The Last Lighthouse

Kaelren stood on the upper terrace of the lighthouse. The setting sun painted the sea blood-red, and the cliffs as well. White foam crashed against the rocks below, outlining every jagged edge—a warning to any who strayed too near of the fate that awaited them.

This stretch of coast was every sailor’s nightmare, and it wasn’t called the Witches’ Claws for its shape alone. Few had ever slipped from its grasp.

That was why the light had to be kept alive—to keep ships from drifting too close. This week, it was Kaelren’s duty to tend the flame and watch over the western sea.

The sun was little more than a sliver above the horizon when he crossed to the other side and looked out over the darkening forested slope. He had taken only a few steps, yet it felt as if he were gazing into another world. In contrast to the sea’s furious assault, the mountain radiated a majestic, unshakable stillness—as if nothing had changed for centuries. The merciless waves lashed at it from the west in vain.

The pale light of the moon barely touched the treetops, yet it grew stronger as it climbed the darkening sky. Even the sun had fled before it, sinking beneath the waves.

That was when Kaelren saw a rider approaching. He came from the direction of Velmor, the glint of his armour marking him as one of their own—yet it was not time for the guard to change.

What could have happened?

Kaelren stepped back from the railing and started down the spiral staircase.

By the time Manroq reached the foot of the tower, Kaelren was already waiting at the door. The moonlight caught the crest they shared upon their armour—as if it knew it had once inspired their order, and had descended from the sky to see that they still followed the path it set.

Manroq dismounted.

“The Moon’s light truly guides us, Kaelren,” he said with a faint smile, extending his hand.

“As you say,” Kaelren replied, clasping it. “So, what brings you all this way?”

“You must return to the chapterhouse. Captain Tharic has summoned you. Take the horse—I’ll hold the watch until the next shift. But do tell us later what all this hurry is about.”

“The captain didn’t say?”

“No. Only that I was to find you at once.”

“Then I won’t keep him waiting.”

He took the reins and mounted the horse, turning towards the road to Velmor.

Manroq looked up at the moon and smiled. “Guide him well,” he murmured.

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A week later, Manroq spent the day inside the lighthouse, taking stock of the supplies. The relentless rain had kept him indoors. He shuttered every window to stop the wind from driving the water in—all but the one facing the sea in the flame chamber. He checked it several times, worried the rain might threaten the beacon, but his fears were unfounded. The flame burned steadily.

He glanced towards Velmor, wondering what matter of such importance had led the captain to summon Kaelren away.

No doubt he would find out soon enough.

Tomorrow, the shift would come.

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Not tomorrow. Nor the day after.

Manroq waited. He worried—not for himself, but for his brothers. Yet the days passed, and nothing changed. Sometimes the wind carried a faint hint of smoke, but he saw no fire on the horizon, nor any sign of men.

When the weather cleared, he trained or walked down to the shore. The wind was gentler there than on the upper terrace. He could think there—or try to. He kept wondering what had become of the others.

What happened? Why don’t they come?

Then he noticed the supplies dwindling. He didn’t know how long he would be here, so he rationed the food carefully. Worse still, not only was the wine running out, but the rainwater he had gathered would soon be gone as well.

By day he watched the clouds, hoping they would not just sweep past the coast and dissolve like waves against rock, but pause—and bring rain.

By night he prayed to the Moon for his brothers.

He watched it wane and fill again. He had served in the Moonlight Order for many years, yet he had never felt the Moon so close—the only companion he had left.

At times he thought of leaving his post, returning to the chapterhouse to learn what had happened. He looked towards the mountains. The trees on the slope swayed gently in the wind, as if waving to him—don’t.

He couldn’t. He mustn’t. Lives might depend on this light. If it died while he was gone… best not to imagine. He would break the oath he had sworn to the Moon if he disobeyed the order that had sent him here.

The days passed. The water dwindled, and so did the food.

But the worst of it was the silence.

Each day he took his sword and went outside to practise. He had no sparring partner, but he refined each movement, marking his steps in the earth, walking the path again and again—faster each time—lifting, turning, striking.

In time, he trained less. Each motion brought thirst, and the water was nearly gone.

He checked the supplies again—there was barely anything left to count. In his small notebook he marked the passing days, the changing face of the Moon. On a separate page, he drew the shapes of clouds—sometimes thin, drifting veils, at other times thick white masses like the cakes Lilia used to bake in the village. I wonder what became of her, he thought.

Then—knock.

Manroq’s head jerked up.

Another. And again. Rapid, uneven.

Someone? No—above, not the door.

Rain.

It’s raining!

He sprang to his feet, rushing out with anything that could hold water. Pots, cups, bowls, candleholders—anything to catch a few drops. He even unfastened his breastplate and set it out like a basin.

They filled quickly, and for a few more days he would endure.

Down on the shore he overturned stones and found a few crabs. Later he built traps for them. In time he learned which tides brought life closer to land. Sometimes the sea drew back so far it touched the tower’s legs; sometimes it exposed black rocks tangled with seaweed—bitter, but edible when cooked. Not as good as dried meat, but enough to keep hunger at bay.

He no longer believed the shift would come, though each morning he still looked east, searching for any sign of life. His duty was to stay, to keep the light burning. He had to survive, so others might too—if there were still sailors on the sea.

Sometimes he felt like the last man alive. Yet he fought on, learned, endured—because hope still lived, that one day someone would come for him.

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Nior halted his horse when he caught sight of the lighthouse on the coast.

Yes—this must be the one old Kaelren had spoken of.

There was no light, no movement. He loosened the reins and slowed only as he reached the base. His cloak swept around him as he dismounted.

He wore no armour, carried no weapon—only the silver-stitched crest of the Moonlight Knights across his cloak.

He stepped inside.

In the corner, beside a small table, sat a figure in armour, high-backed in a chair. Time and wind had not been kind. The armour was dulled to ash-grey; the hair and beard had stiffened, all pointing in the direction of the wind.

The face, though drawn and parchment-tight, still held traces of the man he had been.

Nior did not know him—could not have. He hadn’t yet been born when the man had lived.

Still, he knew who sat before him.

He bowed his head in silence. Then he noticed the notebook.

Carefully, he lifted it from the brittle fingers. It lay open, stiff with age, its pages yellowed and salt-stained, the final words were barely readable.

“The flame still burns. The Moon is full.”

The hope that Manroq might have survived the war faded away. Yet Nior knew his name would never be forgotten—the Moonlight Knight who had remained faithful to the end.

He looked around. He couldn’t leave him here.

No one left the fallen unburned. He had grown up with that rule, though he had heard that long ago the humans buried their dead in the earth.

He closed the notebook, tucked it away, and lifted Manroq’s body with care. The leather straps still held as he carried him up the spiral stairs. The weight was little more than the armour itself.

He laid him where the fire had long since gone out.

Then he poured lamp oil over him, making sure it seeped through the armour.

“May the Moon’s light guide your path, brother.”

He ignited it with a simple spell, then stepped back, watching as the fire embraced and slowly consumed the body.

For the first time in many years, the lighthouse shone again—not to guide sailors, but to light the way for the living, and to bid farewell to the world that once was.

Manroq the lost became Manroq who stayed.