Chapter 2

Maris clung to the iron railing of the lighthouse tower, her breath ragged in the salty wind. The lantern above her flickered, a sickly yellow pulse that barely pierced the inky void beyond the cliffs. The darkness was thicker tonight, a living tar that writhed at the edge of the light’s reach, its tendrils curling like fingers testing a boundary. She could feel its hunger, a low thrum in her bones, as if it were whispering her name.

She’d been the last lightkeeper for seven years, ever since Old Torren had passed in his sleep, leaving her the keys and a half-mad journal scrawled with warnings. “Keep the light, Maris. Keep it or we’re all meat for the black.” She’d laughed at first, a bitter cackle at the thought of a fisherman’s daughter guarding the world from a myth. But then she’d seen it—the darkness splitting open like a maw, swallowing a stray gull that flew too far from the beam. Now, she didn’t laugh.

The lantern sputtered again, and her heart lurched. She scrambled up the final rungs to the glass chamber, her calloused hands fumbling with the oil reservoir. It was nearly empty. She cursed under her breath, the words snatched away by the gale. The supply ship was overdue by three days, and her stock of oil was thinner than a beggar’s purse. She tipped the last of her reserve into the wick, her fingers trembling as the flame steadied, if only for a moment.

Below, in the keeper’s cottage, she knew Finn was waiting. The boy had washed ashore two weeks ago, half-drowned and raving about a village swallowed by shadow. He was all of twelve, with eyes too old for his face, and a habit of staring at the dark like it owed him answers. Maris had taken him in, though she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the loneliness gnawing at her, or the way he’d clutched her hand that first night, as if she were the only thing tethering him to the world.

She descended the tower, her boots clanging on the spiral stairs, and found Finn hunched over the kitchen table, a cracked mug of nettle tea steaming in his hands. His sandy hair stuck out at wild angles, and his gaze was fixed on the window, where the darkness pressed against the glass like a living fog.

“It’s talking again,” he said, not looking at her. His voice was small, but it carried a weight that made her stomach twist.

Maris paused, wiping oil-smeared hands on her apron. “Don’t start with that nonsense, Finn. It’s just wind and wave out there. Nothing more.”

But she didn’t believe her own words. Last night, she’d heard it too—a low, guttural murmur beneath the storm’s howl, like a voice trying to form words through a throat of mud. She’d told herself it was exhaustion, the endless vigil playing tricks on her mind. Yet Finn’s certainty unnerved her.

He turned to her then, his eyes sharp and bright. “It’s not nonsense. It said my name. It said it wants to show us something.” He hesitated, then added, “It said it’s sorry.”

Maris felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty cottage. She pulled a chair opposite him, the wood creaking under her weight. “Sorry for what? Eating half the coast? Turning folk to shadow and ash?” Her tone was sharp, but her hands betrayed her, fidgeting with the edge of the table.

Finn shook his head. “I don’t know. But it’s not… it’s not just hungry. It’s sad, Maris. I can feel it.”

She wanted to snap at him, to tell him to stop filling his head with ghosts and gloom. But there was something in his voice, a raw edge that mirrored the ache she’d carried since her own family was lost to the dark—a fishing boat vanished beyond the light’s edge, never to return. Instead, she reached across the table and squeezed his bony shoulder. “We don’t listen to monsters, lad. We keep the light. That’s our job.”

But as the words left her lips, the lantern above gave a wretched gasp, its glow dimming to a pinprick. Maris bolted to her feet, her chair toppling behind her. “Stay here!” she barked, already halfway to the door.

The tower stairs were a blur under her feet, her pulse hammering as she reached the lantern room. The flame was a dying ember, the oil burned to a slick of nothing. She slammed her fist against the glass, frustration boiling over. “Not now, damn you!”

That’s when she heard it—a voice, clear as a bell through the storm. Not a whisper, not a murmur, but a plea. “Maris… let me in.”

She froze, her breath catching in her throat. The darkness beyond the glass churned, forming shapes—vague, shifting outlines of faces she swore she knew. Her father’s weathered brow. Her brother’s crooked grin. Impossible, she told herself, even as tears stung her eyes. The darkness pressed closer, its voice a chorus now, soft and mournful. “We’re not gone. We’re waiting. Let us show you.”

Her hand hovered over the latch to the outer platform, trembling. Every instinct screamed to keep it shut, to guard the light with her last breath. But the ache in her chest, the loneliness of seven years, tugged her forward. What if they were out there? What if the dark wasn’t a devourer, but a prison?

Footsteps clattered behind her, and Finn’s voice cut through the haze. “Maris, no! You can’t!”

She turned, startled, to see him clutching the doorframe, his face pale as moonlight. “It lies,” he said, his voice cracking. “It took my sister. Showed me her face, promised she’d come back. But when I got close, it just… took more of me.” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a patch of skin on his arm that shimmered black, like liquid shadow trapped beneath the surface.

Maris recoiled, her hand dropping from the latch. The darkness outside hissed, the faces dissolving into snarls of frustration. She slammed the emergency shutter down, sealing the glass, and sank to her knees, her breath shuddering. Finn crouched beside her, his small hand on her back, a quiet strength she hadn’t expected.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if it was to him, to the ghosts, or to herself. “I almost…”

“It’s okay,” Finn said softly. “It gets in your head. Makes you want things you can’t have.”

They sat there, the storm raging beyond the iron shutter, the lantern’s last flicker casting faint shadows on the wall. Maris knew they couldn’t stay like this—oil gone, light failing, the darkness growing bolder by the hour. But for the first time in years, she didn’t feel alone. Finn’s presence, fragile as it was, anchored her.

Then, from beneath the floor, a sound—a faint, rhythmic tapping, like fingers drumming on stone. It came from the base of the tower, where the old storage cellar lay, sealed since Torren’s time. Maris and Finn locked eyes, a shared dread passing between them.

“What’s down there?” Finn whispered.

Maris didn’t answer right away. She remembered Torren’s journal, the final entry she’d never understood: *If the light fails, seek the heart below. It speaks, but beware its price.* Her gaze drifted to the trapdoor in the corner, rusted shut for years. Whatever was tapping, it wasn’t the wind.

And as the darkness outside pressed harder against the shutter, she knew they had no choice but to find out.