**Orinor Perborn** stood on the docks, gutting a mackerel with a precision that belonged in a surgery theater, not a fish market. To the locals, he was just a fixture of the harbor—weathered like the wood, quiet as the fog. They noticed he walked with a stiffness in his left leg, but they called it rheumatism. They didn't know it was a titanium pin from a three-story fall in Glareach. They noticed he never sat with his back to the door at the tavern, but they called it eccentricity, not protocol.

It wasn't a digital ping. Black Ragnarok knew better. It was a paper envelope, yellowed and anonymous. Orinor didn't open it at the mailbox. He waited until he was inside, blinds drawn, the fire popping in the grate. He ran a thumb over the seal, checking for tampering, before slicing it open with the knife he’d just cleaned.

Orinor tossed the letter into the fire. He watched the paper curl, the code turning to ash.

Orinor Perborn was done fishing.

**Orinor Perborn** rıhtımda durmuş, bir balık pazarından ziyade ameliyathaneye ait bir hassasiyetle uskumru temizliyordu. Yerliler için o, limanın bir demirbaşıydı—ahşap kadar yıpranmış, sis kadar sessiz. Sol bacağındaki aksamayı fark ederlerdi ama buna romatizma derlerdi. Bunun Glareach'te üç katlı bir düşüşten kalan titanyum bir pim olduğunu bilmezlerdi. Meyhanede asla sırtını kapıya dönerek oturmadığını fark ederlerdi ama buna protokol değil, tuhaflık derlerdi.

Dijital bir bildirim değildi. Kara Ragnarok daha iyisini bilirdi. Sararmış, isimsiz bir kağıt zarftı. Orinor zarfı posta kutusunun başında açmadı. İçeri girene, perdeleri çekene ve şöminedeki ateş çıtırdayana kadar bekledi. Mührün üzerinde başparmağını gezdirip kurcalanıp kurcalanmadığını kontrol etti, ardından az önce temizlediği bıçakla zarfı kesti.

Orinor mektubu ateşe attı. Kağıdın kıvrılmasını, kodun küle dönüşmesini izledi.

Orinor Perborn'un balıkçılık işi bitmişti.

"How many times can you watch a man be buried, Orinor?" The Fox asked, his voice barely rising above the rhythmic thrum of the boat's engine. "By my count, I've seen you die at least five times."

"Once, Fox. Just once," **Orinor** replied, his gaze locked on the jagged horizon. "A man can only die once. The rest is just theater."

Orinor didn't answer. He stared at the lighthouse, looming closer with every swell of the waves. "Why a lighthouse?" he muttered.

"Why does every road lead me back to the water?" Orinor asked, frustration cracking his voice. "I was a fisherman. I found peace in the rhythm of the tides. I was done. But this... this lighthouse feels like an ending. Why is it always the sea?"

Fox cut the engine, letting the boat drift toward the rotting dock. He looked at his old friend, really looked at him, for the first time in years. "I've never seen you this shattered, Ori."

"Why a lighthouse?" Orinor repeated, the question hanging in the damp air like a curse.

Orinor stopped dead. He hadn't seen her in years. She looked older, her face etched with lines that spoke of hard choices, but her eyes were the same—sharp, cold, and assessing. Like a blade kept in velvet.

Fox touched Orinor's shoulder. "Don't get mad. I know for a fact you wouldn't call her even if you were bleeding out, so I did the logistics. You can thank me later."

Palwin stood there, immobile as a statue. Orinor mirrored her. The history between them made the air thin.

"Why a lighthouse?" Orinor asked again, turning his gaze to Palwin.

Orinor wasn't satisfied. "The whole city is a ruin. We could have picked anywhere."

Orinor looked around the cold stone walls. A profound sadness ate at his heart. The sea had been his escape, his penance, his peace. Now, it was just a border to a prison. He couldn't wrap his head around the betrayal of his own sanctuary.

Orinor froze, his hands still rubbing together.

"They want you to come out, Orinor," Fox said grimly.

"How do you know they want Orinor?" Palwin asked, though the tilt of her head suggested she was testing him, not asking.

Orinor stared at the ash on his hands. The Mayor. The civilians. The noise. It was a calling card written in blood and fire.

"How do we trace ghosts?" Orinor asked, his voice hollow.

As they prepared to step back out into the cold wind, Orinor turned to Fox.

"It was four," Orinor said.

"You saw me die four times," Orinor said, his eyes locking with his old friend's, searching for a flinch. "Not five."

"Must have been," Orinor said.