BAYHAND

The lost chronicle

That night, under a sky shrouded in low clouds, Liora climbed the cliffs beside the chapel. Kael waited, a lantern at his feet, its glow barely piercing the mist. Without a word, he led her down a narrow path into a cavern carved into the rock. The air smelled of salt and mold, and the walls glistened with dampness.

At the end of the passage lay a hidden chamber. Books and scrolls, warped with age, were stacked upon stone shelves. Candles burned low, their wax dripping into pools. Liora’s breath caught—she had stumbled upon a library no one was meant to see.

“These are the records of Bayhand,” Kael said, his voice echoing softly. “The priests keep them hidden. If the people remembered, the sea would hear. But forgetting does not undo what was done.”

Liora unrolled a brittle scroll. The words were faded, but legible enough: Each year, the sea must be given its due. Blood for tide, flesh for wave. Only then shall the waters spare Bayhand. Her hands trembled as she read. “Sacrifices,” she whispered.

Kael’s jaw tightened. “For centuries, the pact kept Bayhand alive. But greed destroyed it. When the covenant was broken, the sea claimed what it was owed—and more. That was the Drowning Night