The Candleman

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The roads of Areeott are not always kind to travelers. They stretch too long when they should be short, bend in ways that they should not, disappear beneath the mist just when one is certain of the path. For those caught in the deep places of the world, where the stars give no guidance and the wind carries whispers, the dark can be a vast and terrible thing.   It is on these nights, when hope frays at the edges, that the Candleman appears.   He is never in a hurry. His footsteps fall in time with the heartbeat of the night, measured and steady, never too close, never too far. His voice, when it comes, is warm and kind, as if he has been walking just behind you all along.   "Cold night for traveling, isn’t it?"   He is dressed like any other traveler—heavy boots, a well-worn coat, a satchel slung over his shoulder. There is nothing remarkable about him, and yet those who have met him all agree: he is familiar. Not in the way one remembers a name, but in the way one remembers a feeling. A childhood friend long forgotten. A face from a dream, glimpsed once and never again.   And in his hands, always, are the candles.   Simple, white, and wax-dipped, bundled neatly in cloth. He offers them freely, never asking for coin or favor in return.   "You look lost. Here, take one—it will see you home."   To refuse is difficult. The night presses close, and the Candleman does not beg, but there is a weight in his waiting, a patience that expects to be obeyed. To take the candle is to feel its cool wax between your fingers, to hold it as if it were any other, as if there were nothing strange about this encounter at all.   And when it is lit, the way forward seems clearer. The road does not twist so cruelly. The wind does not bite so sharply. The cold fades, warmth creeping into the bones, into the fingertips, into the breath. With every step, the night becomes less unbearable.   But there is always a cost.   For the candle does not burn wax. It burns the traveler. Slowly, steadily, with every flicker of its soft and golden light, it feeds upon the life of the one who carries it. They do not feel the loss at first. The numbness of exhaustion is replaced with comfort, the weight of the journey lifted step by step. The pain comes too late to matter. By the time the candle nears its end, so does the one who holds it.   And when the final glow flickers and dies, there is nothing left but ash.   The Candleman does not linger to watch. He does not need to. Somewhere, further down the road, another lost soul is waiting.   Another weary traveler will hear footsteps behind them, slow and steady, keeping pace with their own.   And a voice, warm and familiar, will speak once more.   "Cold night for traveling, isn’t it?"