Claude was sword fighting alone in one of the dormitories Ealhstan was building. The rare sun slanted through the roof, bathing Claude’s practice in grey light as he struck his poses. He paused when he saw Ryne lurking in the shadows. Grinning, Claude raised his subtle russet-colored sword.


    “I called up Gaelmar’s name, and it lit. Just like you said. I felled several wolves with that thing. Chased them out of the battlefield. It’s run out of charge, though.” Claude handed the sword back to Ryne.


    “A couple of fire gemstones and you’ll be set for your next battle, don’t you worry,” Ryne replied, taking its sheath from Claude and holding it awkwardly.


    “I said Gaelmar’s name. But I also thought of you.” Claude was silent, his boots scraping the ground.


    Ryne stared at him. “Me?”


    “You.” Claude closed the distance between them until they were nearly touching. Ryne could hear Claude’s steady breathing, the way his face had matured from boyhood to man. “You and your brothers. But mostly you. How could I not? Without you, I fear my family and I would have starved. We would have taken our chances and escaped Rothfield. Without you, none of this would have happened. None of this goodness, all these miracles.”


    Ryne could see the bones and muscles flex beneath Claude’s skin as he looked down at him. “At night, I could not wait to come back here and see you again,” Claude murmured, his fingers reaching out before falling to his side. He looked deeper into Ryne’s eyes. “You don’t seem to change. You’re like a gemstone yourself. I think I’ve never seen you or your brothers bruise.”


    Ryne’s breath hitched. He swallowed hard. “You feel unreal sometimes that I…” He held Ryne’s wrist and felt the pulse of his blood. “But you’re here. You’re alive.” He chuckled, relieved.


    “It’s so heavy,” Ryne said, not fully understanding his own words until Claude took it to mean the sword. Ryne recovered and asked, “How do you swing it so?” Lifting the sword, his weak arms trembled under its weight.


    Claude stepped quickly behind him and helped steady the weapon. His fingers brushed the back of Ryne’s hand; his shoulder pressed gently against Ryne’s. Together, they practiced, a fluid motion of slashing the air and circling around. Their laughter echoed, filling the empty space.


    Ryne turned to Claude. “Do you have something to sell for the upcoming bazaar? The merchants have sent word of Rothfield’s safe passage. They’re coming through the dark forest to check our wares.”


    Claude considered. “We usually give all the farm’s produce to Bahram. But since we’re here, I suppose we could sell the usual. Eggs, milk, wool, of course. Belle’s due for some shearing. Help me with her?” Claude’s brows wiggled as an invitation. “Maybe I could even be hired as a mercenary.”


    Ryne squirmed, and Claude noticed. “You don’t like it when I leave Rothfield, do you? You’re like my mother when you make that face.”


    “It’s safe here, but I understand. It’s in demand. You need coins. But I’d rather… rather make your coins through peaceful, mundane means like—”


    “Like a farmer,” Claude finished.


    Ryne held up a hand. “But of course, I know you’ll say the pay is better and that you could save many lives. I just worry. I can’t help but worry.”


    Claude smiled and pulled Ryne into a long, warm hug. “I feel invincible now that you came into my life. Nothing to worry about.”


    Ryne took comfort in that embrace. He led Claude to one of the few constructed cells in the dormitory. “When I said you have a room here, I meant it,” Ryne said, gesturing to the spacious cell. “This could be your room, if you wish. Complete with a bed and a trunk in the corner.”


    “I’m not a monk,” Claude said, his eyes wide with a mix of amusement and uncertainty.


    “Doesn’t matter. You are part of Rothfield, right from the start.”


    <hr>


    The bazaar came to life under the cover of night, lanterns casting pools of golden light over the monastery grounds. The brothers stood in a line, with Ryne and Cassian at the front, greeting the other merchants with firm handshakes and words of welcome. The air swirled with the scent of spiced honey, tanned leather, and sharp, strong spirits or burning coals from a blacksmith’s forge. Trappers, smiths, and traders wove between stalls, their voices mingling with the distant music of a flute.


    Cassian introduced Ryne to men of wealth and humble traders alike. “Our good and gracious host, Brother Ryne of Rothfield. The roaring flame of these fields,” he declared. Ryne let the words settle in his chest. Roaring flame. He liked that.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Woodrow was thriving in the attention, as people gawked and blushed at his graceful features, his sharp smile flashing in the candlelight. Ryne was brimming with energy, too. More and more, people offered prayers to Saint Gaelmar as they passed, and Ryne felt the hum of devotion in his veins, strengthening him.


    But then Ryne caught his reflection in a passing mirror and felt something coil tight in his gut. He suddenly felt ugly. Even laughing, even doing nothing at all, Woodrow commanded attention in a way Ryne never could. The cowl was a poor shield, but he adjusted it anyway, suddenly too aware of himself; his gauntness, his strange pallor. His eyes drifted to Claude, who was ducking away from people walking about as they checked the stalls. He was searching for him, Ryne could tell. Ryne saw his unruly curls, the broad shoulders that had hardened with labor.


