Megrin and the Medallion of the Flame

More about Megrin and the Medallion of the Flame

The rain pelted heavily on the wooden roof beams as Megrin stood in his workshop among the glowing candles. The small green mage, whose eyes shone brighter than any fire, held his hands over a glass jar containing sparkling red powder. A single drop of his breath was enough for the grains to glow like tiny stars. A healing smoke rose and settled over the medallion on his chest—the heart of the flame. For centuries, it had been his duty to preserve the flame. They maintained the balance between shadow and light, between life and fate. But the more he healed the people of the valleys, the more their fear grew. His workshop, filled with skulls, jars, and strange symbols, seemed a place of terror to them. They called him a sorcerer, a demon, a curse-bringer. Few saw him as the guardian he was. It was on one of these nights that a soft knock sounded at his door. Megrin pricked up his ears and immediately knew: it was no ordinary visitor. When he opened it, a boy stood there, soaked by the storm, a parchment in his hands. His voice trembled as he spoke: "Lord Megrin, the villagers are plotting to bind you. They want to destroy the medallion. But without you... without you, the curse will return." Megrin let the boy in. His long fingers reached for the parchment. It revealed an ancient seal, broken, one that had once held a spell over a nameless shadow. The spell had weakened. And only the Heart of Flame could renew it. The magician was silent for a long time, his gaze wandering to the skulls on the shelf, whose candle flames still trembled. "Sometimes," he murmured, "one must bear the fears of men as one carries the last vestments of a cloak. They don't understand what they fear. But the shadow understands. It feeds on their fear." The boy looked at him, his eyes wide open. "Then it has helped us." That night, Megrin left his workshop for the first time in many years. His red cloak fluttered in the storm, the medallion glowing against his chest as he strode down the path into the valley. Thunder echoed behind him, and before him lay the village, its inhabitants awaiting him—some with torches of rage, some with looks of hope. When the shadow came, it was larger than any night, a swirl of black mist, in the voices of the lost. The villagers shrank back. Only Megrin stepped forward, his finger extended, the medallion sparkling like a rising sun. "I am not your daemon," he cried, "I am your keeper!" With a jerk, he ripped the locket from his chest, raised it into the storm, and the flame within burst forth—a fire that didn't burn, but healed. The shadow screamed, writhed, and with a final gasp, it dissolved into smoke, blown by the wind. Silence followed. The locket gleamed only faintly, quickly extinguished.