The lighthouse had been dark for three nights when the priestess climbed the spiral staircase without a lantern. The moon followed her through every window, casting a column of silver on each landing that moved with her as if the light itself were ascending. At the top, the mechanism was intact. The oil was full. The mirrors were clean. There was no reason for the light to have failed, and yet it had, and in those three nights two ships had broken against the rocks and forty-one souls had entered the water and not returned. She placed her hand on the cold glass and closed her eyes. The diagnosis was immediate. Not mechanical failure. Something had consumed the light from within, eaten the flame the way shadow eats a candle when you close your hand around it. The moon was directly overhead now, pouring through the lantern room so bright it threw her shadow hard against the far wall. She whispered a name older than the lighthouse, older than the rocks beneath it, and the lamp ignited with a light that was not fire but something quieter and infinitely more patient...