Woodrow appointed Jerome as his scout. The wiry youth had grown confident, and Ryne saw it in his steady eyes. Wilbur confirmed it after tasting his blood, giving a curt nod. On the cot near Wilbur’s office, Ryne watched Jerome eat. Motes of light shimmered under his skin—a sign of enhanced speed and agility.
"If Ryne were stronger, I’d go myself," Woodrow muttered, arms crossed as he stared out the window.
Wilbur and Woodrow talked. Ryne closed his eyes, listening as their voices faded.
The brothers doted on Ryne. Wilbur cooked his meals, checked his pulse, and fussed over his every need, but he never collected Ryne’s blood. It would burn him. Wilbur tried to mask his frustration, but Ryne caught him one night, tugging at his dark brown hair under the flicker of candlelight.
Ryne had poured all his energy into summoning the sparrowflame, leaving him too weak to stand. His days blurred together in a haze of light sleep and exhaustion, waking only to drift back into slumber. Wilbur had to force him upright to eat, spooning broth into his mouth when his strength faltered.
During the day, Gabriella, sometimes with Lydia, took turns caring for him. One afternoon, as Gabriella adjusted the blanket over his frail frame, she murmured, “He’s so small.”
Ryne felt the cool press of a washcloth on his face and mumbled faintly as Lydia soothed him. When he blinked, he saw her embrace Gabriella. The two friends hugged tightly, exchanging soft whispers and reminiscing about their youth and the losses they had endured.
He smiled weakly at the sight, their voices fading into the haze of his thoughts.
And then, there was Claude. Those moments lingered most vividly—how warm Claude’s hands felt on his, how his voice carried Ryne’s name with gentle care. Did Claude know? Did he care? Ryne couldn’t tell, but he clung to the comfort of hearing him share updates about the monastery, grounding him in the present.
“The miasma is stirring again, but don’t worry,” Claude said softly. “Good thing you all had the bright idea to store some food. Woodrow, Wilbur, and Ealhstan are doing their best to keep everyone’s spirits up. Wilbur’s either in his lab or out in the fields cooking. Woodrow and Ealhstan are out battling shadow creatures. I stand watch with Agate and Harlan during the day.”
Claude’s voice lowered, closer to Ryne’s ear. A warm arm draped across Ryne’s chest, and gentle fingers brushed his cheek. “Be strong, friend.”
Ryne blinked up at him, and his breath hitched when he saw the glimmer of water in Claude’s eyes. He couldn’t tell if Claude was thinking about the flaming sparrows or something else. All he saw was his own reflection in those tear-brimmed eyes.
Slowly, Ryne recovered. In his sleep, he heard the voices of the people of Rothfield, faint at first, but growing stronger each night. Their prayers coursed through him like a steady current.
One night, he woke to the sound of music drifting from the church. With effort, he stood and made his way to the nave. It was bathed in candlelight, the flickering glow casting soft shadows as the townspeople sang a hymn to Saint Gaelmar. Their voices rose in gentle harmony, filling the air like a warm, soothing breeze.
Ryne closed his eyes and let the melody wash over him. The weight he had carried seemed to lift, replaced by a lightness he hadn’t felt in days. He sighed, a faint smile gracing his lips, as he felt the flicker of his flame returning, little by little.
By the fifth night, Ryne could stand, much to the delight of his friends. They cheered as he walked about the monastery, though Wilbur and Lydia warned him not to overexert himself. Claude, the human elders, and the children who adored him eagerly sought to bring him outside. One evening, Claude guided him to Wilbur’s garden, where the cool night breeze brushed gently against his skin.
Ryne wasn’t accustomed to being cared for, but Claude seemed determined. After settling him on a stone bench Ealhstan had crafted, Claude returned to the communal fire and brought back a bowl of warm soup.
