The storm never ceased.

In all of Liora Fairwind's years spent tending to the solitary lighthouse on the edge of nowhere, the storm only ever ebbed and flowed. Some days, her coast was covered in a fine mist of ocean spray with the storm thundering in the far distance. Other days, sometimes weeks, the storm raged on over her head while lightning crashed and thunder rolled to the point she wondered if the sky would fall down.

Even still, the storm went on and on.

It had been like this for as long as she could remember. When the old lighthouse keeper had eventually retired and she had taken his place, he could never recall a day without the company of the distant thunder.

Many ships had crashed on her coast, and many others had been saved by the light of her home.

As she battened down the hatches, sharp rain stung her face and plastered her dark hair across her cheeks. Tonight would be the beginning of the storm raging along the coast. It had come upon her suddenly, darkening the sky and blotting out the sun as angry black clouds rolled in. The harsh rain had quickly followed.

With the proper safety precautions in place, Liora retreated into the warmth of her little abode, a cabin attached to the lighthouse, shaking the rain from her coat as she latched the door behind her. The lighthouse's thick stone walls barely muffled the howl of the wind outside, but she was used to the ceaseless wailing of the storm. It had been her companion for years now—constant, watchful, ever-present.

She moved through her cozy space, lighting a lantern and setting it near the worn wooden table where a steaming cup of tea waited.

The cabin was small but well-lived-in, a sanctuary against the endless storm. The walls, thick stone softened by age, cradled the warmth of the fire that crackled steadily in the hearth. Its golden glow flickered over the wooden beams overhead, casting long shadows that swayed in time with the candle flames. The air was rich with the scent of salt and damp wood, mingling with the lingering aroma of cinnamon and cloves from the sweet buns she had baked that morning.

Books lined nearly every available surface—stacked in precarious piles beside the hearth, crammed onto shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, some well-worn, others bound in fine leather, their spines gleaming in the low light. She had collected them over the years, some salvaged from wreckage, others gifted by passing sailors before the war had made such trades dangerous. A heavy wooden desk sat beneath the window, its surface littered with half-used parchments, ink-stained quills, and journals filled with meticulous scrawls of weather patterns, ship names, and musings of a life spent in solitude.

Lanterns hung from iron hooks along the walls, their soft golden light banishing the gloom, illuminating the handwoven tapestries that warmed the stone. A sturdy table stood in the center of the room, the wood scarred with years of use, a half-eaten loaf of bread resting beside a small pot of honey. Dried herbs dangled from the rafters—lavender, rosemary, and sage—adding their delicate fragrance to the air.

Her bed, tucked against the far wall, was draped in thick quilts, the kind that held warmth even through the deepest of winter nights. A small, sea-worn chest sat at its foot, filled with knitted scarves, old letters, and keepsakes from the rare friendships she had forged with travelers who had once passed through.

Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, the cabin was a world of its own—safe, warm, untouched by war or worry. The war had yet to reach her distant stretch of coastline, but its influence bled into even the most forgotten corners of the world. A kingdom at war was a kingdom in fear, and fear had led to desperate laws—one of which banned books deemed "subversive." No tales of forbidden love, no accounts of lost civilizations, no philosophies that questioned the crown. But Liora had never paid the warnings much mind. Who would come looking for a lighthouse keeper's secrets?

Settling into her favorite chair, she opened the heavy, leather-bound book she had chosen for the evening. Its pages were old, the ink slightly faded, but she traced the words with reverence, letting herself slip into a world far from the one she knew.

Then something slammed against her door.

She startled, the book slipping from her fingers as the lantern's glow trembled against the walls. For a moment, she thought it was the wind, some stray branch or piece of wreckage torn loose by the gale. But then it came again—a heavy, desperate thud.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Shipwreck survivors were not uncommon along her stretch of shore, but the storm had only just begun. She hesitated for just a moment before grabbing her cloak and rushing toward the door, heart nearly in her throat.

As she unlatched the door, the wind nearly ripped it from her grip. Rain lashed her face, the cold biting through her sleeves as she peered into the dark.

And then she saw him.

The figure on her doorstep was barely more than a shadow in the storm, hunched against the cold, his cloak hanging in tattered, soaked rags around him. His face, what little she could see of it through the darkness, was bruised and smeared with blood. He swayed on his feet, clearly struggling to remain upright. His hand reached out for her, and lightning crashed in the background.

Liora did what any rational person would do when a battered, mysterious man appeared at her doorstep in the middle of a never-ending storm.

She grabbed the first thing within reach—a lemon from the bowl on her entryway table—and hurled it at his head.

With a wet thunk, the lemon struck him square in the chest.

The man grunted, staggered slightly, then blinked at her in what could only be described as exhausted disbelief. For a long, horrified second, Liora just stared at him, her hand still raised as if debating throwing another.

"Oh—oh no," she gasped, dropping the second lemon she'd unconsciously grabbed. "Oh, gods—I didn't mean to—are you okay?"

The man swayed again. "Did you just—throw a lemon at me?" His voice was hoarse, rough as if he had spent hours shouting against the wind.

"You tried to grab me. I panicked!" Liora squeaked, lunging forward just as his knees buckled. She barely managed to catch him under the arms, staggering under his weight as she frantically tried to drag him inside. "I thought you were a ghost or a—oh hells, you're freezing—please don't die, I'll feel terrible—"

With considerable effort, she half-dragged, half-carried him over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind them. Rainwater pooled beneath him as he slumped against the nearest chair, his breathing ragged, his entire frame trembling from the cold.

Liora darted around him like a flustered bird, grabbing blankets, towels, anything that might help, all the while mumbling a string of apologies.

"I am so sorry," she groaned, pressing a warm cloth into his hands. "I've had countless beings show up on my doorstep. I've never had someone try to grab me as soon as they see me, though. Usually, it's just—broken mastheads, lost gulls, sometimes a crab. Never a man."

The stranger exhaled a weak laugh, wincing as he shifted. "Glad to know I rank somewhere between a seagull and a crustacean."

"Oh, hush," she huffed, grabbing another blanket and draping it over him. "If you're well enough to be sarcastic, you're well enough to drink tea. Stay here. Don't move. Not that you can move. But don't."

She hurried toward the fireplace, already setting a kettle over the flames, heart still hammering from the rush of panic and shame. A shipwrecked man had washed up on her doorstep, and what was the first thing she had done?

She had pelted him with citrus.

This was not how she had imagined this evening going.

WC: 1352