The rivers and streams of Rothfield had mostly cleared, their water running clear as children and livestock splashed in the stream winding through the granges. People washed their clothes in the gentle flow, scrubbing away the grime with large, smooth stones.


    Ryne’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon, waiting for Claude’s return. He had faltered in delivering a joyful Saintsday service, his words catching as his kindflame dimmed from a lack of renewal.


    He kept himself busy. He lit the black obelisks in the meadow so the petalfolk sheep could graze, and tended to Rothfield Lake where locals fished for eels. Lydia watched him, her hand brushing his hair as she murmured that Claude would be back soon.


    After two long nights of fervent prayer for safety, he finally returned.


    Claude passed beneath the welcoming arches of Rothfield, battle-worn and weary yet smiling. At the church steps, Ryne’s heart quickened, and he sprang forward with arms wide, silently thanking Gaelmar. Mid-step, he caught sight of the gathering crowd behind his friend. Claude appeared shy as he slipped to one side to let Ryne absorb the scene. Soldiers and curious villagers with long robes mingled.


    Their eyes met briefly, Ryne felt a gentle warmth spread through him.


    Claude clasped Ryne’s arms. “We saw them on the flatlands yonder, about to be devoured,” he said. Leaning in close, Claude’s scent—of terrible nights and adventure—washed over Ryne, mingling with the lingering odor of sweat and blood. Ryne’s eyes caught the fresh wounds and scars on Claude’s skin.


    Gently, Claude placed his finger on one fresh wound. Ryne mirrored the gesture, their fingers meeting. “I used up most of the healing potions Wilbur made,” Claude continued. “You’ll be glad to know I rationed them. One for me, one for the gravely injured in my group, and one bottle shared among those traveling in a caravan.”


    Their fingers lingered for a moment longer.


    Ryne smiled warmly. Of course, he did. He turned his attention toward the shy newcomers and pulled down his hood. He nodded meekly to the soldiers, but two of them grinned back at him. They both looked to be older than Claude, but not by much; maybe in their mid-teens. One appeared sullen, eyeing Ryne and the monastery with a vacant expression, his black hair and dark eyes, contrasting the other who was all smiles. The tall one skipped up to Ryne, held his hand, and shook it. The lad grinned broadly at him.


    "You''re Ryne, all right. Grey-blonde hair, shy, pale, cold to the touch," he whistled appreciatively. "The way the priest talks about you as some sort of grotesque monster… good for you for leaving such an impression. I love to see it when Father Clint shivers whenever he sees Claude. My name’s Gilbert. The silent one over there is called Pint—"


    "My name is Cal," the shorter boy interjected lightly. He didn’t even look as if he were on the verge of puberty. Ryne squirmed at the thought of someone so young on the battlefield; he hoped he just appeared younger than he really was. Ryne could see his bow slung behind his back and a small shield attached at his hip. An archer, Ryne thought. He did notice arrows flying in a previous skirmish. Maybe it was him.


    "But everyone calls him Pint, because he''s so short," Gilbert finished, stepping back and patting Pint’s head, while the smaller boy swatted his hand away.


    Ryne saw these two always with Claude. He smiled at them both, glad to see Claude’s other friends. He welcomed them to the monastery, and as Pint passed him, the little boy said, "It''s all right, Brother Ryne. Claude told us all about you. We don''t fear your ground, nor you. It''s thanks to your healing potions that that big goof right there is still walking," he said, gesturing toward Gilbert.


    Ryne smiled, and as he surveyed the gathered crowd, he now knew that Claude had shared stories of this place, and of him, with everyone. Judging by their pleasant stares, most of Claude’s stories have painted them in a pleasing light. He looked back as Claude led his friends and the few soldiers who had chosen to come to Rothfield. Claude’s eyes met his, and in that silent exchange, a secret smile passed between them.


    "Go," Ryne said. "Your meal is waiting. Feed your friends, drink and rest. Wilbur will care for you soon."


    The other group of people in curious orange-red robes nodded at him, and some looked awestruck at the monastery. They appeared more well-fed and cleaner, wearing nicer clothes than the commoners of Rothfield. A strongly built man with a distinctive beard stepped forward and bowed deeply to Ryne. “Brother monk. Your friend says we are welcome here. Is it true?”


    The man, adorned in long robes that smelled of spice and incense, made it clear he was a merchant. It made sense now. Ryne inspected the people carrying burlap sacks and other oddities wrapped in cloth, and he heard the tinkling of jars and the clatter of wheels pulled by two horses.


    “My people,” the man said warmly.


    “What do I call you, sir?” Ryne asked.


    The man laughed softly. “So polite.” He winked at Ryne and bowed again. “People call me Cassian.”Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Ryne felt a gentle stirring of the warmth he’d seen in Claude’s eyes. He was glad for this unexpected kinship. With a quiet smile, he showed them the way to the monastery. “Welcome,” he said, his voice soft and inviting.


    <hr>


    Ryne welcomed more and more newcomers in the following days and nights; merchants, artisans, and farmers seeking refuge. Meanwhile, Wilbur gathered his flowers and ores and crafted more healing potions for them. In the cool pool fed by Rothfield Lake, Ryne discreetly cast his healing flame over Claude’s bruises as they splashed together.


