Claude and the other soldiers gathered on the plateau near Rothfield, summoned by Lord Bahram after scouts reported a pack of direwolves prowling the outskirts. Bahram had made it clear that they needed this ground secured for incoming envoys and trade routes.


    Ryne followed in secret, slipping between the trees as Claude prepared for his first real battle against the shadow beasts. When the wolves came, he was there in the dark, unseen. At the first clash of steel and fangs, he whispered a blessing, and Claude’s sword ignited with a soft, ethereal glow.


    Claude hesitated for half a breath, glancing at the blade, and recognizing the familiar warm touch. His eyes swept the treetops, searching. But there was no time to linger. The direwolves lunged, and he moved.


    He fought like he had trained for this moment his entire life, his blade carving arcs of silver through the beasts. He shielded his comrades, cutting down those who lunged for them, stepping into danger without hesitation. Ash clung to his skin, to the sweat on his brow, to the torn fabric at his sleeves. When the wolves finally retreated, the soldiers, his peers, clapped him on the back, shaking his shoulders, laughing as they hoisted him onto their arms in victory.


    Ryne watched. A slow smile tugged at his lips as Claude grinned, breathless and triumphant. It suited him, Ryne thought; the weight of admiration, the glow of battle still in his eyes.


    For a moment, just a moment, Ryne allowed himself to be proud. Then, as Claude’s gaze swept the dark once more, searching, Ryne stepped back into the night.


    That night, Ryne dreamed of shadows with gleaming eyes, of snarling muzzles and padded feet gathering in the mist. When he woke, the vision clung to him like frost. More wolves were coming. Stronger. Hungrier.


    The second battle nearly broke Claude’s party. The direwolves surged onto the plateau in greater numbers, their howls splitting the night air. Soldiers fell, their weapons barely cutting through the creatures’ shifting forms. It would have been a massacre if not for Ealhstan, who tore boulders from the mountainside and sent them crashing into the fray. From the cliffs, Woodrow’s thieves rained the daggers Ealhstan made down like a storm of silver, along with Jerome’s steel-tipped arrows.


    Ryne clenched his fists, his power thrumming beneath his skin, but he dared not summon the sparrowflame, not with so many eyes watching. Instead, he reached for Ember. The small direwolf pup, ready at his side, trembled with the same flickering energy that burned within him. Ryne focused, channeling his flame into her. Ember’s body tensed, then shuddered, her golden eyes burning bright as her small form twisted and grew.


    The air crackled. Where the pup had stood, a massive white direwolf now towered, her fur laced with living fire. Ember turned, meeting the gaze of the alpha direwolf leading the attack. She bared her fangs and let out a roar that sounded like flame given voice.


    She ran, brushing her flame-fur into the shadowbeasts so that they burned to ash. She also barked balls of flame which blasted forward, rolling over the battlefield, driving back the advancing wolves in a searing wave. The shadows scattered, howling into the night as Ember stood her ground, her breath ragged, her legs shaking. Ryne stumbled, his own fire spent, the bond between them flickering weakly.


    As the battlefield fell silent, Ryne knelt beside Ember, pressing a hand to her smoldering fur. Together, drained and hollowed by their power, they turned away from the plateau and made their way back to Rothfield, the echoes of their battle still burning in the wind. Ealhstan gently picked them up and carried them the remainder of their journey home.


    <hr>


    Claude visited Ryne late that night. Ryne had forgotten himself, ran from the steps of the church to hug his friend. They collided, Ryne knocking the breath out Claude’s lungs, and almost stumbled to the ground. Claude grinned, showing a pouch heavy with coins.


    “Bahram looked like he didn’t wanted to give these to me,” Claude snickered. “But he must obey his own laws or there will truly be a riot.”


    Ryne smiled. It’s more than that. People of Rothfield know you are quickly becoming their champion.


    Claude hugged his mother and handed her the pouch of coins the moment he stepped inside. Lydia, without hesitation, pressed the pouch into Ryne’s hands.


    Ryne frowned, shaking his head. “This is yours. I have no right to it.”


    Lydia gave him a knowing look. “Carrying money makes me a target for greed. And I know you don’t take payment, but think of this as us trusting you to keep our treasure.”


    Claude chimed in. “I’d rather give tribute to you folks than our selfish lords, any day.”


