Ryne dismissed the others and knelt in solitude within the church, the quiet broken only by the faint crackling of candles nearby. He closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth coursing through him. Gaelmar’s presence was strong again, steady and unwavering. As he meditated, a faint noise behind him broke his focus. Ryne turned to see Claude standing in the doorway, sword and shield in hand. His face was set, his eyes determined. Claude stepped closer to him. Ryne smiled faintly, placing a steady hand on Claude’s arm. They exchanged no words; there was no need. Together, they moved swiftly into the night.
The dark forest loomed ahead, mist curling and thickening like a living thing, suffocating the light of the moon. Shadows prowled at the edges, their growls growing louder. Ryne took all his dark brothers with him. Woodrow, Wilbur, and Ealhstan flanked him while Agate and Jerome followed Claude. Ember ran close to Ryne’s ankles. He noticed thy were letting him lead. As they emerged from the trees, the scene before them was chaos. The mist had reached the town, blanketing the streets as panicked villagers scrambled to lock themselves in their homes. Corvus swooped low, their screeches sharp and grating as they clawed at roofs and shutters. In the distance, the guttural snarls of direwolves sent shivers down Ryne’s spine.
Ryne thrust his palm upward, summoning a sudden short burst of sparrowflame into the sky. The golden fire shot up, blazing bright against the gloom, drawing the attention of the corvus. The light disoriented them, forcing them to scatter, and a few were burned away in the heat of the flame.
Ember, sensing the urgency, channeled her flame into Ryne’s, their energies merging. With a swift motion, Ryne cast flameshield over Agate, who was engaged in a fierce battle with one of the greater direwolves. The monstrous creature lunged at her, its teeth snapping, but the shieldflame burned its muzzle, giving her the opening she needed. Agate thrust her spear forward, piercing the greater direwolf’s neck in a single, decisive strike.
The tide was beginning to turn, but the mist continued to descend, thicker and colder than before. Ryne could feel the shadows pressing in. He glanced at Claude, whose grip on his sword tightened as his eyes scanned the battlefield.
“Stay close,” Ryne said.
Ealhstan roared like a force of nature, his massive hands gripping boulders and barrels as though they were mere pebbles. With a tremendous heave, he hurled them into the pack of direwolves charging through the mist. The heavy projectiles crashed into the beasts, breaking their momentum and scattering them like pins in a game. One injured wolf staggered, trying to retreat, but Ealhstan was quicker. He seized it by its matted fur and, with a grunt of effort, flung it back into the oncoming pack. The greater direwolves tumbled into a disorganized heap, snarling and snapping at one another in confusion.
At the same time, Wilbur lobbed glass bottles into the air, each one bursting into fiery explosions upon impact. The shimmering blue and orange flames illuminated the mist, forcing the wolves to retreat, halting their advance. Wilbur’s sharp eyes scanned for the next opportunity to strike.
As the battle pressed on, Wilbur joined Ryne and Claude, the three of them making their way to the village square. The scene was chaos. Soldiers and villagers fought desperately to protect their homes, their shouts and cries echoing through the night. Lord Bahram stood at the forefront, his warhammer a blur of silver as he drove back the encroaching shadows with a strength that belied his years. The people of the monastery stared; Ryne and Claude looked at each toher, stunned that he saw this noble lord actually defending his domain.
“You cannot have it, cur! Rothfield is mine!” Baxter Bahram roared. His hammer struck one wolf, then the next, turning them to ash.
Above the melee, the corvus swooped and screamed, their dark wings blotting out the faint light of the moon. One of the massive birds dove into the fray, snatching a soldier in its talons and lifting him high into the air. The man’s cries for help pierced through the clamor of battle.
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Claude didn’t hesitate. He sprinted toward the scene, eyes locking onto the spear the soldier had dropped. Grabbing it in one fluid motion, he planted his feet and hurled the weapon skyward with all his strength. The spear flew true, striking the corvus square in the chest. The creature let out a bone-chilling screech before disintegrating into ash, its grip on the soldier releasing. The man plummeted to the ground, landing hard but alive.
