The Lantern of Solara

Twelve-year-old Cael had never seen the sun.

In the underground city of Brimhold, built in the hollow caverns beneath the shattered surface of the earth, light was rationed like bread. The nobles had golden glowglobes in every room. The rest—orphans like Cael—got flickers from broken lanterns and firestone scraps.

He had always assumed magic was a myth—something nobles whispered about to make themselves feel important. That was until the night he found the Lantern.

It happened during his shift in the Lower Cistern, the oldest part of Brimhold. He was scrubbing mineral rot from the pipes when his brush slipped and struck a loose stone in the wall. With a hollow clunk, the rock tumbled inward, revealing a tunnel long buried.

Curious, Cael squeezed inside.

The tunnel curved downward, smooth and ancient. At the end was a small chamber, lit by a single floating flame—cool blue, suspended mid-air. Beneath it sat a lantern unlike any he’d seen: made of obsidian and bronze, with etchings like the constellations of old Earth.

As soon as his fingers touched it, the flame shot into the lantern. A pulse of warmth surged through his chest.

Cael stumbled back—but the darkness around him had changed.

He could see more than he ever had. Not just the chamber, but the threads of energy woven through the stone walls, the hum of something old and powerful beneath his feet. He wasn’t just seeing with his eyes.

The lantern had awakened something.

He hid it in his satchel and ran.

That night, the lantern spoke.

Not in words, but in dreams. He saw cities above ground, gleaming under sunlight. He saw towers where people bent fire, ice, wind with their hands. He saw a council cloaked in silver, sealing something monstrous beneath the earth.

And he saw himself—holding the lantern, surrounded by both fire and shadow.

When he awoke, his room was glowing faintly. The lantern pulsed like a heartbeat.

Word of the tunnel spread quickly. Within two days, the Lantern Guard—the nobles' enforcers—sealed the entire sector. But Cael had already taken what they feared.

A girl named Mira noticed the change in him. She was quick-witted and quicker with a blade, another orphan with too much brain to be ignored forever.

“You’ve found something, haven’t you?” she asked one morning, eyes narrowing.

Cael hesitated, then showed her.

Instead of running, Mira whispered, “That’s Solara’s Flame.”

He blinked. “What?”

She pulled a crumpled paper from her boot—an old myth. It spoke of a lantern forged in the dawn of magic, holding the last living light of the sun. It had been lost when the Surface fell, when humans retreated underground to escape the Blight that consumed the world above.

“That flame,” she said, “isn’t just light. It’s freedom. They buried it because it could break the control the nobles have. Light is power down here—and they hoard it.”

They didn’t have long.

The Guard was already watching the orphans closely. And when Cael accidentally lit a dead corridor by walking through it, the hunt began.

Mira had a plan. A mad one.

“We get to the Upper Ring,” she said. “To the Tower of Embers. That’s where they keep the Seals—the ones that hold magic down. You bring the lantern close enough, the seal breaks, magic returns.”

Cael had no better idea. And deep down, he felt it too—the lantern pulling him forward.

The journey took days through tunnels forgotten by most. They crossed pipes filled with sleeping flamebeasts, ducked patrols, and climbed through stone chimneys slick with steam. All the while, the lantern grew brighter—and so did Cael.

He could feel when danger approached. He could see people’s intentions in faint glimmers around their faces. And when Mira slipped during a climb, he reached out—and caught her mid-air, floating for just a breath before gravity returned.

They made it to the Tower of Embers on the seventh night.

The upper city gleamed like stars hoarded in glass jars. Lanterns in every home. Roads paved with molten stone.

But beneath the beauty was silence. A choking stillness.

“This is where magic died,” Mira whispered.

At the tower’s peak, the Seal pulsed—an orb of crystal suspended in chains of light. Guards waited. Too many.

Cael stepped forward.

And the lantern burned.

The blue flame exploded, not in fire, but in light that sang. It washed over the guards, over Mira, over the tower itself. The Seal cracked—not violently, but like a sunrise breaks the night.

And magic returned.

The chains fell. The guards staggered, dazed. The tower walls shimmered with ancient runes as long-sleeping spells woke once more.

Cael collapsed.

When he woke, he was in a garden. A real one, with sun overhead—filtered through ancient glass, but real enough to feel.

The Council had been watching, waiting for the Lantern to choose.

Mira sat beside him, smiling.

“You broke the seal,” she said. “The world remembers magic now.”

Cael looked down at his hands. Light danced between his fingers.

Maybe one day, he’d see the real sun. For now, he had brought its memory back to the dark.