One night, Ealhstan approached Ryne with an idea. “I want to build a small tower to hold your sacred flame,” he said. “Like the obelisks that wake the meadows and fishing lake. I have a theory. If it fails, I’ll tear it down and reuse the materials.”


    Ryne shrugged. “Go ahead.”


    By the next evening, the tower was complete. A sturdy pillar of stone, hastily but skillfully constructed, rose against the dark sky. At its peak, a platform of hay and iron stood ready to cradle a flame.


    “I used the same gemstones you gave me when upgrading Claude’s sword,” Ealhstan explained, dusting his hands off. “If you channel your sacred flame into them, the fire should grow stronger, maybe even push back more of the miasma lingering over Rothfield.”


    Ryne craned his neck, taking in the structure. Before he could protest, Ealhstan grinned and hoisted him onto the tower.


    Balancing on the platform, Ryne placed his hands over the embedded stones. He pressed it firmly against his palm, the carnelian, sunstone, and garnet. He closed his eyes and summoned Gaelmar’s kindflame, feeling its warmth flow through him. The gemstones drank in the sacred fire, their deep reds and golds flickering to life. With a steady breath, Ryne released a burst of small flame, igniting the charged gemstones.


    A pillar of golden fire roared to life, sending a wave of warmth through the air. The gathered townsfolk gasped as they saw the flame, and Ryne saw miasma recoil, thinning and scattering like smoke in the wind. Rothfield, at least for this night, was safe.


    Ryne leapt down from the tower, landing lightly on his feet. The crowd broke into applause, and Ealhstan clapped a hand on his shoulder, grinning.


    “Well,” Ealhstan said, watching the steady flame burn high above them, “looks like my theory was right.”


    <hr>


    Claude moves through the bustling bazaar easily. He weaved between traders and travelers, bartering for rations, testing the balance of a blade. Soon, he rested on a clearing on the side of the monastery where most people were prohibited to go. His mind lingered on the weight of his newly-fixed sword, on the fleeting warmth that had pressed into his palm when Ryne held it the night before.


    Ryne slips through the growing hub, his monk’s robes contrasting with the mercantile acitivites around him. He spotted Claude earlier, but kept a few paces away, though his gaze never strays far. His fingers ghost over his wrist, remembering the quiet press of Claude’s hand against his own. I should be tending to the sick or reinforce the monastery wards. Instead, he was there. Watching. Guarding.


    Claude stopped at a stall draped in deep-blue cloth, where amulets of bone and silver glinted under flickering lanternlight. The merchant grinned, plucking one from the display. “For protection,” he said. “Though I fear this won’t do you much good, what with the good monks looking out for you.”


    Claude saw him gesture behind him and saw Ryne float forward to meet him. Ryne looked slightly embarrassed by the marchant’s comment. Claude grabbed his wrist gently and whispered, “He isn’t wrong.”


    Claude turned the amulet over in his fingers, tracing the delicate etchings. He dropped them on the stall and took out the mark of Saint Gaelmar under his tunic. He showed it to Ryne, winked, and tucked it back. “My guardian,” he said to the air.


    Ryne stepped closer, his robes whispering against Claude’s arm. Claude met his gaze, something settling in his eyes. The usual mischief softened.


    Ryne hesitated, then reached for his charm, his fingertips grazing Claude’s knuckles as he took it. He murmured a blessing low under his breath, the words meant only for him, before pressing the charm back into Claude’s palm. Claude huffed a small laugh, but his fingers didn’t leave the amulet. Or Ryne’s hand. Not right away.


    <hr>


    Even as Rothfield thrived, the dangers beyond its borders multiplied. Scouts reported strange figures lingering near the outskirts. The shadowbeasts were restless, furious that Ryne’s fiery tower now held them at bay. Ealhstan, worried, tasked Claude and his unit to watch from one of their common towers. Jerome was with him, spear in hand, bow strapped to his back.


    In the dim torchlight, Claude sharpened his sword, the rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone filling the quiet. Ryne approached, a flask of warmed broth cradled in his hands.


    “It’s all right now. Dawn is coming soon. You need to rest,” Ryne murmured, setting the flask beside him.


    Claude smirked. “You keep saying that. I think you just want an excuse to hover.”


    Ryne crossed his arms. “If I wanted an excuse, I’d make a far more convincing one.”


    Claude chuckled, but the sound faded as his gaze drifted back to the blade in his lap. “I don’t think I’ll have time to rest soon.”


    Ryne exhaled softly before lowering himself onto the bench beside him, their shoulders nearly brushing. Soon, Claude would leave again, summoned by Bahram, sent back into the maws of the shadows.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    “Then at least let me stay awhile.”


    Claude didn’t argue. The night stretched around them. In the distance, the last murmurs of the market still stirred. At least life continued. At some point, Ryne’s fingers ghosted over Claude’s wrist; a fleeting touch, barely there. But Claude felt it long after Ryne had pulled away.


    <hr>


    Grey dawn spilled through the monastery’s open windows, casting pale halos along the stone floor. Claude fastened the last buckle of his armor, the leather straps firm under his fingers. Beyond Rothfield’s walls, duty awaited.


    By the doorway, Ryne stood unmoving, silent. He knew better than to ask Claude to stay, but the weight in his chest pressed tighter with each passing moment.


