The smoke that rose beyond the hills came from a city called Dareth, once a place of trade and learning, now consumed by fear. The temples had turned into fortresses, the markets into battlegrounds of belief. Each man trusted only the voice that echoed his own, and silence had become safer than truth.
When Lori and Amara reached the city gates, the guards watched them warily. Their armor was dull, their eyes hollow. "Travelers?" one asked.
"Seekers," Lori replied gently.
"Seekers of what?"
"Light," he said simply.
The guard frowned. "There's little of that here."
They were allowed inside, but the city air was thick with tension. Posters covered the walls — symbols of the temple warning citizens against "false prophets and wandering deceivers." Lori's likeness had already spread ahead of him.
Amara lowered her hood. "They know you've come."
Lori's gaze wandered over the frightened faces that passed them by. "Then perhaps they're ready."
They found lodging in an old inn at the edge of the market. That night, Amara watched from the window as soldiers patrolled the streets, their torches flickering like restless ghosts.
"Everywhere we go, fear follows us," she whispered.
"It follows itself," Lori said quietly. "We only walk its path until it sees its reflection."
Amara turned to him, her voice trembling. "And when it does?"
"It will break — or burn."
The next morning, the two walked through the heart of Dareth. Poverty and sickness haunted the alleys. The smell of smoke and sickness mingled with the cries of beggars. Lori knelt beside a child coughing by a well, her mother watching helplessly. He placed his hand over the child's chest.
A soft glow spread, gentle and clean, and the coughing stopped. The mother fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. "Bless you, my lord! The Light be praised!"
Lori's voice was calm but firm. "Don't praise me. Praise the goodness that still lives in you."
Yet word spread quickly. By nightfall, hundreds gathered near the well — the sick, the hopeless, the forgotten. They brought the dying and the broken, calling him the "Radiant One." And for each who came, Lori gave a spark of healing — a touch, a word, a look — until the air shimmered faintly with warmth.
Amara watched in awe, but also in fear. His light shone brighter than ever — and she could see how much it cost him. Each miracle dimmed him further. His steps grew weaker, his eyes more distant.
"Lori, you can't keep doing this," she pleaded. "You're giving too much."
He smiled faintly. "What is light for, if not to give?"
By the third day, the temple priests could no longer ignore what was happening. The High Priest of Dareth, a man named Eryon, ordered Lori's arrest. Soldiers stormed the market square, scattering the crowds.
Lori did not resist. He simply said to Amara, "Stay close, but do not fear."
They were dragged before the great temple — a towering structure of stone and firelight. The High Priest sat on his throne, his robes shining with gold.
"Who are you," Eryon demanded, "to heal the sick without the temple's blessing? To preach without the council's word?"
Lori stood calmly. "I am no one. Only a reminder of what you have forgotten."
Eryon's voice rose. "You claim power beyond men! You threaten the order that holds this city together!"
"I claim nothing," Lori said softly. "And the order you defend was built to hide what you fear most — that the divine is not yours to control."
A murmur swept through the court. The priests shifted uneasily. Eryon's face darkened. "Blasphemy," he hissed. "You spread false light to lead men astray. You will be judged at dawn."
Amara cried out, "You call yourselves men of faith, yet you imprison the very proof of it!"
The guards silenced her, dragging Lori away.
That night, in the cold stone cell beneath the temple, Amara found a way to see him. He sat in stillness, his light faint but steady.
"You shouldn't have come," he said softly.
"I couldn't let them take you alone."
He smiled faintly. "You've always walked beside me. Even now."
Tears filled her eyes. "They'll kill you."
"Only what can die," he answered. "Not what I am."
"What are you, Lori?" she whispered.
He looked at her, and for the first time, his eyes glowed brighter than ever before — filled not with fire, but peace. "I am the spark that lives in all things. I am what the world once called hope."
Amara trembled. "Then why do they hate you?"
"Because it is easier to worship light than to become it."
Outside, thunder rolled. The city trembled as an unnatural storm gathered above. People huddled in their homes, whispering prayers, while in the temple, Eryon prepared the judgment pyre.
By dawn, crowds filled the square. Lori was brought forth, hands bound, yet his expression serene. Amara pushed through the crowd, crying his name.
The High Priest raised his staff. "By the law of the temple, the false light shall be extinguished!"
But as the first flame touched the wood beneath him, a burst of radiance erupted — blinding, pure, and vast. The crowd fell to their knees as light swept through every corner of the city, dissolving shadow, silencing fear.
When it faded, the pyre stood untouched. Lori was gone.
Only Amara remained standing, her face illuminated by the dawn. The High Priest stared at her in horror, for in her eyes now burned the same golden glow — gentle, endless, and alive.
The people began to whisper, not in fear, but in awe. "The light remains," someone said.
Amara looked to the sky, tears glistening on her cheeks. "He is not gone," she whispered. "He is among us."
And for the first time in years, the sun rose over Dareth without smoke in its light.