The Imp Breglio and the Stolen Fireflies

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It was a night darker than any before. Not a single spark of light danced across the meadows, not a single glow hovered between the trees. The forest, usually lit by the delicate glow of fireflies, lay black and silent, as if someone had swallowed the whisper of the stars themselves. Breglio sat on an old tree stump at the edge of the clearing, his small, pointed fingers drumming impatiently on the moss. "This isn't right," he murmured. "Not right, not right, not beautiful." He looked into the darkness, his amber eyes flashing. "Where are you, my lights?" He jumped up, pulled a tiny lantern from his jacket pocket, and lit it with a sparking stone. A pale golden light crept out, barely strong enough to show the way. But it was enough. Breglio trudged off, deeper into the forest, where the shadows thickened. Beneath the old oak tree, he came across the toad Morbilla, perched on a mushroom with her arms crossed. "They've taken the lights, Imp," she croaked darkly. "In a jar. Carried away." "Who?" Breglio asked sharply. "The Gatherer," Morbilla answered. "With her net dress and jar of silver smoke." Breglio felt a tickle on the back of his neck. He knew the Gatherer—a figure from old stories, who gathered light not for warmth, but for power. He ran on, through thorn alleys, over root paths, until he reached the hill with the gnarled linden tree. There she stood: a tall, slender figure, her robe woven of webs in which fleeting sparks hung. In her hands, she held a large jar in which the fireflies circled, luminous yet sad. "Why are you taking their light?" Breglio cried. The Gatherer turned. Her face was pale as ash, her eyes dark as soot. "Because the world carries too much darkness. I hoard what's left." "But light isn't a possession," Breglio contradicted. "It belongs to dance, to air, to dreams." The Collector looked at him for a long moment. Then she raised the glass. "And yet it endures." Breglio shook his head. "Only as long as no one dares to open it." He stepped forward, pulled out the sparking stone lantern, and held it to the glass. The light inside began to shimmer, hum, and vibrate—until a soft crack sounded. Cracks sprang across the glass. With a final splinter, it burst open, and the fireflies darted out, like little stars finding their way home. The Collector watched them fly away. "You stole from me." Breglio smiled slyly. "No," he said. "I freed them." And when the first fireflies flitted across the clearing again, Breglio scurried back to his rootstock, sat down, and whispered softly: "Not everything that glows wants to be caught."