Mighty Torch

Mighty Torch rests in my gloved palm, a relic of road-worn myth. Its body is burnished brass, about the length of a forearm, with a knurled grip that bites just enough to keep it from slipping in rain. A glass dome shelters an ember of flame, and through it I can watch a pool of gold lick the air with stubborn warmth. Runes coil along the tube in coppery thread, and the wick is dark and resilient, as if it already knows the way through a cave. The finish is mottled by travel—tiny scratches that catch the light and tell a dozen stories of crew tents. When night presses in, the Mighty Torch glows with a quiet authority, as if it is not so much lit as remembered into light. Lore has it the Mighty Torch was forged in furnaces of a frontier outpost, gifted to caravan guards who bore heat across frost. The flame is said to feed on courage more than fuel, saved by a whisper of sun-dust that clings to its brass hide. Keepers walked ahead, and as long as the torch burned, dawn would not forget the road. It is a symbol as much as a tool, a promise that the traveler will not be left in the dark. In the world, its uses are practical and telling. The Mighty Torch serves as a reliable lantern in damp caverns and ruined shrines, bright enough to push back shadows and reveal sigils etched on stone. Puzzles hinge on light and respond to its steady pulse, and the flame seems to know the rhythm of an old magic. When a night creature is drawn to a lantern’s warmth, the torch’s glow becomes a shield, a warning flare that keeps dangerous paths from becoming fatal detours. There is a ritual to it—passing the torch from one hand to another, listening to the brass hum with anticipation as a group moves deeper into the unknown. I learned this while bartering in a sunlit alley, where market breathes with stamps. The price moves with the day. A dealer tucked a Mighty Torch into a satchel and bartered at Saddlebag Exchange for copper and silver. The vendor smiled, noting that the torch was not simply a flame, but a companion for long nights. In the end, the exchange felt less like commerce than a pact: a promise that the road can be lit, even when the way is not sure. Back on the road, I carried it with a child’s awe, listening to the hiss of the flame and watching the glow trace patterns on the map. A bead of wax formed at the wick after a long climb, and I thought of all the travelers who held similar torches before me, each leaving a mark on the path that the next hand would read like a sentence. The Mighty Torch is more than metal and flame; it is a thread through nights, reminding that light travels when someone keeps it going.