Candle Flame Meaning Novels & Stories

I then concentrated all my energy on the tiny flame, willing it to grow. Slowly, the candle’s flame began to rise, growing brighter and larger until it became a roaring blaze right before my eyes. My heart pounded with pride and excitement. I had done it—I was really controlling fire! I spent many hours practicing with the flame, making it dance and flicker to my commands. When I finally blew it out, I felt both exhausted and exhilarated.

It looked like flowing water instead of an actual fire. “Blake, what about your flame?” Claire asked Blake Jr. to everyone’s curiosity. His was the most mysterious, being black in nature. “Uhm, well. Truth be told, I don’t know. It does not even produce any heat or cold. It’s like it’s not even here, but it is here. I’m a little confused about its methods.” Blake Jr. replied, a bit embarrassed over his flame. “All I can say is that it’s called the Heavenly Devouring Flame.”

I never got why it was the most meaningful flower that ever existed, not until he explained it to me. "Wow," I mumbled. "How could you . . ." "But most probably because roses signify Paula and Mamá. They're strong and I admired their independence. I'm also seeing that in . . ." he averted his gaze to me as I looked deep into his magnetic, chocolate-brown eyes. I couldn't look away; it was as if he was staring deep in my soul, "you."

After a short moment, they stopped breathing. "Banefire!" Harvey said when he saw what was happening before him. The so-called Banefire is a unique type of flame that the martial arts world concocted. It would keep on burning once it came in contact with human flesh, and it wouldn't even extinguish when water was doused on it. Those who were hit will die in pain. Something like this was forbidden in both the martial arts world and the underworld. Even if it appeared in a war, those who used it would be condemned by the righteous.

I just nodded, not adding anything else. We had just sparked up a fire to chase away the chill in our place when, out of nowhere, the power cut out. The room plunged into darkness, leaving only the glow of our stubborn little stove. Yvonne went off with the landlord to hunt down some candles. Wade was right on her heels, moving through the flickering shadows. I caught a glimpse of him trying to hug Yvonne, but she pushed him off in a flash. "Thomas isn't feeling great. You stay and take care of him," she said, her voice carrying just enough for me to catch it.

[Diana’s POV] “It eats flames?” I asked. Miya nodded. “But not just any flames. It’s young, so we must provide it with the most nutritious and sweet flames,” she said. “Flames are sweet? Flames have taste?” “Not for us, but for them,” Miya said. “So? Where can we find this sweet flame?” I asked. “Flowers,” Miya said. “Flowers? You mean nectar?” I asked. “No. The flames you get when you burn a flower.”

I had earlier on made a constructive prophecy that came out of simple imagination and suspicion about something relating to cold and ice on conjunction with the winter. Seemed I was right though, I’m always right. The winter comes with unimaginable cold, sometimes overwhelming and brutal. We all know that living things like to take cold substances but in ourselves, we don’t want to get extremely cold as the substance. How dare venture into the ice road or ice water, seems death is beaconing on you. No one with his or her right senses goes in contact with ice. That’s the same way it is with our lives. When we are cold within, we scare people away likewise when we are too hot. Life needs to be

“I’ve never seen them before.” “Well,” the vampire said, “at least now we know the silver flames are part of the prophecy—and that they can be helpful. More importantly, we know you need to be present in the real world for the upcoming war.” Charlotte leaned in, urgency sharpening her voice. “Do you know anything more about the silver flames... and the prophecy?” The vampire nodded. “The Silver Flame is extremely rare. It’s called the ‘Fire of Death.’ It’s a manifestation of one’s own power, usually surfacing when the person is ready to shed their current body and move into another.”

Emberflame. It had not been an ordinary fire. It had been lineage-bound. Glimmering gold, sovereign-defined flame that answered only to blood and crown. It had lived in the marrow of their queen, threaded through her veins like molten inheritance. When she fell—when he had watched her flame gutter and collapse into ash beneath a sky choked with cinders—the Emberflame had died with her. Not weakened. Not scattered. Extinguished entirely. He had felt that ending in his bones, a severing that rippled through the battlefield like the snapping of a divine tether.

A light. A keeper of flame. A name not carried in power, but in memory. And the fire, at last, remembered.