    Ryne hesitated, understanding the truth in her words. He turned to Ealhstan the next morning, asking him to build a treasury in the monastery crypts. Ealhstan set to work, carving out a hollow in the stone; an alcove that could only be sealed by a boulder he alone could move. A smaller opening, just wide enough for a hand, was fitted with a lock only Ryne could access.


    When the work was done, Ryne embraced Claude, holding him longer than he had before, feeling the warmth of the boy who was becoming a man. Without a word, he led him to the communal fire, where Harlan, Agate, and the rest of the monastery’s weary souls gathered.


    Claude stood by the flames, his voice steady as he spoke. “The barracks aren’t easy. Lord Bahram’s training is… well, it could use some improvements.” He glanced at Ryne. He winked at Woodrow and Ealhstan.


    But Ryne saw the joy in Claude’s face. This was what he wanted.


    Woodrow, usually quick with a teasing remark, was silent tonight. He watched the boy he had trained grow into something more, his eyes unreadable. Even Wilbur, often distracted by his alchemical pursuits, listened with uncharacteristic focus.


    Then Claude hesitated. “There was a howl we heard one night,” he said, stepping down from the boulder he had been standing on. “Not like the others.”


    At that, Ealhstan’s head snapped up. His gaze flickered toward the shadows, but he said nothing.


    When the others had retired for the night, only the crackling of the communal fire remained to fill the quiet. Claude grinned, pulling two copper coins from his pocket. He flipped them, letting the firelight catch on their worn edges, then bumped his knee against Ryne’s. Without a word, they wandered toward the sheep enclosure, settling into the hay-strewn ground. Belle, the favored sheep, nestled between them, her wool warm beneath their hands.


    Claude was the one who spoke first, his voice light but probing. “Have you been eating well?”This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Ryne huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head at the odd question.


    Claude, however, only studied him, his gaze lingering long enough that warmth crept up Ryne’s neck. Flustered, he pulled his cowl lower over his face.


    Claude reached out, slowly peeling the hood back. “You look stronger,” he murmured.


    Ryne didn’t reply, his throat tightening. “So do you.” Ryne knew he did not mean his physical strength, but he was glad Claude saw something in him. He thought him strong.


    Claude smiled, but there was something wistful in it. “I miss the mountains and the meadows. I miss Rothfield.” His voice dipped, softer now. “I miss you.”


    Ryne exhaled, his chest aching. “I miss you too.”


    Claude’s shoulders loosened slightly, but the moment didn’t last. His expression grew serious. “The night after tomorrow, we ride for the border. Lord Bahram wants us to clear out direwolves for some important tradesmen. It’s two days’ travel from here.” He met Ryne’s gaze, searching.


    Ryne stiffened, pushing to his feet. “I’ll tell Wilbur to prepare more healing potions and explosives. I—”


    Claude’s hand shot out, grabbing the fabric of his robe and pulling him back down. “I haven’t even used the ones he gave me yet,” he said, voice steady. “Somehow, every night, I don’t feel sore. Even when all my other friends do.” He looked at Ryne then, eyes unreadable in the dim light.


    Ryne remained silent.


    Claude’s smile returned, smaller this time, more knowing. “I just wanted you to know. I’ll be safe.” His fingers loosened their grip, but they didn’t fall away immediately. “I’m protected by Saint Gaelamr’s flame.” He winked, then rose, heading back toward his mother to share the news.


    He left his sword behind.


    Ryne stared at it, unmoving. After a long moment, he held out his palm, letting the flame flicker to life.


    Just as Ryne stared into the flickering flame, his vision blurred, the world around him fading into an expanse of golden light. A figure emerged from the glow. Saint Gaelmar, his robes gleaming white and gold, his presence radiant and serene.


    “You care for the lad,” Gaelmar said, his voice warm. “And I know the dangers he will face on the outskirts of Rothfield.”


    Ryne’s heart clenched. “Please. There must be something I can do. I cannot go far beyond the monastery. None of my dark brothers can. Without your flame, they will lose too many lives. Their numbers aren’t enough.”


    Gaelmar lifted his staff, revealing something Ryne hadn’t noticed before: seven gemstones inlaid along its length, each pulsing faintly with stored power.


    “These stones enhanced my strength, as well as my flame,” Gaelmar explained. “Edmund once crafted his own gemstone to catch my fire, storing it within my staff so that even when I could not wield my full might, I could still call upon its power.” He turned, gesturing toward the distant, smoke-crowned peak of Mount Lhottem. “In the lava pools, you will find three gemstones. Carnelian, sunstone, and garnet. They will do for now. Seek them out, but beware the lava salamanders that guard them.”


