The miasma slithered through the valleys like a serpent, staining the air and tainting the water all around the realm. In his dream, Ryne could see it for what it was: sluggish and dark. But the rest of the people did not. To them, it was clear.


    Even Rothfield monastery was not spared. The sheep that drank from the spring grew weak, their bleating thinning. When one collapsed in the meadow, its breath shallow, Wilbur knelt beside it, fingers pressing against its fevered hide. He retreated to his lab, flipped through his journals, eyes scanning pages filled with alchemical notes. He showed it to the rest of the dark brothers, finger pointing to one crucial page.


    Shungite, Ryne read with his eyes. Aquamarine.


    “We need them to cleanse the water,” Wilbur muttered. “They’re usually found in deep lakes and rivers.”


    Ryne ventured deep into the dark forest where the river splits towards the monastery and the meadows. He submerged his palm in the cool river and felt his connection to the land. Like roots under the ground, Ryne was shown a vision, slithering through soil and rocks, until he heard a roaring waterfall and then the splashing of water. He saw the gemstones they needed in the lake of Mount Lhottem.


    Ryne tensed, his thoughts veering toward Rothfield. And Claude. If the sickness reached them… no one would have the strength to fight the shadowbeasts. There was no time to hesitate.


    Ryne gathered Wilbur, Woodrow, and Ealhstan, and set out toward the river’s source. The climb was grueling, the air thinning as they neared one of the mist-cloaked summits closest to ground level. The lake should have been a mirror of the sky, but instead, it was dark gray. Ryne approached the lake slowly.


    Then came the roars. Deep, guttural, and strange. From the waters, the creatures emerged. Ryne had only known their descriptions in old tomes, but no ink or parchment could capture the sheer menace of them. Sea-lions. Their massive forms heaved onto the rocks, forelegs padded like a lion’s, but their lower halves tapered into slick, muscular tails. Their mouths were wide open, holding sickly-looking orbs in their jaws, pulsed with a blue-green glow. With a snap of their fangs, they spat torrents of water, strong enough to carve deep grooves into stone.


    Wilbur cursed under his breath. Ealhstan raised his weapon. Ryne’s grip was held back by Woodrow.


    All of them marveled as the creatures moved, and Wilbur remarked that it looked oddly familiar. Ryne felt that familiarity deep in his bones too. One sea-lion ran toward them and released a strong jet stream of water. Woodrow dragged Ryne beside him but was too slow for Ealhstan; he fell down as the strong current hit his legs.


    They acted; Wilbur tossing explosives, Woodrow slicing with his daggers. Ryne chanted a prayer that summoned a sweeping sacred flame towards the shadowbeasts, but the sea-lions wielded their water elements as a natural shield against Ryne’s sacred flame. They opened their mouth and combined their water to form a wall that halved the damage from his kindflame.


    Ryne unleashed a stronger burst of fire in desperation. It struck two sea-lions, causing them to roar and recoil before vanishing into the polluted waters, dousing Ryne’s sacred flame before they turned into ash. Woodrow and Ealhstan moved to his side, alert for more, but the burned creatures soon returned with a crushing water-jet attack, focusing their assault on Woodrow and Ealhstan, blasting them away from Ryne, as one lunged and dragged him into the lake.


    The cold shock nearly stole his remaining breath. He fought desperately—punching, kicking—while the slippery sea-lion used its powerful tail to pull him deeper. Ryne concentrated, channeling his sacred flame into his hands and pressing the heat onto the creature’s mane. It roared and released him.


    Ryne tried to swim upward, but he was far below the surface and could hear more monsters closing in. He saw his hands flail in front of him, the cold darkness closing in to strangle him. He could hear Blake laugh.


    Woodrow and Ealhstan plunged into the water; Ealhstan’s spear flashed as he aimed at the encroaching beast, while Woodrow’s daggers slashed at its paws. The brothers reached for Ryne, and Woodrow grabbed him first, hauling him to the surface. Ealhstan swung powerfully to hold the attackers at bay, while Ryne cast a shieldflame around his giant brother underwater, ensuring their escape.


    Later, the brothers collapsed on the bank, drenched and gasping for air. Woodrow and Ryne stood, agitated, looking at the surface of the mountain’s deep, vast lake. Woodrow was about to dive back again when a giant hand broke the surface of the water. They hurried towards him, pulling him back to the ground. No more monsters emerged.


    Ealhstan coughed as he retrieved a dark, glistening orb and the scattered scales left from the sea-lions reduced to ash by Ryne’s flame. Woodrow found the same items lying about, from where they defeated two of the sea-lions.


    Moments later, Wilbur came running back, having missed the chaos. He stooped to examine the mysterious relics before hurrying back to his lab for further study.


    “These came from the monsters themselves,” Woodrow observed.


