Day 39 of Yearfall, 506 D.A. ملاحظة قصصية · الجزء 3 من 3

The storm finally reached us, waves frothing with hatred and lashing at our shores.

Standing on the lighthouse platform, I felt the gusts rip at my beard and coat. I must still have salt embedded in my skin from that night's winds.

The light inside my covered oil lamp flickered, locked in a fearful dance, twisting and shifting in an effort not to be snuffed out... a repetitive plea with no one to listen, an act soaked in vain, not unlike my own.

Light the fire. Stoke the flames. Wipe down the binoculars. Look out. Light the fire again. It was pointless. The storm smothered all light.

I helplessly held on to the railing, gazing out at the night. That's when I saw it.

Rolling hills, not made of water, but made of countless bodies, rising and falling with the storm's rhythm. A wave to end us. A wave to crush us. A wave to dye the ocean red. A wave of Drak.

I dropped my binoculars and picked up my boots. If this were our death sentence, I would not die a lighthousekeeper.