Prologue for June 2026

“……They came onto the docks without a sound. I don't know how else to say what they were except that they were wrong, the shape of men, the motion of men, but hollowed out. Grinning, hollowed out, gaunt, Fingers too thin, yet alive, gods be merciful how they could be was…. Unfathomable.

Prast went without a fight. Stood up, walked toward one of them like he'd been waiting. The thing put a hand on his shoulder, almost gentle, and took him. He didn't look at any of us.

Donnell fought, gods, Donnell fought. It took three of them, and even then he was screaming when they pulled him over the side. I'll carry that sound until I die.

I don't know why they left me. I have stopped believing it was mercy….. - excerpt from the journal of Kralor Belfod year 1126” The junior archivist stared at the date until the ink blurred.

Year 1126.

A hundred years.

He checked the other accounts with shaking hands…. Black sails, Blue lanterns, A bell in the fog…. Disappearances along docks and lonely shores, always separated by a century.

His gut went cold.

The Revenant’s Prize was not a legend.

It was waking again.

How could he warn them all? Every harbor, every lakeside village, every quiet dock where fog could crawl in from the water? He was only an archivist with dust on his sleeves and dread in his throat.