Ryne's breath hitched as Gaelmar’s deep voice filled his dreams, comforting and commanding.
“The sparrowflame,” Gaelmar’s voice resonated. “I was well beyond a man when I mastered that. It is fortunate your friend carried you back to my grounds quickly. And the people know to fuel your flame with my name.”
Ryne could feel the warmth of Gaelmar’s words, a presence like an ember in his chest, but his impatience pushed him forward. “Has my full strength returned?” He longed to be useful again, to feel the spark of the fire within him, burning with purpose.
“Almost,” Gaelmar answered, his tone both reassuring and weighty. His hand, not unlike Ryne’s, pressed gently to Ryne’s heart, the touch warm yet solemn. “Your friend makes you strong.”
Ryne felt a sense of peace in those words, but there was something more in Gaelmar's silence as the saint drew his hand back. The air around them grew heavy. Gaelmar's brow furrowed in thought, his gaze distant.
“Edmund…” Gaelmar murmured, almost to himself, but Ryne could feel the tension in his voice. “I do not feel him. Like I do not feel the rest of my fallen comrades. And his mark feels wrong. Twisted somehow, though it is the same as I remembered it before… I do not know what to make of this.”
The weight of those words pressed against Ryne’s chest, and he felt a shiver run through him. Edmund’s mark… the memory of it was sharp, and Gaelmar’s uncertainty only deepened the mystery surrounding his former comrade.
“I do not know what it means,” Gaelmar said, finally.
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Claude and Ryne sat in the quiet of the church, the morning light spilling through the high windows and casting soft beams across the stone floor. Claude was carefully working on restoring the cracked altar tiles, his focus absolute, while Ryne observed from the benches quietly.
“I’m not weak,” Ryne said, breaking the silence, his tone firm.
Claude glanced over at him, his expression patient. “Of course not. But you’ve been ill, Ryne. It would be unwise to strain yourself too soon and risk losing the strength you’ve just regained.”
Ryne couldn’t help but smile at his friend’s concern. “You sound just like Wilbur there.”
Claude chuckled lightly, his hands steady as he worked. “Well, in your absence, he was the one who taught me the rest of my letters. He reminded me of you.”
That made Ryne’s heart warm. He was glad that in his absence, Claude had found a way to keep learning, to keep growing. “Gaelmar would be pleased,” Ryne said softly.
Claude paused for a moment, meeting Ryne’s gaze. “Good. It’s thanks to him for saving me back there in the town square.”
The weak rays of the sun slanted through the windows, bathing Claude in a soft grey light, highlighting the muscles of his back and arms as he continued his work. Ryne watched him, a thought tugging at the edge of his mind. Soon, Claude would become a strong soldier if he wished, defending the monastery and the people around them.
But then, Ryne pushed the thought aside. Not yet. There was still time. They had years ahead of them before they would have to face such things. For now, he was content to simply watch and be with his friend.
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Ryne felt the heat of the forge, sweat dripping down his forehead as he tried to bend the metal band with his own hands.
"I can do it for you," Ealhstan said, his large hands open, ready to take the thick metal from Ryne.
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But Ryne shook his head, his eyes focused on the glowing metal. "It has to be me," he said, determination in his voice.
Ealhstan gave a nod of approval, stepping back to let Ryne work. The heat from the forge was intense, but Ryne gritted his teeth and pressed on, feeling the weight of the task. His slender arms, usually not accustomed to this kind of labor, felt clumsy as he twisted the metal, hammering it into the shape of Gaelmar’s mark. Each strike of the smaller hammer echoed in the workshop.
After a few moments, the metal was shaped and cooled in the water with a hiss. Ryne took a deep breath, finally placing the mark on the altar, murmuring a quiet prayer. He kissed the cool metal, sealing his blessing upon it.
Later that day, he led Claude to the church beneath Gaelmar’s statue. The soft light illuminated the space, and Ryne could feel the presence of Gaelmar all around them. He reached into his tunic and pulled out the metal mark, now perfectly shaped and cool to the touch.
