The Turquoise Lantern of Thendrickel Voare
In a distant corner of the world—where cartographers' hands trembled and ink spilled in terror of what lay outside—there loomed a doorless lighthouse. Its azure glow was a color that did not owe duty to sun or sea, but to half-remembered dreams upon waking. The town along the coast was aware of it, but would never speak its name aloud. Children were warned away, and inquisitive visitors who asked too many questions were politely guided to the edges of town and told to travel elsewhere. But rumors spread like roots cracking stone. They said the lighthouse was empty. Or haunted. Or alive. But the most interesting tale of a man who had once appeared unexpectedly, with charts he would not look at, and a name so awkward that it hung suspended in the air like incantation. Thendrickel Voare. He said it to me in words, like it was as normal as John or Thomas. No one had questioned him—neither from courtesy, nor because the name, having been uttered, looked like it had always existed, folde...