The Lamp of Flarereen

333 BTFOM — The Lamp of Flarereen
 
The night the storm hit, Damian was camped with a small trade caravan near the Saren’Duun Expanse — a vast, wind-battered desert that locals swore shifted its shape every few years. When the storm passed, he went scavenging as he always did, eager to see what the wind had unburied.
 
Half-buried beneath a dune, something glinted under the moonlight — brass, half-melted and carved with spiralling runes, sealed with veins of hardened glass. The air around it shimmered with heat, and when he brushed the sand away, it hummed like a living heart. Ever the curious fool, Damian muttered a joke about luck and wiped the surface clean.
 
The lamp flared to life.
The world split open.
 
Fire erupted skyward — molten gold and crimson coiling into the shape of a woman. Her eyes burned like twin suns, her voice rolled like thunder wrapped in silk. Flarereen, bound for centuries by old magic, rose from the storm-wet sand.
 
She did not see him as a master — only as another interruption in a long chain of disappointments. But Damian, unlike others, didn’t beg for wealth or eternity. He simply smiled and asked questions.
 
They spoke until the moon drowned in dawn, words flickering between them like sparks — curiosity, challenge, and something dangerously close to understanding. When silence finally fell, Flarereen tilted her head and said,
 
“Then speak, mortal. Claim what is yours by right.”
 
And Damian, with the naïve brilliance only mortals possess, made three wishes that would bind them both forever:
 
The First Wish — Immunity to Time
 
“I wish to be untouched by the flow of time itself.
Let no age, curse, or magic alter my body, my shape, or my appearance without my will.
May I stand immune to spells, distortions, or enchantments that seek to change me,
remaining as I am until I choose otherwise.”
 
For a moment, the desert wind froze.
Not the air, not the sand — but time itself. The stars halted mid-glimmer; the moon hung motionless. Even Flarereen, a creature older than empires, looked surprised.
 
Her eyes flared gold and white as the wish took hold.
 
“A dangerous wish,” she said softly, her voice low like coals whispering.
“You ask not for life eternal, but to walk beyond time’s reach. Few mortals grasp the cost of such stillness.”
 
The heat deepened, swirling around Damian in a spiral of glass and light.
When it faded, he felt nothing — no rush of energy, no thrill — only silence, as if the ticking of his own life had gone still.
 
Flarereen studied him, her gaze equal parts wonder and pity.
 
“So be it. Time shall not touch you, until you command it to.”
 
The Second Wish — The Flame and the Ring
 
“I wish to share in your power — that I might use it to protect and guide others.
Grant me mastery of your flame, but not for destruction alone.
Let me wield your fire as a tool of light and life,
and your illusions as a shield and distraction against harm, never to corrupt my intent.”
 
At those words, her expression softened — pride and warmth overtaking the ancient fire.
She extended her hand, conjuring a coil of molten gold that solidified into a ring, set with a ruby that burned with her essence.
 
“A mortal who wishes for power not to conquer, but to protect…” she mused.
“Perhaps you are worthy of my spark.”
 
When she pressed the ring into his palm, it burned — not painfully, but deeply, like truth searing through the skin. His veins shimmered faintly gold, his breath glowing in the dark.
The flames around Flarereen dimmed, just slightly — a fragment of her soul given willingly.
 
“Carry this flame well,” she warned, “for it is both gift and burden.
You will never again be able to stand wholly apart from fire — it will know you, and it will answer.”
 
The Third Wish — Her Freedom and the Cuffs
 
“I wish for you to be free — free from all bondage, vessel, or command.
Yet let your freedom be bound only to mine,
so that as I walk this world, you may watch over me by your own choosing.
Let our fates be shared — companions by will, not chains.”
 
For the first time, Flarereen faltered. Her flame flickered, her perfect poise breaking.
She raised her wrists — and the ancient cuffs that had bound her since creation cracked down the middle, molten light spilling out like tears.
 
They fell into the sand with a sound like thunder fading.
The genie stood taller, radiant and untethered, her flames dancing wild in the open night. For a heartbeat, she looked overwhelmed — and then free.
 
“You... fool,” she whispered, trembling laughter in her tone.
“You tied my freedom to your own. You would share your soul to give me liberty.”
 
She knelt, lifting the broken cuffs, now cool and silvered, reshaped by her will.
 
“Then let these bind you instead — not as shackles, but as reminder.”
 
When she placed them around his wrists, they glowed faintly — symbols of unity, not servitude.
 
“You carry my mark now, Damian Flow.
As long as you live, I shall walk beside you, unseen but never absent.
My flame will answer your call, my eyes will watch your path.”
 
And as dawn broke over the dunes, she smiled for the first time — not as a spirit of fire, but as something almost human.
 
The desert went still. The lamp cracked open like an egg, its molten glass sinking into the sand. Cuffs of ruby fire appeared around Damian’s wrists — not chains, but a promise, glowing softly as they cooled.
 
When he looked up, she was gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of smoke and the sound of the wind brushing over cooling sand.
 
He left the broken vessel where it lay — empty now, and utterly spent — and walked back toward the horizon, carrying her magic in his veins.