The Light Beyond emberveil

Shadows that speak

The wind shifted.

As Ariah and her companions descended from Mount Kaelorn, the warmth of the awakened flame still pulsed within her lantern. But in the distance, the sky had begun to turn—not with clouds, but with something far worse.

Smoke.

They reached a ridge just before dusk, and Mira was the first to see it—a village burning. Not from wildfire, but from war. The kind of fire that comes from hatred.

They hurried down the hill. But it was too late.

The village of Narel’s Hollow—a peaceful farming settlement—had been left in ruin. Homes collapsed, fields scorched, and silence screamed through the air.

“They came searching for the Flamebearer,” Jalen murmured, kneeling beside a shattered lantern etched with the symbol ofthe Eternal One. “They’re hunting you now.”

Ariah’s heart pounded. This wasn’t just about her journey anymore—innocent lives were being destroyed because of it.

“They left someone alive,” Rael said suddenly.

He knelt beside a trembling child, half-buried in straw. The boy couldn’t have been more than seven. His eyes were wide with terror.

“They said... the girl with the light... she must be silenced,” the boy whispered.

Ariah clenched her fists. “They’re not afraid of me. They’re afraid of what I carry.”

That night, Ariah couldn’t sleep. The stars were hidden, and the warmth of the Embercore torch seemed dimmer. She wandered away from the camp to pray—or at least to think.

But she wasn’t alone.

From the shadows beyond the treeline, a voice called out.

“Funny thing about flames… they flicker when the wind turns.”

She turned, startled, and saw a figure cloaked in black. Not monstrous, not loud—simply still. His eyes were pale silver, and his presence felt like winter swallowing breath.

“You don’t have to carry it anymore,” he said softly. “The burden. The pressure. The fear of failing.”

“I wasn’t given this Flame to be comfortable,” Ariah replied, holding her torch tighter.

“No,” he said. “You were given it to burn.”

Before she could speak, the figure vanished—not walked away, but simply dissolved like smoke. The shadows around her grew colder.

She rushed back to the camp.

At dawn, the group prepared to leave. But Ariah’s hand brushed her lantern—and she felt it.

The flame was weaker.

Whatever that thing was... it had tried to steal her light, not through force, but through words.

Doubt whispered again. Was she truly strong enough? Was she putting everyone in danger?

But then the little boy from the village ran to her, carrying a broken piece of wood shaped like a cross.

“My father carved it,” he said. “He said light always wins. Even when it’s losing.”

Ariah knelt, tears stinging her eyes. She touched the cross to her lantern—and the flame pulsed again, steady and sure.

She stood and turned to her companions. “They want fear to speak louder than light. We won’t let it.”