They warned him. Over and over.
“Do not light the candle.”
But grief makes poor listeners.
The Candle of Thorns had been locked away for generations, sealed in a reliquary of glass and iron, its wax etched with runes that shimmered like frost under moonlight. Its wick was bound in silver thread, untouched by flame. They said it could speak to the dead—but only those who died with secrets. And secrets, they said, were hungry.
Dorian had heard the stories. He simply didn’t care.
His wife, Seris, had vanished during the Harvest Storm. The villagers claimed she’d died in the fire that consumed their home. But no body was ever found. No grave. No truth. Just ash—and silence.
He had searched the ruins for days, fingers blistered, lungs choked with soot. All he found was a scorched locket and the scent of something wrong. Something that didn’t belong to fire.
On the seventh night of the blood moon, when the sky bled crimson and the wind carried whispers through the trees, Dorian broke the seal.
The candle hissed as it caught flame—green, then gold, then a whispering blue. The air turned brittle. Shadows leaned in. The runes on the walls pulsed like veins. And then, from the smoke, a voice he hadn’t heard in a year.
“Dorian…” It was her. Soft. Wounded. “You shouldn’t have come.”
His breath caught. “Seris. Gods, Seris. I thought I’d lost you.”
“You did,” she said, voice trembling. “And now you’ve brought me back to a place I never wanted to return.”
“I need to know,” he said, stepping closer. “That night—the fire. What happened?”
A pause. Then: “I tried to stop it. But it was already in motion.”
“What was?”
Before she could answer, the flame twisted. A second voice emerged—low, ancient, and cold as stone.
“She broke the vow.”
Dorian’s heart pounded. “Who are you?”
“I am the ember that remembers,” it said. “She made a pact. She offered a soul to save yours.”
He turned back to the smoke. “Seris… is that true?”
Her voice returned, quieter now. “I didn’t want you to die. I—I thought I could fix it.”
“What did you do?” he asked, voice rising.
The candle flared. Shadows spilled across the walls, forming scenes like living nightmares: Seris in a hooded cloak, kneeling before a horned figure in the forest. Sigils. A dagger. A whispered promise. A stolen relic. A masked figure watching from the dark.
“You were the price,” the ember said. “But the forest spirits demanded two.”
Dorian staggered back. “Two souls? What do you mean?”
“She was with child,” the flame whispered. “She kept it from you. She kept it from them.”
His voice cracked. “No… she would’ve told me. She would’ve—”
“I was going to,” Seris said, her voice breaking. “But I was afraid. Afraid they’d take you both.”
“You lied to me,” he whispered. “You let me believe you were gone. That it was just the fire.”
“I did it to protect you!” she cried. “I thought I could bargain. I thought I could control it.”
“You should’ve trusted me,” he said, fists clenched. “We could’ve faced it together.”
“I couldn’t risk it,” she said. “I chose the pain of silence over the cost of truth.”
The candle surged. Runes on the walls ignited, casting crimson light. The flame coiled around Dorian’s wrist like a serpent. He screamed as visions flooded his mind—her final moments, the forest’s hunger, the spirits still waiting.
“Blow it out!” she screamed. “Please, Dorian! Before it takes you too!”
But he couldn’t move. The flame rose higher, engulfing the room in molten light. And in its glow, he saw her—not the woman he had loved, but the sorceress she had become. Hooded. Hollow-eyed. Hands stained with ash and blood.
“I loved you,” he whispered.
“I still do,” she said. “But love doesn’t erase the cost.”
The candle screamed. The reliquary cracked. And then—silence.
The next morning, Dorian’s home stood empty. Only the reliquary remained, sealed once more, its wick blackened twice.
And in the ruins of Viremoor, when the moon is high and the wind is still, a blue flame flickers—and a voice calls out for someone who will listen.
No ratings yet.
You must be logged in to rate this post.