Ryne remained in the crypt for a full day and night, emerging only at dusk for the prayer of banishment to Blake. He had felt the entity stir during the battle, its excitement thrumming beneath his skin, only to fade once the fighting ceased. But something had shifted: Blake’s voice had not returned. Ryne could hold him at bay now. Maybe even silence him for good.
Claude and Woodrow waited for him at the nave, their gazes fixed on the statue of Saint Gaelma.
“Hello,” Ryne said, tilting his head, puzzled by their expectant expressions.
Claude grinned, seized Ryne’s arm, and pulled him toward the cloisters. Woodrow covered his eyes with his hands, whistling a lighthearted tune. Ryne chuckled, already guessing where this was leading. When they stopped, Woodrow lifted his hands away.
Ryne blinked. Then he stared.
In the garden’s center stood a statue—at first, he assumed it was Saint Gaelma. But as his eyes traced the features, recognition dawned. It wasn’t the saint. It was him.
Ealhstan stepped from the shadows, shoulders slightly hunched, one hand behind his back. “Do you like it?” he asked. “Your friend over there helped.”
Ryne turned sharply to Claude, who winked. With a breathless laugh, Ryne smacked Claude’s arm in astonishment before pulling him into a tight embrace. He whispered, “You are wonderful.”
Then he sprang toward Ealhstan, leaping up to him, and the giant laughed, his deep voice echoing through the garden. Wilbur stood behind them, watching with an amused smile.
“Why me?” Ryne asked at last.
“Why not?” Ealhstan said simply.
“You’re the caretaker of Rothfield,” Wilbur added, tapping his knee. “Let the people know.”
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While Ryne assisted Wilbur in the lab, Claude lingered by the statue, running his hands over the chiseled features. He turned to Ealhstan. “Thank you for letting me help. And for teaching me.”
“You work well with wood, don’t you?” Ealhstan said, studying him. “I’d like to see what you can do.”
So that night, Claude carved. He followed Ealhstan’s steady movements, mirroring each cut with careful precision. When the giant offered quiet encouragement, Claude found himself smiling—this man who could crush shadowbeasts to ash and shatter stone with a single blow was now guiding his hands over something delicate.
When the work was done, Ealhstan beamed at him.
Claude turned back to the statue. The garden was empty now. The monastery’s halls stretched in silent reverence, though in the granges, he could hear Ealhstan’s booming laughter mingling with the soft trill of Woodrow’s flute.
He climbed onto the statue’s base, reaching out. His fingers brushed over the stone’s chin, lingering against the cool, carved face.
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Wilbur sighed. “That battle drained my supplies. Every last explosive, every bottle.”
Ryne thought of the glowing healing potions, the explosives Wilbur had hurled through the night. Around them, the lab was cluttered with empty vials, their glass scrubbed clean in the river.
“Tomorrow, we’ll gather more in the mountains,” Ryne said.
Wilbur tapped his fingers against the wooden worktable. “No need to rush. Let the people rest.” He cast Ryne a sidelong glance. “Spend some time with Claude.”
An orphan coughed from one of the cots. Wilbur turned, propping the boy up and pressing a bowl of soup to his lips. Small fingers clutched at his sleeve, refusing to let go.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
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Claude and Ryne stood in the meadow, watching the sheep graze. Wilbur’s supplements ofr the animals had worked. Belle’s fleece was thicker, the others’ coats shinier, their steps lighter, more vigorous.
“They look happier than I’ve ever seen them,” Claude murmured.
He ran ahead, lifted his staff high, pointing toward the wildflowers scattered across the field. The sheep trotted after him, and he laughed, breathless, as they flocked around his ankles. Ryne remained where he stood, watching. The morning light caught the edges of Claude’s pants, the wind tangling his hair as he spun, arms outstretched like a boy at play.
Ryne exhaled slowly. His gaze lingered.
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At first, only a few from the nearby town dared to step onto the sacred grounds of Saint Gaelmar, hesitant, gazes wary. Ryne blinked in surprise.
