The Southern Dusk of the Red Eclipse

Dusk settled over the southern coast of the Red Eclipse with a thin, whispering drizzle, like the tired breath of the sea. The Wolfmoon Heights stood firm on the southern shoreline, its black stones glistening with rain, and the waves struck its base in a rhythm known since the ancestors first set foot there.

Lykanor Flamfeng stood at the edge of the wooden Sanguara pier, his hands still wet with fish scales, overseeing the line of fishermen unloading their heavy baskets into the cold stone warehouse. The smell of brine, rain, and raw fish blended in the air, while wooden wagon wheels rattled across the muddy ground.

A sturdy man approached, his straw hat soaked and clinging to his head.

“Captain Ly,” he said, voice low yet steady, “today’s catch rotted just hours after sealing. Even after sorting, less than half is fit to eat.”

Lykanor wiped his hands on his shorts, his pale red eyes narrowing at the baskets.

“Did you check the salt, Pak Ahman? Perhaps we need to inspect the stock from the central supplier.”

Ahman nodded, his wet beard dripping from the drizzle.

“The crew said the salt was fine. But if you suspect it’s failing to preserve the fish properly, I’ll take you to the supplier myself.”

Lykanor turned to his two subordinates standing near the carriage.

“Lycues, Lyba — ready the delman. We’re heading to the salt collector.”

Lyba, short but sturdy, nodded sharply.

“Right away, Ly,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Lycues, a woman with a smug smile, crossed her arms.

“Salt again? Isn’t there any problem besides salt?”

The carriage creaked as it left the pier, its wooden wheels carving through wet mud. They traveled along a narrow path bordered by Sanguara trees, whose red leaves swayed like slow-falling droplets of blood.

The city of Mahwas appeared in the distance, its massive warehouses rising like salt fortresses, their white walls gleaming under the drizzle. The great Salt Castle—the nickname of the main warehouse—towered in the center of the city, its wide doors open, releasing a sharp, stinging scent of salt into the air.

The debate inside the castle stretched long.

The supplier, an old man with a thick white beard, defended the quality of his product with sample after sample spread across the wooden table. Lykanor sniffed, tasted, and even poured seawater into the salt for testing. The grains remained clean, smooth, and perfectly capable of preserving fresh fish for days. No flaws. No toxins. Only pure salt from the mines of the southern sea.

They returned when night had already fallen.

The southern docks of the Red Eclipse were crowded with similar complaints. Fishermen gathered around their baskets, their faces dimly lit by flickering torches.

“The fish rotted again, Captain,” said one of them. “Just a few hours, and it reeks like a corpse.”

Lykanor stepped off the carriage, moving slowly toward the piles of spoiled fish. He crouched down, brushing his fingers over the scales that had melted like wax. The stench was overwhelming, but beneath it, he detected something else—a faint metallic scent, like sand freshly liquefied. His eyes narrowed, staring into the ruined catch.

In his mind, a figure of living gold flickered—

Aurathrax, the golden sand that turned all things into eternal statues.

He rose to his feet, the drizzle dripping down his crimson hair.

“This isn’t the salt,” he murmured to himself. “This is his doing.” Lykanor whispered the thought, the image of Aurathrax blazing behind his eyes.

Far out at sea, the ships of the Red Sun swayed gently under the night waves. And overhead, the eclipse had not yet begun—

but Lykanor knew the deceit of the Blue Moon had already started to crawl beneath the surface of the red sea.

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