The tide has gone out further than it has any right to. Ribs of rusted iron break the mud in rows, too regular to be a wreck. It is a gate, laid flat, as if something pushed it down from the other side.
Meren is ankle-deep before you can stop her. She holds your lantern out over the iron and watches the light shake. “It’s warm,” she says. She does not sound pleased.
Meren is ankle-deep before you can stop her. She holds your lantern out over the iron. “It’s warm,” she says.