The Lantern and the Illusion

A Fable about Wetiko and Loosh and how sneaky it is.

The Lantern and the Illusion

Once, in a land of endless twilight, there lived a young woman named Elara, whose soul carried a lantern unlike any other. It was not a lantern of glass or flame, nor did it require oil or wick. It was a light woven from within—a soft, steady glow that warmed everyone walking beside her. She tended to it with devotion, feeding it with love, creativity, and the quiet knowing of her heart. Wherever she wandered, her lantern warmed the world, and people gathered near, drawn to its glow.

But shadows, too, are drawn to the light.

One evening, a man approached her in the hush of dusk. His words were golden, and his eyes were full of admiration. “Your lantern is magnificent,” he told her. It must be protected. Let me help you carry it.”

Elara trusted his kindness and let him step into her circle of warmth.

At first, he marvelled at the way her light illuminated the path. But soon, he began to stand before it, casting his own shadow upon the ground.

“Your glow is too bright,” he would say, shifting his weight so that her lantern shone upon him instead. “Let me guide it so it does not blind others.”

So, little by little, Elara allowed him to shape how she held her lantern. She dimmed it when he wished, turned it away when he asked, and let him step between her and its glow until, one day, she could barely see it at all.

Yet still, she followed him.

Without realising it, she had begun to believe what he whispered:

That her lantern was dangerous unless managed by another. That its warmth was only valuable if given freely to those around her.

That without him, she would be lost in the dark.

And so, she walked his path instead of her own.

Whenever Elara felt joy or creative flow, he would sow seeds of doubt, conflict, and confusion. One day, he praised her success; the next, he questioned her motives. When she felt strong, he withdrew in silent disapproval. When she felt vulnerable, he reappeared, offering just enough affection to keep her tethered.

The cycle repeated, an invisible web tightening around her.

She began to shrink within herself.

Her laughter grew quieter. Her steps became heavier. She questioned her worth, wondering if she was too sensitive, too demanding—if she was too much.

But deep down, something didn’t sit right.

This wasn’t love.

It was a slow, suffocating drain as if the very life force within her was being siphoned away.

As time passed, the road became unfamiliar, the air thick with shadows.

Elara no longer wandered with wonder. The trees that had once whispered secrets of the world now loomed over her, twisting into shapes she did not recognise.

Her lantern no longer led the way—it flickered weakly behind him, reduced to an ember. She felt cold, though she did not know why. She felt lost, though she had not strayed. And every time she tried to lift her lantern, to hold it as she once had, he would frown and step in front of it.

“Not now,” he would say. “The time isn’t right. The light is too much.” She was convinced she was not right; she was not enough. She would fail and end up alone. For he was the only one,

who could see her, and she would be nothing without him; this is how he controlled her.

So she lowered it.

Again.

And again.

Until one day, when the forest grew so dense that even the stars could no longer be seen, she reached for her lantern—and found nothing.

Her hands grasped at emptiness.

Her glow was gone. A chill ran through her. Desperately, she turned to the man beside her, but as she looked into his eyes, she saw something she had never noticed before.

His hands were full of lights—not his own but stolen. They were small, dimmed flames from others who had walked beside him, their warmth fading, their glow hidden beneath his grasp. And among them, barely visible, was hers.

The truth struck her like a winter wind.

He had never been drawn to her light to cherish it. He had been drawn to consume it. And she had given it freely, believing he knew better than she how to carry it.

But it wasn’t until her world collapsed—everything fell, the enchanted mirrors were shattered, and she walked away—that she finally saw it for what it was. She had been living in a carefully crafted mirage, not just in this relationship but in everything society had conditioned her to believe. Success, security, admiration—she had been taught that these things meant she had made it, that they would bring peace, fulfilment, and safety.

But they hadn’t. She had not been held in love because they were built on shifting sands. She had been held in illusion.

And this was no ordinary deception.

It was ancient. Intelligent. Predatory.

It had a name. Wetiko. Wetiko energy is the silent architect of suffering.

It doesn’t take—it convinces you to give.

It doesn’t force—it seduces.

It appears as success, whispers as ambition, and cloaks itself in aspiration.

It mimics abundance, shaping itself into the image of everything one is told they should desire. And the world believes it.

People chase its shimmering mirage, thinking they are claiming their power.

But they are merely offering it up.

They run the endless wheel—seeking, mimicking, accumulating—never realising that the more they play the game, the further they drift from themselves. Because Wetiko cannot create, it can only be consumed. It convinces people that their source is outside of them. That success is measured, worth is proven, and the approval of others bestows power. That to stop running means to fail. Stepping outside the illusion means becoming nothing. And so they keep feeding it.

A fire ignited in Elara’s chest, not out of fear but of knowing. With every breath, it grew, spreading through her limbs, breaking through the fog of forgetting. She did not beg for her lantern back or plead for answers.

Instead, she felt her soul release with a roar. This primal sound was shared by every soul who had ever given up their light, believing they were unworthy of its glow.

The sound shook the trees, scattered the shadows, and tore the stolen lanterns from his grasp.

And there—rising before her, whole and untamed—was her own.

Blazing back to life, unfaltering, unwavering. She reached for it, and the forest changed when her fingers closed around its warmth. The tangled trees dissolved, revealing an open sky. The suffocating mist evaporated, and she saw—

She had never been trapped at all.

The path had always been there.

She had forgotten to trust her own light. Elara did not look back at the man who had once stood between her and herself. Betraying her, casting her aside when she was no longer his food supply.

She did not curse him, nor did she seek to punish him.

She walked away.

And as she did, she noticed something—she was alone.

Not in sadness.

Not in exile.

But in sovereignty.

The crowds who had once gathered around her lantern, feeding on its warmth, had drifted away, unable to bask in a light they could no longer claim as their own. She saw how they had always reached for her flame—not to share in it but to borrow it when they had none of their own.

She had mistaken their presence for love. But true love does not seek to possess the light of another.

True love walks beside it with a lantern of its own. As Elara stepped forward, she knew she would rather walk alone in her own glow than be surrounded by those who only knew how to take. As she wandered, she began seeing the world as it was.

It was not just one man who had tried to steal her light.

The entire kingdom operated this way.

Some carried their own lanterns—and some had none, who survived by convincing others to dim theirs.

They did not steal outright. That would be too obvious. Instead, they made the light-bearers doubt themselves.

They whispered that their glow was too much, blinding, and selfish.

That light was only valuable when given away, never when kept.

And so, the brightest ones—the ones who could illuminate the whole world—became the easiest to deceive.

Because they believed the lie that their light did not belong to them.

But Elara no longer believed.

She no longer sought crowds to validate her glow. She no longer mistook empty hands reaching for her lantern as love.

She no longer gave her warmth to those who would only use it to keep their own shadows hidden.

She simply shone.

And those who were meant to walk with her—those who carried their own flames—found her, not because she called to them, but because her light spoke a language only the awakened could hear.

She was no longer fuel for the hungry ghosts. She was no longer a servant to the shadows. She was no longer lost in the illusion.

She was sovereign.

She was free.

The Moral of the Story

The world will not tell you that you are powerful. It will not remind you that your light is yours alone. Because if you truly knew, you could not be controlled. You would no longer hand over your fire to those without carrying their own. You would no longer be a source for the system that feeds on the lost and the seeking.

You would be. And that, more than anything, is what the world fears most—

A soul that remembers it is never meant to be owned.

By Delahrose

Author•Astrologer•Alchemist