Before humans, other creatures existed. Primordial beings of the dark plagued a world of stone and ash. There was little of humanity, only small communities scavenging on each other to survive each brutal winter.
This seemed to be the fate of the world. Yet, spontaneously, fire was birthed into the grey. Overnight, humanity could prosper. Humans came together in collaboration for the first time against the common enemy. This was the end of an era. Great cities came and thrived in the new light. Humans emboldened by the flame gained new strength to oppose them. What had begun was the Era of the Humans, a time when the insignificant needed not to live in fear.
That was one thousand winters ago.
The keeper marched up the steps of the palace at a consistent tempo. Her bare feet struck each stone, resonating throughout the forest surrounding her. She had a duty, an oath, to keep the fire alive, to keep it breathing.
Eventually, the Keeper reached a plateau. The warm and damp moss contrasted the harsh cobblestone before her feet, a cold reminder of what was. Sheâd taken this climb many times before; the layout was instinctual. To an outsider, it was bleak and unwelcoming, overgrown with odd plant life. Yet it filled her heart with warmth, a sense of belonging in solace.
She took a slow walk towards the one hall of the manor. Its great stone doors unbolted from their lock, allowing for a narrow view to the fire. Upon getting closer, she felt the heat of the flame grow. Although no matter how close she came, it never did warm her.
The first fire was but embersâ, a flame slowly dying, ever quickening its gasps for air. Only pity and disappointment would come from onlookers of the once mythical first flame.
The keeper had one job to do. Upon kneeling, she pulled a jagged and stained blade from her pocket. A friend who had stayed with her for fifty winters. It had withered with time, but its edge had never dulled.
She slit her palm, the gash enveloping itself in hot visceral blood as it dripped down onto the flame, seeping its way into the pinkish flamewood. She gazed at her palm; what reflected was a mound of flesh and scar tissue. Long ago, her body wouldnât care about a slight cut. Yet now, it cried at her.
The fire would live another night.
The keeper felt pityâmore so than usual. This was once the flame that rallied the heroes of old against the dragons, ones that soared through the black. And now, it burns ever frail. Those ages seemed so otherworldly to her. The world was ever-darkening.
The fire no longer sufficed.
She shot up, her breath unnatural and unsteady. Tightly gripping onto a stone ledge beside her, shaking. A dark thought had defiled her mind: let the flame wither. Do not tend to it. Do not nourish it. Let it gasp for air one last time.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
She took multiple steps back, eyes fixed on the fire. Before turning around, disgust cocooned her. With her head hung low, she ran out of the palace. Her mind was dull with shame and abhorrence, trying to reason the thought had come.
Her soles echoed outside as she descended each step at a sporadic pace. The keeper had no idea where to go, just running.
After some time, she stopped. Tiredness had overwhelmed her. Only fields and dry grass surrounded her. The stone path had long vanished. Thick blades of grass assaulted her feet. She had only her thoughts. The keeper fell to the ground and lay down. Gazing upon the rich blue sky above her, the sun slowly setting.
She didnât have the thought from nowhere. To her admission, they were always there. Deep down, and not without reason. The flame is dying. Itâd been stated tens of thousands of times before. Its slow death was causing humanity to trudge along. Its continuation is postponing the inevitable.
Yetâwhat would happen to humanity? To us? No light to see the dawn. No fires to birth new life. The coldness of the night will be recognised by man once again, it seemed pointless to even entertain it.
Despite this, there was an instinctual feelingâone with no proofâthat the fire would come back. Ever stronger and everlasting. That feeling was ingrained into her, for a reason she did not know.
The sunset bled into the chilly night. She rested for a time, waiting for the new day. Yet it did not. She stood up slowly and began walking, retracing her steps from earlier. She had a duty to do, or so she believed.
Quickly finding the stone, she began climbing the steps with consistent strides, albeit at a quicker pace. At the plateau, she looked upon the fire. Dragging her feet inside and kneeling before the fire. It stared back, begging for blood as it swirled around in agony.
Her mind swirled with forbidden thoughts. Ones that would label her a heretic.
âBring an end to this age,â her mind whispered, urging her to do the devil's work. The fire continued to crackle as it longed for its much-needed sustenance.
By instinct, she pulled a knife from her pocket, holding it towards her palm. Preparing for a familiar action, yet the blade hesitated. The keeperâs arms listlessly dropped to her sides; she had not broken her gaze towards the fire. A single choice formed in her mind.
It was a choice that she was confident in, even if those around her would look at her with disdain, disgust and derision. She was sure that the flame, given time, would returnâfiercer, brighter, more vibrant than before.
The keeper had chosen to let it die. No one, not even she, could restore the flame.
As the day marched on, the flame darkened. It was screaming and begging at her for helpâa tear formed in her eye. The flames were akin to a child for her. She nurtured it over the years, now watching as it suffocated. Worry flickered within her; her decision was final. There was no going back. The tear dripped down her cheek, vanishing into the cobblestone floor.
The fire burst out with embers flying across the room; a fragile warmth enveloped the keeper for the first time in decades. It was one last desperate flare. A dying plea. A prayer. Before silence.
There was silence and darkness.
Yet, the dark was not cold; it had a different type of warmthâone of hope. Humanity will struggle, and thousands might die, but the fire will come back. Greater. The keeper, getting up from her kneeling position, embraced this new warmth.