The Flame of Lornithal

By Rebecca Trifari

The moon hung low over Bramblewood, casting silvery light across dew-laced branches. It was quiet. Too quiet.

A hush had settled like a held breath, as if the forest itself was listening. Even the usual nighttime chorus of crickets had fallen silent, replaced by a stillness that pressed against Miriel’s senses. Something was coming. Or perhaps, something had already arrived.

Miriel paused on the wooded trail, hand resting lightly on Matteo’s thick neck. The Saint Bernard sniffed the air, then gave a soft whuff.

“Yes, I feel it, too,” Miriel murmured, adjusting the leather satchel on her hip. Her gray eyes glinted beneath the hood of her knitted shawl, one she’d spun from starlight thread back in the time-lost world she once called home.

Bramblewood had always been twitchy. Trees whispered in languages only dreamers could understand, and mushrooms grew in constellations. But tonight, the quiet wasn’t just quiet. It was watchful.

Miriel knelt beside a patch of frost-glittering fungi. Her fingers brushed the cap of a puffball. It blinked. She blinked back.

“Aha,” she whispered, reaching into her bag and pulling out a tiny glass vial that smelled faintly of mint and old parchment. She sprinkled a few drops at the base of the mushroom. It relaxed, its little face unfolding like a morning bloom.

“Now, what have you seen, little one?”

The puffball wobbled, then projected a faint image into the air: a flickering flame, golden and ancient, dancing atop a pedestal carved with runes. Around it circled shadows, long and spindly. Unnatural. The image winked out.

Miriel stood, brushing her hands. “The Flame of Lornithal. So the rumors were true.”

Matteo groaned. He hated flames. They usually meant trouble. Especially magic ones.

“Come on, sweet boy,” Miriel said, patting his shoulder. “If someone’s trying to steal that flame, we’ve got a problem.”

They arrived at the clearing just before midnight.

The pedestal stood at the center of a stone ring, moss creeping up its base. On top of it blazed the Flame of Lornithal, one that never flickered, never dimmed. It had burned for five centuries, warding off the dark creatures of the Hollow Vale.

But tonight, it was shrinking.

Miriel gasped. “Oh, not on my watch.”

She reached into her bag again and drew out her knitting needles. They shimmered faintly, forged from silver birch and dragonbone. She began to knit, her hands moving faster than most could follow. Matteo stood at her side like a furry mountain.

From the air around her, threads of light gathered, weaving into a net of warmth and memory. She murmured ancient syllables under her breath, words she’d learned in a time that didn’t belong to this world.

“Keep back!” she shouted suddenly, spinning to face the trees.

Three figures emerged from the shadows, gaunt, masked, and wrapped in cloaks made of fog. Wraithbinders.

“We don’t want to fight, old one,” the lead wraith hissed. “Just let the flame go out. The world must be remade.”

Miriel snorted. “You children always think remaking the world means burning it first. That’s lazy, dear.”

She jabbed her knitting needles into the ground. The net she’d woven sprang forward, entangling the lead wraith in a glowing lattice of memory. It shrieked and writhed, smoke pouring from its mask.

The other two lunged, but Matteo barreled into them, knocking one aside with a heavy shoulder and planting his massive paws on the other’s chest. Drool dripped close to its face.

The flame flickered again.

“No time,” Miriel muttered. She tore a length of thread from her net and tied it into a loop. Holding it up to the flame, she whispered, “Come home.”

The flame bent toward her hand, hesitating, as if reluctant to leave its post.

“I know,” she said softly. “You’ve guarded this place for long. But the world changes, and it needs you in a new way.”

The flame leapt into her loop of thread and vanished.

The moment it did, the pedestal cracked.

The wraiths screamed, one last echoing wail, as the clearing began to collapse in on itself, stone sinking into nothing.

Miriel turned, and the flame reappeared, cradled in her hands. “Run, Matteo!”

Back at her cottage, Miriel placed the flame inside a lantern of her own design, knitted from wire, memory, and bits of crystal she’d mined from a cave in the Forgotten Reach.

Matteo slumped in his corner, curled around his favorite stuffed owl, while she stirred a pot of stew over her woodstove.

“So,” she said, “we saved the world. Again.”

Matteo let out a long sigh and drooled on his owl.

She ladled out a bowl for herself, then one for him. She added a knitted napkin to the tray and sat down by the hearth.

But the silence returned, softer now, entwined with something else. That ache. That ever-present hum inside her chest.

She reached into the old drawer beneath her tea shelf and pulled out a silver coin engraved with a crescent moon. It pulsed faintly in her hand.

That was her tie to the world she’d once saved, the last gift they’d pressed into her palm before she left it behind. A token not for return, but for when she was ready. For when she was done helping.

Matteo whined softly, and her eyes found his.

She set the coin down.

For now.

Later that night, as the wind brushed gently against her cottage windows, Miriel sat knitting by the fire. The Flame of Lornithal blazed brightly on the mantle, casting shadows that danced like old friends.

The world wasn’t done needing her.

And she wasn’t done helping.

But deep in her heart, tucked between stitches and stories, was a silent hope, that one day, the portal would reopen, and she’d find herself once more where time moved differently, where skies glowed green, and where, just maybe, she could finally rest.

Until then, she would watch. And wait.

And knit threads of magic into the fabric of the world.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rebecca Trifari is a 20-year-old student from Rome, Italy, majoring in English. She graduated from an international high school in Rome and aspires to become a published author. Passionate about storytelling, Rebecca has a strong interest in the thriller genre but is eager to explore various literary styles to craft compelling and original works of fiction.

---

Instagram | Other Social