By noon, the light had taken on an odd, washed-out quality—like the sun was shining through seawater instead of air. Elise stood at her cottage window, watching the way the fog rolled in street by street, swallowing shopfronts and chimneys until only smudges remained.
The church bell tried to ring the hour, but the sound came muffled, almost strangled. She wondered if anyone else heard what she did beneath it: a faint, uneven toll, deeper than the church bell, sliding in between its chimes like a shadow moving under a door.
She had meant to go to the infirmary, but instead her feet carried her toward the lighthouse path. The further she went, the thicker the fog grew. It clung to her coat and hair, dampening her skin with icy beads, and the tang of salt was sharp enough to sting the inside of her nose.
Elias was already outside when she reached the base of the lighthouse. He was kneeling beside a crate of lantern oil, his face grim. "The light's been acting up," he said without looking at her. "Flickering when it shouldn't. And the bell—"
"I heard it," Elise interrupted.
He looked at her sharply. "Then you know it's closer."
Before she could answer, a movement on the edge of her vision made her turn. Something stood halfway between the lighthouse and the cliff. At first she thought it was just another curl of fog—until it shifted, elongating, drawing itself upright. She could see no features, only the impression of height, of stillness that felt deliberate.
The bell tolled again. Once. Long. Slow.
Maris's voice drifted up from the narrow path behind them. "You're wasting your oil."
Elise turned. The girl was barefoot again, hair loose and dripping as if she'd just come from the sea, though her dress was dry. She looked past Elise to the dark outline by the cliff, and smiled faintly—an expression that sent a ripple of unease through Elise's chest.
"He's not here for the light," Maris said softly. "He's here because I called him."
The words hung between them like frost in the air.
Elias took a step toward her. "Why?"
Maris's gaze never left the figure. "Because I promised him something. And promises… must be kept."
That night, Briarwall didn't sleep. The fog had seeped into every street, curling under doors and windows, smelling faintly of brine and rust. Dogs whined without cause. Lamps guttered for no reason at all.
And out beyond the cliffs, the Watchman waited, swaying like a shadow tethered to some unseen current, his faint, metallic toll marking the hours not by the sun, but by something far older.