The city of Ardentia once burned with fire, both literal and metaphorical. It was a city built on the worship of the flame—an eternal fire said to be the breath of the gods themselves. But that was long ago. Now, Ardentia was little more than a smoldering ruin, its grand halls and towering spires reduced to ashes and stone. The flame had died, and with it, the spirit of the city.
Liora, the last of the Flamekeepers, stood in the heart of the ruins, her eyes scanning the horizon where the Beacon Fires had once blazed. The wind had long since stripped the city of its warmth, and all that remained was cold, desolation. The world had been dying for years, the fires of civilization extinguished by war, famine, and an unforgiving sky. But Liora had refused to leave. She had made a promise, and she would keep it, no matter the cost.
The last flame was somewhere in this city, hidden deep within the crumbling walls. It was said to be the heart of Ardentia itself, a flame that could ignite the world once more if only it could be rekindled.
Liora pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she walked through the ruined streets. The city seemed to echo with the voices of the past—the laughter of children, the calls of merchants, the songs of the Flamekeepers as they tended the eternal fire. But there was no one left to remember those days. No one but her.
She had been raised to protect the flame, to ensure that it would never die, but even she had not known how it would end. Now, in the hollow of the city, she was its last keeper.
Her journey had taken her across mountains, through deserts, and across seas filled with the wreckage of civilizations. The flame had called to her, a distant light in the dark, guiding her back home. But even now, standing in the ashes of Ardentia, she was unsure if the flame was real—or just a memory of a time long past.
Liora reached the Great Hall, the once-magnificent structure where the flame had burned brightest. The doors were ajar, their golden hinges twisted and rusted, the great seals of the city broken. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of old wood. The great altar where the flame had once been kept was now nothing more than a charred, blackened slab.
And yet, there it was.
A faint glow, barely visible beneath the rubble, a flicker of something that should not have been. Liora's heart leapt in her chest. She moved toward it, her breath shallow with anticipation. The flame. The last flame.
She knelt beside the altar and cleared away the stone and ash, her fingers trembling. There, nestled among the ruins, was a small, flickering light. It was no larger than a candle flame, but it pulsed with a warmth that sent a shiver through her bones. It was fragile, flickering, as though it might go out at any moment.
Liora carefully cupped her hands around it, drawing it toward her chest. The warmth spread through her like a forgotten memory, a sense of purpose she hadn't realized she had lost.
She had found it. The last flame.
But as she held it, a terrible truth settled in her heart. This flame was not the same as the one that had once burned brightly in the city's heart. This flame was dying. Its light was weak, its warmth fleeting. It had been fading for years, and no matter how much she tried to nurture it, no matter how much she prayed, it could not be saved.
A voice broke through her thoughts, a whisper from the past.
"The flame is not eternal, Liora."
Liora's head snapped up. The voice was familiar, yet distant, as though it came from the very air around her. She stood, eyes searching the shadows, but there was no one.
"The flame is a reflection of the world," the voice continued, and now Liora recognized it—her teacher, the High Keeper, who had taught her everything she knew. "It burns bright when the world is full of life, but it will fade when the world fades. The flame is a mirror, not a source. It reflects the heart of the people, their hopes, their dreams, their warmth. And when that is gone, the flame dies with it."*
Liora felt her chest tighten as she understood. The flame was not the key to saving the world. It had never been. It was a symbol, a guiding light in times of darkness. But it was not meant to be eternal. The flame would die, and with it, the city of Ardentia. It was inevitable.
The question was: What would happen when it was gone?
Liora looked down at the small flame in her hands. It was so fragile, so fleeting. But even as it flickered, she could feel its warmth, its life—however brief it might be. For the first time in her life, she understood that the flame was not a burden to be carried. It was a gift, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there could be light.
She did not try to save it. Instead, she let the flame burn, its light growing dimmer with each passing moment. The fire that had once lit the entire city was now contained in her hands, small and delicate, but still burning.
And as it finally flickered out, leaving only the softest ember in her palms, Liora smiled.
For in that moment, she knew that it was not the flame that had mattered. It was the people who had once tended it, the memories they had created, the love they had shared. And even though the world had fallen to ash, those things would never be lost. They lived on in the hearts of those who had loved and cared.
Ardentia was gone, but the light it had given would remain.
Liora stood and turned away from the altar, her heart heavy but full. She was no longer a keeper of the flame. She was the keeper of memories. And that, she realized, was enough.