When fantasy reflects our deepest truths

The morning sun hung low over Edinburgh, its light weaving through the spires of the Old Town, casting long shadows on the cobblestones. Rowan sat at a café table outside a bookshop, her notebook open, a fountain pen poised above a blank page. At 30, she was a fantasy novelist, or at least she was trying to be. Her first book, Songs of the Silver Flame, was due to her publisher in six weeks, but the words were stuck, tangled in doubts and distractions. The story—a tale of a wizard named Elyrin who wielded a silver flame to warn a fractured world—was meant to be her masterpiece. But as Rowan watched the city wake, she wondered if Elyrin’s warning was for her, too, a mirror to the truths she was afraid to face.

Rowan’s days were a balancing act. By day, she worked as a librarian at the university, shelving books and helping students navigate databases. By night, she wrote, or tried to, in her tiny flat overlooking the Grassmarket. Her story was set in a world of crumbling kingdoms and warring factions, where Elyrin’s silver flame burned with truths no one wanted to hear. Rowan had conceived the idea during a sleepless night two years ago, inspired by a dream of a flame that sang, its notes carrying warnings of greed, division, and neglect. But now, as deadlines loomed, the flame felt dim, and Rowan’s own world—filled with social media noise, climate anxieties, and personal uncertainties—kept drowning it out.

She sipped her coffee, the steam rising in the cool air, and opened X on her phone. Her feed was a storm of headlines: political scandals, wildfires, protests for change. Mixed in were posts from writers she followed, sharing snippets of their work or lamenting their own blocks. One post caught her eye: a quote from a fantasy author she admired, “The best stories are mirrors, showing us who we are.” Rowan scribbled it in her notebook, underlining mirrors. Elyrin’s silver flame was her mirror, she realized, reflecting the chaos she saw around her—and within her.

The café door jingled, and an older woman sat at the next table, her silver hair catching the light. She carried a worn copy of The Lord of the Rings, its pages dog-eared. Rowan smiled, recognizing a kindred spirit. “Good book,” she said, nodding at it.

The woman’s eyes crinkled. “The best. It’s not just fantasy—it’s truth dressed up in magic. You a reader or a writer?”

“Both,” Rowan said, her voice hesitant. “Trying to write, anyway. Fantasy. But it’s… hard to make it matter.”

The woman leaned forward. “Fantasy always matters. It’s how we face the big stuff—war, loss, hope—without breaking. What’s your story about?”

Rowan hesitated, then told her about Elyrin, the wizard who sang warnings through a silver flame, trying to save a world too stubborn to listen. “It’s about truth,” she said. “How we ignore it until it’s too late.”

The woman nodded, her gaze sharp. “Sounds like today. We’ve got plenty of warnings—scientists, activists, artists. But we’re still not listening.” She tapped her book. “Tolkien knew it. You do too. Keep writing.”

The words stayed with Rowan as she walked to the library, her notebook tucked in her bag. The university was quiet, students still trickling in for morning classes. She shelved books, her hands moving automatically, but her mind was with Elyrin. In her story, the wizard faced a council of lords, each one dismissing his flame’s song as myth. Rowan saw parallels in her world—politicians dodging climate reports, corporations prioritizing profit, people scrolling past truths on their screens. She pulled out her notebook and wrote: The silver flame sings, but the world turns away.

At lunch, Rowan sat in the library’s courtyard, the Edinburgh skyline rising like a storybook backdrop. She opened her laptop, determined to write, but the blank page mocked her. She thought of her life—single, living paycheck to paycheck, her parents back in Glasgow wondering when she’d “settle down.” She’d chosen writing over a stable career, a choice that felt brave at 25 but reckless at 30. The silver flame in her story was Elyrin’s courage, but it was also hers, burning through her doubts.

Her coworker, Ailsa, joined her, a sandwich in hand. “Still battling that book?” she asked, her tone teasing but kind.