    Ealhstan turned the curious scales and orb in his hand. “Curious. The direwolves and corvus don’t leave parts of them behind.”


    But Ryne only had thoughts for one thing: they failed getting the shungite and aquamarine. This was a waste of time.


    <hr>


    Ryne and Woodrow sat in the monastery, a map of the mountain lake spread between them, candlelight flickering over their tense expressions. They discussed how the sea-lions recoiled from Ryne’s flame, only to retreat into the depths where his fire couldn’t reach. It wasn’t enough. Though Ryne’s sacred kindflame can still form in the water, he had to double the energy spent to hold it together, especially in that corrupted lake. They needed a way to drive the creatures out of the lake entirely before the monsters blasted them back with crushing jets of water or dragged them into the abyss.


    Ealhstan stood with arms crossed, his broad frame looming over the table, while Agate and Harlan listened intently. “We’ll push them back,” Woodrow said, tracing the lake’s edge with a dagger tip. “Ealhstan and I will fight them directly. Agate and Harlan can cut off their escape. But they’re faster than us in the water.”


    No one spoke for a moment. Ryne clenched his fists. The weight of their struggle pressed down on him, still thinking about the desperate need for the gemstones buried within the lake’s depths. Without them, the sickness spreading through Rothfield would only worsen. Even now, people in the monastery had grown pale, their lips tinged blue, their breath coming in short, labored gasps. Even Agate as she stood there with Harlan.


    Ryne’s stomach twisted at the sight of her slumped against the wall, trying to mask her struggle. Harlan’s jaw tightened. “I’m going with you,” he said. “If those gemstones can save her, I won’t stay behind.”Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    Ryne swallowed the lump in his throat. If it came to it, he would summon a fire large enough to light the entire mountain. He had no other choice.


    Before they could make their move, a door slammed open. Wilbur strode in, eyes wild, a large bottle of glowing green-gold liquid clutched in his hands. “I found the cure,” he declared, breathless.


    They stared at him.


    <hr>


    Ryne and Woodrow sat in the monastery, a map of the mountain lake spread between them, candlelight flickering over their tense expressions. They had seen firsthand how the sea-lions recoiled from Ryne’s flame, only to retreat into the depths where his fire couldn’t reach. It wasn’t enough. They needed a way to drive the creatures out of the lake entirely—before the monsters blasted them back with crushing jets of water or dragged them into the abyss.


    Ealhstan stood with arms crossed, his broad frame looming over the table, while Agate and Harlan listened intently. “We’ll push them back,” Woodrow said, tracing the lake’s edge with a dagger tip. “Ealhstan and I will fight them directly. Agate and Harlan can cut off their escape. But we all know the risk. They’re faster than us in the water.”


    No one spoke for a moment. Ryne clenched his fists. The weight of their struggle pressed down on him—not just the battle ahead, but the desperate need for the gemstones buried within the lake’s depths. Without them, the sickness spreading through Rothfield would only worsen. Even now, people in the monastery had grown pale, their lips tinged blue, their breath coming in short, labored gasps. Even Agate.


    Ryne’s stomach twisted at the sight of her slumped against the wall, trying to mask her struggle. Harlan’s jaw tightened. “I’m going with you,” he said. “If those gemstones can save her, I won’t stay behind.”


    Ryne swallowed the lump in his throat, determination flaring. If it came to it, he would summon a fire large enough to light the entire mountain. He had no other choice.


    Before they could make their move, a door slammed open. Wilbur strode in, eyes wild, a large bottle of glowing green-gold liquid clutched in his hands. “I found the cure,” he declared, breathless.


    For a moment, all they could do was stare.


    <hr>


    Earlier, in his lab, Wilbur turned the sea-lion scales in his gloved hands, his alchemical eyes flared with recognition. The scales, dark and smooth, were made of the material they’d sought to gather: shungite. He let out a breath and reached for the shiny orb. He furrowed his brows and placed it near the torch lit by Ryne’s flame. It started to drip, and realized it had a coating of some sticky substance. Wilbur slowly scraped away the thick, mucus-like film coating, revealing the cloudy, corrupted aquamarine inside.


    Now Ryne stood beside him, arms stretched out, watching as Wilbur carefully melted away the filth with a controlled lick of Gaelmar’s sacred flame. As the impurities burned away, the aquamarine shimmered back to life, their once-tainted hues returning to a clear, oceanic blue.


    Wilbur turned to Ryne, placing the shungite and aquamarine on the table. His eyes were thoughtful. "Your fire isn’t meant for these types of monsters this time," he said. "I think it’s best you cast your flame to purify the shungite scales and aquamarine orbs instead. Let Woodrow, Ealhstan, and the soldiers handle the beasts."


