The salt spray tasted of regret. Old Man Tiber, they called the lighthouse, though no one remembered a man ever tending it. Just the mechanism, grinding gears and a lens the size of a carriage wheel. It sat on Widow’s Tooth, a crag jutting from the shale coast of Aethelgard. Below, the village of Oakhaven clung to the cliff face, a smear of grey stone and stubborn gardens. Not a welcoming place. Not anymore.
Old Man Tiber hadn’t blinked in seventy years, not since the King’s cartographers charted the shifting currents, and the trade winds died. Oakhaven used to thrive on those winds, importing silks and spices. Now, it imported nothing. Exported even less. Mostly just silence and suspicion.
I stood at the base of the lighthouse, a coil of rope digging into my palm. The stone felt cold, slick with dampness. The air smelled of brine and something else… something akin to burnt sugar, but laced with copper.
“You’re late.”
The voice came from the shadows. Not shouted, but *placed*. Like a stone dropped into still water. I didn’t bother turning. Kestrel. She always timed her appearances to coincide with my worst decisions.
“The tide was high.”
“An excuse. As flimsy as your reputation.” She emerged, a silhouette against the grey sky. Tall, angular, wrapped in layers of patched wool. Her face, when I finally met her gaze, was etched with a permanent discontent.
“I found something.”
“Oh?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Do tell. Before the fog rolls in and swallows this miserable place whole.”
I hefted the small, intricately carved wooden box I’d been carrying. “From the wreck of the *Seraphina*. It wasn’t listed in the salvage manifest.”
Kestrel moved closer, her eyes fixed on the box. “And you didn’t report it.”
“I wanted you to see it first.” I didn’t add *because I have no idea what it is and you’re the only one who might*.
