Megrin and the Ashes of Voices

More about Megrin and the Ashes of Voices

The forest lay silent, only the rain dripping from the tall leaves. Megrin stood in his workshop, stirring a beaker with a thin glass rod, from which blue smoke rose. It was a mixture of dried verbena, night fern spores, and a drop of dew from the seventh morning. Everything was meant to strengthen the balance, but this evening the ground trembled as if the earth itself had a voice. Megrin listened. With his large ears, he heard it clearly: a whisper, faint yet close, as if it came from deep within the earth. He reached for his lantern, which flickered in the red glow of the medallion on his chest, and followed the sound out into the rain. The path led him to an old clearing. There lay a fireplace, abandoned, covered only in black ash. But the ash moved. It billowed like breath, and from it sounded voices—broken, like fragments of memories. "Help us..." one breathed. "Come back..." another cried. Megrin knelt and took a handful of ash. It was cold yet alive, imbued with a spell he recognized. It was the magic of the lost, souls who had never found peace. Someone had lit a fire here, not to provide warmth, but to bind voices. "Fools," Megrin murmured, "they play with what they do not understand." He filled the ashes into a small container and carried it back to his workshop. There, he placed it between skulls and herbals and began to work. With every incantation he spoke, the voices answered. They spoke of a village that had banished them, of a ritual that wished to sacrifice them, and of a vow not to rest until someone called their names again. Megrin knew what to do. He placed the medallion on the ashes. The heart of the flame began to glow, faintly at first, then stronger, until the voices became clearer. Now he heard them clearly—men, women, children. Not spirits of evil, but victims of fear. The next morning, he went down into the valley. The villagers shrank back when he appeared. "The sorcerer," they whispered, "he brings the voices." But Megrin stepped into the center of the square, set down the bowl of ashes, and spoke aloud: "You banished them because you were afraid. But fear feeds the shadow. Name their names—or the ashes will haunt you." Silence. Only the wind stirred the flags. Then an old man stepped forward, his hands trembling. "My brother... He was one of them." His voice broke. Others followed, one after another, until the names rang out like a chorus. The ashes flared, rose, and crumbled into fine dust that rose into the sky. With him, the voices faded—peacefully, for the first time. Megrin took the bowl and turned away. "Balance," he murmured, "lies not in silence, but in remembering." The villagers watched him go. Some with suspicion, others with a new spark of respect. But Megrin knew their fear would never fully subside. And yet he would remain. As long as the medallion of flame glowed, he would watch—over the living and the voices of the forgotten.