    Ryne pulled deeper into the shadows. Claude stopped Woodrow,


    “Where’s Ryne?” Claude asked.


    Woodrow barely glanced up, already enchanted by a dark-haired girl from Cassian’s tribe. She whispered something to him, a flicker of amusement in her eyes, and Woodrow followed her into a grand tent. Ryne resurfaced to an empty space in the field.


    Later, Cassian smirked, nudging him. “If he weren’t bound to your services, I’d have him sell my wares.” He gestured to Woodrow coming out of the tent.


    Ryne only nodded. “He could sell river stones as rubies and still sleep soundly at night.”


    Ryne told Woodrow of Cassian’s comment later, and his brother only hummed in thought. “In another life, perhaps. But my powers fade in the morning light. I’d rather not have men at my door with empty purses and sharp knives.”


    Midnight came, and the festival quieted into clusters of conversation and laughter. Claude had found him then. “What’s wrong? You look glum,” Claude commented. But Ryne forced a smile and led him to the communal fire. Pint and Gilbert found them, and they quickly shared childhood stories over cups of cider, their voices warm with memories. Ryne sat beside Claude, who was watching the firelight dance in their cups.


    Gilbert shoved Claude suddenly, and in an instant, the two were wrestling in the grass, wooden swords forgotten. Claude pinned him with ease, grinning as Gilbert swore lightly.


    Pint rolled his eyes and turned to Ryne. They talked about crops and the seasons. He noticed that Pint was forcing his voice to deepen. “My family planted new barley on the granges. Should be a good season.”


    Ryne smiled, though his attention lingered on Claude, the way the firelight turned his hair to gold, the way his laughter filled the empty spaces in the night.


    For the first time in a long while, Ryne let himself enjoy it.


    <hr>


    Ryne was thrilled for Claude and his family. Without the crushing weight of taxes, tributes, and the endless demands of noble lords and clergy, commoners like them could finally keep what they earned. He watched with pride as Claude moved through the crowd, bartering with ease, his natural confidence drawing people in. Lydia and Annette, too, had an effortless simple charm, all bright smiles and warm voices making their small stall feel like an extension of their cottage home.


    Lydia and Gabriella worked side by side, selling Wilbur’s flowers and soaps as if they’d been sisters all their lives. Their laughter carried across the market, mixing with the low murmur of trade. One evening, Wilbur drifted between stalls, his sharp eyes scanning for glass bottles, paper, and cloth. He even bought a handful of rare spices, pushing coins into the merchant’s hands with a sheepish nod before disappearing back into his lab.


    Ryne caught Claude’s eye. Wilbur looked… happy. Truly happy.


    The following night, Wilbur set up a stall of his own, auctioning potions to an eager crowd. Claude, Gilbert, and Pint volunteered as test subjects, sparring with exaggerated bravado, wanting to prove Wilbur’s concoctions worked. A well-aimed jab to the ribs, a playful shove to the shoulder, and then, like magic, the bruises faded before the audience’s eyes as Wilbur poured his shining-gold elixirs. Laughter rang out as coins passed hands, deals struck, and for the first time, it felt like they were all moving forward.


    Across the granges, Ember darted between children’s legs, her bright fur a blur as she yipped and leaped, chasing tossed scraps of meat. In Wilbur’s lab, new gemstones gleamed under candlelight as he refined his potions. One, an improved version of his shivering maiden, he named freezing maiden.


    He held it out to Ryne and Claude. “It still needs work, but if I distill it, I could perhaps cause an ice blast to slow down fast enemies. It would definitely be useful for foes with an affinity for water. Like the sea-lions.”


    “Sea-lions?” Claude’s brows went up.


    “I’ll tell you all about it at supper,” Ryne said.


    One evening, Ryne found Claude alone, sitting in their usual spot in the monastery garden, turning coins over in his hands. The disbelief on his face made Ryne frown.


    “Something wrong?” he asked, settling beside him.


    The moon bathed Wilbur’s newest blooms in silver light, drawing butterflies from a merchant’s cages. They flitted between the petals, drinking from the strange nectar. Their wings shimmered as if laced with stardust. One landed on Ryne’s shoulder, delicate and weightless.


    Claude’s smile softened. Even Annette, watching from a few feet away, let out a delighted gasp. Ryne extended his finger, letting a brilliant blue butterfly crawl onto it before passing it gently to Annette. She giggled as it perched on her dark curls like a living hairpin before fluttering away. She chased after it, her laughter light as the wind.


    Claude turned to him, holding up his coins again. “I never thought I’d have this much.” He rubbed a silver piece between his fingers before pressing the pouch into Ryne’s open palm. His touch lingered for just a moment.


    “Keep it,” Claude said. “It’s as much yours as it is mine.”