The Token

⸻

The RV – Night

The lights of the altar pulsed steady, not wild; a slow rhythm, almost like breath. Clement guided Grace to stand before it, placing a small brass token — a disk etched with repeating lines and circles — into her palm.

“Close your eyes,” he said. “Not to escape. To focus.”

Grace did, skeptical but curious.

“Enchantment isn’t just force. It’s structure. You’ve been trying to hold back fire with your bare hands. That’s why it burns you.” His voice was low, steady, carried by the hum of the generator. “But repetition builds the wall for you. Ceremony strengthens it.”

Grace felt the edges of the token press into her skin. The rhythm of the LEDs matched her heartbeat, then guided it. She breathed in, out, again, again — until it felt carved into her chest.

Clement murmured, “Repeat the shape. Hold it in your mind. Circle, line, circle. The more exact, the stronger it becomes. Enchantment doesn’t live in symbols — it lives in the groove they cut.”

The air in the RV thickened, like pressure balanced on the edge of spilling over. Grace realized she could feel the seam of the veil brushing against her. Normally it rattled her bones. Now, with the rhythm steady, it was like leaning against a door — heavy, but not impossible to hold.

Her jaw clenched. She pushed back. Not with brute strength, but with that same repeated pattern — circle, line, circle. Breath in, breath out. Again. Again.

The pressure eased.

Clement’s hand trembled on the altar, but his voice remained calm. “Yes. That’s it. You’re not fighting Hell. You’re reinforcing the barrier it’s already pressing against.”

Grace opened her eyes, breath ragged, sweat along her temple. The LEDs dimmed to a soft glow. The token in her palm felt warmer, heavier.

“What… was that?” she asked.

“A discipline,” Clement said. “An angle you’ve ignored. Raw power flares bright, but repetition makes it endure. Ceremony binds it.” His gaze lingered on her, pale and intense. “With practice, you could hold the line far longer than I ever could.”

Grace wanted to snap at him, deny the heat still thrumming in her veins. But part of her knew he was right. She’d felt it: the enchantment tightening, stabilizing. Not just instinct this time. Technique.

Clement gave a thin smile. “Now you understand why they cast me out. The Church fears what it doesn’t control. But here… you and I may yet control the fire.”

Grace closed her fist around the token, unsure if she was holding a weapon, or a shackle.

⸻

The Breach

The LEDs along the altar sputtered. The steady pulse snapped jagged, frantic, like a heartbeat in panic.

Clement froze. “Do not break the pattern. Circle, line, circle.”

The brass token in Grace’s palm seared hot. She gasped, fingers twitching to let it fall — but the air around them split before she could. A crack, like glass under pressure, ran through the space between altar and floor.

From it spilled a thin hiss, not air, not steam — words. Low, overlapping whispers in no human tongue. The smell of licorice roared up until it was choking, thick as smoke.

“Hold the line!” Clement barked, slamming his hand against the altar.

Something pressed through the split — not a body, but a claw of shadow that groped blindly, hunting for flesh. It lashed at Grace. Instinct surged; her wolf stirred under her skin, but she forced it down, clinging to the rhythm: circle, line, circle.

The seam buckled but did not tear.

Clement’s other hand shot out, clutching the edge of the altar. His knuckles blanched as a surge of golden circuitry lit across the etched lines. He chanted — not Latin this time, but raw syllables of command. Each one landed heavy, like hammer blows.

The claw writhed, split into smaller tendrils, and lashed toward them both. Grace staggered, pressing the token hard into her palm. Blood slicked her fingers, but she matched his chant with breath and rhythm. The wolf in her snarled, wanting to rip, to kill — but she held it back, forcing that fury into repetition.

Circle. Line. Circle.

The breach screamed — high, keening, like steel tearing. Then the seam shuddered and sealed, snapping shut with a thunderclap that blew the candles out.

Silence crashed down, broken only by the thump of the generator.

Grace collapsed to one knee, breath ragged. The token was blackened, edges melted. Clement swayed, gripping the altar for balance, blood trailing from his nose.

