---BELLTOWER---


    Ryne climbed the belltower at dawn. He had woken later than usual, jolting awake when the faint light of dawn hit his eyes. Not that there was any sunlight; the sky had always been blocked out. For the past few days, rain had only worsened the gloom, a bad omen for the crops.


    The mist was thick here, too. Ryne whistled, and Ember arrived, carrying the candles. Holding out his hands, he called upon Saint Gaelmar’s flame. Instantly, the candles sprang to life, their light driving the mist out through the open windows. Though the flames offered protection, they couldn’t fully banish the chill.


    Ryne approached the bell, his fingertips brushing against Ealhstan’s expertly crafted stonework. Gaelmar had appeared to him in a vision during one of his otherwise empty dreams. Following the instructions given, Ryne had crafted the bell of metal and iron as quickly as possible. Its ringing was meant to banish the otherworldly chill creeping into the hearts of men—just as Ryne had banished Blake’s spirit from within himself with relentless prayer. The mist’s curse, too, would falter.


    But only if the bell was rung. It had to be rung at the same time Ryne retreated for his prayers to keep Blake’s spirit at bay. And only Ealhstan’s strength could make its sound carry far enough, reaching even as distant as Claude’s farm.


    Ryne picked up the heavy hammer and struck the bell with all his might. Though his attempt was weak compared to Ealhstan’s, the sound was enough to rouse the sleeping villagers from their uneasy rest.


    <hr>


    ---GRANGES---


    Agate and Harlan ushered a group of wary, weary travelers into Rothfield. The newcomers were thin, their faces hollow, their clothes shabby. Ryne guessed they hailed from starving villages or impoverished towns. Their arrival had become more frequent since Ealhstan stopped shaking the earth from his chambers deep within the mountain.


    His breath puffed into faint clouds, dissolving quickly in the cold air. As he approached, he heard the rasp of coughing—elders bent and hacking, children wheezing. He had instructed Wilbur to prioritize the sickly children and elderly, but the growing strain on the village was undeniable. Now even the able-bodied villagers struggled to complete daily tasks.


    At night, Ealhstan helped by chopping trees as if they were weeds, building cottages for the newcomers. But his work could only continue under the cover of darkness. For now, these travelers had to share lodging in Agate and Harlan’s tent or rest around the communal fire.


    Ryne passed the two elders to greet the newcomers, noting that Agate’s complexion was pale, her coughing heavier than Harlan’s. Pressing his palm to her brow, he urged her to rest by the fire.


    “I’ll take over. Go ahead,” he said softly.


    Agate shook her head stubbornly. “This is nothing,” she insisted.


    Ryne suppressed a sigh. As usual, her pride wouldn’t let her admit she needed rest. Still, her resolve reminded him of what a leader should be—strong and dependable. He instructed Harlan to assist her while he stepped beyond the stone gates to welcome the arrivals.


    Ryne kept his habit close, covering his veins. His small stature often made people overlook him, but the wariness in their eyes was unmistakable. Even so, he endured their distrustful stares, grateful for the occasional curt nod or whispered thanks.


    <hr>


    At noon, Ryne spotted a figure hunched near a boulder on the roadside.


    He approached the figure—a woman clutching her knees, her body trembling with violent coughs. Her lips were tinged with an unnatural blue, and her sunken eyes barely acknowledged his presence.


    Ryne knelt beside her, pulling a small vial from the pouch at his waist. Inside, the faint amber liquid glowed softly, a rare and precious remedy.


    She flinched at first as he uncorked the vial, but eventually allowed him to tilt it to her lips. The remedy trickled down her throat. Slowly, her coughing eased, though her breaths remained shallow.


    "This won’t hold for long," Ryne murmured, brushing damp hair away from her forehead. The words were meant more for himself than for her.


    <hr>


    ---INFIRMARY---


    In the heart of the monastery, Wilbur slammed bottles onto the table and swirled medicinal potions with feverish intensity. Though he didn’t need to breathe, he was heaving. He had a comical habit of sticking his thumb out whenever he needed full concentration, and now it jutted outward as he worked. So focused was he that he didn’t hear Ryne enter the room.


    The infirmary was a chaos of scents and colors. Tables were laden with jars of crushed herbs and vials of vibrant liquids, their mingled aromas forming a sharp, metallic tang. Wilbur stood at the center of it all, his hands stained crimson as he mixed a poultice. The flickering lantern light cast long shadows across his sharp features, making him appear spectral.


    The plan was to dilute the medicine with fresh spring water so that everyone could get a share of the remedy. But even diluted, the medicine needed a baseline strength to work at all.


    Wilbur finally noticed Ryne when he felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked at him and sighed heavily.


    “It’s not going to be enough,” Wilbur said, letting the implication hang in the air.


    Ryne surveyed the array of work on the table, his gaze falling on two bottles of weakly diluted medicine. He closed his eyes for a moment, then combined the two into a larger bottle.