    Ryne hesitated, but Wilbur’s certainty left no room for argument. Woodrow appeared behind them, murmuring his agreement. They left Wilbur to make the new potions that would temporarily purify the waters of Rothfield. When he was done, he handed the glowing green-blue liquid to Ryne.


    He held his eyes. “Go to your friend.”


    That night, under a sliver of moonlight, Ryne slipped into the barracks where the soldiers slept, their breaths heavy with exhaustion. A few patrol guards stood watch, but he moved like a shadow, stepping between pools of darkness.


    The barrels of ale stood in neat rows against the stone wall. Ryne uncorked a vial of the purified potion and carefully poured it into each barrel. A faint warmth spread through the wood as the alchemy took hold.


    He stepped back, heart pounding, watching the potion mix unseen with the soldiers’ drink. By morning, they would wake stronger. He only hoped it would be enough.


    At dawn, Ryne lingered in the shadows of the training grounds, watching as Claude lifted his sword against Lord Bahram’s relentless drills. His special sight flickered to life, tracing the threads of health and strain in Claude’s body. The sickness had faded; his breathing steadied, his skin no longer tinged with pale blue. So were the other soldiers that drank from the purified ale.


    But now, there were new wounds.


    Claude’s hands blistered against the rough hilt of his sword, his muscles straining from the endless repetitions. Each strike grew steadier. The commander barked orders, his presence a constant weight over the trainees, but Claude never wavered. Ryne even saw some of the soldiers and the commander himself smile at his friend’s movements.


    Ryne never stepped into the light, never let Claude see him. It wasn’t his place to interfere. But every night, when exhaustion dragged Claude into sleep, Ryne returned. The barracks were dim, lined with rows of sleeping soldiers, some a little bit older or the same age as Claude, all battered by the same brutal training. Claude lay curled on his cot, his breathing deep and slow.


    Ryne knelt beside him, tracing the fresh bruises along his arms. Bruised knuckles, slashed skin, the faint tremors of overworked limbs. He hovered his fingers over the worst of it, whispering a quiet prayer, letting warmth seep into battered flesh.


    Claude stirred, brow creasing as if sensing someone.


    Before he could wake, Ryne was gone, vanishing like a breath in the cold.


    <hr>


    Ealhstan rode hard through the blighted countryside, fighting, smashing the shadowbeasts of the Unending Chaos. Villages burned in the distance, their flames licking at the sky as screams and wails twisted through the night. The creatures fought with unnatural fury, their howls distorted, warping into something ancient and wrong.


    Then, another sound.


    A strange howl, not like the others. Deep, resonant, vibrating through the mountains like a warning. It sent a chill through Ealhstan. The howl did something to the direwolves. The beasts were changing, growing stronger. The lesser direwolves grew, their fur bristling as the dark energy coursed through them. But… so was Ealhstan. Not at the same level, but he knew the darkness in him resonated with the dark howling. The battles had become harder, each clash leaving him more winded, but Ealhstan still turned them to ash. He cut down another abomination with a single swing, but doubt gnawed at him. How long could they hold back the tide? Once back at the familiar granges, he asked Harlan and his soldiers to collect plenty of iron for him.


    When he finally returned to Rothfield, exhaustion weighing down his limbs, Ryne was waiting at the monastery gates. Their eyes met—no words were needed. Ryne knew. Something was coming.


    Without delay, the dark brothers gathered to plan their next move. But first, they returned to Lhottem Lake. The sea-lions had to be culled. They could not rely on Wilbur’s purifying potions to both cure people and cleanse the waters. No, they must go to the source and lessen the corruption. Unlike the prowling shadow wolves that multiplied with each nightfall, these creatures had limits. They did not spawn endlessly. That night in his forge, Ealhstan worked well into the almost-dawn, melting all the iron Harlan and his men had gathered to form one big blade that would not break easily. He also made something special for Harlan as a reward.


    Ealhstan, Woodrow, and Harlan led the charge. Ealhstan had gifted Harlan his latest creation—an iron-woven net. He ambushed the creatures, climbing over Ealhstan’s mighty shoulder, jumping and capturing them with the net that Ryne blessed. It snapped tight around the sea-lions, holding them in place long enough for Ealhstan’s blade to strike true. One by one, they fell, their bodies dissolving into the corrupted waters.


    They returned to the monastery, weary but victorious. Wilbur and Ryne quickly begun the purification process, refining the shungite and aquamarine. As the first glimmers of dawn touched the monastery walls, Wilbur and the rest retired back into the crypts, and Ryne recharged, closing his eyes as he heard the hymn of Gaelamr rising from the grateful voices of Rothfield’s people.


    Ryne stood still, eyes closing as the sacred melody washed over him. The warmth of faith, of hope rekindled, filled him. His flame burned brighter.