    Claude caught his gaze and, on impulse, reached out. His finger hooked into the loose tie of Ryne’s robes, a quiet pull—just enough to draw him closer.


    “You’ll be here when I get back?” His voice was steady. It was silly to ask, but he sounded so innocent.


    Ryne swallowed, the warmth of Claude’s touch a whisper against his skin. “Always.”


    Claude held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded, satisfied. He let go.


    Ryne didn’t move. Not yet. Not until Claude did. He brought him his new supplies; more bottles of healing potions now, a recharged sword, and steel shields for him and for Pint and Gilbert. Elastane also forged Pint some steel-tipped arrows that Ryne blessed.


    Ryne murmured, “Be well.”


    <hr>


    Claude returned after five days, just in time for the village festival. The moment he stepped past Rothfield’s gates, he pulled Gilbert into a rough embrace and clasped Pint’s shoulder with warm familiarity. They swapped stories—tales of the road, of the quiet dangers lurking beyond the fields—as Claude slowly unraveled beside Ryne, his head resting against his shoulder.


    Ryne said nothing, only letting his fingers drift absently through Claude’s hair, twisting the strands between his fingertips. It was an idle habit, but one Pint noticed. He said nothing, his gaze flickering between them and the flickering festival flames.


    “You need to cut your hair,” Ryne murmured.


    Claude hummed, reaching up to take a strand of Ryne’s between his own fingers. “So do you.”


    Ryne frowned. That was strange. He hadn’t needed a trim before.


    Beyond them, the village festival bloomed; a burst of color and laughter against the creeping dread beyond Rothfield’s borders. Lanterns bobbed in the air like fireflies, their golden glow casting soft halos along the granges. The new crops have grown tall and some of them were harvested for the night. Music wove through the night; lutes strumming, flutes singing, the steady pulse of drums calling people to dance. Woodrow was at the center of it all, taking in all that revelry.


    Claude led Ryne in the middle of the crowd, trading nods with farmers, jesting with soldiers, slipping a coin to a vendor selling roasted chestnuts. Ryne followed, smiling, drawn not just by the sheer pulse of life around him.


    But by the wonderful boy holding his hand.


    <hr>


    The music swelled as Woodrow clapped to the beat, his laughter ringing through the square. He spun at the center of the lantern-lit courtyard, his movements effortless, infectious. Then, with a flourish, he caught Agate’s hand and twirled her across the packed earth, their steps quick, fluid, full of laughter.


    Harlan was next. Woodrow seized his strong hands, pulling him into the fray. The crowd erupted into cheers as the three of them whirled together, boots kicking up dust, the rhythm of the drums thrumming beneath their feet. Then Woodrow’s hands found another partner, and another; a dark-haired woman, a grinning soldier, a farmer still clutching a half-eaten pastry, until the entire square pulsed with bodies in motion, swept up in the fevered joy of the dance.


    Claude turned, searching for Ryne.


    The moment their eyes met, Claude’s lips curled, wicked and warm.


    “Come on,” he called, stepping backward into the lantern glow, arms open, daring. “You’re not getting away this time.”


    Ryne shook his head, fists clenching at his sides. “I don’t dance.”


    Claude grinned. “Good thing I do.”


    Before Ryne could protest, Claude caught his wrist and tugged firmly. And Ryne—against every sensible thought—let himself be pulled forward.


    The music surged, a bright, dizzying thing. Claude’s fingers slipped from Ryne’s wrist to his palm, their hands fitting together. Then Claude spun him into the throng of dancers, and for a moment, Ryne could only move, feet stumbling, breath catching, heart hammering too loudly against his ribs.


    The world shrank to the space between them. The flicker of firelight in Claude’s eyes. The heat of his palm, steady against Ryne’s own. The barely-there brush of Claude’s thumb over the back of his hand, guiding him through each step.


    “Relax,” Claude murmured, amusement threading through his voice. “You’re holding on like I might vanish.”


    Ryne exhaled sharply, forcing his fingers to unclench, to loosen their grip.


    Claude’s laughter was low, warm, a sound that curled in Ryne’s chest like an ember catching fire. “I’m not going to leave. Not tonight.”


    The dance ended in a blur of spinning skirts and stomping boots, the revelers breaking apart to cheer for the musicians. But Claude didn’t let go. Neither did Ryne.


    Their breaths tangled in the cool night air, bodies too close, the pulse of the music still thrumming beneath their skin. Ryne knew he should step back, should retreat before this feeling settled too deep, and took root in a place he couldn’t afford to nurture.


    But Claude’s fingers tightened, just slightly, as if waiting for Ryne to pull away first.


    Ryne tightened his fingers around Claude’s, squeezing his hand firmly before flashing him a smile. Without a word, he led him back toward the communal fire, where their friends awaited, laughter and chatter filling the air. He didn’t notice the trio of dark figures watching him from the edge of the crowd, the weight of their gazes heavy.


    Ealhstan, Woodrow, and Wilbur stood, their faces a mirror of concern. Wilbur bit his lip, releasing the breath he’d been holding as he exchanged a glance with the others. They stood there for a moment, uncertain, unsure of what to say, or even if they should say anything at all.