—ROTHFIELD MONASTERY—


    The mist hung thick in the forest, heavier than usual, curling and shifting as though it had a mind of its own. Claude slouched under the weight of the sack on his back. The grains inside were useless; dried up, brittle things. Still, he hoped Wilbur might work his alchemy on them, and maybe Saint Gaelmar would hear Ryne’s prayers, too. It seems he favored only Ryne during these grey days.


    He sighed, drawing the damp, cold air deep into his lungs, and stepped into the forest’s blackened shade.


    He should’ve been used to this by now—the quiet that pressed down like a hand, the gnarled brambles clawing at his legs, the endless trees looming like watchful sentinels. But something about tonight was different. The mist felt alive, heavy, and every breath he took seemed to leave a trace of unease in his chest.


    The path was still there, faint but familiar, winding through the roots and underbrush. Then the mist thickened, and it felt like it was pressing down on him, curling into his throat, making it harder and harder to breathe. Claude stumbled, pausing to adjust the sack on his back, but it only felt heavier. He looked around for the landmarks he knew—the split oak, the cluster of sharp rocks—but they were gone, swallowed by the fog.


    He froze. Panic flared in his chest. His breath came in short bursts now, ragged and too fast. The weight on his shoulders pulled him down like a lead anchor. For a moment, he wanted to call out, to yell for Ryne, but the words wouldn’t come. The mist was in his lungs, in his head.


    Then, he heard the bell.


    It started faint, barely there, and then it rang through the dark forest, deep and resonant. It made him feel steady, its sound sending a shiver down his spine. Slowly, the weight on his back seemed to ease, and his breaths evened out. The mist began to pull back, swirling in retreat like smoke going out through the gaps of windows and doors.


    As the fog lifted, the trees reappeared, their familiar shapes guiding him again. The path stretched ahead, clearer now, leading him forward. He stumbled once but kept moving. The bell stopped ringing, and Claude hurried towards the arched trees that led to the monastery, that led to Ryne, before the mist enveloped him again.


    And then he saw it: Rothfield Monastery. Its towers rose against the night sky, solid and safe, a haven waiting to take him in.


    <hr>


    A small crowd had gathered in the middle of the field, their murmurs rising in the cool air. The soil beneath their feet was dark and soft, stained by the recent rains. At the center of it all stood the giant monk, Ealhstan, grinning like a boy with a new toy. His massive hand rested proudly atop a bell so large it seemed impossible to move.


    One man exclaimed, “Well, that explains all the iron we’ve been gathering from the mountain.”


    “But that was just a week ago… how’d he make such a thing?” His friend answered.


    “It’s Brother Ealhstan,” was the only reply.


    With his size, Ealhstan saw Claude approaching and waved to him, his grin widening. Before Claude could fully approach, the monk bent down, scooped up a smaller figure, who was Ryne, and perched him effortlessly on his shoulder.


    Claude stopped in his tracks, feeling lighter all of a sudden, as though the mist did not weigh on his lungs just moments before. Ryne balanced easily on Ealhstan’s shoulder, one hand steadying himself while the other shot up into the air.


    “Watch this!” Ryne called out, his voice bright and clear.


    Claude froze, watching as Ryne placed both hands on one side of the enormous bell. Ealhstan gave the other side a firm smack, and the bell rang out—a deep, resonant sound that seemed to pour warmth into every corner of the field. The crowd gasped, then broke into easy laughter. The sound lingered in the air, wrapping around Claude and settling deep in his chest. He smiled.


    As the crowd drifted back to the communal fire at the edge of the field, Ealhstan rolled the bell toward the church, leaving Ryne behind. Claude took a deep breath and stepped forward, clutching the sack of withered grains to his chest.


    “It’s not much,” Claude said, his voice soft. He held out the sack, suddenly shy. “But I thought your people could use it. Maybe you and Wilbur can make something out of these.”


    “How thoughtful!” Ryne’s voice was warm, and the sincerity in his tone made Claude’s ears burn. He reached into the sack, scooping up a handful of the shriveled grains. His smile was wide, genuine, and unguarded. It made Claude’s breath catch.


    Ryne let the grains trickle slowly into his other palm, watching them as if they were gold. Behind him, rows of new potatoes and leeks swayed gently in the breeze, green and healthy, untouched by the blight that had ruined so much of the land.


    Claude’s eyes drifted back to Ryne’s hands. For a fleeting moment, he thought those hands could bring life to anything they touched. Without thinking, he reached out, his fingertips brushing against Ryne’s knuckles.


    The contact was brief but electric. Claude’s heart stumbled in his chest, and he jerked his hand back, stammering an apology.


    Ryne only laughed, a soft, musical sound, and waved it off as though it were nothing. He turned, handing the sack of grains to Wilbur, who had appeared silently in the doorway of the church.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Claude nodded awkwardly in Wilbur’s direction, his face still warm, and watched as the monk disappeared back inside, the sack slung over his shoulder. Ryne followed him not long after, pointing Claude to the courtyard to wait.


    <hr>


    The ancient stone walls of the monastery courtyard seemed to absorb sound, leaving only the soft rustle of ivy and the gentle clatter of grain sacks as Ryne worked beside Claude.


    As expected, Wilbur emerged with Ryne following close behind, carrying a pouch of revitalized grain. Claude noticed Ryne swaying slightly, his complexion paler than usual. Despite this, Ryne smiled and sank onto the stone bench beside him, catching his breath in silence.


    “Ealhstan has been busy lately,” Claude said, breaking the stillness. His gaze wandered to the curious oak tree and the neatly arranged stone benches scattered across the growing courtyard.


