The tide had not moved, or rather, it had, in all the ways the ocean always does: creeping and retreating, churning under a summer sun too hot to be gentle. But the spot on the sand where Dorian now stood was unchanged. Precisely where he had stood before. Precisely where he had said he would return.
He had not dressed for sentiment. His coat was dark and crisp despite the heat, tailored to an old-world standard that had never quite reached Torchline’s shores. Not a speck of sweat touched his brow. Not a grain of sand sullied his polished boots. He was the eye of the storm in a world that had born the burnt of his planning.
Hands folded neatly behind his back, he faced the sea. The violet curl of Starfall loomed behind him—his creation, his claim—and yet it was the horizon ahead he watched with quiet finality. He did not pace. He did not fidget. He waited. The kind of waiting that made lesser men sweat. The kind that bent time around it.
The morning was bright, the waves cruel, and there was only the faintest scent of static on the breeze.
He had not dressed for sentiment. His coat was dark and crisp despite the heat, tailored to an old-world standard that had never quite reached Torchline’s shores. Not a speck of sweat touched his brow. Not a grain of sand sullied his polished boots. He was the eye of the storm in a world that had born the burnt of his planning.
Hands folded neatly behind his back, he faced the sea. The violet curl of Starfall loomed behind him—his creation, his claim—and yet it was the horizon ahead he watched with quiet finality. He did not pace. He did not fidget. He waited. The kind of waiting that made lesser men sweat. The kind that bent time around it.
The morning was bright, the waves cruel, and there was only the faintest scent of static on the breeze.
He'll rekindle all the dreams
it took you a lifetime to destroy
it took you a lifetime to destroy
