Megrin and the Three Flames of the Night

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Megrin's workshop smelled of soot and rosemary. The flame medallion on his chest vibrated as if someone had invisibly plucked at it. Outside, night stretched a clear sheet over the rooftops, and the villagers extinguished their lights early—ever since the incident with the dog of salt, they'd avoided any sign in the sky. Megrin extinguished the candles, pulled her hood lower, and stepped outside. Above the field, three flames stood free in the air: one pale gold, one blue like cold iron, one dark red like embers. No winds, no wicks, only pure signs. He knew the old line found in the cracks of the world: "Know what you are. Give what you carry. Let go of what binds you." "The order matters," Megrin murmured. "Or the flame will go out." He felt his medallion grow cooler—like a heart losing its rhythm. On the hill by the Border Wood, the flames formed a triangle. He stood in the center, his hands over the carpet of night. The blue flame descended first, cutting a circle of frost into the grass and growing into a shape that was his own outline—only more barren, emptier, with eyes of mirrored glass. "Who speaks for you?" the outline asked. Megrin saw the village ahead: shutters closing when he comes. Children whispering behind fences. He breathed. "I am Megrin, Keeper of Balance. I heal where fear chokes the roots. I am not its enemy, nor its friend. I am the space between." The blue figure nodded, crumbling to sparks. The medallion grew warm again. First test: Know what you are. Passed. The golden flame floated closer, and with it the sound of many footsteps. Villagers stepped out of nowhere, but they didn't see him. A child held its mother's hand, coughing dryly. The father carried a bundle of wood, his shoulders heavy as winter. The flame flickered in Megrin's direction—a question without words. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small jar containing a remnant of summer: dried blossoms sealed with midnight resin. This was his emergency supply, his protection on evil nights. He opened the jar. Warmth crept over his fingers, the cold in the locket increased. "Take it," he said, and sprinkled the summer into the flame. The gold melted with the scent of the blossoms, and for a breath, the hill was a harvest field. The child no longer coughed; the vision dissolved, leaving only silence. The locket glowed dimly—a loss he had consciously chosen. Second test: Give what you bear. Passed. The red flame remained. Its light was deeper, as if it came from far below, from the earth. It pulsed to the rhythm of his heartpiece and wrapped itself around his locket like a hand. If you touch me wrong, you will go out, she whispered without a sound. Megrin knelt. "Final rule," he said, "leave what binds you." He undid the chain. The locket tasted of ash on the tongue of the night.