For days, the skies had groaned over the coastal cliffs, dark clouds folding into one another like bruises across the horizon. Fishermen warned of danger, elders spoke of omens, and the sea churned with a fury that seemed almost alive. But no one expected the sacrifice the storm would demand.
High above the crashing waves stood the ancient cliff temple, carved generations ago to honor the sea’s restless spirit. It had withstood countless tempests, yet this storm felt different—angrier, louder, closer. Rain lashed sideways, and the wind screamed like a living thing as villagers gathered below, their lanterns flickering helplessly in the gale.
At the edge stood Arin.
Soaked to the bone, his heartbeat thundered louder than the storm. Below him, the tide devoured the shoreline inch by inch, threatening to swallow the village whole. The old prophecy whispered of balance—that when the sea rose in rage, it would demand a life freely given.
Lightning split the sky.
In that blinding flash, Arin saw the faces of his family, his neighbors, the children clinging to their mothers in terror. Fear gripped him, cold and sharp. Yet beneath it stirred something stronger—resolve.
He stepped closer to the precipice.
The wind clawed at him, urging retreat. The sea roared in hunger. Time seemed to hold its breath. Then, with a final glance at the world he loved, Arin leapt into the raging abyss.
The storm did not cease at once. But as dawn broke, the winds softened. The sea withdrew, quiet and ashamed. And the village stood—battered, grieving, but alive.