    Ryne nodded, already preparing for the challenge.


    Gaelmar’s lips curled in amusement. “Do not fear them. Unlike the sea lions, your fire will work against these creatures. Simply command the flame away from their bodies, and they will fall.”


    Ryne swallowed hard. “And once I have the stones?”


    “Use them to bind your flame to Claude’s sword. It will ignite when he calls my name,” Gaelmar said, before pausing, a knowing smile in his eyes. “Though… he might as well call yours.”


    Ryne frowned. “My name?”


    Gaelamr chuckled. “He doesn’t truly believe in my power. He believes in you. To him, the flame is yours as much as it is mine.”


    With that, the vision shattered, and Ryne found himself back in the quiet night, the fire before him crackling as though nothing had changed. But something had.


    Moving with purpose, he gathered Claude’s boots and battle armor, scrubbing them clean in the river, then washed his bowl with the same careful hands. When he was done, he slipped into the hut Ealhstan had built for Claude’s family, finding him fast asleep beside his mother and sister, their breaths steady in the warm confines of their home.


    Ryne set the polished armor near Claude’s cot. Then, without a sound, he took the sword from its sheath and stepped back into the night. He had work to do.


    <hr>


    Ryne found Ealhstan and Woodrow together. Good. “Brothers, help me improve this sword for Claude,” he said urgently. He explained his vision and what needed to be done.


    “We’ll come too,” came Agate’s voice from behind them. “The lad needs all the help he can get without us.”


    Ryne turned to her. She had regained her usual firm, serious composure. He nodded.


    Together, they made their way to the lava pool chambers. The air shimmered with heat, and the ground pulsed with an eerie red glow. Lava salamanders hissed, their molten bodies slithering through the rocky terrain. They spat chunks of burning rock, but Ryne lifted a hand, stopping the projectiles mid-air before sending them hurtling back.


    Agate and Harlan moved swiftly, cutting through the quick, aggressive creatures, holding them back while Ryne reached out with his power. He linked himself to the salamanders'' flame and commanded it away. The effect was immediate: almost all of them recoiled, their lava cooling into blackened stone. With one last shudder, they crumbled into ash.


    From the remains, Woodrow pulled out a curious gemstone, its fiery hues reflecting the molten light. Ryne inspected it—it was not like the ones in Gaelamr’s staff, but it was good enough for now. Agate, Harlan, and Ealhstan retrieved similar gemstones, each pulsing faintly with residual energy. As soon as the stones were taken, the ashes of the salamanders scattered into nothingness.


    Back at the forge, Ealhstan worked tirelessly, melting the gemstones and mixing them with steel. When he was done, the once-rusted blade now had a subtle orange glow, like embers nestled within its metal. Ryne murmured his thanks before taking the sword to Saint Gaelmar’s statue.


    There, he knelt, focusing on the saint’s face, the prayers of the faithful echoing in his mind. He reached deep into that belief, channeling his kindflame into the sword. It shimmered, shifting between bright red and its usual combat blue, infused with divine protection.


    Then, Ryne waited.


    As soon as Claude stirred awake, Ryne presented the sword to him.


    “I apologize for taking it from you in the night,” Ryne said, explaining that Ealhstan had the idea to improve it.


    Claude took the sword gingerly, his fingers tracing the now-enhanced blade. He looked pleased, though a bit hurt that Ryne had taken it without permission.


    “I am sorry,” Ryne said again.


    Claude sighed but gave a small smile. “Just don’t do it again.”


    Together, they made their way to the church.


    “So, this will help me fend off the wolves?” Claude asked, testing the weight of the sword.


    Ryne nodded. “Call Gaemar’s name, and his power will flow into your sword, just like you’ve always done before. But be careful. It has its limits. Use it only against great enemies or when outnumbered.”


    Claude regarded the sword before sheathing it. Then, he turned to Ryne, who hesitated only a moment before embracing him.


    “Come back safe,” Ryne whispered.


    Claude chuckled. “I will. Especially if you promise me a hearty stew. With goat’s milk, warm porridge, goose eggs, and bread.”


    Ryne smiled. “Then you have no choice but to return.”


    Claude whistled. “Now I really must come home.”


    Just as he turned to leave, Ryne caught his hand, pressing his fingers firmly into Claude’s palm. “You will not fall if I can help it.”


    Claude’s gaze lingered, his grip tightening in return. Ryne did not let go first.