The sea was quiet. Too quiet.
Pearlbay, which had roared with fire and steel that morning, now lay smothered under silence broken only by gull cries and the faint slap of waves against broken docks. The air still smelled of salt and blood, and every corner of the village carried the weight of loss.
At the center of the square, lanterns were lit not for celebration, but for mourning. Families gathered in rows, their faces shadowed by flame. The injured rested against driftwood stretchers, while the dead lay wrapped in salt-soaked cloth, pearls placed over their eyes to guide their spirits back to the sea.
Elder Neria stood at the front, her staff planted firmly into the cracked stone. Her hair swayed with the wind, her face carved with grief yet iron dignity. She raised her voice, hoarse but steady, and the people bowed their heads.
