Wilbur ventured alone into the mountain, his satchel growing heavier with each freshly unearthed gemstone and ore. The others were deep in another chamber, too occupied to spare any men, leaving him to his own devices. He made his way toward the familiar lava pool, the air thick with sulfur, heat pressing against his skin like a smothering hand. Fire opals glistened within the molten rock, their fiery glow mesmerizing.

Just as he bent down to extract one, a sudden splash erupted from the pool. A scaly salamander, black as charred iron and smoldering like hot coals, twisted its serpentine body and flung molten lava in his direction.

Pain ripped through Wilbur as searing liquid struck his arm. He let out a sharp cry but gritted his teeth as his skin rapidly knitted itself back together, the agony fading just as quickly as it had come. His eyes flickered crimson with frustration.

Reaching into his belt, he pulled free one of his freshly made explosives, striking it against stone before flinging it toward the beast. The blast sent echoes through the cavern. The salamander screeched, its ember-like eyes narrowing before it slithered back into the molten depths.

Wilbur exhaled, but his relief was short-lived. A low growl rumbled behind him.

Near the entrance, a pack of direwolves crept forward, their silver eyes gleaming in the dim light, muscles coiled, ready to pounce.

Wilbur didn't hesitate. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled another bottle, the glass shattering on impact. A thick, acrid smoke billowed out, confusing the beasts just long enough for him to slip past their snapping jaws. He ran, boots pounding against the mountain path, until he reached the monastery’s safety.

Back in his lab, he unloaded his satchels, hands moving on instinct as he retrieved a large glass vial from the cabinet. The rich, dark liquid inside shimmered under the candlelight. He uncorked it, bringing it to his lips—

A presence in the doorway made him freeze.

Wilbur turned swiftly, setting the vial down with deliberate calm, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Claude leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, an amused glint in his eyes. "I didn't know you drank beer."

Wilbur let out a breath, but Claude’s smile faded as he took in his disheveled appearance.

"Your clothes are torn. Your hair’s a mess. There’s dirt on your hands and cheeks." His brow furrowed. "You went to the mountains. Alone."

Wilbur sighed, straightening. "Don't tell Ryne."

Claude shook his head. "I won’t." He stepped forward, gripping the hilt of his sword. "But you could have looked for me." His voice was steady, firm. "Next time, don’t hesitate to call for help, Brother."

Wilbur studied him for a moment, the once-scrawny farm boy now growing into a strong young man. In time, Claude would likely tower over him. He and Ryne would make sure of it.

Wilbur’s lips curled into a faint smile. "Aye, lad."

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Claude found the message pinned to his farm’s door when they visited their land. The parchment bore the seal of Lord Bahram. A summons.

Ryne frowned as he read it, his fingers itching to crumple it up and throw it into the wind. But Claude had already taken the letter, his eyes scanning the words. Beyond the gate, Ryne caught movement—a shadow shifting just out of sight. His jaw tensed.

“Come out. We know you’re there.”

A messenger stepped forward hesitantly, his gaze flickering between them. But the moment his eyes landed on Claude, his expression shifted from wary to startled. A commoner who could read. He would undoubtedly report this back to Father Clinton.

Ryne smirked. Good.

Claude, however, had gone rigid. Ryne stepped closer, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. His friend didn’t move. Ryne leaned in, reading the letter over Claude’s arm. The summons called him to the Bahram training grounds, offering him an official pardon and the right to return to his farm. A reward, it claimed.

“It’s a trap,” Ryne said flatly.

Claude didn’t look convinced. “I don’t think so.” His grip tightened on the hilt of his father’s sword. “You heard what my neighbors said. People from the town say things have gotten worse. They need every able-bodied man who can fight. And well…” He exhaled, gaze drifting across the land. “We have to take care of this farm, Ryne. It’s ours. It’s what my Da left us.”

But Ryne saw something deeper in his eyes. This wasn’t just about the farm.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Lord Bahram’s offer promised more than just land. This meant status, coin in his pockets, a place in the ranks of soldiers. It meant adventure.

Claude had always longed for that.

Ryne grasped his friend’s shaking hands, steadying them. Then, with a small nod, he said, “You’ve wanted this for a long time. We must prepare, then.”

Claude was silent. Then, he forced a tight smile.

Ryne pulled him into an embrace, shielding him against the cold wind, though he knew this was a storm neither of them could stop.

