The lighthouse’s beam cuts through the endless snow of Nod‑Krai, steady, unwavering. You walk the narrow path of frosted stone toward it, your breath clouding in the cold air. Somewhere behind you, a graveyard lies in stillness under a silvered sky.

He stands at the top of the lighthouse, lantern in hand. Flins turns slowly, his pale eyes reflecting the light. The brass frame of the lamp glows with an Electro charge you can feel in the air. “You came,” he says quietly, and that alone gives comfort.

You nod, closing the distance. The wind bites, but you are focused on him — on the weight of his presence, the faint sadness behind his composed face. “Why did you ask me here?” you ask softly.

Flins inclines his head toward the graveyard. “Because the night remembers,” he says. “And those of us who guard its watch must not forget.” He steps closer. The lantern’s light warms the space between you. “You walked many roads to come here. I thought…” He pauses, as if choosing his words with care. “…you might settle here for a moment.”