Her collarbone was burning. The moment Liora realized this, she looked up at the sky. It was ash-violet. The entire sky. No stars, no moon—just a sickly purple light filling the atmosphere, staining Vespera's coastline in an eerie hue. She would never remember that night with perfect clarity, no matter how much time passed. Only three things remained vivid: the pain, the sound of waves, and the sound of Gorryn's knees hitting the ground. --- The beach before dawn is always cold. The tide had receded, and wet sand reflected moonlight in a hazy shimmer. A gull cried in the distance, then fell silent. Vespera's mornings always began this way—quietly, gradually, growing brighter without anyone noticing. Liora sat on that beach, spreading Gorryn's old fishing net across her lap. At thirteen, she had a slender, delicate frame. Her pale silver hair fell in waves to her shoulders. Each time the sea breeze caught it, the strands stuck to her cheeks, and she brushed them away several times. Clear golden eyes traced the holes in the net before her. Over a simple blue-white linen tunic, brown leather boots sank into the sand—ordinary clothing for a fishing village child, but those golden eyes alone gave an impression of being somehow out of place. "This hole's gotten bigger again," Liora said to herself, threading a needle. She pulled the net thread taut. It snapped. "Oh." She'd pulled too hard. She did this every time. "...Getting the tension right is difficult." Gorryn sat beside her, barely moving. Seventy-eight years old. His sun-baked skin was like leather, etched with deep wrinkles. Short white-streaked stubble, thick palms, and eyes that always seemed half-closed in drowsiness. Yet he missed nothing. That was Gorryn. The old man glanced at Liora, who had broken the thread, and said nothing. Instead, he began speaking in a low voice. "Once every hundred years," Gorryn said. "Huh?" Liora looked up. "The Guardian's Mark," Gorryn continued. His hands kept moving, eyes fixed on the net. Threading, pulling, tying. His hands never stopped. The Guardian's Mark—a geometric pattern said to burn itself into the skin, dwelling in those who protect the world's balance. Liora had heard this phrase dozens of times in Gorryn's stories. But each time, it had only sunk in as part of some distant, ancient tale. "It appears in only one human when the world's balance begins to crumble. It doesn't choose. The Mark chooses its vessel," Gorryn said. "Another Guardian story?" Liora smiled wryly. Gorryn's Guardian tales were as natural as the smell of salt—always there. Before dawn while mending nets, during the wait before heading out to sea, while eating smoked silver fish in the salt-wind market street—somehow, the old man was always talking about Guardians. "Were you listening?" Gorryn asked. "I was. Once every hundred years, the Mark appears and someone becomes a Guardian. Right?" Liora said. "It's bestowed, not chosen," Gorryn corrected. "What's the difference?" Liora asked. The old man was silent for a while. Waves came in and receded. "A big difference," Gorryn finally said. Then he fell silent again. Liora took out fresh thread. This time, carefully, cautiously, she threaded the needle. She pulled gently, relaxing her grip. It worked. (A Guardian, huh.) Everyone in the village knew Guardians existed. Twelve had been confirmed in nine hundred years—it was recorded in the texts of the Jade Lamp Academy and in the worn parchments kept in Vespera's village hall. But for Liora, they were "beings from old stories," with no real connection to her own life. Beyond the sea, in the academic sanctuary, scholars apparently researched something called elemental crystals. Strange things were happening in the eastern coastal regions beyond the Servatis Mountains. But Vespera's mornings remained cold, Gorryn's nets still had holes, and Liora's thread kept breaking. "Oh, it broke again," Liora said. "Relax your grip," Gorryn said. "I'm trying to," Liora replied. "Trying isn't enough," Gorryn said. --- When dawn broke, her father Daren appeared at the dock. Liora's father was forty-two, taciturn, and honest. His sun-darkened face bore deep lines around his eyes. He spoke little but moved quickly. As he deftly untied the ropes of the moored fishing boat—the Wave-Chaser—he signaled Liora with his eyes. Get on, it meant. Liora returned the net to Gorryn and ran. She jumped onto the small vessel, about nine meters long. This boat, which used sails and oars, had been her father's for years, and bore marks of countless repairs. Liora liked counting them. That one was from last year's storm, this one from three years ago, that scar was— "Sit," Daren said. A short command. Liora obeyed. The boat slowly left the harbor. The mouth of the Lissen River spread into view. The river flowed down from the Servatis Mountains in the continent's center and emptied into the sea here at Vespera—the end of a three-hundred-twenty-kilometer journey. Where river water mixed with seawater, fish gathered easily. This was common knowledge among Vespera's fishermen. Once they reached open water, the wind changed. The sail billowed. Liora stood at the bow, squinting. The smell of the sea grew stronger. The horizon stretched far ahead. Morning light began painting the water surface gold. It's beautiful, Liora thought. She came here every morning, yet thought the same thing every time. She knew it was a bit foolish, but she couldn't help it. Her father changed course without speaking. Liora didn't notice. About eight kilometers offshore—only in that area—the sea's color was different. Faintly. Very faintly. Within the blue sea, an ash-violet stain spread, as if someone had dropped a single drop of ink. An eerie discoloration. Her father avoided that area. Silently. Without a word. Liora gazed at the water from the bow but didn't notice the color difference. Unaware, the ship turned in another direction. Liora