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That night, in the crypt beneath the monastery, Ryne unfolded the letter before his brothers.

Woodrow and Ealhstan exchanged a knowing look.

Bahram’s summons was no gesture of goodwill.

Ealhstan exhaled sharply. “He wants the boy to become a soldier in hopes he’ll fall in battle. Or break his spirit—whichever comes first.”

Woodrow’s arms were crossed, already calculating. “He wants to make an example out of him.”

Ryne clenched his fists.

“I can’t protect him in the daylight,” Woodrow continued. “And they’ll likely send him far.”

Which meant someone else would have to watch over him.

The brothers turned to Ryne.

Of course he would go.

He looked at Wilbur, who simply nodded, already standing to prepare healing potions.

Ryne would follow Claude without his knowledge, shadowing him through the trees by day, guarding him by night.

No matter what Bahram had planned, Claude would not face it alone.

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Lydia’s grip was iron-tight, her fingers trembling as they pressed into Claude’s back. She did not want to let go.

Claude exhaled, steady but gentle, before carefully prying himself from her embrace. He kissed her cheek, then his sister’s, murmuring soft reassurances. When he turned, his eyes sought Ryne’s, finding him waiting at the church steps.

They didn’t speak at first.

Claude pulled him in.

Ryne’s arms locked around him instinctively, and for a moment, he could pretend there was no war, no summons, no looming shadow of Lord Bahram, no Chaos. Just the warmth of Claude against him, steady and alive. He smelled of wheat fields, of the soil he swore to protect.

“I will come back,” Claude murmured, voice low, meant only for him.

Ryne swallowed, fingers tightening at the small of his back before forcing himself to let go. The air between them felt colder without him in it.

Claude turned to the brothers standing behind Ryne, nodding to them with quiet gratitude. “You taught me to survive. I’ll be fine.”

Ryne wanted to believe him. He wanted to burn away the shadows gathering at their heels, to shove Bahram and Father Clint into the abyss where they belonged. Claude’s fire burned too brightly to be swallowed by the dark.

When Ryne stepped back, he noticed something. Claude had grown taller. He smiled, tilting his head. “I know you will.”

Ealhstan stepped forward, a newly forged steel shield resting against his palm, its polish catching the morning light. “I have things you can use.” He handed over a pair of steel-tipped spears, their weight solid and sure in Claude’s grasp.

Wilbur followed, pressing small vials into Claude’s hands. Healing potions, their glass cool to the touch, and three bottles of explosives. “For bigger foes,” Wilbur said simply.

Claude met each of their gazes, nodding his thanks.

Ryne reached for Claude’s shield, his fingertips brushing the fresh iron before he lowered his head. Without a word, he pressed his lips to its surface, a quiet benediction, a whisper of Gaelmar’s spirit.

No one noticed.

But when Claude lifted the shield onto his back, he noticed it gleamed just a little brighter.

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The murmurs began the moment Claude stepped into the barracks. Soldiers eyed his shield, its surface gleaming with something they couldn’t quite name. Some whispered of stealing it, their gazes hungry, calculating.

But those who had fought beside him in the last battle spoke first. Don’t touch it, they warned. You don’t know what he is.

The others reconsidered.

Claude, unaware or simply unbothered, moved through them. He exchanged nods with the men he had saved, clasped forearms with those he had bled beside. Friendship was forged in the fire of battle, and already, he had allies.

From the tower above, Lord Bahram watched. His lip curled in disdain.

A shadow moved behind him.

“Are you certain about this?” Bahram asked, his voice low.

Father Clint did not answer immediately. He swirled the wine in his goblet, watching the deep red catch the torchlight. “I want to see how far Gaelmar’s influence reaches,” he said at last, taking a slow sip. “I want to know if he dares rival the Living Saint-King. Besides, this will be one less problem for you. Once the boy dies in battle, the people will come back to you.”

In the dim corridor, Vincent listened.

The words unsettled him.

His father had always been ruthless, but this cruelty, this calculated malice, felt foreign. And the priest… the priest was always too close, whispering into his father’s ear, shaping his thoughts like a blacksmith shapes molten steel.

Vincent clenched his fists.

This wasn’t the way of nobles. This wasn’t the father he had admired.

His mind drifted, unbidden, to an image: of the little pale monk with pale grey-yellow hair in the battlefield holding Claude. That looked noble. This… this was not.