The jar was heavy, but the weight pressing against Cyrus's ribs was heavier still. He gripped the clay vessel so tightly his knuckles turned a ghostly white. In any other hour, it was just a jar—plain, chipped, and unremarkable. But tonight, it was the most precious object in the kingdom of Irmisul. Inside was the Sun-Oil, a liquid gold that held the power to decide who would live to see the dawn and who would be swallowed by the dark.
Cyrus stood frozen in the junction of the servant's passage. His mind was a chaotic storm of outcomes, each more terrifying than the last. He had been motionless for minutes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his chest. His body urged him to move—every wasted second brought the doom of either himself or his mentor a step closer—but his will was caught in a vice of indecision.
It was the scent that finally broke the trance. A faint, beautiful waft of the Sun-Oil escaped the seal of the jar—a smell like summer afternoons and toasted honey. It cleared the fog in his brain, bringing the sharp reality of his situation into focus.
The silence of the hallway was shattered by a roar of approval from the Grand Hall nearby. Someone was speaking, a voice so booming and arrogant it drowned out the music and the clinking of silverware. The herald was introducing the man of the hour: Zenulaks.
The name was a death knell. Cyrus remembered the King's face—the cold, unblinking eyes—when the decree had been given.
"A Master of Lamps who cannot keep the light alive is of no use to me," King Irmisul had whispered, the threat as sharp as a headsman's axe. "Heed my words: if the light in the Great Hall dims even a fraction during the toast to Zenulaks, your heart shall stop the moment the flame dies. Consider the lanterns your own pulse, Cyrus. Do not let them go out."
Those words echoed in his skull with every mechanical step he took toward the massive gates of the Hall. He was moving on instinct now, driven by the raw, animal fear of the executioner's block. He reached the entrance, his hand hovering over the latch, ready to provide the King his vanity.
Then, he heard it.
It was faint, nearly buried under the laughter and the orchestral swell of the party, but to Cyrus, it sounded like a thunderclap.
*Coughing.* The sound came from the opposite direction—the corridor leading to the Healer's Ward. Cyrus stopped. The latch felt like ice beneath his fingers. Suddenly, the memories he had tried to suppress came flooding back.
He remembered the gutter where the world had left him to die. He remembered the hunger and the biting cold of the streets. And he remembered the man who had reached down and pulled him out of the dirt. His mentor hadn't just given him a trade; he had given him a name. He had given him a life. It was because of that old man that people now called him 'Master' and respected the light he carried.
The situation was dire, and for a heartbeat, Cyrus felt that familiar paralysis creeping back into his limbs. He looked at the Great Hall—safety, life, and the King's favor. He looked toward the Healer's Ward—cold, certain death, and a flickering hope for a dying man.
His grip on the jar tightened. This was the last of the Sun-Oil. There was no more to be found, no more to be bought.
Cyrus turned his face away from the Grand Hall.
The hesitation vanished. It was as if a great shroud had been lifted from his shoulders. He finally realized the magnitude of the sacrifices his mentor had made to turn an orphan into a Master. To abandon the man now for the sake of a few more hours of fearful breathing felt like the only true sin.
Cyrus turned his back on the King's light.
He didn't walk; he ran. His boots thudded against the stone as he sprinted toward the Ward, hugging the jar to his chest as if it were a child. He knew what this meant. He knew that when the lamps in the Hall flickered and died, the King's guards would come for him. He knew he would never see the sun rise over the garden again.
But as he reached the doors of the infirmary, a bright, genuine smile broke across his face. The burden was gone. He was no longer a slave to the King's heartbeat. He was a son saving his father.
For Cyrus, a world with no one to call family was a darkness far worse than death. He entered the ward, ready to give his life for one more breath of warm air for the man who had taught him how to glow.