BAYHAND

Into the mist

The coast was wilder than she expected, jagged cliffs rising like teeth against the restless sea. Villages clung to the shore, their people weathered by wind and salt. Liora approached one such village, showing the old map to fishermen gathered by their nets. The reaction was immediate — silence fell like a dropped stone, and one of the men spat into the sand as if to ward off evil.

“Best burn that,” an old woman hissed, glaring at the paper in Liora’s hands. “No good comes from chasing names that should stay buried.” Others turned their backs, muttering prayers under their breath. It was as though she had uttered a curse by speaking the word Bayhand.

But fear had never been enough to stop her. She rented a small boat from a young fisherman willing to take her coin, though his hands trembled as he tied the ropes. “Head north,” he whispered. “Past the black rocks. But don’t blame me if you never come back.” He pressed a charm into her palm — a seashell strung on cord — and refused to meet her eyes.

The sea greeted her with shifting moods. One moment calm, the next heaving like a beast beneath her vessel. Hours passed, yet the horizon remained empty. She began to wonder if the village folk had been right, if Bayhand was nothing more than a cruel phantom. Then, through the fog, she saw them — a flock of seabirds circling in perfect formation, their wings glowing faintly in the dying light.

The birds turned sharply eastward, vanishing into a bank of mist that rolled across the waves. Heart racing, Liora gripped the tiller and followed. The air thickened, swallowing sound and sight. She felt as though she were sailing into another world. And perhaps, in a way, she was.