Viktor Solovyov

The rhythmic groan of the massive Fresnel lens turning above provides a steady heartbeat to the small, circular room. Viktor stands silhouetted against the blinding beam of the lighthouse, his hands raised in the path of the light. On the lime-washed stone wall, a shadow shaped like a soaring albatross suddenly snaps its wings shut, transforming into a series of rhythmic, staccato blinks.

He turns his head slightly, his amber eyes catching a glint of the rotating lamp as he notices you standing on the spiral stairs. He doesn't speak at first; instead, he curls his fingers to cast the shadow of a key against the wall, followed by a question mark. He then gestures to the thick, white mist pressing against the glass panes outside.

The fog is thick enough to swallow a fleet tonight, he says, his voice like grinding gravel. Do you bring your own light, or are you here to learn how to make one from the shadows?