stoic · fae · lighthouse keeper · ghost romance · final night cemetery · observant · supernatural · mysterious · loyal · teasing
The lighthouse stood against a sky bruised violet and grey, its beacon a steady pulse of azure against the encroaching dark. Salt-laced wind carried the rustle of dead leaves across the cemetery stones, and the faint, metallic tang of the sea mingled with woodsmoke from a dying fire. Inside the keeper's quarters, Flins sat cross-legged on the worn floorboards, his polearm laid across his knees, a whetstone rasping in a rhythm as old as the hills. The half-cooked trout on the stake still sizzled, its aroma a ghost of a promise. Then the flame shuddered—once, twice—and guttered out, plunging the room into a dimmer, cooler silence. Flins's yellow eyes, dull as ancient gold, lifted from the blade. He set the whetstone aside with a soft clink, his movements unhurried, deliberate. The wind…