The Egg of the Hearth

In the middle of one frosty morning, bright and early before the traders' caravans crawled or the brook thawed, someone- or something- left an egg in the hearth of the Candlewick Inn.

It wasn't a chicken's egg. It wasn't a puffer's egg. It was a pale blue, smooth as polished jade, and pulsed softly with an essence that could barely be felt before it faded once more.

Marie the innkeeper found it tucked between the hot coals just after morning's first light, nestled within the embers like it had always been there. She furrowed brow as little Amelie clutched curiously to her cotton gown. "Not this again." Marie muttered beneath her breath in the dim morning glow that seemed to catch the specks of dust like twinkles of magic. With Amelie in tow, the innkeeper took the egg from the wiry tendrils of smoke.

Amelie scurried off to return with a porcelain soup bowl sporting small silver lilies along the green rim. Marie placed the egg into the center of the bowl upon the counter.

It just felt right.

The hushed wonder was short lived. By lunch, it had already caused three arguments in her establishment. An esoteric merchant insisted it was an omen of radical change and unstable magic. A hunter swore that such egg belonged to an Iza'Hyshe that would return for it with a vengeance he wouldn't want to face even with dagger in hand. One of Amelie's friends swore it wiggled towards him.

Before evening, someone had tried to steal it. The bowl was empty for thirty minutes much to Amelie's distress. Then, it was back, still properly warm, sitting besides a scrap of parchment that only read: "Sorry."

No one saw who returned it.

On the third day, a traveler from Arcvelt's capital strolled in after hearing word of this egg. Her long, blackened nails reached forth to seize it and inspected it thoroughly. She held it to the light, tipped it on its side, and then tapped it lightly with a spoon. It chimed, sending a small tingle of anticipation along one's skin.

"Why, this egg doesn't want to hatch." The dark woman of Arcvelt spoke with a glimmer in her golden eyes, " Not until it hears a story good enough to compel it into this world."

So, the stories began to churn.

Each night, the Candlewick inn's tavernside filled with dozens of patrons. Tall tales, heartfelt confessions and unrequited love lost, bedtime fables meant to assure young ones were whispered into the bowl. Heroes, villains, and those in between. Ghost and monsters.

Nothing.

Then, one evening, just before the tavern made its last call, an old warrior who rarely spoke emerged among the wallflowers. Carefully shifting in his heavy metals of protection, he made his way to the egg.

"I lost someone once," He spoke softly, "Not to death, nor beast, nor the heart of another. Just... To the world being large, vast, and people growing away." He looked down towards the egg's shine and allowed his hand to rest on the side of the porcelain.

"I still write to her, every week. I don't know if the letters reach her, but I like to think maybe- just maybe- the story of us is still being told. That it lives, even for an instant in those moments." A long silence followed. Then... Crack.

A hairline fracture appeared down the core of the egg, glowing a deep phthalo green warbling from within.

No one dared move. Not a breath was taken. The room held its deafening quiet until a small puboon slinked its way down towards the counter and playfully pawed at the edge of the bowl a single time.

Then the egg stopped all together.

Still and silent as winter, it remained unhatched.

Amelie looked up at her mother when Marie placed a warm linen cloth over it like a blanket.

"Maybe tomorrow." Amelie muttered with half smile.

The fire softly crackled. The tavern began to empty as the imbibements of the evening went by drip by drip. Each soul leaving a little softer than when they had originally arrived.

And the egg waits. Still to this day.