The Lantern Keeper of Isenfall

The Lantern Keeper of Isenfall

In the frost-wrapped village of Isenfall, where twilight lingered longer than dawn, the people spoke in hushed tones about the Lantern Keeper. His tower rose crookedly from the cliffs, like a finger pointing to the stars — forever lit, never visited.

The Keeper had no name. Or if he did, it had long since burned away with the years. He was old, with eyes the color of candle ash, and hands that trembled like dying flames. But each night, as darkness claimed the land, his lantern would ignite — casting a golden shield over Isenfall, keeping away the Hollow.

The Hollow were whispers given teeth. They lived in the forests and crept along shadows, feeding on warmth, memory, and light. Every child knew the rules: Stay inside after dusk. Never speak to shadows. Never, ever go near the cliffs.

But Toma, a flame-hearted girl of twelve winters, didn’t believe in rules.

She had seen the Hollow once, or what she thought was one — a hunched silhouette outside her window, dissolving just as the Keeper’s lantern flared. Her father had pulled her back, whispered, “We don’t talk about them,” and that was the end of it.

Except it wasn’t.

Toma’s mother had disappeared last winter, during a storm. Some said she got lost in the snow. Others whispered she had walked into the Hollow’s arms. Toma didn’t believe either. Her mother wouldn’t leave her.

She needed answers. And answers lived in the tower on the cliffs.

On the eve of the Winter Solstice, when the night stretched longest, Toma wrapped herself in three scarves, tucked a coal in her coat for warmth, and crept from her house like a shadow with purpose. She climbed the icy path to the tower, heart pounding louder than her footsteps.

The tower door was already ajar.

Inside, the air hummed with warmth and something older — a scent of fire and memory. The Lantern Keeper sat hunched by the hearth, feeding it pieces of parchment that vanished into hungry flame.

“I knew you’d come,” he rasped, without turning.

Toma stiffened. “How?”

“Children are curious. Especially the ones born of light and fire.”

He turned, and for a moment, she saw something beneath the age — eyes that had once seen galaxies, hands that had shaped stars.

“I want to know about the Hollow,” she demanded.

His smile was sad. “You think knowledge is a sword. But it’s more often a wound.”

“I’m not afraid.”

He studied her. “No. You’re not. That’s the trouble.”

He stood, walked to the great lantern on the balcony. It was no ordinary flame — it pulsed, alive, tethered to the cliff by strands of golden thread, each thread connected to a soul in Isenfall.

“This light,” he said, “is not fire. It’s memory. Hope. It’s the stories people tell themselves to survive the dark.”

Toma swallowed. “Then why do the Hollow come?”

“Because people forget,” he said quietly. “They forget joy, warmth, names of those they’ve lost. The Hollow feed on forgetting. They want a world where nothing remains.”

She stepped closer. “My mother… she disappeared. Did the Hollow take her?”

“No.” His voice was barely a breath. “She gave herself… to keep the lantern burning.”

Toma’s heart cracked. “She was part of the light?”

He nodded. “And now the flame is dying. I’ve kept it alive with memories, old pages, names. But the world forgets faster now. Soon… nothing will remain.”

She looked at the lantern, its light flickering like a breath about to end.

“What if someone remembered everything?” she whispered. “What if they became the lantern?”

The Keeper turned to her sharply. “That path is sacrifice. You’d become story, not self. You’d be forgotten… even by those you saved.”

Toma looked to the village, already shivering beneath a dying glow.

“I’d rather be a story,” she said, “than let everyone else's end.”

By morning, the cliffs were quiet.

The tower door swung gently in the wind.

And from its balcony, a new flame blazed — taller, brighter, stronger than ever before. The villagers stared in awe, stepping out into a dawn that didn’t retreat.

No one remembered the old Keeper anymore.

They spoke only of Toma, the girl who vanished in the snow. Some said she was taken. Others said she ran away.

But at night, when the Hollow slithered and shadows pressed in, the lantern flared — and in its golden light, a whisper echoed on the wind:

“Remember me. Remember us all.”