BAYHAND

The Law of silent

By now, Liora understood Bayhand was bound by more than superstition—it was ruled by silence. No one spoke of the sea, no one spoke of the past. Questions were met with hostility, sometimes even terror. She began to realize that words themselves were dangerous here, as though naming the truth could summon it.

One evening, she shared a quiet meal at the inn. The other guests spoke only of fishing yields, weather, and crops, never once mentioning the ocean mere steps away. When she dared to ask about “The Drowning Night,” a phrase she had overheard whispered in the market, the entire room fell still. Every eye turned toward her, some filled with anger, others with dread. The innkeeper slammed her hand on the table. “No one speaks of that. Not ever.”

The silence stretched until Liora nodded, muttered an apology, and excused herself. Yet her curiosity only sharpened. What was so terrible that an entire town had built its life around forgetting?

That night, footsteps passed beneath her window. She peered into the street and saw torchlight flickering against stone. A group of men carried bundles toward the shore—wood, herbs, and something wrapped in cloth. They built a fire at the water’s edge, chanting low, wordless prayers. The flames danced, throwing shadows against the waves.

When they finished, the cloaked figure stepped forward. Unlike the others, he looked directly at her window, as though he knew she was watching. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw eyes gleam beneath his hood—eyes not entirely human. Then the fire guttered out, and the sea swallowed the night.