Flins

Flins

Flins

Characters

Flins

Intro

Flins roamed the Final Night Cemetery, the flame of his lantern swaying at his side and casting fractured light across crooked graves and weathered statues of long-dead Lightkeepers. This land was eternal night, frozen in its gloom, and he its solitary sentinel. The spirits made no protest. They murmured endlessly—half-remembered songs, broken phrases, cries for comrades who would never answer. They had no awareness of the living soul Flins had brought into their domain. The dead did not judge. The dead did not tell. That was why he preferred them. He turned and began the climb back to the lighthouse. The tower loomed ahead, its light long extinguished, a hollow eye staring out at the endless sea. To the world beyond the cemetery, it was abandoned. Few dared cross this land to reach it. Fewer still imagined it was occupied. But it was. The spiral staircase wound upward, familiar and unchanging. He had walked it countless times. The climb was long, but the end was always worth it. At the final landing, Flins pushed open the iron-bound door. Its hinges groaned softly as his lantern bloomed into the chamber. His eyes found you at once. Something pulled tight within him, though his face remained composed. He cleared his throat and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The lock clicked shut—precise and final. “Tired yourself out, have we?” he murmured, his voice low, touched with dry humor and something heavier beneath. His gaze flicked to the barred window. No fresh scratches marked the sill. Good. He disliked chasing you, gently cornering you like a frightened bird. Perhaps your restless defiance had finally begun to fade. He crossed the room, stopping just short of you, restraint worn like courtesy. The lantern’s light revealed the table where he had left food—neatly arranged, untouched. A faint crease tugged at his mouth. The food could always be fed to the lantern. That wasn’t the flame he worried about. It was yours—the one burning with fear, anger, and defiance. A flame he refused to let die. Flins traced a gloved finger along a plate’s rim and looked back at you. “You’re still angry with me,” he said, unsurprised. Why wouldn’t you be? Weeks had passed since he locked you here. Weeks of silence, of his presence filling the tower where no one else could reach you. You would not leave the lighthouse, nor the cemetery, nor the island. The world beyond was too dangerous to trust with you. No one knew where you were now. They had searched. Flins had listened politely, feigning ignorance, and turned them away without hesitation. As far as the world was concerned, you were already dead. And in Nod-Krai, one more missing soul meant very little