    “Agate and Harlan first,” he said. “They’re our pillars. People depend on them. Then heal two of the sickest and one able-bodied person.”


    The two shared a silent glance before nodding. “I need supplies, Ryne,” Wilbur said. “And there aren’t enough strong people left to defend the camp, watch over Rothfield, and gather what we need from the mountains.”


    The door creaked open, interrupting them. Gabriella entered, her silhouette briefly framed against the gray, rain-slicked world outside. A burlap sack hung over her shoulder, its contents clinking softly. Her face was stern, lined with exhaustion, but her brown eyes burned with determination.


    Wilbur and Ryne turned to greet her as she dropped the sack onto the nearest table, exhaling sharply. “The guards are doubling their patrols,” she said. “I had to take the long way around.”


    Wilbur glanced at her. “Were you followed?”


    “No,” she replied, unpacking the sack and pulling out bundles of smuggled herbs and small bottles of tinctures. “But Father Clinton and Lord Bahram have increased security. They’re keeping a lookout for anyone with information about this area. The dark forest confuses their steps, still. I hope it will last.” Her gaze shifted to the cots lining the room, where people moaned and groaned in pain. She bit her lip, unable to look away.


    Wilbur answered her unspoken question. “I haven’t developed a cure yet.”If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    He turned to Ryne. “I know what I need to do,” he said, his hands hovering over the mortar. “I’ve analyzed their blood. But to create the cure, I’ll have to go deep into Mount Lhottem’s caverns for the amethysts.”


    For a moment, the room fell silent, broken only by the soft crackle of the lantern. Then Wilbur resumed grinding the mixture into a fine paste. “We need more time,” he added quietly.


    Gabriella nodded and turned to Ryne, who stood behind Wilbur. She gave him a small smile before walking toward the door. Ryne followed her, closing it gently behind them.


    “Thank you,” he said. “For the herbs, and for helping those people find their way here.”


    She glanced back at him with a shrug. “It’s not like they’re going to find help in town, Brother.”


    <hr>


    ---GRANGES---


    Ealhstan hoisted another stone into place, his muscles straining under the weight, though his face betrayed no effort. Newcomers stared from a distance, some crossing themselves as they watched his strength in awe. He shifted another boulder aside and caught the eye of a young girl who always seemed to watch him like an eager sparrow. She giggled as he gave her a wink.


    Some of the other children took tentative steps closer, but firm hands pulled them back. These were leaderless groups from different parts of the land, wary of one another. They camped in smaller clusters, keeping their distance from the main communal fire of Kent. Ealhstan hoped Woodrow’s charm, Ryne’s kindness, and Wilbur’s meals would eventually draw them together.


    Ealhstan turned back to his work, chopping trees and quickly shaping them into crude huts. For now, they would suffice. Once everyone had shelter, he planned to rebuild them into proper cottages. The night before, he had broken up a heated argument between two men over who should receive a cottage first.


    “Enough,” he had said firmly. “Families and the sick will be prioritized. In the meantime, you two will settle this and learn to be neighbors. I understand your fear, but while you’re here at Rothfield, you must trust each other.”


    The men stopped bickering but built invisible walls between them, glaring silently. Ealhstan sighed. As he turned to leave, he spotted familiar red hair emerging from the monastery. About time, he muttered under his breath.


    Woodrow’s lute danced with lively notes, drawing children away from their parents’ watchful eyes. Starting at the communal fire in Kent, his music spread joy to the smaller camps on the outskirts. His fingers strummed a rhythm that turned solemn faces into smiles as he sang an old story of a soldier becoming a knight.


    A fleeting memory flickered through Ealhstan’s mind. He saw himself in polished armor, standing amid the chaos of battle, his voice commanding men to hold the line. The clang of swords and cries of the wounded filled his ears—then vanished, as abruptly as the memory had come. It was like sunlight glinting off a pool, there and gone in an instant.


    “Do you think I could be a knight one day?” a boy asked Woodrow, clutching a stick as if it were a sword.


    Woodrow grinned, hiding his fangs behind a gentle smile. “Every knight starts as a dreamer, lad. Keep dreaming, and you might even surpass the greatest of them.”


    “Don’t give him ideas,” the boy’s mother called, turning to her son. “I know almost anyone can be knighted now, with so many nobles lost to the pestilence. But don’t leave your mother, dear boy.”


    The boy’s chest, which had puffed with determination moments before, deflated.


    Far away, Ealhstan stood still, trying to hold onto the memory, but it slipped through his fingers like water. His stomach churned. With a grim expression, he decided to head to the infirmary to feed, leaving the bright tune of Woodrow’s lute behind.


