Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals

Through the Flame, Returned

"Welcome," Zorko declared, his voice carrying the cadence of a midwoven spell.

The orb hovered in place beside him, humming faintly as it recorded the vast stone chamber.

A chirp meant uncertainty. Flickers signaled shifts in focus. A steady pulse, acknowledgment.

"To a vault where some pass through shadow, and return alight," he continued, his robes rustling as he paced an intricate spiral on the floor. "Where flame remembers what flesh forgets, and echoes of lost selves flicker unseen."

The chamber was cold, the stones beneath his feet slick with ancient frost. No hearth, no light but the orb’s soft glow and faintly glimmering runes along the arched ceiling. The air itself hung expectant, as though awaiting the next page of a forgotten ritual.

Zorko’s phoenix feather swept upward.

"It is said," he intoned, "that there exist flames which burn not for heat, nor hunger, nor war, but for… change."

He paused dramatically.

"And yet, to chase such tales is the folly of poets and fools."

The orb chirped, once, uncertain.

Zorko smirked.

"Yes, yes, we record nonetheless." He gestured wide. "For today, an artifact arrives. I am told it is… singular. Contained. A flame in a cage, perhaps?"

He tilted his head.

"We shall see. I have appraised stranger things."

He drifted toward the rune-carved threshold of the chamber. Frost gathered in delicate patterns across its arch. A low resonance began, thin as a whisper, as if the room itself sensed an arrival.

Zorko’s eyes brightened. The feather stilled.

"It seems… the guest approaches."

The orb flickered.

Zorko turned to face the door, arms wide.

"Come, then. Let us see what shadow walks with you."

The resonance deepened. A faint rhythm, not quite sound, thrummed beneath the floor.

Frost swirled past the threshold. Then, through the arch, Oberon of the Tundra entered.

Short of stature, broad of shoulder, wrapped in a heavy frost-lined coat. His pointed crimson hat seemed untouched by age or ash. One eye gleamed beneath the brim. The other, a dark iron socket ringed with old runes.

In one hand, he carried a blackened iron cradle. Within it, a flame, golden at the core, fringed with violet light, hovering above a faceted stone base.

In the other hand, or perhaps hovering of its own accord, a great severed eye, blood-dark veins trailing into faint air. It drifted just above his palm, slowly rotating, pupil wide and unblinking.

The Eye shifted toward him.

Zorko blinked, instinctively lifting his feather.

"Ah, a flame in a cage! A curious bauble indeed."

The Eye tilted.

Zorko hesitated. His feather twitched.

"...and... company."

Oberon spoke quietly, voice deep with frost-roughened weight.

"Not caged. Witnessed."

He advanced toward the pedestal. The orb flickered, sensing the shift.

Zorko followed, gaze darting between the Flame, the Eye, the man.

"You carry bold curiosities."

Oberon said nothing. He set the iron cradle down with deliberate hands. The Sacred Flame hovered, perfectly still. No flicker, no smoke. The cold in the room deepened.

Zorko took an instinctive step forward, then paused.

"Such… precision. It does not dance."

A nervous laugh.

"You’ve brought me an obedient flame?"

Oberon rested both hands on the cradle’s edge.

"It knows me."

Zorko’s feather dipped. His voice softened.

"It… knows you."

Oberon nodded once. The Eye drifted lower, casting faint red light across the stone.

The orb hummed, uncertain.

Zorko cleared his throat. The bravado in his tone faltered.

"Well then, I must… inquire. What is this flame? What vessel? What rite?"

Oberon looked to the Flame.

"I have walked with this flame."

He let the words settle. Then,

"I have returned."

Zorko blinked rapidly.

"...Returned?"

Oberon’s gaze remained steady.

"From the Great Burning."

The chamber seemed to still. Even the faint frost on the stones ceased drifting.

Zorko’s mouth opened, then closed. His feather quivered.

The orb flickered twice, sharp and bright.

For the first time in many appraisals, Zorko had no ready metaphor. Still, by instinct or by habit, he pressed on.

"Well then," he began, voice pitched high with renewed ceremony, "it is the rarest appraiser who balks at a challenge. And this, dear viewers," he gestured to the orb, "is surely a flame worthy of myth."

He paced a short arc around the pedestal.