Rowan sighed. “It’s like the story knows what I want to say, but I’m too scared to say it.”

Ailsa tilted her head. “Scared of what? That it won’t be perfect? Or that it’ll be too real?”

The question hit hard. Rowan thought of Elyrin, standing alone, his flame exposing truths that made people flinch. She was scared of that too—of writing something so raw it might unsettle her, or her readers. But Ailsa’s words echoed the woman at the café: Keep writing. She opened her notebook again and wrote: The flame doesn’t ask permission. It burns because it must.

The afternoon passed in a blur of library tasks—checking out books, answering emails, guiding a student to a rare manuscript. But Rowan’s mind was alive, weaving Elyrin’s world with her own. She saw the council of lords as modern gatekeepers—CEOs, politicians, even her own inner critic—dismissing the flame’s song. She jotted a scene: Elyrin standing in a ruined city, his voice breaking as he sang of unity, of healing, of truths too urgent to ignore.

After work, Rowan walked to the Grassmarket, where street musicians played and tourists snapped photos. She sat on a bench, watching a violinist coax aching notes from her strings. The music felt like Elyrin’s flame, raw and undeniable. Rowan opened X again, this time posting a line from her notebook: “The silver flame sings truths we’re afraid to hear. What’s yours?” Comments trickled in—readers sharing their fears, their hopes, their own flames. One wrote, “Your words make me want to listen.” Rowan’s chest warmed. The story wasn’t just hers anymore.

At home, her flat was a mess of books and coffee mugs, but it felt like a sanctuary. She lit a candle—its flicker a small echo of the silver flame—and opened her laptop. The words came slowly at first, then faster. She wrote of Elyrin’s final stand, his flame blazing across a darkened sky, singing of a world that could still be saved. She wrote of her own world, too—its divisions, its beauty, its fragile hope. The silver flame was climate scientists pleading for action, activists marching in the streets, artists like her daring to speak.

By midnight, Rowan had three new chapters, rough but alive. She didn’t stop to edit; she let the flame burn. When she finally slept, she dreamed of Elyrin, his silver light cutting through a storm, his voice steady. She woke at dawn, the city quiet, and felt different—stronger, like the wizard she’d created.

The next day, Rowan went to the café again, her laptop under her arm. The silver-haired woman was there, reading The Hobbit now. She looked up, smiling. “Did you write?”

Rowan nodded. “I did. It’s not done, but it’s real.”

The woman’s eyes twinkled. “That’s all it needs to be. Keep singing your flame.”

Rowan spent the morning writing, the café’s hum a backdrop to Elyrin’s world. She wove in modern echoes—social media as a chorus of voices, some true, some false; technology as both savior and curse; love as a fragile thread holding people together. Her thesis wasn’t just fantasy; it was a warning, a mirror, a call to listen before it was too late.

At the library, Ailsa noticed the change. “You’re glowing,” she said. “Like you’ve got a secret.”

Rowan laughed. “Not a secret. Just a story.”

That evening, Rowan joined a writers’ meetup at a pub, a group she’d avoided for months, afraid her block would expose her as a fraud. She read a passage from Songs of the Silver Flame, her voice shaky but clear. The group listened, their eyes wide, and when she finished, they clapped. A poet named Finn leaned forward. “That’s powerful,” he said. “It’s like you’re holding up a mirror to all of us.”

Rowan smiled, her heart full. She wasn’t Elyrin, but she was learning to sing her own flame, to speak truths without fear. The world was still messy—her X feed still buzzed with chaos, her parents still asked when she’d “settle”—but she felt less alone in it. The silver flame was hers, and it was enough.

The next morning, Rowan walked to work, the Edinburgh sky bright and endless. She carried her notebook, its pages filled with Elyrin’s warnings and her own hopes. The story wasn’t finished, but it was breathing, and so was she. The silver flame burned on, a reminder that fantasy wasn’t escape—it was truth, dressed in light, singing to anyone who would listen.