He managed a hoarse laugh. “Good,” he whispered. “Very good. You can seal it. But if you want it to hold…” He tapped the altar, his pale eyes burning in the dim glow of the LEDs as they steadied again. “…you’ll need more than instinct. You’ll need discipline.”

Grace looked at the scorched token in her palm. She couldn’t tell if it was a weapon or a curse.

⸻

Roy Arrives

The candles guttered out, leaving only the dim pulse of LEDs across the altar. Grace was still on one knee, fist clamped tight around the scorched token. Clement leaned heavy against the table, one hand braced, his sleeve dark where blood had dripped from his nose.

The RV door banged open.

Roy filled the frame, breath ragged like he’d sprinted the whole way. His eyes darted, wolf-keen, reading the room in a single sweep — the fading stink of licorice, the scorched air, Grace’s pale face. His fists curled.

“What happened?” His voice was sharp, already angry. “I heard it—like the ground split open.”

Grace opened her mouth, but Clement cut in, voice low, ragged but steady. “You almost did lose her. If she hadn’t held, this whole town would be bleeding shadows by now.”

Roy’s gaze snapped to Grace. “He put you in this?”

“I—” Grace faltered, throat dry. She could still feel the press of the veil against her ribs, like it might crack open again any second.

Clement straightened, shaky but still commanding. “I didn’t put her anywhere. The breach came for her, not me. She stood against it. Better than most priests I’ve known.”

Roy moved closer, standing between them, jaw tight. “You used her. You pushed her.”

“I showed her,” Clement shot back. “And she held the line. Don’t mistake survival for sin.”

The two men locked eyes, the hum of the generator between them. Grace pushed herself upright, token clenched in her fist.

“Enough,” she rasped. Her voice was rough, edged with something not entirely human. “We don’t have the luxury to argue. The veil’s tearing whether we like it or not. If we don’t hold it…” She swallowed. “…Moonvale won’t survive.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the breach had been. Roy’s fists unclenched, but his shoulders stayed taut, every muscle ready to spring.

Clement finally eased back, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his sleeve. “Then we hold it,” he said simply. “Together. Or not at all.”

Grace opened her fist. The token lay blackened and cracked, but its etched lines still faintly glowed.

Roy stared at it like it was a wound.

⸻

The Muster

— Father Clement POV —

The night outside the RV was alive with movement. When Clement stepped down onto the gravel, the air was sharp with wolf scent — not just Grace’s, not just Roy’s.

A dozen figures melted from the shadows: lean, scarred men and women, their eyes catching the thin streetlight like shards of amber. The pack. Not townsfolk, not curious onlookers. Warriors. They had come fast, teeth bared, the ground trembling under the rhythm of their boots.

He’d seen soldiers readying for battle in jungle camps and desert alleys. This was no different.

But there was no enemy waiting. Only him, the faint thrum of his generator, and Grace standing pale but unbroken in the doorway.

One of the wolves — tall, hair braided back, scars latticed across her arms — barked, “Where is it? We smelled the breach.”

Clement raised a hand. “It’s sealed.”

Growls, mutters, disbelief. Their eyes went to Grace. She nodded once, tight. “It came through. We held it. It’s gone.”

The wolves stilled, restless energy sparking off them like static. Not quite trusting, but not calling her a liar either. They knew the scent. They’d felt the tear.

A younger wolf with jagged scars on his cheek muttered under his breath, “Proof, then. Or he lies.”

Clement’s chest tightened. For thirty years he had wandered, exiled, thinking himself the lone soldier against darkness. Here, in Moonvale, he saw the same war written in scars and eyes — wolves who bled so the world didn’t.

The tall woman studied him, nostrils flaring. “Priest,” she said flatly. “If you can’t fight, stay out of our way.”

Clement almost laughed. His throat hurt too much for it. Instead, he said: “I can fight. Not like you. But I can name what comes through. I can reinforce the walls you’ve been breaking yourselves against.” He looked at Grace, then Roy, then the pack. “And maybe, together, we keep this town standing.”

The pack didn’t cheer, didn’t welcome him. But their silence was its own verdict: not trust, not yet. But not rejection either.

Above them, the streetlamps flickered once and steadied. The night was quiet. Too quiet.

For now.