The wind took the candles. Again.

I held the glass. I held it tight. My knuckles white. The flame danced. It did not go out. Not this time.

"You are wasting the oil, Elara."

I looked up. Thomas stood in the doorway. He wore his work coat. It was stained with earth. His hands were red. He looked at me. He looked at the candle. He looked at me again.

"It is not oil," I said. "It is light."

"It is grease," he said. "Rendered fat. From the pigs."

He stepped closer. The floorboards creaked. The house groaned. It was an old house. It had seen many winters. It had seen many storms. It had not seen this.

"I need the light," I said. "To see the truth."

"Truth?" Thomas laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves in autumn. "There is no truth here. Only hunger."

He pointed to the table. The table was bare. There was no bread. There was no meat. There was only the candle. And the glass. And my hands.

"We have nothing, Elara. The granary is empty. The fields are frozen. The king’s men came yesterday. They took the last sack of grain. For the garrison. For the winter."

I looked at the candle. The wax pooled. It glowed a pale, steady blue.

"I know," I said.

"You know nothing. You sit here. You talk to the air. You burn our only fuel. And you wait. For what? For a ghost to feed us?"

"For the sign," I said. "The sign is coming."

Thomas shook his head. He turned away. He walked to the hearth. The fire was low. Just embers. He poked them with a stick. Sparks flew. They died quickly.

"I will leave," he said. "I cannot stay. I cannot starve. I cannot watch you waste what little we have."

I did not stop him. I could not. My eyes were on the candle. The flame flickered. It bent to the left.

"Go," I whispered.

He paused. He looked at me. His face was hard. But his eyes were soft. They were sad.

"You are my sister," he said. "You are all I have."

"I am not your sister," I said. "I am the vessel."

He frowned. He did not understand. He never understood. He wanted to fix things. He wanted to build walls. He wanted to store grain. I wanted to open doors. Invisible doors. Doors that lead nowhere. Doors that lead everywhere.

He left. The door closed. The latch clicked.

I was alone.

The wind howled. The glass rattled. The candle burned.

I closed my eyes. I breathed in. I breathed out. I felt the cold. It bit my cheeks. It stung my nose. I felt the hunger. It was a hollow thing. A black hole in my stomach. It pulled at my thoughts. It pulled at my soul.

But beneath the hunger. Beneath the cold. There was something else.

A warmth.

It started in my chest. It spread to my hands. It spread to my feet. It was not physical warmth. It was not heat. It was presence.

I opened my eyes.

The room was dark. The candle had gone out.

But the air was not dark.

It was filled with shapes. Pale shapes. Like mist. Like smoke. They moved. They danced. They swirled around me.

I reached out. My hand passed through a shape. It felt like cool water. It felt like silk.

"Who are you?" I asked.

The shapes did not answer. They coalesced. They formed a figure. Tall. Thin. Wearing robes of light.

It looked at me. It had no face. It had no eyes. But I felt it looking. I felt its attention. It was heavy. It was pressing down on me.

"Take me," I said. "Take my pain. Take my hunger."

The figure moved. It reached out. A hand of light touched my forehead.

And I saw.

I saw the past. I saw the fields. I saw the men who worked them. I saw them singing. I saw them laughing. I saw the grain. It was golden. It was abundant. It was endless.

But then I saw the rot.

It started in the roots. It started in the soil. It was black. It was wet. It smelled of decay. The men did not see it. They kept planting. They kept harvesting. They kept eating.

And the blackness grew.

It spread to the men. It crept into their skin. It clouded their minds. They became angry. They became cruel. They fought. They stole. They killed.

The blackness was not a curse. It was a choice. It was the result of their greed. It was the result of their fear.

They had poisoned the earth. And the earth had poisoned them.

I gasped. I pulled my hand away.

The figure was gone. The room was dark. The cold returned.

I sat on the floor. I cried. I cried for the grain. I cried for the men. I cried for Thomas.

I had thought I was the savior. I had thought I was the prophet. I had thought my magic was a gift.

It was not a gift. It was a mirror.

I saw the truth. I was not saving us. I was hiding from the truth. I was hiding from the fact that we had brought this upon ourselves.

The door opened.

I did not look up. I knew who it was.

Thomas.

He walked in. He held a lantern. The light was yellow. It was warm. It was real.

He saw me on the floor. He knelt beside me. He touched my shoulder.

"Elara," he said.

"I see it," I said. My voice was hoarse. "I see the rot."

He frowned. "What rot?"

"In the fields. In us. We are dying, Thomas. Not from hunger. From within."

He stared at me. He did not believe me. He never believed me.

"There is no rot," he said. "There is only lack. We need food. We need shelter. We need to survive."

"We are already dead," I said. "We just do not know it yet."

He pulled me up. He held me tight. His arms were strong. They were warm.

"Come," he said. "Get up. We must go. We cannot stay here. We must move. We must find work. We must live."

"I cannot leave the light," I said.

"There is no light," he said. "Only the fire. And the stars. And each other."

He looked at me. His eyes were clear. They were bright.

"Elara. Look at me."

I looked.

He was not angry. He was not frustrated. He was sad. But he was steady.

"I love you," he said. "Not as a sister. Not as a prophet. As a woman. A living woman. Who needs to eat. Who needs to sleep. Who needs to be held."

I broke.

I collapsed into his arms. I shook. I sobbed. The cold left me. The darkness left me.

He held me. He did not say anything else. He just held me.

We stayed in the house for one more night. I did not light the candle. I did not call the spirits. I sat by the hearth. Thomas built a fire. It was small. It was weak. But it was there.

We spoke little. We shared a piece of dried meat. It was tough. It was dry. But it was food.

At dawn, we packed. We took what we could carry. Clothes. Tools. The few coins we had left.

We left the house. The door closed behind us.

I looked back. The house stood silent. The windows were dark. The wind moved through the branches of the bare trees.

I felt a pull. A tug. Like a fish on a line.

The light was still there. The pale, blue light. It waited. It wanted me to go back. It wanted me to look. It wanted me to know.

I looked at Thomas. He was walking. His head was down. He was watching the path. He was watching the world.

I let go.

I let go of the vision. I let go of the power. I let go of the need to be the one who sees.

I was not the vessel. I was the water.

I walked beside him. Step by step. My feet hurt. My stomach ached. But I was warm.

The sun rose. It was pale. It was weak. But it was real.

We walked on.

The road was long. The winter was long.

But we were not alone.

And that was enough.

The end.