Songs of Night

The Widow’s Lantern was alive with light and laughter, a stark contrast to the heavy darkness and choking fog that lay thick over Mystic Hallow. The warmth of the hearth crackled, sending embers dancing up the chimney, while the golden glow of countless lanterns illuminated the faces of the villagers who had gathered inside. The alehouse was packed, its sturdy wooden tables crowded with mugs of frothy ale, glasses of apple whiskey, plates of hearty stew, and the company of those who knew well the value of such nights.

A fiddle sang out a lively tune, its notes swirling through the air in contrast to the mournful wind that whipped through the village streets. A drummer tapped out a steady beat, and a flutist added a merry lilt, weaving together the fabric of a song that stirred the hearts of all who listened. Laughter bubbled up from the corners of the room, where old friends shared stories, and young couples whispered to each other, their eyes bright with the joy of the night. Yet outside the light of the hearth, past the voices of song and celebration, baleful wraiths hunted for sorrow and loss.

Elara Marston, the stitcher of the ship Raven’s Call, stood with her fiddle tucked under her chin. With a pint and a glass resting on a table near her knee, she led the music with a practiced hand, her bow gliding effortlessly across the strings. Her cheeks were flushed with the warmth of the alehouse—and perhaps a bit more from the ale and apple whiskey—and her eyes sparkled in the light of the fire. It was a night to be alive, to be among friends and neighbors, and to let the troubles of the world melt away in the glow of music and good company.

Yet beneath the celebration, there was an undercurrent of tension—a subtle unease that had nothing to do with the merriment inside the Widow’s Lantern and everything to do with the darkness that lay beyond its walls. It was one of the darkest of nights—a night when the moon hid behind thick clouds and the stars refused to show themselves. A night when the shadows seemed to move of their own accord, and the line between the living and the dead grew perilously thin.

“Where is Uncle Thorne?” someone murmured, their voice low but tinged with concern. “He should have been here by now.”

A woman, her hands wringing the edge of her shawl, peered anxiously out the window, her breath fogging the glass. “Perhaps he’s just running late. It’s a dark night, after all.”

The villagers of Mystic Hallow knew well why they gathered on such nights. It was a tradition as old as the village itself, born of necessity and steeped in the lore passed down from generation to generation. On the darkest of nights, when the world seemed to hold its breath and the very air felt charged with malevolence, the people of Mystic Hallow came together to drink, to sing, and to play music with all the passion their hearts could muster.

For it was said that music, filled with the raw emotion of those who played it, could keep the threats at bay. The ghosts that haunted the cliffs and the spirits that wandered the woods dared not cross the threshold of the alehouse when it was filled with the sound of joyous song and the laughter of the living. Even the sea tainted and ghosts, those feared creatures of the night, could be held at bay by the power of a melody sung with fervor and belief.

Elara’s fiddle took on a mournful tune, a change in the atmosphere that did not go unnoticed by the crowd. The music slowed, the notes stretching out, pulling at the hearts of those who listened. A few of the villagers joined in with their own instruments, adding layers of melancholy to the song—a tribute to the unseen fears that they all shared but did not speak aloud. It became a song of lost crew and ships claimed by the sea. As the song drew on and the drinking slowed, it was Elara’s cousin who broke the heavy mood in the air.

“Come, now,” Victoria called out, her voice carrying over the soft strains of the music. “Let us not dwell in sorrow! I am far too in my cups, and our fine townsfolk too glorious and lively for such sadness.”

“There is no happiness without sorrow, Cousin Victoria. And if you were not so far in your cups, you would recognize that your goodly wife has been giving you bedding eyes for near on an hour now. Pay her mind, and I will pay mind to my fiddle.”

The laughter that broke in the crowd was punctuated with Elara acquiescing to her cousin’s request by again returning her fiddle to a song of higher tempo, even if she did not feel such joy in her heart this night.

Yet, despite the celebration, eyes still turned to the door, waiting for Old Man Thorne to step inside, to take his place among them as he always had. But the door remained closed, and the night grew darker still.

One of the villagers, a young man with a lantern in hand, stepped forward, his face set with determination. “I’ll go and look for him,” he said. “Someone should.”

A murmur of agreement ran through the crowd, and a few others prepared to join him, lanterns in hand, ready to brave the darkness in search of their friend. But before they could leave, Elara’s voice rang out again, this time with a note of command.

“Wait,” she said, her fiddle still in hand. “We do not go into the night alone on nights like this. We stay together, and we keep the music playing. If Old Man Thorne is out there, he’ll find his way to the light. But we must keep it shining for him. He may be by another hearth and unable to find safe passage in the night.”

The villagers hesitated, then nodded in agreement. They knew the truth of her words. On the darkest of nights, the light and the music were their strongest protection, their way of guiding the lost back home. And so they stayed, their lanterns burning brightly, their voices lifted in song, their instruments playing with all the passion they could summon.

The night wore on, and the music never faltered. The villagers sang of love and loss, of hope and fear, their voices intertwining with the melodies that flowed from their instruments. Outside, the darkness pressed close, but it did not enter. The Widow’s Lantern stood as a bastion against the night, a place where the living could gather and keep the ancient threats at bay.

And though Old Man Thorne never arrived, the villagers knew that their songs had reached him, wherever he was. They sang for him, for each other, and for the safety of all who called Mystic Hallow home.

As the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, the villagers finally let their music fade, their voices falling silent as the night began to retreat. The darkest of nights had passed, and they had faced it together, with song, with light, and with the unbreakable bonds of their shared history.