Night laid a film of pewter over the cliffs, muting even the restless hiss of the distant breakers. Draven and Korin stood together at the very edge, boots scuffing grit that wanted to slide into black infinity. Frost-starred clouds drifted low enough to snag on jagged promontories, turning every breath into a faint plume that vanished before it could warm the air.
Between them, the Lantern hung on Korin's chest like a captive sun. Its surface—usually a steady topaz—throbbed with anxious light, each pulse brighter than the one before. The pattern reminded Draven of a heart forced to sprint beneath too-thin ribs. He counted the beats, noting the erratic skips.
Then, without warning, the glow collapsed inward. Glass went clear, metal borders dulled. The Lantern looked hollow, as if someone had unstitched the light from inside.
Korin sucked in a breath sharp enough to sting. "I see him," he said, eyes gone wide and faraway.
