Chapter 1: The Lantern's Last Light
Cyrus was not what anyone would call a hero. He lived quietly at the foothills of Mountain Village, an apprentice lantern-keeper in a town where clouds braided the houses every dusk and the old legends still clung to every stone. Most days, his job was simple: polish the glass panes at the Lantern’s base, refill oil from the ancient canisters, and chase away the curious marmots who liked to nap on the supply ropes. But tonight, the air thrummed with something heavier than mere fog.
The Harvest Festival was beginning. Soon, laughter and song would tumble from the village square, and plates would overflow with honeyed roots and cloudberry jam. But even as the villagers weaved ribbons through wheat stalks and kids rehearsed their lantern-dances, Cyrus watched the tallest summit, where the Ancient Lantern stood sentinel at the edge of the world.
Usually, the Lantern blazed: a woven tower of silver and oak, crowned by a flame that held night at bay for miles. Its light had kept away the legendary Living Shadow—a thing of hunger and cold—from the village for generations. It was Cyrus’s secret pride to tend its flame, even if he always felt too small for the job.
But tonight, something was wrong. As the sun slipped into a sea of cloud, the Lantern faltered. The familiar radiance—steady as heartbeat—began to sputter. Instead of burning gold, it coughed up sickly, wavering sparks that trembled uncertainly against the encroaching dusk.
Cyrus’s hands shook as he scrubbed the lantern glass. He’d checked the oil thrice, changed the wicks, whispered every poem apprentice-keepers learned. Still, further down the mountain, he heard old Mrs. Bale mutter, "Lantern’s dying. Mark my words, tonight’s not like others."
He was so intent on wiping away a persistent smudge that he almost missed the angry clack of tiny feet behind him.
“Cyrus!”
He spun to find Ant—slight, wiry, with a shock of dark hair as wild as a thundercloud—already bouncing with impatience. “You’re missing the food stalls again. Bad enough you’re the quietest kid at the festival. Now you’re muttering to lamps?”
Cyrus gave a weak smile, but Ant’s eyes darted past him to the Lantern. “Looks… weird, doesn’t it?” Ant squinted. “Is it supposed to flicker like that? Because if it’s not, you should say something. I mean, they could ask Old Wren to fix it. Or at least bring the festival up here and roast marshroot in the light. Hey, do you think if it goes out a ghost’ll—”
“Ant,” Cyrus tried, “I checked everything. It’s just—”
He stopped. Beyond the lantern’s base, a flicker moved, not like fire. Something slid through the low-lying mist: a slender shadow, limbs glinting with silver, darting with quick, secret purpose between rocks and abandoned tools.
Ant’s breath caught. “Did you see—”
Cyrus nodded. “Not just fog.”
“They say Festival night draws phantoms up the slopes.”
Before they could move, a whistling laugh rang out—a ringing, oddly musical sound that bounced along the stones. From behind a stack of wood, a figure tumbled into view, wrapped in a ragged green cloak and wearing a crown of clock-gears and pinecone needles.
“You two look like you’ve seen a banshee,” the newcomer said, grinning wide. It was Elf—the infamous wanderer. Her boots were muddied, her hair tangled with starlight, and her pockets bulged with half-built gadgets and puzzle cubes. Legend had it she could unravel a lock with a bent nail, and tell three jokes before sunrise on a dare. “Or a marmot parade. Or, wait—did Ant finally try and dance?”
Ant blushed a vibrant shade. “Did you just sneak up here for festival pastries, Elf? Or is something actually happening?”
Elf cocked her head. Her gaze turned serious, which was rare and unsettling. “The Lantern’s light isn’t right. And there’s something else—” she pointed, and the three watched as an unnatural darkness—thick, inky, swirling—crawled up the Lantern’s silver spine, despite the flame’s best effort.
Cyrus shuddered. A heavy hush swept the summit. Then—
The darkness pooled, drawing itself upright, stretching into a form half-glimpsed: not flesh or fog, but absence, pressed together until it grew eyes that shimmered with empty hunger. A voice slithered across the rocks, colder than frostbite, older than the mountain.
“Foolish light-keepers. Your flame flickers. Tonight, I rise again.”
Ant tried to speak, words stuck to his tongue.
The figure—the Living Shadow—drifted closer. Its form rippled: sometimes thin as a child, sometimes massive, always just out of focus.
“The Lantern’s flame is broken,” it sighed, voice like stones weeping in rain. “Let the night swallow these slopes. Let oblivion drown your festival songs. Unless—”
Cyrus straightened as much as his wobbly knees allowed. He wished for his master’s wisdom, his father’s calm, even just a better plan than trembling in the mist. But he found his voice. “What do you want?”
The Shadow leaned close, its facelessness somehow smirking. “The Heart-flame—lost in the mountain’s forbidden peak. Only with it can your beacon survive.”
Elf stepped forward, defiant. “You expect us to just wander into a place no one’s ever returned from? Riddles and banshee tales—”
“Far above," the Shadow intoned, "lies a cave that guards the flame. Only courage and wit can win its trials. Bring me the Heart-flame before the moon’s zenith—or let the Lantern die, and darkness reign forever.”
With a hungry whirl, the Living Shadow vanished, its laughter etching itself into the wind, leaving behind not merely threat, but a cold certainty. Darkness thickened around their feet, creeping in with intent.
Motivated more by desperation than bravery, Cyrus clenched his fists. “If I don’t try… the Lantern falls.”
Ant’s bravado reappeared, albeit shakier. "You’re not going alone. You need someone who can run faster than haunted shadows, and that’s me. I’m not letting the long-nosed fog get you first."
Elf shrugged, a twinkle returning. “If you’re off to chase legends, you’ll need brains. And, let’s be honest, comic relief.”
Down in the valley, the festival stilled as villagers turned fearful faces toward the dim summit. In that moment, Cyrus, Ant, and Elf were no longer just a curious apprentice, a loyal friend, and a mischievous outcast. They were the only hope Mountain Village had to see another dawn.
Without another word, the three set off up the steepening path, their lanterns flickering, hearts storming. Above, the Lantern gasped for light, while far ahead, ancient riddles and waking fears waited amid the swirling, living mist.