    Ryne chuckled, his voice light but tired. “Beautiful, isn’t it? My brothers always need something to do. Idle hands and all that...” He yawned, and Claude winced, uneasy at the thought of him overexerting himself.


    But Ryne rose to his feet and extended a hand toward Claude. Without a word, they set to work.


    —GRANGES—


    As the final sack of grain was unloaded, Ryne’s hand briefly rested on Claude’s shoulder, guiding him toward the arched doorway of the monastery. Though the touch was fleeting, Claude felt an unexpected warmth through Ryne’s cold fingers.


    Ryne turned to him, the sweat on his brow beginning to dry in the cool wind. His mind wandered, troubled. He could sense the Chaos circling them, probing for weaknesses now that Ealhstan had regained his senses. No longer shaking the earth to create barricades, Ealhstan had opened critical trade routes, allowing aid and merchants to reach interconnected villages and towns near Rothfield. Frustrated, the Chaos had turned to the mist—obscuring the land and sowing unnatural fear in the hearts of the weak.


    Ryne fought to hold his smile as Claude broke the silence. “The blasted priest has come back to Rothfield. He’s riling up the townsfolk, talking about things happening ‘beyond the dark forest.’ As if we don’t already distrust our neighbors enough.”


    Ryne measured his response carefully. “We’ll be careful.”


    But Claude didn’t seem reassured. Ryne saw the worry etched into his friend’s face and knew what he was thinking. No matter how careful they were, rumors would still spread—of the houses rising faster than human hands should allow and the sick recovering with unnatural speed.


    Back at the nave, Claude helped Ryne wipe down the pews. As they stepped deeper into the monastery, the light dimmed to a faint glow, flickering where the candles had nearly burned down to their stubs. The air carried the scent of aged wood and wax, mingling with a faint dampness from the stone walls. Shadows stretched long and unnaturally across the corridor, shifting as though alive.


    Claude froze mid-step at the faint creak of a door somewhere ahead, the sound reverberating through the silence. An unnatural chill settled over him, raising goosebumps along his arms.


    Ryne noticed Claude’s unease and placed a steadying arm on his shoulder. Focusing inward, he channeled the warmth of Saint Gaelmar into his aura. Slowly, he felt his friend soften under the soothing energy.


    Claude blinked at Ryne, then smiled. He rolled his shoulders back and stretched, as if shaking off an unseen weight. Whistling softly, he grinned and returned to cleaning the wooden benches.


    Ryne watched him for a moment before his gaze flicked toward the statue of Gaelmar. He hid his own fatigue, catching his breath in the flickering candlelight.


    —CHURCH—


    A soft knock broke the quiet, and the heavy wooden door creaked open. Wilbur stepped inside, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room like a blade. The flickering candlelight cast long, jagged shadows across his lean figure, his presence heavy and imposing.


    As Wilbur approached the pews where Ryne and Claude sat, Ryne’s calm demeanor faltered. A flicker of something cold and dark passed through his eyes—fleeting, but enough to catch Claude’s attention. The farmer frowned, but before he could voice his concern, Ryne placed a firm hand on his shoulder.


    “Claude, wait for me outside,” Ryne said softly, his tone leaving no room for argument.


    Claude hesitated, his gaze darting between the two brothers. The unspoken tension in the room made him uneasy, but Ryne’s words carried weight. With a reluctant nod, he rose, casting one last glance at Wilbur before stepping out and closing the door behind him with a muted thud.


    Silence settled like a shroud, broken only by the faint crackle of dying candles. Wilbur crossed his arms, his expression unreadable.


    “The mist grows thicker,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “It’s adapting. This… Father Clinton could stir more than just rumors if he keeps running his mouth. The townsfolk’s fear is fertile ground for Chaos to take root.”


    Ryne nodded, his jaw tightening. “As long as I preach the warmth of Saint Gaelmar, our people will stay tethered. As long as you heal and feed them, Ealhstan secures their homes, and Woodrow keeps their spirits light. But you’re right. Clinton’s meddling could cause ripples we’re not ready for.”


    The brothers exchanged a long look, the memory of Knox and Blake heavy in the air—men who had once stirred the masses to reckless action or kept them docile with fear. They both knew the power of words in the mouths of the righteous—or the desperate.


    Wilbur’s eyes glinted, sharp as steel. “But how do we handle someone who’s far beyond our borders?”


    Ryne’s gaze hardened, but he said nothing, the weight of the question settling heavily between them.


    —GRANGES—


    The granges were quiet, the stillness broken only by the distant murmur of villagers gathered around their communal fire. Brother Woodrow was already among them, his red hair catching the flames’ glow as he spun stories and laughter like a master weaver. He was a starburst of joy, and Claude couldn’t help but wish he could borrow him for one supper in their empty kitchen—just once—so his mother and sister might laugh again.


    Claude adjusted the sack slung over his shoulder, its weight now replaced with the comforting heft of freshly baked bread. At the edge of the granges, he paused and turned back, his eyes catching Ryne standing in the doorway, outlined by the faint amber light spilling from within.


    “I’ll bring more grain soon,” Claude said, his voice steady, though something unspoken pulled at his chest. “To give to you. My harvest is yours. And… thank you for today. For helping me.”


    Ryne smiled faintly, his hands clasped in front of him. “Anytime.”


    As Claude stepped into the mist, his form was gradually swallowed by the creeping gray. Ryne lingered in the doorway, his gaze fixed on the retreating silhouette. The ache in his chest was sharp, almost unbearable. He spread his hands outward, as though the wind might carry the warmth of his well-wishes and prayers to wherever Claude would go—a ribbon stretching between them, a scarf encircling his shoulders in unseen protection.