The Third Casket of Order The Sound of the Hidden Flame

More about The Third Casket of Order The Sound of the Hidden Flame

The hall was no place for footsteps. The stone beneath Halven's feet seemed to listen, not to support him. Each step seemed to interrupt something that had begun long before his arrival. He went nonetheless—straight ahead, between pillars that rose from the ground like singed ribs, to the stone table that was more altar than furniture. In his hand: a leather pouch, sealed with symbols that even shadows avoided. Inside: the third casket of order. He had been warned. The casket could only be opened in a place where no echo lingered. No wind, no desire, no memory. And so he had chosen this hall—deep beneath the overgrown monastery of Erenn, where even names lost their language. The casket lay still in his hand. Black as charred wood, crisscrossed by fine cracks, in whose crevices light glowed. Not bright—more like the last glow in the embers of a dream. There was no writing on the lid, no seal—just a symbol: a flame pierced by a line, as if it wanted to remain silent. No lock, no mechanism. Only a readiness to be opened. He set it on the cold plate. The silence seemed to grow thicker. Then he broke the seal. A sound ripped through the room—not like a bang, but like the opposite of sound. It was a withdrawal, a bursting of silence so deep that even Halven's breath no longer echoed. Sounds died before they were born. And in that soundlessness, something rose. A flame. It was small, barely a hand's breadth high, but its light was heavy. It burned not outward, but inward—an inner blaze of memory and silence. The flame moved not like fire, but like something the fire had only dreamed. Its edge was sharp as glass, its core the color of old bones. Halven approached. Words began to flicker in his mind, thoughts he had never spoken: the promise he had broken. The name he withheld. The wish he found too sordid to dream. And then he heard it—the sound of the flame. Not a sound, but a vibration that pierced his bones. Deeper than speech. Nearer than thought. The flame stirred. Its light thickened, forming contours. Faces appeared within it—fleeting images of people Halven had once known. Or almost knew. Or might have known, if he had said otherwise. Something truer. Something later. He wanted to step back. But the box had already chosen him. From the flame, a silvery spark broke free—slowly, trembling—and sank to his chest. Something inside him broke. Not pain. Not a cry. Just a loss. A thought was gone. He couldn't say which one. Only that an emptiness grew within him. Like the echo of a song never sung. His hands trembled. But not with fear. With recognition. The flame began to move faster. Shadows danced on the walls, though no light flickered. And then—suddenly—it spoke. Not with voice. But with deprivation. A sound formed, audible only inside, like a name misspelled.