Chapter 8: The Defense of the Silver Flame

The stillness of the monastery shattered as alarm bells rang out, echoing through the stone corridors and sending monks rushing to their posts. The peaceful sanctuary had turned into a hive of desperate activity, and Alaric found himself caught in the whirlwind.

Brother Thalos moved with a swiftness that belied his age, issuing commands to the monks. “Barricade the gates! Arm yourselves with whatever you can find!” he called out. Monks pulled long staves from hidden compartments, their silver robes billowing as they hurried to prepare for the coming attack.

Alaric gripped the Zeton tightly, the weight of the relic and its recent revelations pressing on his mind. The power to alter history, he thought, and the responsibility that comes with it. But there was no time to dwell on what he had learned. The raiders were coming, and he had to survive this first.

A young monk, his face pale but determined, ran up to Alaric. “Here,” he said, thrusting a short sword into Alaric’s hand. The blade was simple but sharp, and Alaric nodded in thanks, sliding it into his belt. It felt foreign there—he was a thief, not a warrior—but he’d learned how to use one in the streets long before he ever became a master thief.

“Where do you need me?” Alaric asked Brother Thalos, trying to push down his fear.

Thalos paused, his keen eyes assessing Alaric. “You’ve proven you can fight, traveler,” he said. “We need every blade at the front gates. Can I count on you?”

Alaric took a breath, the weight of the Zeton burning against his side. He had no reason to help these monks, no obligation to put himself in danger for them. But he had made a promise to Jarek and the villagers to find answers, and running away now would solve nothing. “You can count on me,” he said, his voice steady.

Thalos gave him a brief nod of respect. “Then may the Silver Flame guide you.”

The iron gates of the monastery loomed high, flanked by stone walls that had withstood centuries of storms. Monks armed with staves and blades stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces set with grim determination. Alaric took his place among them, his heart hammering in his chest. He glanced at the Zeton, hoping for some miraculous burst of insight, but it remained inert.

In the valley below, the raiders emerged from the mist. They were a brutal, ragged force, wielding axes, swords, and shields. Their leader, a tall man with a hawk’s beak mask and a black cloak, rode at the front on a massive warhorse. His voice carried up the mountainside, sharp and commanding. “Surrender the relics of the Silver Flame, and we will spare your lives!”

The monks didn’t waver. Brother Thalos stepped forward, his staff held high. “This is sacred ground,” he declared, his voice echoing with authority. “We will not yield to those who bring only destruction.”

The raiders roared in response, their leader spurring his horse forward. “Then prepare to be crushed!”

The first wave of raiders charged up the rocky path, their weapons glinting in the morning light. Alaric’s grip tightened on his sword. He had faced danger before—guards, rival thieves, and near-death escapes—but this was different. This was war.

“Hold the line!” a monk shouted, and the defenders braced themselves. The raiders clashed against the iron gates, their axes and swords striking with brutal force. Alaric moved with the monks, thrusting his sword through a gap in the gate and feeling the jolt of impact as he struck an enemy. The raider fell back, but another took his place, and the assault continued.

The air filled with the sounds of battle—metal clashing, shouts of pain, and the grunts of effort. Alaric found himself fighting instinctively, his body moving on sheer adrenaline. A raider broke through a gap in the barricade, and Alaric twisted to meet him, narrowly avoiding a vicious slash. He countered with a quick jab, the blade sinking into the man’s side. Blood sprayed, and Alaric wrenched his sword free, trying not to let the horror of it sink in.

A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder, and he spun around to see a burly raider raising a spiked club. Alaric had no time to think; he ducked, the club whistling over his head, and drove his sword upward. The raider crumpled, but Alaric’s arm felt leaden with fatigue. I can’t keep this up, he thought, his vision blurring with exhaustion.

Then he felt the Zeton pulse in his pocket. The sensation was stronger than before, and time seemed to slow, just as it had during the previous battle. Alaric’s movements became sharper, more precise, and he used this strange, fleeting advantage to parry an incoming blow and deliver a counterstrike. But the power faded quickly, leaving him drained and unsteady.

I can’t rely on this, he realized. The Zeton’s power was unpredictable, and he couldn’t control when or how it activated. He had to survive on his own.

The gates groaned under the relentless assault, and Alaric’s heart sank. The raiders were too many, and the defenders were weakening. Just when he thought they would be overrun, a roar echoed from within the monastery walls.

A group of armored monks charged forward, wielding silver-plated glaives that shimmered in the light. They moved with precision and grace, cutting down raiders with swift, practiced strikes. Their leader, a tall woman with a shaven head and piercing eyes, led the charge, her glaive a blur of deadly motion.