Claude’s eyes widened as Ryne approached. He took the mark in his hands, lips parted in surprise. “I thought our finest soldier here in the monastery deserved his own trinket,” Ryne said with a smile, his voice soft but sincere.
Claude’s face softened as Ryne stepped closer, the weight of the gesture settling between them. Ryne carefully draped the mark around Claude’s neck, the cool metal resting gently against his skin. Claude touched it softly, the warmth of Ryne’s hands still lingering on the metal.
“I’ll wear it forever,” Claude whispered, his voice thick with emotion. As he said those words, a strong pang struck his chest, a feeling that made his heart swell in a way he couldn’t quite name.
Ryne stepped back, his eyes meeting Claude’s, and for a moment, the world outside the church seemed to fade away. There was nothing but the two of them, standing together beneath Gaelmar’s statue, bound by the mark and the promise it represented.
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Daylight. Claude, Jerome, and a small group of capable warriors set off to Mount Lhottem to gather the minerals needed for Wilbur’s alchemical work. Ryne watched them go as his friends and people trekked through the rocky terrain. He had sent Ember along with them, her fire to protect the people in the dangerous, shadowed paths.
When they returned, tired but triumphant, the heavy sacks of minerals were brought straight to Wilbur’s workshop. Ealhstan pounded and grinded the minerals into fine powders, his muscular arms working with practiced precision.
In the midst of it all, Wilbur’s voice rang out, steady and confident. “I had to dilute the medicines again while you were out, of course. To ration them,” he said with a knowing smile. “Good thing I had a few medicines stored in my lab for emergencies, if any of them fell gravely ill.”
The lab was alive with activity. The table trembled beneath Wilbur’s hands as he mixed and stirred his concoctions, the bubbling liquids changing colors, gray shifting to brilliant blues and yellows. The scent of the alchemy filled the room, rich and tangy, almost too sharp for the senses.
The results were soon clear as the sheep were brought in. With each careful dose, they grew plumper and sleeker, their coats shining in the light, just like Belle. The goats and hens followed, their milk soft and creamy, their eggs now thick and large. Wilbur watched, his mind already planning what the next batch of minerals would create.
The vision from Gaelmar pierced Ryne’s dreams. The shadows were stirring, gathering strength for an impending assault. The town was still divided in its loyalties, torn between the people who had turned to the flame and those who clung to old beliefs. It was the perfect moment for Chaos to strike, Gaelmar warned, with his voice as steady as the winds of the mountains.
Ryne’s heart pounded as the vision unfolded before him. Greater direwolves, massive and black, prowled the outskirts of Rothfield. Above them, corvus, dark and menacing, flapped and screeched, their cawing filling the air. His pulse quickened as he saw the threat drawing closer. He had to act quickly.
He surged from the bed where he had been resting, his body strong once more, the flame inside him burning bright. Without hesitation, he rushed to the tower, where the bell loomed above the town. He struck it with force, the resounding clang echoing through the granges, pulling the people’s attention toward the sky.
Ryne’s voice rang out above the commotion. “Brothers! Elders!” He called, summoning the ones who could stand against the coming darkness. As they gathered inside the church, Ryne’s gaze locked with Ealhstan and Wilbur’s, both of them bracing for what was to come.
“I must go with you,” Ryne said, his voice firm, despite the protests from his brothers. “I’m strong again. You need me out there. You need me to be close so you can fight. We cannot afford to waste any time.”
Ealhstan opened his mouth to argue, but Ryne cut him off, sensing what he was about to say.
“No,” Ryne countered, his eyes unwavering. “Harlan and Agate can’t do it alone. We need every hand we can get.” He looked at them, the weight of Gaelmar’s warning pressing heavily on his shoulders. “I’ll be fine. We can’t afford to hold back. If I can help, I will.”
The church was filled with the hum of nervous energy. A battle was approaching, and they needed to be ready.