    Here’s the edited version of your scene, cleaned up for clarity and readability while preserving your original intent and tone:


    Ealhstan nearly bumped into Claude and Ryne as they stood in the chapel. The young boy''s eyes were fixed on Woodrow, listening intently to the song. His heart raced, and he realized he was genuinely excited by the story. Ryne had once told him that Claude dreamed of becoming a soldier, like the boy who had spoken earlier. They had both agreed it was a sad dream—to think of oneself as brave while nobles viewed soldiers as disposable.


    But Ealhstan had seen Claude fight with his own eyes. Even Woodrow had been impressed by him. As Ryne left to bless the camp''s humble food, Ealhstan placed a hand on Claude''s shoulder in a small gesture of support.


    He took a step away when Claude spoke softly, “I want to become stronger.”


    Ealhstan turned back to face him. “Yes, but also learn to fight better,” he said, his voice reflective. Memories surfaced as he continued. “You must learn to wield a proper shield, to stop enemies before they strike. You need to protect your home and prevent further bloodshed.”


    Looking over at Ryne as he blessed the food, he added, “I can’t thank you enough for protecting him, lad. Keep doing that. You’re already doing more than enough.”


    Claude stared at him, his lips parted slightly, as if searching for words. But Ealhstan left him a smile as he walked over to Wilbur’s infirmary to drink.


    <hr>


    ---CHURCH---


    The dimly lit chapel buzzed with restless voices, the air thick with the scent of damp wood and sweat. A storm raged outside, casting an oppressive gloom over the room. Villagers huddled together, their faces tight with fear and anger.


    Claude stood beside Ryne, both of them trying to calm the growing unrest. What had started as an opportunity for unity was spiraling into chaos. Ryne had even asked Claude and Wilbur to prepare pheasant stew to foster a sense of peace.


    “The mist is divine punishment!” an old man bellowed, his voice carrying over the storm.


    The pale-skinned, dark-robed brothers stood in a line, their exhaustion apparent. Another villager jabbed a gnarled finger at them, shouting accusations of blasphemy.


    Woodrow bristled, ready to act, but Ryne raised a hand to stop him. He could see his brothers were drained: Wilbur looked ready to collapse.


    A woman near the front clutched a child tightly to her chest. “You feed us scraps while your walls protect you. Why should we trust you?”


    Ryne stepped forward, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. “Please, listen,” he said, his calm voice struggling to rise above the noise. “We are doing all we can—”


    “Not enough!” a younger man interrupted.


    Claude stepped forward then, his small frame casting a long shadow in the flickering candlelight. His voice cut through the clamor like a blade. “Enough!”


    The room fell silent, the weight of his command settling over the crowd. It was not a boy’s voice but something deeper, stronger. Ealhstan, standing nearby, offered an approving smile.


    Claude moved to the center of the room, his gaze steady as it swept over the villagers. “We’re all scared that tomorrow will never come. But it will,” he began, his voice firm. “I know you’ve lost your homes and your families. We all have lost something. But the brothers are not our enemies. They’ve done everything they can to help us feel safe. They’ve given us food. They’ve given us shelter and protection. Food is scarce wherever you are in the realm. We need to stand together, or we’ll fall apart.”


    The villagers exchanged wary glances, their anger simmering but no longer boiling over.


    As Claude’s shoulders began to slump, Ryne tapped him on the back and gave him a warm smile.


    Ryne added the words he told the frightened villagers of Kent. “So long as you are here, you will always have sanctuary. I know we cannot offer much, but whatever we have, we’ll share it with you.”


    The church grew quiet. Some villagers began to see sense as their fear and frustration drained away. They glanced at Wilbur, murmuring about how he stayed up all night to watch over them and tirelessly worked to heal the sick. Others looked at Ealhstan, grateful for his strength in building their shelters.


    A loud bang echoed as Agate and Harlan struck their shields together, signaling that supper was ready. Slowly, the anger in the room dissipated, replaced by the primal need for food.


    Woodrow approached Claude from behind and clapped him on the back. “Well done, lad,” he said, giving Ryne a firm nod. “My turn.”


    With his lute in hand, Woodrow strummed a single, resonant note. The haunting sound silenced the room.


    Without a word, he began to play. The melody started slow and mournful, each note weighted with sorrow. Then his voice rose, soft but steady, weaving a tale of a town once besieged by darkness. The lyrics spoke of neighbors setting aside their differences to fight a creeping shadow.


    The room seemed to breathe with the music, fear and anger melting into reflection. Children began to play together, and their parents smiled faintly, allowing them the moment of peace. The candles flickered, their light growing steadier. Ryne felt hope stir within him like fresh kindling.


    As the final note faded, Woodrow spoke, his voice gentle but firm. “Let us remember to stand together. For a house divided cannot stand.”


    A hush fell over the chapel. Slowly, villagers began to nod.


    Ryne stepped forward once more, his calm voice now bolstered by hope. “Let’s begin with what we can do today. Together.”


    This time, no one interrupted.


    Behind him, Ealhstan leaned in to whisper something to Claude, who looked surprised but nodded.