“Reinforcements!” someone shouted, and hope surged through Alaric’s chest. The armored monks pushed back the raiders, their discipline and skill turning the tide of the battle. Alaric seized the opportunity to catch his breath, leaning against the wall and wiping sweat from his brow.

The woman leading the reinforcements turned to Alaric, her gaze fierce. “You fight well for an outsider,” she said. “But stay alert. The raiders are far from defeated.”

Alaric straightened, nodding. “Understood. Who are you?”

She gave him a brief, fierce smile. “Sister Elyndra, Keeper of the Flame. And you?”

“Alaric,” he said, feeling a spark of hope. “Just... Alaric.”

Elyndra nodded, then turned back to the battle. The raiders had regrouped, and their leader in the hawk mask barked orders, his voice filled with fury. Alaric watched him, a suspicion forming in his mind. The raiders weren’t just after the monastery’s treasures. They were looking for something specific.

The Zeton. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. The raiders had mentioned relics, and if they knew about the Zeton’s power, then they wouldn’t stop until they had it. Alaric’s hand went to his pocket, a sense of dread settling over him.

The raiders charged again, but this time their focus seemed different. They weren’t attacking the gates as forcefully. Instead, small groups broke off, scaling the walls and searching for ways around the defenses. Alaric knew he had to act. He couldn’t let them get inside, not if they were after the Zeton.

He pushed forward, joining Sister Elyndra and her armored monks as they defended the walls. A raider lunged at him, and Alaric parried the blow, his arms burning with fatigue. Elyndra fought beside him, her glaive a whirlwind of steel that kept the attackers at bay.

“They’re trying to breach the inner sanctum!” Elyndra shouted, her eyes narrowing. “We can’t let them through!”

Alaric nodded, but he felt the weight of the Zeton like a curse. I’m the reason they’re here, he thought. This is my fault.

He fought on, the battle raging around him. The monks of the Silver Flame were fierce and unyielding, but the raiders were relentless. Alaric could see the toll it was taking—the defenders were tired, their movements slowing, and the gates wouldn’t hold much longer.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Alaric saw a small group of raiders break away, slipping through a gap in the defenses and heading toward a side entrance. His blood ran cold. They’re going for the Zeton.

He broke away from the main fight, chasing after the raiders. Elyndra called out, but he didn’t have time to explain. His boots pounded against the stone as he followed the raiders into the monastery’s depths, his heart racing. The corridors were dimly lit, the shadows stretching like grasping hands.

The raiders reached a door reinforced with iron bands, and one of them began hacking at the lock. Alaric skidded to a stop, raising his sword. “Hey!” he shouted, hoping to draw their attention.

The raiders turned, their eyes narrowing. One of them, a wiry man with a jagged scar across his cheek, sneered. “Out of our way, thief.”

Alaric didn’t wait for them to make the first move. He lunged forward, his sword clashing against the scarred man’s blade. The raider was faster than he looked, and Alaric barely managed to deflect a blow aimed at his chest. Another raider closed in, and Alaric had to fight desperately, using every trick he knew to keep them at bay.

The Zeton pulsed again, and time seemed to slow for a split second. Alaric ducked under a swing, his movements impossibly smooth, and slashed at the second raider. But the power faded just as quickly, leaving him off-balance. The scarred raider seized the opportunity, knocking Alaric’s sword from his grip and slamming him against the wall.

Alaric’s vision swam, and he gasped for breath as the scarred man drew a dagger. “You’ve caused us enough trouble,” the raider growled, his grip tightening.

Alaric’s hand scrambled for the Zeton, his fingers closing around the cold metal. Do something, he thought desperately. The relic pulsed again, but this time the energy felt wild and unstable. The air around them shimmered, and a sudden burst of light blinded the raiders.

The scarred man staggered back, cursing, and Alaric took the chance to grab his fallen sword. The Zeton’s power was unpredictable, but it had given him an opening. He lunged forward, driving the blade into the raider’s side. The man collapsed with a strangled cry, and his companion fled, fear in his eyes.

Alaric stood there, panting and shaken, as the light faded. He glanced at the Zeton, the relic’s grooves now glowing faintly. What are you? he wondered, but he knew he wouldn’t get an answer.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and Sister Elyndra appeared, her glaive at the ready. Her eyes widened at the sight of the fallen raiders, then narrowed at Alaric. “You fought them off?” she asked, a note of disbelief in her voice.

Alaric nodded, his hand still clutching the Zeton. “Barely,” he admitted. “They were after something—something powerful.”

Elyndra studied him, her expression conflicted. “Come,” she said finally. “We must regroup. The battle isn’t over.”

Alaric followed her, the weight of the Zeton heavier than ever. He had come seeking knowledge, but all he had found was more danger. And as the battle raged on, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his journey was only growing more perilous.