The Last Lantern

The Last Lantern was once a place of torment.   Through its echoing halls, you could hear the screams and wails of the long-departed—ghosts bound in shackles and trapped within sigils long after their bodies had turned to ash and stardust. In many rooms, men still speak in hushed tones, pulling secrets and confessions from the dead. Some spirits whisper like stolen wishes, begging for release. Others say nothing at all, drifting like tethered shadows too bitter—or broken—to speak.   Originally, the Last Lantern was built on a promise: a sacred refuge, the final threshold where souls could speak their last words and be heard. But that was only the story Vethias told. He was a kindly old man—soft-spoken, silver-haired.   But his shadow had teeth.   The Last Lantern was once a grand old mansion perched on the cliffside, with sweeping halls, multiple bedrooms, a library, and a ballroom. Over time, it was converted by the death-priests of Nelous to serve the purpose Vethias had originally set out to fulfill. He housed a single squadron there—twelve men from the Duskvos Regiment, the only ones who survived.   Behind the benevolent myth, the Lantern became a place of punishment. Here, enemies, criminals, and the unrepentant were tortured even in death—held captive for secrets they refused to share. What was said to be mercy became cruelty in disguise. And only much later, long after the walls were stained with years of silence and sorrow, would the Lantern begin to fulfill its original promise.   Spirits were bound here through earthly possessions or fragments of themselves left behind on the mortal plane—a memory of war, a moment of pain, a sacrifice etched in blood. To anchor them in place, something was always taken from the warden—but it was never returned.
“I built the Lantern to hold the dead. I did not know then that I was one of them. But if there is still light in this place—then let it shine not for punishment, but for peace.” — Vethias, First Keeper of the Last Lantern
       
The Last Lantern by Sorianna Choate
 

The Lantern’s First Keeper

 
The ghoul by Sorianna Choate
Vethias had once been a soldier—decorated, respected, and hardened by the blood-soaked years of the Orc Raids on Stormer and the southern skirmishes near Portcross. He rose swiftly through the ranks, a man of precision and principle. But war changes men. Not just the dying, but the watching—seeing children torn apart by siege fire, villages starved into submission, and good men made monsters by orders they couldn’t question. These things leave marks—not only on the body, but on the soul. And no one carries more of those marks than a soldier who survives.   After his final campaign, Vethias withdrew from military life, vanishing from the cities and battlefields that had once sung his name. He settled in the coastal town of Azuros, a quiet fishing village nestled against the storm-beaten cliffs of Stormer. There, he built The Last Lantern.   He built it to make peace with his demons.   But his demons were stronger than him.   They followed him into that place—took shape in the ghosts he tethered to the floors and bound within burning sigils. The war had never truly left him; it had only changed form.   “Tell my wife the ring is beneath the floorboards,” one ghost wailed.   “Let me go. I want to rest,” another cried.
  Their pleas echoed through the halls—but fell on deaf ears. Vethias and his wardens moved among them, silent, indifferent, as if mercy was no longer part of the language they spoke. Those who had lived wicked lives, he tormented further. And the soldiers who served under him—men burdened by what they had done—were offered a different kind of penance. They became his wardens, unable to undo the pain they'd caused, only to witness it echoed in the dead.   For a long time, The Last Lantern went unquestioned. From the outside, it appeared peaceful—a sanctuary for the restless, a mercy for the lost.   That was, until the ghost who should not have existed emerged.   She slipped quietly into the house of torment, a pale wisp of a girl with her ghost cat trailing beside her—its spectral fur streaked with phantom slashes. A light in the darkness, she was so achingly lonely, so scared. The others felt it immediately. Even the cruelest spirits—twisted by pain and bitterness—recognized gentleness when it entered the room.   They whispered to her in the cold, flickering dark: Run. Leave this place. Before he finds you.   But she stayed.   She wandered the blood-bound halls in her small, tattered shift—the one she died in. Her dark curls bounced softly as she walked, the bruise still dark across her throat, the echo of violence written in silence on her skin. Her cat padded silently beside her, eyes glowing with something ancient and sad.  
At first, Vethias didn’t notice. He couldn’t see why some souls had begun to pass on. Why secrets he had tried to rip from the dead were suddenly gone. Why the cries were growing fewer, and the sigils began to lose their heat.   One evening, she drifted past a room where a soul—one who had never spoken—stood staring out the window. When he turned, he saw her and the cat.   He moved as close as his tether would allow.   She stopped just within reach, her form flickering faintly, as though taking nervous breaths. The cat stood between them, silent and watchful.   “It hurts, doesn’t it?” Her voice was small but crystal clear.   She lifted a hand, stepping closer.   “It hurts,” he whispered. “I miss her. This place… it’s a prison, little one. You shouldn’t be here.”   She tilted her head, curls catching the moonlight.
“Do you want to go home?” she asked, her voice trembling.   “She’s there… isn’t she?”   He nodded.   She and the cat stepped forward, and she wrapped her arms around him.   In that moment, bathed in moonlight, his form shimmered. The pain melted from his face, and he passed on—soft as a sigh.   Only a hush of wind remained, and with it, his fading voice:   “Thank you.”   He didn’t know that it was her. Then one night, he saw her.   She stood alone in the long hall before the tall glass window, moonlight pouring over her like water, making her form glow—soft, ethereal, full of light. She did not flee. She did not cry.   She simply looked at him.   Her eyes met his, calm and endless, and she asked—quietly, almost gently:   “Why didn’t you save me?”   Her cat brushed against her legs, curling in silence beside her feet.   Vethias fell to his knees.   He knew that face. He had carried it in his nightmares, in every firelit memory of that field. She was the girl who had died in battle—the one he’d tried to reach, the one he almost saved before another soldier stole her life. A child. A casualty. A soul he had failed not with cruelty, but with helplessness.   He’d seen her just days before. He thought her family should have left by then—should have gotten out of the village. Why hadn’t they? She’d been all smiles, her cat pressed close to her side. He remembered her playing just outside her home, laughing, carefree. He’d been haunted by her ever since—her, and several others..   And now, here she was—unchanged. Still small. Still waiting.   He began to weep.   There was no shadow behind him that night. Only the quiet truth of her presence.  
And in that stillness, Vethias understood: all the ghosts he had chained, all the torment he had justified—it did not cleanse his guilt. It had only mirrored the sin he had tried so hard to escape.   He was no better than the soldier who killed her.   With that, he released them all—every chained spirit, every bound soul. He let them go.   But the girl did not pass on. Nor did her cat.   Instead, she remained, a quiet presence in the hallways she had once wandered in fear. Together with the wardens, Vethias began to cleanse the house from top to bottom. They stripped away the sigils, the bindings, the tools of torment. They scrubbed blood from the stones. They reopened the long-locked doors and let in the light.   They gave the little ghost a name: Curls, for the way her hair still bounced as she walked. Her cat they called Claws, for the scratches he had once worn like armor.   The Last Lantern began again—with the purpose Vethias had once claimed, and now finally meant.   A place to listen. A place to settle with souls and record their final words before they moved on.   He knew he would one day stand before Nelous, the god of death, and have his own soul judged in the halls of the Black Reliquary. But with what life remained to him, he would make good on the promise he had long abandoned.   And this time, he would not look away.
 

