Breglio and the Shadow No One Cast

Goblin-like Creature in Mystical Forest with Lantern
58
3
  • Michael Wischniewski's avatar Artist
    Michael Wi...
  • Prompt
    Read prompt
  • DDG Model
    FluX
  • Access
    Public
  • Created
    1d ago
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More about Breglio and the Shadow No One Cast

In the shimmering wind of the early evening, the moor lay like an open eye. Veils of mist crept over the soft grasses, as if trying to hide something that had been seen for too long. Breglio trudged barefoot through the damp web of moss and mold, his soot-smeared lantern swaying gently in the twilight. The trail had led him this far—a series of pale footprints, barely visible, as if they hadn't been trodden but thought. And no one cast a shadow. "That's not right," Breglio murmured. In this world, everything, even a will-o'-the-wisp, echoed in the light. But what haunted him—or lured him—here was invisible to sun, moon, and flame. He paused at the edge of an old peat well. The well was dry, but from its bottom wafted a cold breeze that tasted of oblivion. Breglio knelt down and lit a second flame—a small silver candle that responded only to the invisible. In the faint glow, he saw it: the shadow. Not his. Or that of any other being. It was an outline of pure absence, a crack in the light that moved even though no one cast it. The shadow flickered, twitched—and began to speak. Not with words, but with memories Breglio had never made. He saw himself, in a room of yellowed pages, at a table with a clock whose hands ran backward. He heard a voice that was his, but older. And then: "You've forgotten me," the shadow said. Breglio held the lantern tighter. "I never knew you." "That's precisely why." The shadow wriggled out of the circle of light and slipped away, silently, but not without a trace. Where it touched the moor, the grass withered for a few seconds. Breglio followed it, deeper into the realm of fog. Trees stood here like forgotten thoughts—cropped, lichen-covered, silent. And amidst their trunks: a gateway of roots, visible only when the shadow slipped through. Breglio stepped through it—and found himself in a space of reversal. Everything was backward: drops fell from below upwards, voices sounded at the mouth. And there stood the shadow, with its form that was not one, at a table of molten glass. "You are the part of me I did not become," said Breglio. "No," answered the shadow. "I am the part you left out to be what you are." Then it held out its hand—and Breglio placed his in it. A tremor ran through him, as if a forgotten chapter were rewriting itself. And suddenly he knew: the shadow was not an enemy. It was a question that had never been asked. When Breglio returned, it was night. But the moon cast its shadow—and beside it, barely visible, fell a second. Pale. Narrow. And completely silent.


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