Claude met them halfway in the granges, his stance steady, though his eyes softened as he took in their hollow cheeks and the way their hands hovered over their ribs. They were starving. He slowly reached out to a woman at the front, his fingers brushing against hers before he guided her forward. One by one, the others followed, their eyes darting between the monastery’s thriving fields, its people, and the stone halls beyond.
That night, Ryne and his brothers stepped into the firelight, presenting themselves to the newcomers. The townspeople stiffened, huddling close, their fear thick. Then Claude moved near Ryne and placed a hand on his shoulder. Ryne felt the warmth of it bled through the fabric.
Annette, Gabriella, and Lydia joined them at the altar. Seeing their own former neighbors healthy, well-fed, safe ebbed the tension in the villagers. Their shoulders loosened.
Ryne and Claude helped them settle, working side by side. Over a crackling fire, they stirred a thick stew in the great brass pot, the scent of simmering herbs and roasted roots filling the air. They layered makeshift beds with hay and soft sheep’s wool, pressing down the blankets to smooth out the ridges. Their hands brushed—once, twice—lingering just a breath too long before Claude met Ryne’s gaze and smiled.
As they passed tools to one another, reinforcing the animal enclosure, their fingers grazed again. Ryne felt the roughness of Claude’s calloused palms, the brief press of warmth before they each turned back to their tasks.
The sheep had multiplied. Claude and Ryne watched their newest offspring, noting the sheen of their fleece: glossier, thicker, as if touched by something more than nature. A distinct marking adorned their faces, not like the Saints, but something else.
Claude’s brows furrowed. “They kind of look like the marks on your face.” Then Claude brought his face close to Ryne’s and the little monk stiffened, catching his breath. Claude stepped back and said. “Huh. Your face has a pattern.”
Ryne touched his cheek as Claude went back, whistling.
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Woodrow walked alongside Jerome, the damp earth soft beneath their boots as they patrolled the woods. The trees loomed tall, their branches swaying in the wind, casting restless shadows. Woodrow clapped Jerome on the shoulder.
"A fine archer you’ve become," he said, his voice warm.
Jerome grinned, fingers tapping against the bowstring. "I had a good teacher."
A sharp crunch of gravel broke the quiet. Both men stilled. Jerome's bow was in his hands in an instant, arrow notched, while Woodrow melted into the darkness, his dagger slipping free from its sheath. A lone figure peered through the trees, half-hidden by mist.
Woodrow raised a pale hand, signaling Jerome to hold back. He moved forward, silent as the wind, his charm ready on his tongue, but the moment he neared, something unseen struck him, an invisible force pressing against his chest like a wall of iron. He recoiled, fangs baring, his breath catching in a hiss.
Climbing swiftly into the trees, he studied the intruder from above. The man’s tunic bore the mark of Saint Edmund, the silver glint of the charm resting against his throat. A pulse of recognition ran through Woodrow, followed by a flicker of irritation. Then, from the mist, more figures emerged, walking steadily toward Rothfield.
Spies.
Woodrow let out a sharp whistle, low and quick. His thieves slithered from the shadows, answering his call.
"Steal that one's cross," he murmured, voice barely above a breath. "Throw it far. Take their coins if you wish."
The thieves struck like wraiths. Hands darted, daggers flashed, not to wound, only to sever chains and lighten pockets. Their charms hit the dirt with a dull thud before being kicked into the underbrush.
As the thieves vanished back into the gloom, Woodrow descended. He moved from man to man, silent as a cat, his fangs pressing to their throats for a single, deliberate taste. A shiver of life—warm, rich—rushed through him. They barely made a sound, the trance settling over them like a heavy fog.
"Go back to your priest," Woodrow murmured, licking the last trace of crimson from his lips. "Tell him you lost your way."
Without their sacred protection, they were his. Eyes dull, movements sluggish, they turned wordlessly and retreated toward the town.
At Saint Edmund’s church, Father Clint stiffened as they stumbled through the doors. His nostrils flared. The stench of darkness clung to them, thick and unmistakable.
He did not yell. He did not demand answers.
Instead, he sent them away and reached for his incense, lighting it with a steady hand. The smoke curled into the air, a silent prayer against the corruption that had touched his flock.