BAYHAND

The watcher on the shore

The next morning, the figure by the shore was gone, though Liora could still feel the weight of his stare lingering on her skin. She tried to convince herself it was only her imagination, but as she walked through Bayhand’s streets, she noticed how the townsfolk avoided her. Conversations hushed when she drew near, and more than once she caught glances cast toward the harbor, as if they expected something—or someone—to emerge from it.

Determined to find answers, Liora ventured back to the waterfront. The sea was calm that day, its surface silver beneath the morning sun, yet the silence there felt heavy, unnatural. Fishermen mended nets in silence, never once looking out toward the water. It was then she saw him again—the cloaked man—standing on the far side of the pier, his face hidden beneath a hood.

She approached cautiously, her footsteps echoing against the planks. But as soon as she drew near, the man turned sharply and disappeared into a side alley. She followed, but the alley was empty, the stones damp as though he had dissolved into the mist itself. A shiver ran down her spine, though not entirely from fear.

That night, as she sat in the dim inn with her journal open, the innkeeper spoke suddenly, startling her. “Stay away from the shore after dusk,” the woman said, her voice flat and final. When Liora asked why, the innkeeper’s gaze sharpened. “Some watchers don’t want you here. They remember the blood that was spilled. Best you forget Bayhand while you still can.”

The words lingered long after the innkeeper left. Blood spilled? Watchers? Liora tapped her pen against the paper, her thoughts tangled. Bayhand’s silence was not born of indifference, she realized. It was born of fear.