Silvran

The Rogue Elf and the Weight of Gold

In the oldest winters, when the world was balanced and people still believed in kindness and generosity, there lived an elf called Silvran, once counted among the merriest of the North. He had nimble hands, a bright laugh, and a clever mind for counting grain and measuring roads. At first, he used his talents to help villages trade fairly and keep their bridges standing strong.

But praise is a dangerous sugar, and Silvran tasted too much of it.

Each time a bell rang in his honour, each time a village bowed before him for fixing their mills or guiding their caravans, the elf’s reflection grew larger in his eyes. Soon, he no longer worked for joy, nor for Christmas cheer, but for himself alone. He began to speak not of we, but of me. He admired his shadow more than the children’s smiles.

“I keep the world running,” Silvran told himself. “Why should I not own it?”

So, he took control of the roads, the ports, the counting houses, and the wires that carried messages between towns. He twisted the levers quietly, and people noticed only when it was too late. Tolls rose. Coins vanished. Bread became thin. Laughter grew scarce.

Village by village, Silvran travelled, smiling as he went. He took every penny he could find, leaving honest folk poorer with each visit. When his pockets grew full, he stuffed coins into the lining of his coat. When his coat bulged, he hid gold beneath his tall green hat. When even that failed him, he strapped sacks of jewellery to his back and tied paintings and silverware with rope until he stooped beneath the weight.

The people grew sadder with every passing Christmas. Candles burned low. Songs faded. Children received empty stockings, while Silvran sailed the seas upon his shining yachts, each worth more than a village, each heavier than the last.

Across vast waters he travelled, his million-pound ships groaning beneath cases of jewels, chests of gold, and stolen art wrapped in silk. The good people watched silently, and patiently knowing that irregularity in a world that requires balance won’t bode well.

One winter night, when the moon was thin, the world shifted on its axis. Something had snapped and nature had to rebalance itself.

A great wave rose, and Silvran’s grandest yacht tilted, then cracked as it was sucked beneath the sea.

Silvran tried to swim, but his coat and his hat were filled with coins, and the weight that had consumed him became the weight that claimed him.

When dawn came, the people of the world gathered and raised the broken ship from the depths. They did not open its holds. They did not reclaim the treasures. Instead, they set the ruined vessel upon the shore, rusting and barnacled, as a warning.

Children were brought to see it. Adults told the tale in hushed voices.

“Look,” they said, “at what happens to those who misuse power, trust, or fame. Look at the elf who took too much and left nothing behind but sorrow.”

And that Christmas, though the world was poorer in gold, it was richer in wisdom. Candles were lit again. Bread was shared. Songs returned.

For joy, unlike gold, grows lighter the more it is given away.