The storm had come out of nowhere.

One moment, the sky had been clear enough to see the stars, the sea calm beneath his ship's prow. The next, black clouds devoured the heavens, swallowing the moonlight in one violent gulp. Wind howled like a beast roused from slumber, and the rain struck with such force it felt like shards of glass against his skin.

His ship hadn't stood a chance.

The waves rose like towers, crashing against the hull with a hunger that no man could fight. The rain was blinding, hammering into his face as he roared orders to his crew—hold fast, adjust the sails, steer away from the damned coastline! But the sea had already made its choice. The ship groaned, the wood screaming in protest as the mast cracked like a splintering bone. The deck tilted violently. His men scrambled, clawing for rope, for stability—some succeeded, others did not.

Elias fought to keep control, to keep them alive, but the storm did not bargain. It did not yield.

With a final, merciless wave, his ship met the jagged rocks. The impact sent him flying, the world flipping as the sea swallowed him whole.

Cold.

It was the kind of cold that seeped into the marrow of his bones, the kind that did not loosen its grip no matter how fiercely he fought. The salt burned his throat as he broke the surface, coughing, gasping. Wood and debris floated around him, the wreckage of what had once been his home. Somewhere in the distance, men screamed. Then, one by one, the voices faded, lost to the roaring sea.

He was alone.

The tide dragged him toward the shore, slamming him against the rough, unforgiving rocks. His limbs barely obeyed as he clawed his way forward, lungs burning, muscles aching. Step by step, inch by inch, he staggered toward the darkened cliffs beyond.

Then, through the curtain of rain, he saw it.

A light, steady and unwavering, cutting through the storm.

A lighthouse.

It was the only sign of life in this forsaken place, and he had little choice but to move toward it. His body threatened to collapse with every step, exhaustion coiling around him like a vice. But he had survived the sea—he would not die on its shores.

By the time he reached the lighthouse's door, he could barely stand. He pounded a fist against it, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The wood was slick beneath his fingers, the wind screaming in his ears. His vision blurred, the world tilting—

The door swung open.

For a moment, all he saw was warm light. Then, a woman.

She was younger than he expected, dark-haired and barefoot, her sleeves rolled up as if she'd been in the middle of work—though the ink stains on her fingers suggested it wasn't hard labor. The smell of parchment and something sweet wafted from inside, a sharp contrast to the salt and blood clinging to him.

How long had it been since he'd seen a woman? Least of all such a beautiful one. What compelled him to reach out to her, he wasn't sure, but he found himself extending a hand toward her face.

Her expression shifted in an instant—from shock to alarm to something dangerously close to panic.

Then, something small and round hurtled straight at his face.

A lemon.

It had hit his temple with an embarrassingly solid thud.

Now, sitting in her little cabin attached to the lighthouse, he watched her busy herself with tending to him. She hadn't stopped talking since the lemon incident.

"It's been so long since another human has been here," she said, words coming out jumbled with the speed of her speech. "The place is a mess, oh my gods. I...wait, the tea!"

Amusement rippled through him despite the lingering aching that echoed through his bones. His throat still burned from the briny sea water. "I didn't catch your name, lass."

"It's Liora," she called over her shoulder, already halfway to the small stove where a kettle was beginning to rattle. She made a noise somewhere between a curse and a yelp as she grabbed a towel to yank it off the heat. "And you're—oh, storm and stars, the cups—where did I put the cups?"

Elias watched in dazed fascination as she bustled around the cabin, her bare feet padding against the wooden floor. It was, in fact, not a mess as she had claimed—though it had the kind of lived-in clutter that spoke of someone who had spent years alone with only books and the ocean for company.

Bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed with worn tomes and loose pages filled with notes. A sturdy wooden desk sat beneath a lantern's glow, its surface covered in half-written parchments, ink bottles, and a handful of quills, some of which had rolled onto the floor. The air smelled of parchment and salt, but beneath that lingered something unexpected—cinnamon, maybe, or cloves. It was a sharp contrast to the damp, briny chill still clinging to his skin, a scent he associated with cramped ship cabins, rotting rope, and the ever-present bite of the sea. Here, everything felt... untouched by the harshness of the world outside. As though the storm could rage for a hundred years, and this small refuge would remain unchanged.

She spun back toward him, a teacup in each hand, her dark eyes bright with nervous energy. "Right. Tea. Here."

Elias took the cup, his fingers brushing against hers. She was warm. Too warm. Or perhaps he was still too cold.

Liora pulled up a chair beside him, tucking her legs beneath herself as she finally—finally—paused long enough to look at him properly.

He must've been a sight. His clothes were still damp, his long coat ruined by the salt and sea. The cut on his forehead throbbed, though whether it was from his shipwreck or the damned lemon, he wasn't entirely sure.

She exhaled, then winced. "I really am sorry about that."

Elias took a slow sip of tea, relishing the warmth as it burned down his throat. Then, quirking a brow, he drawled, "I'll live, I think. Though I can't say I've ever been welcomed with a citrus to the skull before."

Liora groaned, burying her face in her hands. "In my defense, I thought you were a sea monster. Or a burglar. Or—well, I don't know what I thought! You knocked so loudly, and I panicked! The lemon was just... there."

His lips twitched. "You keep lemons by the door for emergencies, then?"

"Well, I do now." A bubbling nervous laugh spilled from her throat.

At that, Elias let out a low chuckle, the sound surprising even himself. It had been a long, long time since he'd laughed—longer still since he'd been in a place that felt... safe.

Even if it did come with the risk of airborne produce.

Liora hesitated, then glanced toward the window, where the storm still raged beyond the lighthouse's glow. "We're in for it now. I don't know how long this storm will linger. Could be days. Could be weeks. That's how it is around here, you know. You're lucky you made it to shore," she murmured, quieter now. "Many don't."

Elias sobered at that. He had no reply, not one that mattered. Because she was right. He was lucky. Or perhaps cursed. Either way, he was here. And the ghosts of those he'd lost still lingered, waiting just beyond the edges of the light.

Liora shifted, filling the silence. "You never told me your name."

Elias rolled the cup between his palms, watching the steam curl into the air. Then, with a weary smile, he finally answered,

"Elias Vayne. And it seems, Liora, I owe you my life."

WC: 1289