The Last Lantern Now

  "The Last Lantern still stands. Not as a prison, but as a promise kept."   Today, the Last Lantern still stands on the edge of the cliffs, looking out over the sea. The building has been painted a soft, pale blue—its once-haunted stone warmed by time and care. A wooden sign hangs above the arched entry, bearing an iron inlay of a lantern. Enchanted long ago, its light never goes out.   Inside, the halls are gently lit by quiet magics. Souls arrive in many ways—some come on their own, others are carried in pieces by grieving loved ones. They are met with warmth, never chains. The wardens, now known as Lightbearers, carefully record their final words and offer them peace to pass on. Some spirits stay only a little while. Others linger until their whispers drift gently into the wind and vanish.   Vethias is buried beneath the garden on the Lantern grounds. He passed from old age, having helped every soul he could until his final breath. But death was not an ending for him.   Nelous, god of death, sends him back from time to time—not as punishment, but as mercy. He returns to walk the halls, to see Curls and Claws, and to visit the wardens who remained in death—caretakers of the afterlife’s threshold.   Curls can often be seen running through the Lantern, her laughter echoing like sunlight through the stones. Claws is never far behind, his soft paws silent as ever. And when Vethias visits, the three are all but inseparable.   There was healing for them—even in death.   The Lantern is now overseen by Amelie Debar, daughter of one of the original wardens. Born within the Lantern’s walls after its transformation, she considers the place sacred ground and is devoted to preserving the promise Vethias once made. She and the Lightbearers train extensively under the Temple of Nelous, honoring death in all its forms and seeking to bring every soul to full closure. Each new Lightbearer is chosen at the age of sixteen and undergoes years of training deep beneath the temple—learning reverence for both life and death.   There are twelve Lightbearers in service—just as there were twelve survivors of the Duskvos Regiment.   Claws, the ghost cat, is often seen comforting the smallest souls who find their way to the Lantern.   The Last Lantern is now considered one of the rare waypoints in the world where the veil between realms is thin.  
Not all agree that the sins of the Lantern have been cleansed. Some believe the souls once held there left curses behind. Others claim that mercy cannot erase what was built on pain. There are even whispered sects who think the Lantern’s original purpose should be restored—that some secrets are worth the price. This mostly comes from the Nostra Mortem, the assassins of the dark lands who serve the Mother of Endings, Aeternis.
© Sorianna Choate. All rights reserved. All written content, including character, setting, and lore, is the original creation of Sorianna Choate. Artwork and imagery are original works by the author. No part of this piece may be copied, reproduced, or used without explicit permission.

Comments

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Jul 7, 2025 13:40 by Keon Croucher

This is hauntingly beautiful, narratively enthralling. I was hanging on every word, every sentence. Such a unique organization with such rich history and lore. Most certainly controversial given its history and the scars both structure and organization may yet bear by reputation and and by deed. Yet arguably though there was much pain and suffering.....one could try to argue, persuasively too I'd imagine, that those things came out and continue to come out in the wash so to speak, the good outweighs the dark, or will given time. Such a thing is uncomfortable to think about and yet....most things in life are not truly black and white. There is a whole lot more grey.   Beautifully written, most certainly a piece that I need to add to my collection. It was a joy to read and I thank you for the tale :)

Keon Croucher, Chronicler of the Age of Revitalization
Jul 9, 2025 21:41 by Sorianna Choate

Thank you very much; I felt I was piecing this together like a roller coaster ride. a rough idea slowly sharpened by hours and minutes of writing, I wanted arc of man who comes across his own path, ro in end find some measure of peace.

Jul 9, 2025 09:33 by J. Variable X/0

What a beautiful story.

Jul 9, 2025 21:41 by Sorianna Choate

Thank you very much!

Jul 9, 2025 21:23 by Dr Emily Vair-Turnbull

This was such an emotional read. I am glad it now serves its original promise. ;_;

Emy x
Explore Etrea | Reading Challenge 2025
Jul 9, 2025 21:42 by Sorianna Choate

It was an emotional write! His character, I may explore more later as well.