    "I have missed this," Claude called out, raising his arm wide before plunging his back into the water. Ryne laughed, watched his friend peel off his clothes until only his tunic remained, and scrubbed himself clean in the pool. He had grown taller still, his body more toned than before. Ryne glanced at himself knowing he would always remain this way.


    Then Claude called from the lake and splashed Ryne with water. "Stop brooding and join me!" he laughed as Ryne waded into the pool once more.


    Their laughter mingled with the gentle lapping of water.


    <hr>


    Ealhstan patrolled the area and reported that the trade routes had opened up. And people knew that there was an invitation to sell wares if they wished. Woodrow welcomed the news, his eyes bright at the thought of new faces at the monastery, while Wilbur frowned, uneasy with the change. Claude recalled one evening when he’d been surprised to hear word of the little miracle happening in Rothfield. Not in the town, but somewhere in the deep dark forest where life was thought to be long gone. He had winked at Ryne then, a quiet spark passing between them as they exchanged looks of understanding. Ryne watched these new merchants closely. He knew that merchants, after all, were like messengers, spreading news with speed. They all flocked to Rothfield because it was now labeled as a safe haven and sanctuary for people.


    “You can sell your potions to the others. Let the nobles pay for them—we need the coins,” Woodrow said, his tone brisk. “Then you could distribute them to the commoners freely.”


    “Coins do sound nice,” Ealhstan agreed.


    “And the merchants here can still make a profit. Every commoner can,” Woodrow added. “We can even sell sheep’s fur for clothing. Ealhstan could even sell his wares, perhaps. The blacksmiths have already appraised your skill, brother. And there is no shortage of people needing weapons and shields.”


    Ryne felt a thrill at the prospect and watched Claude’s expression brighten. He, too, had become animated, his eyes dancing with possibility. “We can sell ores too, if we have some to spare.”


    Wilbur asked, “So, do we open ourselves up to the rest of the realms?”


    Ryne paused, his gaze lingering on Claude’s face for a moment. “This is the plan, I think. Gaelmar’s story has been sleeping for too long. It’s time for his flame to spread.”


    <hr>


    Rothfield had become a sanctuary for merchants. The commoners, whose lives had been bound to farming and fishing, could hardly believe they were now free to trade, which was an act once forbidden. As word spread that they could venture beyond their usual life routine, Ryne and his dark brothers became instantly popular. Smiles greeted them everywhere; villagers pressed their hands and brows to those of Ryne and his companions in thanks. Flustered, Ryne bowed in return, murmuring that it was all as Saint Gaelamr desired. And because of what he said, people have been showing Saint Gaelamr with humble praises and thanks. Ryne felt rejuvenated. Absorbing this new, bright energy, Ealhstan even began constructing stalls for the newcomers.


    Cassian proved to be a gracious guest. Methodical like Agate, good-humored like Harlan. He maintained a strict routine for his people: exercise, proper meals, scheduled feeding, and even letting their chickens graze in the meadows. He had already struck business with Ryne and Claude, purchasing the Rothfield petalfok sheep along with some goats, geese, and five pigs. Wilbur made sure that the animals’s vitals were smooth.


    A high-ranking merchant’s eyes sparkled as he surveyed the scene. “In all my years, I’ve developed an eye for quality,” he declared. “I can tell, without flattery, that your sheep, and your steel, are quite unique.” He tipped his head and added, “As are your brothers in the monastery.”


    Ryne returned his polite nod and soon found himself engaged in conversation with Cassian about his travels. Their exchange filled the cool evening air with vivid tales of distant roads and adventures. In a quiet moment, Ryne glanced over at Claude; his friend’s mouth hung open in awe, his eyes alight with rekindled wanderlust.


    <hr>


    Merchants taught the commoners their tricks. They taught the people of Rothfield how to sell, haggle, charm customers, care for them, and entice business, while Ealhstan made stalls that now lined the streets with fragrant spices, handcrafted wares, and goods once thought lost to the blight. A bazaar had risen in defiance, a silent challenge to Lord Bahram. Woodrow moved among the crowd, clearly in his element, not just admiring the wares but the transformation of Rothfield itself and the way merchants did their business. He caught the eye of Cassian and they nodded at each other.


    “It’s not much different than charming people with my powers,” Woodrow said.


    The merchants proved a great help to the dark brothers at the monastery. To preserve Ryne’s flame, and the unique appetites of his kin, they bought the supplies needed from the mountains using their own men. Soon, everything melded together in the granges. With his rejuvenated flame, Ryne blessed and awakened vast tracts of land, paving the way for new crops, while Wilbur toiled to ensure the soil received proper nutrients. Every new resident of Rothfield was bled, their blood carefully stored in Wilbur’s lab. Resources were plentiful, and Ryne knew they must be saved.


    People mingled freely, some courting anyone they fancied, and before long Ealhstan was asked to build more huts. Eventually, Ryne and Wilbur took charge of welcoming new souls to the monastery. Wilbur helped deliver babies with his soothing ointments, and Ryne blessed the newborns under Gaelamr’s protection; his flame wrapping each child as if swaddling them in warmth. The people contributed what they could, whether coins or animal produce.


    In the midst of the celebration, as the merchants and commoners celebrated their newfound freedom, Ryne caught sight of Claude near a busy stall. Their eyes met across the crowd, and for a heartbeat the noise faded to a gentle hush. A small smile passed between them, the warmth in Claude’s gaze mingled with the soft glow of the torches and banners.