The Ember Within
Psalm 27:1 (NIV)
"The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?"
The morning after the miracle at the well came soft and pale, yet the air carried unease. The people of Mahogany gathered in low murmurs, some still staring at the water that shimmered faintly even after dawn. What they had witnessed the night before—light rising from the depths of the well, cleansing it of the sickness that had long tainted their drink—was a wonder none could deny. But where faith blooms, fear often hides close behind.
Regbolo sat near the shrine at the village's edge, a hand pressed to his chest. He had not slept. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw fire dancing in the well, and in that light, he thought he saw his own reflection, clear for the first time in years. His heart was heavy with the memory of his bargain, the promise he and Teuwa had made to the witches beyond the ridge. It had seemed wise then,a small deceit to save their families,but now, with that holy fire burning through the village, he felt its weight like a chain.
He did not hear Liron approach. The young man had risen early to mend the fence near the path, his hands still dark with soot from the night before. When he saw Regbolo sitting alone, he paused. "You have not been home," Liron said quietly.
Regbolo startled, then forced a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Home is a place for those the gods still want."
Liron set down the bundle he carried and sat a few steps away. "Then perhaps you should stop running from the one who still calls you."
Regbolo gave a bitter laugh. "You speak like Elena now. All light and no shadow. Do you know what we've done?"
"I know fear makes strange prophets of us all," Liron answered. His voice was gentle, but his eyes were steady. "What did you promise them?"
Regbolo's lips trembled. "We told them we would test the people. We would make them doubt her faith. The witches said if we turned the village from her, they would spare us when the mountain awakens."
Liron's breath caught, but he said nothing at first. He simply looked toward the ridge, where the peaks glimmered faintly beneath the twin moons still visible in the fading sky. Vareth's pale light lingered like frost, while Lunara's softer gold melted through it.
"You believe those who serve death can grant life?" he asked at last.
Regbolo's hands tightened around his knees. "I believe they will punish those who do not serve them. You saw what they did to the outlying villages. They were burned,no flame, no sound, just gone."
Liron nodded slowly. "And yet we still breathe."
Regbolo's eyes filled with tears. "Because she prayed. Because her God listened. And now I am cursed with the memory of what I promised against that same God."
For a long time, Liron did not speak. Then he reached into his coat and drew out a small scrap of parchment, it was an old verse from the Canticle of Fire that Elena had written for him to carry. He unfolded it, his thumb brushing the edge.
"Listen," he said softly. "It is written: 'The Fire does not wait for the worthy. It seeks the willing, and where truth is spoken, it abides.'"
Regbolo looked up, his eyes hollow. "Then it will not abide with me."
Liron's tone deepened. "Say the truth aloud."
"The truth?"
"Yes. Speak what your heart hides."
Regbolo's voice broke. "I am afraid."
Liron waited.
"I betrayed the girl," Regbolo whispered. "I feared death more than I feared the darkness."
Liron closed his eyes. "Then you have already stepped out of it."
A faint warmth rippled through the air between them. It began as a breath, a shimmer no brighter than candlelight. Liron felt it first—an echo in his chest, like a heart remembering its rhythm. The glow spread, threading around them like mist turned to gold. Regbolo gasped and fell forward, hands pressed to the soil.
The earth beneath them pulsed once. The breath of the village shifted; even the birds in the trees fell silent to listen.
From the shrine, the clay idol of Uwa cracked across its brow. Dust fell in a slow line, and the carved eyes—long empty—seemed to bow.
Regbolo shuddered. "What is this?"
"The same flame that saved the well," Liron said, his voice trembling but sure. "It does not belong to one person. It remembers every heart that turns toward it."
The light around them brightened. Liron's palms glowed faintly, not with fire that burned, but with light that breathed. He touched Regbolo's shoulder, and the older man cried out as if something cold and cruel were being torn from him.
When it passed, Regbolo slumped, trembling. The air cleared, the glow dimming into soft warmth.
He looked at Liron with tears cutting paths through the dust on his cheeks. "It's gone. The whisper in my head—it's gone."
Liron smiled, though his face was wet with sweat. "Then perhaps the Fire remembers you too."
From a distance, a few villagers had gathered, drawn by the light they thought was morning's trick. They whispered among themselves—some in awe, some in fear.
"It's spreading," one said. "First the girl, now the boy."
"Not witchcraft," another murmured. "The well was cleansed. Did you not taste the water?"
Teuwa stood at the far edge of the path, hidden among the trees. His hands tightened around his staff. He had come to watch, to ensure Regbolo kept their bargain, but what he saw chilled him. The same flame that had defied his rites was now moving through others, answering prayers he did not understand.
He turned away quickly, muttering under his breath. "No faith lasts forever. Fear will return."
But even as he walked back toward his hut, the ground beneath him felt warmer, as if the very soil had begun to wake.
---
That evening, Elena learned what had happened. Regbolo himself came to the courtyard, head bowed, eyes raw from weeping.
"I lied," he said simply. "And I asked forgiveness. The flame answered."
Elena looked at him, then at Liron, who stood quietly behind him. "You see," she said softly, "it is not mine to command. It is His, and He gives freely."
Regbolo knelt before her. "What do you want of me?"
"Stand," she said. "And remember."
He did. And when he rose, the shame seemed lighter, not gone, but changed—like wood turned to ash after serving its purpose.
Micah watched from the doorway, Evelyn beside him. "The fire is teaching us faster than we can understand," he murmured.
Evelyn nodded. "And it chooses its students well."
---
Later that night, as the moons crossed paths above the ridge, the village slept in fragile peace. Only Liron remained awake, standing near the well where it had all begun. He could still feel the faint pulse in his palms, the echo of something greater than himself.
He whispered the words again, the ones Elena had written. "The Fire does not wait for the worthy. It seeks the willing."
The wind carried them upward, scattering into the night like sparks.
And as Lunara's amber light touched Vareth's white glow, a soft tremor ran through the mountain, gentle and low—neither warning nor threat, but a heartbeat.
The faithful would later say that was the night the Flame became plural, that the first ember outside of Elena's hands took breath.
But for Liron, it was simply the sound of mercy remembering its name.
"For the Fire remembers."