The Bonetide Coast is where the ash fields finally end — black water, warm as breath, dragging every casualty of the inland wars onto a shore that doesn't bury them. It just leaves them in the sun. And Vorukai watches over all of it. Carved into the cliffside long before the tide had a name, Vorukai's face is a topographic record of every storm and every sun. The brow is crowned with rising flame-shapes. The eyes are spiral knots, like water draining into something deeper. The maw is open mid-roar, ringed with fangs the tide has been polishing for centuries. Below the chin, a single tear-shaped mark — the only soft thing on him. The orange across his face is the color of the strait at dusk, when the cooling lava beneath the water still glows through from below. The black is what the tide leaves on stone. The bone-white is what the tide leaves on everything else. Printed in stacked striations that follow the grain of his carving — each ring a year he stood, counting. They say if you stand on the Bonetidek Coast long enough, Vorukai's mouth will start to look like it's moving. They say he's counting. Nobody who's heard the count out loud has come back to say what number he reached.
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