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Chapter 16 – The Canticle of Fire
Psalm 119:105 (NIV)
"Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path."
Evening fell slow upon Mahogany, folding the forest in amber dusk. Smoke from the hearths curled lazily upward, glowing faint gold under the twin moons — Vareth rising first in solemn blue-white, Lunara following close, her amber light softening the edges of night. When their radiance met above the mountain, a hush moved through the trees, as if even the wind held its breath.
Julia watched the horizon from the courtyard of the chief's house. Her gray cloak stirred around her boots, frayed by many miles of road. The time had come. Ernest was packing their few remaining bundles into the wagon while the children lingered near the door, restless but solemn. They understood, in that wordless way of children, that something sacred hung in the air.
Inside, Elena stood near the hearth, fingers trailing along the edges of the leather book — the book , resting on the table. The fire crackled low beside her, its warmth steady against the cold breath creeping in from the hills. Julia entered quietly, the scent of rain and pine following her.
"You've read it," Julia said softly.
Elena nodded, her voice barely more than breath. "The words feel alive. Like they're waiting for someone to listen."
Julia smiled — not in amusement, but recognition. "That's because they are. The Canticle doesn't speak to everyone. Only those the Flame remembers."
Elena turned toward her. "Why me?"
Julia's gaze lifted toward the flames. "Because your faith listens differently. Not to noise, but to silence. The Flame began there, in silence. It hears you as you hear it."
They stood for a moment in shared stillness. The fire snapped once, and the sound seemed almost deliberate, like a heartbeat.
Then Julia placed a hand over the worn leather cover. "This is the last copy I carry. It has passed through many hands — each a keeper of the Word. In Altamar, we call ourselves Flamekeepers — not priests, not prophets. Just those who guard the light until the next bearer comes."
Her voice grew quieter. "We are taught that every age receives one who burns brighter than all the rest , one who doesn't guard the flame, but becomes it."
Elena swallowed, her fingers trembling as she looked down at the book. "And you think that's me?"
"I know it is." Julia's eyes glimmered in the half-light. "The Fire remembers its own."
For a long time, neither spoke. Outside, the sound of the wagon wheels grinding against gravel drifted faintly through the open window. The children were laughing now — a sound fragile enough to make Julia's chest tighten.
"Will I ever see you again?" Elena asked.
Julia hesitated. "If the Lord wills it. But my road leads west, to the Ember Hall. They must know what's stirring in the east."
"The Ember Hall," Elena repeated softly. She'd heard whispers of it — a sanctuary beyond the sea where the old Fire still burned in living stone. Few believed it truly existed. "You came from there?"
Julia nodded. "We tend the eternal flame in the Temple of Atheren. It burns night and day, fed by the breath of prayers. I've served there since I was a child. But the world beyond those walls is changing faster than the priests can see. That's why I was sent — to carry word, to kindle hearts, to find those the Fire still remembers."
Elena looked down, her throat tight. "Then why leave me here, when you know what's coming?"
Julia's voice softened. "Because every flame must learn to stand in the wind."
The words sank deep, quiet and sharp all at once.
She lifted the book and pressed it into Elena's hands. "This belongs to you now. Guard it well. Within these pages lies the full Canticle of Fire. Read it aloud. Let the world hear the truth again."
The woman hesitated, her expression shadowed by something deeper — reverence or sorrow, Elena couldn't tell. "Before you open it," Julia said, "remember this: the Fire you'll carry isn't for destruction. It is for remembrance."
Elena nodded, unable to find words.
Then Julia drew her into an embrace, firm and warm, the kind that carried both blessing and farewell. "You are not alone," she whispered. "He who breathed flame into the stars breathes still in you."
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By dawn, the wagon stood ready. Mist clung to the ground, silver under Vareth's retreating glow. Lunara lingered faintly above the hills, pale gold fading into morning blue. The villagers gathered quietly to watch the travelers depart — curious, uncertain, and a little afraid.
Ernest climbed onto the driver's bench, reins in hand. The children waved from the back. Julia turned once more to the courtyard, to Elena standing beside her grandfather and Liron.
"Stay steadfast," Julia said. "Read the Word aloud when the world grows silent. That is how light returns."
Elena nodded, tears catching the light. "I will."
"Then we are at peace."
The horses started forward. The wagon rolled down the narrow dirt path, wheels cutting through dew. Julia's gray cloak fluttered once like smoke before the fog swallowed her whole.
For a moment, Elena thought the air shimmered gold — faint, like a breath caught in the world's throat. Then it was gone.
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That night, she could not sleep. The moons had traded places in the sky — Vareth hidden behind clouds, Lunara glowing low and warm, her light spilling gently across the courtyard. The village slept. The world was still.
Elena sat by the hearth, the Canticle of Fire open before her. The pages smelled faintly of smoke and salt. Her fingers brushed the first line, and the script seemed to shimmer, as though alive under her touch.
She began to read aloud.
"In the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was Fire,
and the Fire was with God,
and the Fire was God."
Her voice trembled at first, then steadied. The words rolled through the room like quiet thunder. The lamp flickered. The air itself seemed to grow warmer.
"Through Him the worlds were kindled,
and without Him no light was made."
Outside, the wind rose — not harshly, but like a breath drawn deep. The embers in the hearth flared, rising into thin streams of golden sparks. Elena's eyes widened. The warmth that filled the room was unlike any fire she had known — alive, purposeful, aware.
She turned another page.
"The Word spoke, and the void fled.
The seas took breath,
and the mountains rose to listen."
As she read, a faint golden haze began to form around her — the Breathlight, though she did not yet know its name. It pulsed softly in rhythm with her words. Her heart pounded, not from fear, but awe.
The final verses left her trembling.
"He is Yeshua — the Living Word,
the Breath of Life,
the Fire that cleanses,
the Light that remembers."
The last line echoed through her like a bell. The air shimmered once more, then stilled. The fire settled into calm, burning steady and bright.
Elena sat in silence, the Canticle open across her lap. Outside, a thin ray of dawn crept across the horizon, gilding the trees.
From far away — perhaps the ridge, perhaps the very sky , came the low, solemn cry of a hawk. It circled once above the village, its wings catching both moons' dying light before vanishing into the mist.
She looked down at the words again.
The Light remembers.
Her heart ached with something both fierce and tender — a flame kindled deep, one she knew would never again go out.
And in that moment, the First Flame remembered her too.