"A relic of transformation. A sovereign fire of impossible provenance."

He pointed.

"If this flame can renew a soul, if it can unmake and remake, what value might one assign?"

The orb flickered once.

Zorko’s eyes glittered.

"Seven hundred thousand gold in ritual potency." He hesitated, voice more uncertain. "No, more. Consider its rarity."

He circled wider. His words gained speed.

"But if it may grant passage to realms unseen, perhaps a million, or two. And what if," he pivoted, feather stabbing the air, "what if it could return that which was lost?"

The Eye shifted, unblinking.

Zorko faltered mid-step. The Eye’s gaze seemed to pin him in place. He swallowed, voice dropping, though the flourish in his tone was now a mask more than conviction.

"...Or if it could undo regret itself?"

The orb flickered again, slower now.

Oberon spoke, low and calm.

"You cannot buy the passing."

Zorko turned, feather lowering.

"But you passed through."

Oberon nodded.

"I did."

Zorko’s gaze darted between the Flame and its bearer.

"And... you returned whole?"

Oberon’s one eye met his.

"Changed." A quiet pause. "Returned."

The Eye shifted, focused.

Zorko’s words caught in his throat. He exhaled shakily.

"It is not an artifact," he whispered. "It is… a rite."

Oberon inclined his head.

"And a choice."

A subtle shift in the orb’s glow, a pulse, slow and questioning.

Footsteps echoed softly from the threshold.

Zorko looked up. Uvlius stood there, breath caught. For once, no ledgers and no scrolls in hand. A legend he had only read of, never thought to witness.

His eyes locked on the Flame.

"Is it truly..." his voice quieter than Zorko had ever heard, "...one of the Great Burning?"

Oberon answered with no flourish.

"It is."

Uvlius stepped in, gaze fixed, words careful.

"I must... examine this. Closely."

Zorko blinked, watching him with surprise. A softer note entered his voice.

"Well then," he murmured, "it seems we are all students today."

The orb pulsed once, deep and deliberate.

Oberon placed both hands lightly on the pedestal’s edge. His gaze held the Flame. His voice was even.

"Passing through strips all certainty."

The words hung in the chilled air.

"No one returns unchanged," he continued. "Most do not return at all."

Zorko’s feather trembled faintly in his grasp, but he said nothing.

Oberon’s eye remained steady.

"I do not remember all that was burned."

A breath.

"Nor all that was forged."

The Flame pulsed, slow and in rhythm with Oberon’s breath.

The orb flickered in a long, steady rhythm, not recording, but acknowledging.

Uvlius watched intently.

"It responds to you."

Oberon nodded.

"Once touched, you are never untouched."

A steady pulse followed.

Uvlius spoke, voice low but clear.

"Would you... choose to face it again?"

Oberon answered without hesitation.

"Yes."

Silence held the chamber.

Oberon’s unwavering "Yes" still seemed to ring in the air, louder than any spell.

The Sacred Flame pulsed once, deliberate and slow. The light did not dance now. It abided.

The orb flickered in long, steady rhythm, not recording, but acknowledging.

Zorko exhaled, stepping back. His feather lowered without flourish. His voice, when it came, was softer than the Flame itself.

"This is no relic. No prize. No possession."

He drew a breath, gaze never leaving the Flame.

"Final appraisal: uncountable in gold, inestimable in meaning, and beyond all keeping."

The orb answered with a single pulse. No chirp. No flicker. Only presence.

Zorko, by habit, began the gesture for closure.

He was stopped.

Uvlius, who had stood silent through the last exchange, now spoke, voice low, almost reverent.

"I would remain."

Zorko blinked. Met his gaze.

"Of course."

Uvlius turned to Oberon. Took a step closer, movements precise. For the first time, the scholar of the Belfry seemed almost earnest.

He inclined his head.

"When you first saw the Shadow..."

Oberon answered without hesitation.

"It was not shadow."

"It was choice."

The rest of their words did not reach the orb. They were for them alone.

Zorko, understanding this, returned to his familiar role.

He faced the orb, voice now a soft echo.

"And thus concludes today’s appraisal."

A pause. The weight of the chamber lingered.

At last, with a faint, practiced smile, Zorko added,

"Tomorrow... perhaps something more fleeting."

The orb gave one final, steady pulse.

Complete.