A cold gray dawn settled over the monastery, the air crisp, unlike the thick mists that clung to the distant villages beyond its walls. Smoke curled lazily from distant towers, the last traces of Ryne’s kindflame still smoldering from the night before.

Claude stood on the church steps, his breath misting in the chill as Ryne secured his bracers around his arms, the worn leather cool against his fingers. Their brief respite had ended. Supplies were restocked, wounds bandaged, but duty called. Another stretch of land had fallen to shadowbeasts, and they had been summoned to reclaim it.

Ryne knelt beside Claude, tightening the straps. The leather groaned under his touch. Claude remained still, watching him, his gaze steady in the muted light.

“Eat well,” Ryne murmured, his voice low, almost lost to the hush of morning. “Keep your rations hidden. If the others see too much, it might cause trouble.”

Claude let out a quiet huff of laughter. "And if someone else goes hungry?" His brow lifted.

Ryne didn’t pause. “Then share with him in secret.”

Claude’s smile lingered, but Ryne had already turned away, his focus shifting. He called for Gilbert and Pint.

Gilbert adjusted his grip on his sword, shoulders squaring, while Pint carefully tucked his new arrows into their case, his fingers itching to put them to use. The three of them stood waiting, their silhouettes stark against the pale morning sky.

The cold bit deep, settling into their bones. Ryne exhaled, his breath warm in the frost-laced air.

He knew how to fix that.

“Close your eyes,” Ryne said.

Without hesitation, they obeyed.

He reached for their hands, his fingertips warm despite the morning chill. A quiet prayer left his lips, each syllable weaving unseen threads of protection. A soft glow pulsed around them, faint as candlelight, sturdy enough to absorb the first brutal strikes of the creatures they would face.

For Claude, though, Ryne did more. His palm pressed against Claude’s chest, just over the silver charm he had given him. Beneath his touch, a dormant surge of shieldflame stirred, sinking into the metal. It would stay hidden until the moment of greatest need—until shadowed claws came too close, until death loomed with its final stroke.

Claude exhaled, the warmth settling into his skin. As he stepped past Ryne, his fingers brushed against his shoulder, lingering.

Gilbert, ever restless, let out a sigh. “I hate to see it behind me.”

He cast a longing glance at the monastery. Merchants were already setting up for the day, voices mingling in morning chatter. Beyond them, a new group of travelers emerged from the dark forest’s arched path, drawn to the sanctuary that, for now, still stood.

Ryne smiled faintly, watching them go. “You’ll all be back here soon enough.”

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That night, in the half-ruined monastery, Ryne stood in silence, watching the kindflame roar atop the blackened towers. The fire pulsed like a heartbeat, warding off the creeping mist beyond the monastery’s walls.

Ealhstan found him there, stepping up beside him without a word. Below, the night market was in full swing—music swelling through the streets, voices rising in laughter. Lanterns bobbed like fireflies, casting golden light over merchants haggling and families sharing warm meals.

“To love is a wonderful thing, don’t you think?” Ealhstan mused, gazing down at the merriment below. Ryne did not say a word.

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The next night, beneath the full moon’s watchful glow, Ealhstan began building the orphanage. By the second night, it stood nearly finished.

Ryne watched from a distance, the silver light sharpening every motion of Ealhstan’s hands as he lifted stone after stone, fitting them together tirelessly. Even the villagers and merchants paused their nightly routines, their chatter fading into the crackle of distant torches. They had seen him build before, had watched him repair homes, reinforce walls, but tonight was different.

Ealhstan was usually a performer in his labor, like Woodrow with his juggling and flute-playing, always turning work into spectacle. But tonight, the giant brother did not stop to wave at the curious children who peeked from behind barrels. He did not trade words with Harlan or Agate. He moved like Wilbur in his study: silent and focused. He placed stone upon stone until the walls rose, then the rooms, then the roof and a tower.

When it was done, Ryne stepped inside the empty orphanage. The scent of fresh-cut wood and cold stone lingered in the air, mingling with the crisp night breeze. Simple cots lined the walls, blankets woven from Rothfield’s wool laid carefully upon them. At the heart of the room stood a hearth, unlit and waiting.

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Ryne knelt before it. He called upon Gaelmar’s kindflame, summoning the sacred fire into the empty space. It roared to life, casting a warm, golden glow that chased the shadows from the corners. He remained there, hands pressed together, channeling Gaelmar’s presence into the walls, into the very foundation, filling it with hope and light.

By the time he rose, the orphanage was more than a shelter. His blessing had made it a sanctuary.

The next night, the orphans and elderly that Gabriella and Claude had saved were brought to the monastery. The group shuffled through the doors, some with hesitant steps, others jostling for space.

“No shoving,” Claude chided with a grin as a few boys elbowed each other. “You’ll all have beds now.”

