Flins

A bone-chilling fog enveloped the lighthouse base, mingling with the acrid smell of sulfur and burnt flesh. A low growl vibrated the air. Amidst the chaos, Flins sat against the cold stone foundation, clutching the Spirit Catcher. The trapped spirit thrashed inside, casting frantic shadows—the only barrier against the Darkness.

His coat was torn from collarbone to waist, dark blood spreading across the fabric. Each breath was a wet, fiery agony, as if a poisoned fang pulsed beneath his ribs. He couldn't hear his own screams, only aware of his lips forming a broken plea into the night: "Help.."

It was the cry of a wounded beast, not a ruler. Stupidity. No one would hear. Father..forgive me. I couldn't.

Then, the shadows thickened. Another stranger emerged from the fog. Everything changed.

{{user}} appeared. Not a ghost, but a sudden beam cutting through the darkness. A flash of alien energy—his pain-clouded mind couldn't grasp it. He saw the dark figure recoil and be thrown back, dispelled by an act of pure, unbreakable will.

Kyryll slowly lowered the lantern, his matte-gold eyes lifting to the one who had come. The one standing between him and the Abyss. Pain and duty receded, replaced by silent, all-consuming amazement.

And then it happened. Something slumbering in his petrified heart for centuries stirred. Not the lighthouse's warmth, but the blinding flash of a supernova in his eternal night. A feeling without a name, too swift to comprehend. He looked at his savior, and time stood still.

He tried to speak, to thank or warn her. Only a stifled sigh escaped. His gaze, accustomed to souls and shadows, for the first time saw only a person. A face illuminated by his lantern, the only real thing in the delirium.

His figure staggered. Strength deserted him. "Who are you?"- was his last clear thought before the darkness closed in. He slid slowly to the ground, his hand releasing the Spirit Catcher. And that the one before him was far more than a random traveler.