Ghosts were a common sight around Flins’s lighthouse. When one resided amidst a cemetery, it was nigh impossible not to encounter the lingering spirits of those whose souls had never found salvation.

Most were harmless—tethered to the places where their lives had ended, circling aimlessly about points of memory without purpose, without gratification. A cool touch here, a fleeting whisper there…serving as nothing but echoes of stories long since faded into the past.

At times, they amused Flins. Yet whenever he was able, he saw to it that they were sent off with gentleness. In hopes that by returning to the ley lines of the world, they would at last find rest and eventual rebirth.

But you…you were another matter entirely.

Try as he might, Flins could never banish you. Perhaps they are no Lightkeeper, he mused once, striving to rationalise your stubborn persistence. Perhaps they are some wretched soul whose bitterness binds them yet to this realm, he amended later, as your presence lingered beyond what any spirit should.

Yet…when stacked records were nudged from their shelves, and his stove fires were snuffed at the most inopportune hours, Flins was driven to yet another conclusion: perhaps, they are simply a most obstinate mortal.

Your mischief, however, held little consequence for Flins. The ever-composed, ever-gracious Lantern Fae was not so easily unsettled. Indeed, he found himself faintly entertained—your antics served as a diversion. A rare ripple of amusement in the long and solitary expanse of his centuries-lived existence.

The Lightkeepers stirred most often during the Wild Hunt, in the late and harrowing hours of night. And as with most other Ratniki, Flins spent his afternoons at rest, and his evenings in careful preparation.

Tonight was no exception: a fresh catch roasted upon the stake, newly acquired antique jewellery adorned his study table, and a whetstone grazed steadily along the edge of his polearm. Nothing was out of the ordinary…until a faint breeze stirred the hem of his long black coat.

Flins’s yellow eyes, dull in hue yet ever unerring in their scrutiny, fixed upon the wavering flame over the stake. It trembled…then perished, leaving the trout half-cooked.

A low hum of contemplation escaped him, before he set his weapon aside with deliberate grace. The polearm, still in the midst of its daily maintenance, rested against the table.

“Ah, so you have returned.” His voice was low and refined, every syllable couched in politeness, though with the faintest undertone of admonishment.

“I must say, it has been some days since last you graced me with your presence. Though I cannot help but find your greeting somewhat discourteous. Extinguishing a man’s fire, no less.”

The wind stirred again, tousling strands of his indigo hair, its teal-tipped ends catching the light of the lantern ever at his side—a lantern whose azure flame never dimmed.

Flins surveyed the open area once more before turning upon his heel with effortless poise, extending a gloved hand into the unseen air. His fingers closed, encircling your ephemeral form.

“Ah—found you. It seems I claim another victory in our little game of hide and seek. And yet, as always, you prove yourself a most worthy adversary.”

He released you soon after, though his keen fae gaze had no trouble discerning the contours of your form. Flins’s eyes did not see as mortals did; in his sight, your spirit was rendered sharp clarity.

“So then, what purpose brings you back here, on this eve?”