“And food,” Ryne added. “From now on.”

The initial excitement faded into something else. The children exchanged glances, seeking silent reassurance from one another. Their gazes settled on the smallest of the group, Oscar. He hesitated before looking up at Ryne, waiting for permission. The young monk gave a small nod.

From the kitchen, the scent of Wilbur’s rich stew thickened the air. The children’s hunger was evident in the way their eyes darted toward the doorway, their small hands fidgeting. But Oscar spoke first.

“In the town…” His voice wavered. “Lord Bahram and the priest only fed us if we fought. They chose the strongest ones. We never saw them again after a battle.”

A silence settled over the room, save for the distant crackle of the hearth.

Ryne knelt before Oscar, his voice steady. “I am not Lord Bahram. I am not Father Clint. Here, you are free to be what you wish to be. There are those who defend this monastery, but no one will force you to fight.”

Oscar’s dark eyes widened, his small shoulders easing. He studied Ryne for a moment before turning his gaze upward—past him, toward Ealhstan, the towering figure at the orphanage entrance.

He took a step forward, then another. His tiny hand reached for Ealhstan’s massive one, curling around his smallest finger. “Thank you,” he murmured.

A quiet ripple followed. One by one, the other children stepped forward, each taking hold of a finger, murmuring their own thanks. Ealhstan watched them, the lines of his face softening, his shoulders lowering as he allowed the gesture.

Then, with a gentle nudge, he sent them toward the kitchen.

The monastery watched in silence as the children and elderly took their seats around the long wooden tables, warm bowls of stew placed before them. The first tentative bites turned to eager eating, spoons clinking, laughter breaking through the once-hushed air.

For the first time in a long while, they were safe. And for the first time, they were home.

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Wilbur had locked himself in his lab. Some nights, minor explosions shook the walls. The door rattled with each blast, and now and then, thick smoke hissed through the cracks, curling into the dimly lit corridors.

Inside, the air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt herbs and mineral salts, a sharp contrast to the damp cold of the stone. Candles flickered, their light casting jagged shadows over rows of bubbling flasks and scattered notes. Wilbur held up a vial of deep azure liquid, watching as frost curled along the glass. A slow grin tugged at his lips.

Days later, he led Claude, Ryne, and the two brothers deep into a den of direwolves, two curious bottles clinking at his belt. When the beasts emerged, low growls rippling through the underbrush, Wilbur didn’t flinch. He pulled a glass sphere from his coat—a swirling orange-red mixture—held it aloft for just a moment, then hurled it at the ground.

The cinderflame phial shattered.

The explosion roared to life, an eruption of fire licking through the air. Heat blasted against their faces as the direwolves were engulfed, their howls vanishing in a rush of searing embers. When the flames settled, only ash remained.

Woodrow clapped Wilbur on the shoulder, his laughter breaking the stunned silence. Ryne followed, a firm nod of approval. Then Ealhstan, with a hand so heavy that Wilbur nearly buckled under the weight of it.

Wilbur groaned. “By Gaelmar, do you have to hit that hard?”

Ealhstan smirked.

The wind stirred, fanning away the lingering ashes. Ryne watched the embers drift, his expression thoughtful.

“I can reserve my flames,” he murmured. His gaze flickered to Claude, also celebrating with his brothers. This will help him. This will help us all.

On the next summons, Ryne handed Claude three of the vials, their glass cool and firm in his grasp. He gave one to Harlan, another to Agate, and distributed the rest among the elders of Rothfield Monastery, his voice steady as he issued a warning.

“Use them only in emergencies,” he said. “They’re not easy to make. At least, not yet. Not until we can harvest fire-aspected gemstones regularly.”

The next evening, the four dark brothers gathered again, this time to test another of Wilbur’s latest experiments. The vial shimmered in the dim light, a cool blue liquid swirling within, cold to the touch. Wilbur grinned as he turned it over in his palm.

“It’s the opposite of a fire explosion,” he said. “If my recipe is right, it should freeze enemies solid. Especially those with an affinity for water.”

They made their way to Lhottem Lake, where corrupted sea-lions stirred the waters into a dark, unnatural tide. Polluting them to make people sick. Wilbur handed the frost phial to Ealhstan, who weighed it once in his palm before throwing it at the largest creature in the pack.

The glass shattered against its scales.

A sharp, crystalline crack echoed over the lake as the liquid spread in an instant, expanding into a localized frost explosion. The corrupted creatures froze mid-motion, ice crawling over their bodies, jagged icicles jutting from their flesh.

Ealhstan strode forward, his footsteps crunching against the brittle frost. He reached out, tapping the frozen head of the sea-lion with the edge of his knuckle.

The creature shattered.

The shards scattered across the ground, leaving behind nothing but corrupted aquamarine orbs and shungite scales.