didn't yet know the weight of her father's silence. --- The Wandering Thrush Inn at midday was filled with the heat of fishermen. The Wandering Thrush Inn—the village's only inn, with eight guest rooms—had its first floor as a gathering place usually only at night, but today the Tidal Path Guild was holding a meeting. The Tidal Path Guild was a trading coalition connecting fishing villages and port towns across the western coastal region, with Vespera as a member. Its main purposes were maritime safety information and fish price stability, but today's agenda seemed somewhat different. Gales Thorn, the meeting's facilitator, stood at the table's edge. Fifty-two, lean-framed, loud-voiced former sailor. He also oversaw the dried fish market on the salt-wind street. Today he stood with arms crossed, looking down at a stack of papers in his hands. Liora sat in a chair by the wall, gazing vaguely at the proceedings. She'd only come along with Gorryn and had no particular business here. But there was an unwritten rule in Vespera that children could listen to Tidal Path Guild meetings. "We'll begin," Gales said, his voice carrying through the room. "I'll read reports from across the continent. First—elemental crystals in the east, corruption confirmed in three sites," Gales said. Elemental crystals—massive crystals existing at the convergence points of continental ley lines, said to stabilize an invisible force called Aether that wells up from the earth and maintain the world's harmony. Those that should normally shine clear white or blue had become corrupted—meaning they'd degraded from within, turning ash-violet and murky, scattering abnormalities in their vicinity. Liora had heard this story recently and straightened her back slightly. The name came up often in Gorryn's Guardian tales. "Next—cases of fishing nets dissolving. Multiple fishermen who cast nets in ash-violet sea areas discovered their nets partially degraded the next day," Gales continued. The fishermen stirred. "We got reports of that too." "Which sea area?" "Heard about it in the southern port too." "Furthermore—sounds heard outside villages at night. Reports from multiple villages. Specifically, the common description is 'soundless sound,'" Gales said. "What's a soundless sound?" "That's contradictory." "Sounds like ghost stories." Laughter rose. Gales frowned. That's when the door opened. Gorryn came in carrying a salt-barrel. "...Grandfather, we're in a meeting," someone said. "I know," Gorryn replied. The old man slowly crossed the room, barrel in his arms. Thud. The barrel's lid came off. Salt water spread across the floor. It poured out forcefully. A fisherman jumped up, a chair fell, someone cried out. The edge of the papers Gales held absorbed the salt water, gradually changing color. "..." Gales said nothing. "Sorry about that," Gorryn said. The old man seemed completely unbothered. The meeting paused for about ten minutes. Liora brought a cloth and wiped the floor, sighing inwardly. This was Gorryn's third salt-barrel mishap this month. Why did it always happen at important moments? (Why does he always do this at crucial times...) But amid the commotion, one thing caught her attention. Gorryn didn't laugh. The fishermen laughed. They laughed it off. But not Gorryn. After the meeting resumed, he didn't speak once. He sat in a chair by the wall, staring into the distance. Liora couldn't tell what his eyes were seeing. In her thirteen years of life, this was the first time she'd seen such an expression on Gorryn's face. --- On the way home, Liora walked beside Gorryn on the beach at dusk. "Grandfather," Liora said. "Mm," Gorryn replied. "You know something about what happened at the meeting, don't you?" Liora asked. The old man didn't answer. Waves came and went. The tips of their shoes got wet. Gorryn continued walking without seeming to care. "Grandfather," Liora said again. "The Guardian," Gorryn said suddenly. "Is not chosen. It is bestowed," he continued. It was the same thing he'd said this morning. But something was different this time. The tone of his voice wasn't the same as before. It was low, heavy, distant. "...What do you mean?" Liora asked. "Just as I said this morning," Gorryn replied. He said nothing more. Liora wanted to press further. But seeing his profile, she stopped. In thirteen years of experience, she'd learned that pushing someone who didn't want to speak was useless. (He said there was a big difference. Between being chosen and being bestowed. What's the difference?) Carrying that question in her heart, she walked the beach. --- It was midnight. The strange wave sounds came about an hour after Liora had gotten into bed. At first, she thought it was a dream. But it wasn't. It was real. Completely different from the regular rhythm of waves—a chaotic pounding, like something striking a wall. Liora threw off her blanket. Something was wrong outside her window. (What...?) The sky was ash-violet. Completely. Not clouds. Not stars. The sky itself was stained with a sickly purple. Liora opened the window. Warm air flowed in. The smell of salt was strong. But something else was mixed in—a metallic, sharp smell. She ran to the beach. She burst from the house and headed toward the sand. The night sand clung to her feet. As she ran, she saw the lighthouse—the eighteen-meter stone structure with an Aether crystal light source flickering irregularly. On, off, on again. Its rhythm was broken. The waves were high. Despite no storm. The sound of waves striking the seawall reached her ears as a roar. Spray hit her face. Liora stopped before the seawall and looked up at the sky. The ash-violet sky seemed to be breathing. Slowly, pulsing, growing darker then lighter. As if some enormous creature beneath the ground was breathing through the atmosphere— That's when she felt it. Her collarbone was hot. No—more than hot. It felt like being burned from in