Claude rushed to his side, kneeling as he helped the soldier sit up. “You’ll be fine,” he said firmly, his voice steady despite the chaos. “Stay low and regroup with the others.”
Nearby, Ryne’s sparrowflame flickered in his hand, its light pushing back the growling wolves, the screeching crows. But a part of the square was still swarming with enemies. Ryne rallied Agate, Jerome, and Claude, and reinvigorated, held their weapons high to drive back more shadow beasts. Yet, even as they gained ground, Ryne couldn’t shake the feeling that the true threat had yet to reveal itself, waiting in the heart of the mist.
A low groan drew Ryne and Claude’s attention. Scattered across the ruined square were wounded soldiers, some clutching their sides, others barely moving. Ryne knelt beside the nearest one, a young man with a gash across his leg, and motioned for Claude to help.
“We need to get them to safety,” Ryne said.
Claude nodded, lifting the injured soldier and following Ryne toward the edges of the square, where the doors of a patrol hut remained open as a makeshift shelter. Wilbur was already there, crouched beside another fallen man. His sharp gaze assessed the soldier’s injuries. Without a word, he uncorked a glowing potion from his satchel, its contents shimmering with an otherworldly light.
“Hold still,” Wilbur instructed, tilting the bottle so the liquid trickled over the man’s wounds. The soldier winced as the potion hissed against his skin. He closed his eyes as the gashes sealed shut, leaving only faint scars. He blinked in disbelief as strength returned to his limbs, and he stumbled to his feet.
“I—thank you,” the soldier stammered, his voice shaky.
Wilbur barely acknowledged the gratitude, already turning to scan the battlefield. “Get inside,” he ordered brusquely, his tone leaving no room for argument. He tossed his satchel over one shoulder and hurried back into the fray, his movements precise and purposeful as he sought out more wounded men.
Ryne and Claude carried more injured to safety. The square was littered with rubble and bodies, but together they navigated the chaos, saving who they could. Each time Wilbur approached with his potions, the scene repeated—wounds closed, life returned, and stunned soldiers found their feet once more.
Between them, hope began to flicker in the eyes of the defenders. The sight of their comrades rising again gave them strength. Ryne couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride for his dark brother. But Wilbur’s expression remained grim. As he wiped the blood from his hands and moved toward the next soldier, his sharp senses caught something on the wind—a distant howl, deeper and more menacing than before. His jaw tightened. The direwolves had regrouped. The worst was yet to come.
Ryne’s eyes locked with Baxter Bahram’s across the chaotic square. The lord stood like an immovable mountain, his broad shoulders heaving and his warhammer resting heavily by his side. He looked every bit a bear disturbed from his den, yet it wasn’t his imposing presence that caught Ryne off guard—it was the fact that he was there, fighting alongside his people.
Lord Bahram’s gaze swept over Ryne and his brothers, his expression flickering between astonishment and scrutiny as he took in their unfamiliar appearances. His eyes lingered on Ryne’s black robes, and Wilbur, who was pouring potions with swift efficiency. But when his attention shifted to Claude, he growled.
Claude was a blur of motion, his sword and shield striking down the shadows. Each swing of his blade seemed to inspire the common soldiers around him, who rallied to his side. The tide of battle shifted as the numbers of the shadows began to dwindle under Claude’s attacks.
The soldiers nearest to Claude began to cheer, their voices rising above the clamor of the battlefield. They chanted his name, their enthusiasm spreading. Even some townspeople, emboldened by the sounds of victory, opened their windows and leaned out to add their voices to the growing chant.
Ryne glanced at Claude, whose face remained focused, though a faint flush colored his cheeks at the unexpected attention. He fought on, undeterred by the praise, his movements as steady as ever. Like a fine warrior.
Lord Bahram’s gaze flicked from the cheering soldiers to the townspeople. Some joined in the chant, while others simply stared, their faces marked with confusion as they looked to their lord.