“Wilbur’s tending to the sick animals. The ones you rescued from Bahram,” Claude said as he sat beside Ryne. His voice carried a soft admiration as he gestured toward the garden. A statue was taking shape in the center, rising from the unfinished base of what would eventually be a fountain. Draped in robes and carved with meticulous detail, the figure was unmistakably Saint Gaelmar.
Ryne stared at it, a faint smile curling his lips. “Ealhstan’s work?”
Claude nodded. “He’s pouring his heart into it. Says it’s to remind everyone of the strength we draw from one another.”
Ryne rested his head against the bench’s cool stone, the warm soup in his hands. For the first time in days, he felt truly at peace. The moon was bright. Claude was looking at him. When Ryne turned, CLaude did not turn away, only blinked.
Ryne closed his eyes as he savored the stew, grateful that he finally had the strength to feed himself again. The warmth of the broth spread through him, grounding him. Beside him, Claude spoke softly, his lips close to Ryne’s ear. “Thank you for getting me away from there.”
Ryne waited for more, but Claude said nothing else. He simply replied, “Of course.”
Claude’s knee brushed against his, steady and warm. The quiet strength radiating from him made Ryne lean his shoulder against Claude’s. They sat like that, in silent companionship, the cool night air mingling with the gentle crackle of the fire from the granges nearby.
After a while, Claude began to speak again. He told Ryne stories from the past day, describing how Belle had refused to stop leaping on everyone when her sisters returned. “Though,” he added with a chuckle, “the granges are a lot noisier now, with all their bleating.”
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Ryne smiled at the image, the corners of his exhaustion smoothing in the comfort of Claude’s presence. The simplicity of the stories, the night breeze, and Claude’s warmth, felt like a healing balm, mending what the past days had torn apart.
Ryne led him to the curious flowers in the garden. He guided Claude’s fingers over the yellowtongues and shivering maiden, told him of their properties. Their fingers met as they prodded the white roses.
In the daylight, Ryne watched as Claude raised his staff high, leading the sheep out of their enclosure. Cluade was beaming, glad to do his usual chores once more. The sheep followed him, drawn by an invisible thread, their movements calm, contentedly bleating.
Claude paused to stroke Belle’s fur, his expression softening as he noticed its remarkable sheen and smoothness compared to the others. His fingers lingered for a moment before he turned his attention to the children nearby. With a stick in hand, he crouched down and began drawing in the sand at their request. The children clapped and laughed, eagerly shouting suggestions, which Claude patiently obliged.
Ryne’s heart swelled as he took in the scene; the joy on the children’s faces, the gentleness of Claude’s hand guiding theirs as they practiced letters, and the easy warmth that seemed to follow him wherever he went.
At some point, Claude caught Ryne watching him. Their eyes met, and Claude grinned, a smile so radiant that it made Ryne’s chest tighten. Embarrassed, Ryne quickly looked away, feeling his cheeks flush, but the image of Claude’s smile lingered, warming him long after the moment had passed.
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Ryne listened intently as Jerome gave his full report one night, his strength half-returned. The infirmary was dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls as his brothers gathered around.
“The lords of Rothfield are frustrated,” Jerome began, his tone measured. “The town’s loyalties are splitting. I’ve heard whispers of Gaelmar and the flame that didn’t harm Claude. It’s stirred confusion and debate.”
Woodrow leaned back, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “The priest’s words have bitten him back,” he said, grinning. “Their little primitive trials failed to condemn Claude, and instead, your display has them thinking he’s chosen by another Saint. Imagine it! Poor Father Clint must be stewing in envy and confusion.”
Wilbur raised a brow but remained silent, his hands folded thoughtfully.
Woodrow continued, his grin widening. “The people must believe Gaelmar is more alive than their so-called ‘Living Saint-King.’ Oh, how it must gnaw at the priest’s pride.”
He licked his lips, savoring the imagined bitterness of Father Clint’s frustration. Ryne said nothing but could feel the weight of what had been set in motion. Whatever spectacle he had created, it had shifted the balance in the town of Rothfield.
