Breglio and the Lost Lantern

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The rain had plunged the forest into a silvery silence. Drops hung heavy on the branches, and damp earth steamed between the bushes. Breglio trudged cautiously forward, his furry ears twitching at every rustle. But something was missing. His lantern, the soot-smeared flame that always guided him, was gone. He had carried it the night before as he crossed the narrow bridge over the river. But in the morning, only the strap that usually clinked at his hip had been empty. Without the lantern, he felt like a shadow without a voice. It was more than light—it was a part of him, a mirror of his vigilance, the guardian of his steps. "Something like that doesn't happen to be taken from you," he murmured. His round eyes shone earnestly. He knew he had to find it again, or something inside him would fall silent. The trail led him deeper into the forest, where the trunks stood closer together and moss hung from the branches like green beards. A faint shimmer in the undergrowth made him pause. He pushed the branches aside—and saw traces. Not in the ground, but in the air: a band of faint, sooty gleam, like breath that had been captured. Breglio followed, crouching, his paws silent. Soon he reached a clearing. In the center stood a tree, taller than all the others, its trunk split as if it had been burned from within. And there, between the gaping cracks, hung his lantern. But it didn't shine. Instead, a pale glow pulsed within it, as if something foreign were breathing within it. Breglio stepped closer. "What are you doing with my light?" His voice was sharp, like wet wood breaking. From the crack in the trunk emerged a figure: long, thin, half smoke, half shadow. "Your light burned alone for too long," she hissed. "It now belongs to the darkness that never had a fire of its own." Breglio stood with his legs apart, his claws digging into the earth. "The lantern is not yours. It belongs to me—and I belong to it." The shadow hovered closer, its form like flames without embers. "Then step in and divide yourself. One part in light, one part in night." Breglio felt the darkness tugging at him, at his memories, at the paths he had walked in the dark. He saw himself, alone, his fur soaked with rain, without a lantern, without support. For a moment, he was tempted to let himself sink. But then he remembered every time the lantern had guided him through fog. The warm tremor when he lifted it, the spark in the glass like a voice. "No," he said, softly but unwaveringly. "My light doesn't live to feed you. It lives because I carry it." He reached for the lantern. The shadow lunged to push him back, but Breglio held his ground. His paws clutched the iron, cold and heavy. For a moment, everything was black—no forest, no breath, only the weight of the decision. Then a spark flickered. Small, hesitant, but real.