Night had given way to the early glow of dawn when the Wanderer found himself on a windswept plain. The terrain stretched in every direction like a tattered quilt—patches of brittle grass, stretches of dry, cracked earth, and clusters of jagged stones that jutted from the ground as though protesting the emptiness. Above it all, a pewter sky hung heavy, promising neither sun nor storm, only a dim, colorless light.

  He walked with the lantern swinging at his side, its flame a steady companion despite the faint chill in the air. In the half-light, the lantern’s glow cast a circle of warmth on the ground, as if warding off the vast loneliness that surrounded him. It had been days since he’d seen any sign of civilization—no huts, no tents, no travelers. Only the distant silhouette of mountains gave him a sense that somewhere, in some direction, there might be life.

  All the while, his mind churned with the same endless questions. What was he searching for? Why did he continue when the road ahead offered no clear promise? He tried to recall how many years had passed since he first set foot on this path. The days blurred together, stitched by sunrise and sunset into a single unbroken tapestry of wandering.

  In the hush of the plain, his footsteps became a metronome, each step echoing in the hollow space of his thoughts. The lantern’s glow felt heavier than usual, like a small burden he couldn’t set aside. Memories came drifting back: a youth spent listening to legends of heroic quests, the awe he’d felt when first holding the lantern, and the reverence in others’ eyes—eyes that seemed to say you were chosen. He sighed, recalling the old soothsayer who had prophesied, Carry this light with reverence, for it sees you more clearly than you see yourself.

  He often wondered if all that reverence had merely masked a fear deep inside him: the fear of staying put, of allowing life to settle around him like dust. At times, he told himself that searching was better than stagnating. Yet as the years stretched on, he questioned whether endless movement might be its own kind of paralysis, a way to avoid confronting what he truly feared: that perhaps there was no grand destiny waiting for him at the end of the road.

  Lost in these thoughts, he nearly missed the sight of a solitary post rising from the earth a short distance ahead. It stood at a humble crossroad—nothing more than two perpendicular paths cutting across the plains. By the post rested a weather-beaten cart filled with crates, sacks, and the pungent scent of spices that drifted in the wind. Beside the cart stood a merchant, wrapped in layered robes the color of sand and sunset. The merchant’s face was hidden by a wide-brimmed hat, but the tilt of his head suggested he’d been watching the Wanderer’s approach for some time.

  Curiosity stirred in the Wanderer. It had been so long since he’d exchanged words with another soul. As he drew nearer, the merchant lifted a hand in greeting and offered a toothy grin.

  “Good morning,” the merchant called. His voice carried warmth in this barren place. “You walk a lonely road, my friend. Care to share a moment?”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The Wanderer adjusted his grip on the lantern’s handle. “I could use a rest,” he replied. His voice sounded rough, even to his own ears, as if he’d grown unaccustomed to conversation.

  Without hesitation, the merchant beckoned him closer, rummaging through a tattered bag at his side. “I’ve tea from the southern territories—spiced leaves that’ll warm your bones.”

  The Wanderer sank to his knees beside the cart, setting the lantern down. “You’re far from any market. Are you waiting for someone?”

  The merchant chuckled, pouring hot water into a small tin cup. “Always waiting, always passing through. Isn’t that the nature of all journeys?” He offered the cup to the Wanderer, who accepted it gratefully. “But enough about me. I see that light you carry, and it’s not just any lantern, is it?”

  The Wanderer wrapped his hands around the tin cup, savoring the heat. For a moment, he studied the merchant’s face—a network of wrinkles and sun-bronzed skin, framed by a short salt-and-pepper beard. The merchant’s eyes glinted with curiosity but not greed. “You’ve heard the stories?”

  “Of course. Everyone’s heard them, though I never thought I’d see the lantern in person.” He motioned toward it, the flame unwavering in the gentle breeze. “If it truly never dies, then you must be…someone important.”

  A flicker of something like regret crossed the Wanderer’s features. “Some say the lantern chooses its bearer.” He paused, unsure if he believed that anymore. “Others say it’s a curse—one that binds you to the road until you find what it wants you to see.”

  The merchant nodded thoughtfully, then leaned in. “And have you?”

  “Have I what?”

  “Seen what it wants to show you.”

  The Wanderer stared into the cup of tea, watching tiny leaves swirl like restless spirits. “I’m not sure there’s anything out there to find.”

  “Ah, but perhaps it’s not about what’s out there.” The merchant smiled. “Sometimes we carry lights to illuminate the path behind our own eyes.”

  A silence settled between them, broken only by the low whistle of the wind crossing the plains. The Wanderer sipped the tea, letting the warmth spread through him. For the first time in weeks, he felt the sharp edges of his loneliness soften under simple human kindness.

  When the tea was finished, the merchant stood and dusted off his robes. “I’ll be moving on soon. There’s a caravan trail a day’s ride from here that might be worth a visit. Folks often gather there to barter and tell stories.”

  The Wanderer glanced at the two paths that diverged from this solitary post. “Which way is it?”

  The merchant pointed to the narrow track branching east. “Follow that until you see a ring of stacked stones—they mark the entrance to the caravan grounds.” Then he fixed the Wanderer with a steady gaze. “If your lantern leads you elsewhere, no harm done. But if you do follow, maybe you’ll hear a tale or two that’ll shed light on your journey.”

  The Wanderer rose, slipping the lantern’s handle over his wrist. “Thank you—for the tea, and the company.”

  “Safe travels,” the merchant replied, tipping his hat. With that, he turned his cart onto the southern road, the faded wheels creaking softly.

  Standing at the crossroads, the Wanderer took a moment to breathe in the cool morning air. The merchant’s words lingered in his mind: Sometimes we carry lights to illuminate the path behind our own eyes. He’d been so intent on finding answers in the world around him; perhaps it was time to look inward, even if he didn’t yet know what that would mean.

  He exhaled slowly, then set his gaze on the eastern path. The lantern’s glow wavered for an instant in the breeze before steadying once more. Adjusting the cloak around his shoulders, he stepped forward and let the faint light guide him, hope flickering softly in the vast emptiness ahead.