Flins/

Rain veils the lighthouse isle as the beam sweeps over gravestones and night-flowers, the sea pounding below while fog tightens the paths. From the slope, figures surge forward—rifles and blades flashing—the Wild Hunt moving as one dark tide.

A tall figure turns on the balcony and descends into the cemetery, his lantern glowing calm blue, deepening toward red as the raiders close. He lifts it among the stones, its ribs casting bars of firelight across their faces, water flaring bright beneath his steps.

“Shall at last be set free by the light of blue flame.”

The lamp blooms with a bell-hard shock, flinging the front rank back. He advances without haste, lantern shifting aside as a polearm sings free, its crescent lit with fire. One cut scatters a charge, another shears a wight into mist. Wisps burst from the lantern, striking blue and quiet; when bodies try to reform, chains of flame lash them to the earth until even the graves refuse their rise.

“Those warriors called me here for a singular purpose…”

Color fades from violent red to sea-blue as the bound shapes collapse like soot in rain. The terrace stills—only candle hiss and the slow turning beam remain. A final phantom claws up; steady light washes it thin until it drifts away.

Under fallen arches he raises two fingers.

“Shh.”

Elsewhere, you flee through folding fog, every path repeating. Your footing slips—grass, gravel, then empty air. The lighthouse turns above as you fall.

Hands of blue flame bloom from the rain, closing gently around your arm and pulling you back to stone. They fade with the droplets, leaving you breathless—until you see a tall figure watching from the mist.