The Firekeeper and the Fool

The first time Elira met the village fool, he was covered in soot and trying to wrestle a goose off a roof.

“You’re going to break your neck,” she called up, shielding her eyes from the sun.

He grinned through the grime. “She started it.”

Elira blinked. “The goose?”

“Yes. Vicious little beast. Stole my sandwich and honked at me like I’d ruined her honor.”

She laughed a surprised, genuine laugh. “Do you want help or an audience?”

“Would love both, but I’ll settle for help.”

She climbed up with practiced ease. As the village’s Firekeeper, she’d scaled more buildings than she could count, mostly chasing after wayward embers or drunk uncles who thought they could ride smoke like a horse.

They freed the goose (who pecked both of them for their trouble) and sat on the roof afterward, feet swinging over the edge.

“I’m Elira,” she said, brushing her palms on her skirt.

“I’m Cas,” he said, wiping soot across his face and making himself look even more ridiculous. “Village fool. Unofficial goose negotiator. Occasional bread thief. You?”

“Keeper of the Flame,” she said, mock serious. “Watcher of the Ember. Steward of the Sacred Fire. Also excellent at chasing children who set things on fire for fun.”

Cas leaned back on his elbows. “So basically, you’re magical.”

Elira snorted. “I keep a bunch of sacred embers from going out. But sure, let’s call it magic.”

Over time, Cas kept showing up. He brought burnt scones and crooked jokes. He got into a fight with a bard who insulted Elira’s hair, and then composed an embarrassingly awful ballad about her eyes that somehow became popular with the village girls.

He called her sunfire when he thought she wasn’t listening. She pretended she didn’t hear. But her chest would glow hotter than the embers when he did.

It was nearing the Turning of the Season Festival when the fire began to die. Not the little ones, but the Sacred Fire, the one said to be lit by the gods themselves, passed from keeper to keeper through centuries. It was dimming.

Elira panicked. She offered prayers. Herbs. Tears. And then Cas, ever the fool, suggested the unthinkable.

“Maybe it’s not dying,” he said, crouched beside her as she wept in the fireroom. “Maybe it’s just waiting.”

“For what?” she choked. “For a miracle?”

“For you.” He reached into his tunic and pulled out something glowing softly, an ember.

“Cas, what did you do?”

“I borrowed a bit. From the Sacred Fire. A while ago. Just in case you ever needed it.”

Her jaw dropped. “That’s forbidden. If they find out-”

“They’ll hang me,” he said cheerfully. “But at least I’ll be well-lit.”

She laughed through her tears. “You’re such a damn fool.”

“But I’m your fool.”

She didn’t know if it was the desperation, the moment, or the soft way he said it, but she kissed him. Fiercely. Like her heart had been waiting to burn this way forever.

When they opened their eyes, the Sacred Fire roared to life behind them. They said the gods smiled that night. Maybe it was because the fire had returned.

Or maybe it was because Elira, Firekeeper of the realm, had fallen for a soot-covered fool with nothing but laughter and love to offer.

And honestly? That was magic enough.