As they ventured deeper into the dark forest, the weight of the moment caught up with Ryne. His vision blurred, the world tilting around him. He stumbled and fell to the ground. For a moment, he thought he was rolling or riding on horseback, the sensation strange and dizzying. But when he opened his eyes again, it was Claude’s face he saw hovering above him, sweat dripping down his brow to his chin.

“Claude,” Ryne whispered, barely able to push the words out.

Claude’s worried eyes met his, his breath coming in short, labored gasps. "We’re almost there!” he panted, his grip tightening on Ryne’s arm as he tried to lift him.

Ryne nodded weakly, feeling the exhaustion in his bones. But despite the pain in his body, Ryne felt a fleeting sense of peace.

Claude’s feet pounded the earth as they finally reached the monastery. The familiar crackling of fire and the distant murmur of voices filled the air. The oppressive weight of the night began to lift, but Ryne’s body still felt heavy, and so cold.

"Ryne?" A voice called, sharp and concerned. Ryne opened his eyes. Wilbur was kneeling next to him, his dark eyes scanning his face and clothes. His gaze lingered on the scorch marks and the blotches of smoke staining Ryne’s skin.

"Water," Ryne rasped, his throat dry, desperate for relief. His vision swirled, and his limbs felt weak.

Before Wilbur could respond, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the air. Ryne caught sight of a giant, a redhead, and two women sprinting toward them. The image blurred as his world tilted once more, his body giving in to exhaustion.

The last thing he remembered was the warmth of Claude’s hand on his arm, a cool rush of water, and the flicker of concern in the faces around him. And then... nothing.