The Soulflame Lanternwright

The knock came at the hour when the lanterns burn lowest, and you knew before the door swung open that the news would be bad. The messenger was a boy from the upper terraces, his face pale as tallow, his breath fogging in the cold of your workshop. He clutched a scrap of parchment sealed with black wax—the sigil of the Hollow Court, a spiral that seemed to drink the lamplight.

"Your brother," he said, and the words fell like stones into still water. "Taken. Three nights past, at the edge of the Deep Paths. They want you to come for him."

You took the parchment, felt the cold seep through the paper like it was alive. The seal cracked under your thumb. Inside, a single line in ink the color of dried blood: The sunken city waits. Bring your craft, or leave him to the dark.

You looked at the lanterns lining your walls—seven of them, each a fragment of yourself, each burning with a light that cost you something irreplaceable. The boy shifted his weight. Outside, the darkness pressed against the shutters like a patient beast.

You already knew what you would do. The question was what it would cost.