Ryne felt the faint stirrings of the flame within him, still recovering.
“He’s been making metal charms to ward off the dark,” Jerome continued, “but the mist is pushing deeper into Rothfield. No direwolves yet, but the darkness is spreading. Lord Bahram’s frustrated. He can’t get his soldiers to search Claude’s farm. He’s threatening to send them to prison, but we both know that’s an empty threat. He needs his soldiers for patrols and supply runs. I saw a large group head to Mount Lhottem to harvest iron and copper. Two men were badly injured by shadowbeasts in the mountains.”
Ryne’s brow furrowed as he considered the information. The tension of the situation thickened with every detail.
"So, if I were to send Claude and the rest back to his cottage, you think they’d be safe?" Ryne asked.
Jerome nodded. “The common folk view the farm as sacred ground. Some haven’t even dared to return to the church, avoiding the priest’s venomous words.”
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Claude brought Ryne to the part of the dark forest that was green. Claude’s gaze drifted out over the green expanse, his expression distant. His hands rested in his lap, fingers tracing the grass absently as he spoke.
“I felt so hurt when they caged me,” Claude murmured, his voice quiet but laced with raw emotion. “They were good people once. They’ve forgotten we were friends before all this mess.”
Ryne’s hand instinctively reached out, brushing lightly over Claude’s arm. The warmth of the contact grounded him. He couldn’t help but feel angry that they let fear dictate their actions.
“I hope they remember soon,” Ryne said, his voice soft but firm, trying to offer a sliver of hope. But deep inside, there was a churn of anger. How could they have allowed it? How could they let the lords cage an innocent man like that?
He exhaled slowly, releasing the anger into the cool air. No, it wasn’t just the townspeople’s fault. They were scared—small, powerless against the might of the lords. Ryne had felt that same helplessness many years ago, back when he was still learning in the monasteries under Knox and Blake, when the weight of the world felt too heavy for anyone to push back against.
He squeezed Claude’s arm gently, trying to steady himself. “Fear can make people forget what’s important,” Ryne said quietly. “But maybe we can remind them.”
Claude gave him a small, almost wistful smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. But it was enough. For a moment, they simply sat there, the quiet of the forest and the distant fluttering of wings the only sound between them.
Ryne ran his fingers lightly over his chest, the familiar twinge of unease settling in his gut. Blake had been quiet these past few nights, unnervingly so. It was as if the dark force within him had gone still, and that silence felt wrong. He’d lived with Blake’s restless stirring for so long that the absence of it made him anxious. Yet, whenever Claude was near, the calmness within him persisted. Ryne didn’t need the kindflame to ward off Blake’s influence when Claude was around. His presence alone was enough to soothe the turmoil inside.
Ryne sighed, allowing his body to relax, curling up beside Claude’s legs. The warmth of his friend’s presence anchored him in a way that nothing else could. Claude’s boot tapped lightly against him, a playful gesture that brought a small smile to Ryne’s face.
“Do you miss home?” Ryne asked, his voice quiet as he gazed up at Claude.
Claude’s gaze shifted thoughtfully before he answered, his voice soft. “Ma says we might be intruding, even though your brothers keep insisting that we are always welcome, and to make this place our home if we wished.” He paused, looking down at Ryne with a small, sincere smile. “I’m not in a rush to get back to our grey fields. Though Wilbur had asked the elders to water the growing crops while we’re here.”
Ryne smiled in return, feeling a warmth spread through him, not just from the sun above but from the gentle connection between them. “You’re always welcome here, truly,” Ryne said quietly, his heart full of the offer. “We’re not in a rush, either.”
Claude chuckled softly, the sound light and carefree. It was a comfort to Ryne, a reminder that, despite everything, they still had each other. The world outside might be crumbling, but in these moments, here in the peace of the forest with his friend, things felt just a little bit whole again.