Here’s another piece. It's another cutscene written on prose.
It's the same location, the same folks but a different time. It's the evening of their military Academ graduation, 15 years after their arrival.
The Silent Vigil (Acceptance)
The last light of the sun bled into the sea, streaking the sky with rose and ash. In the Tidebound quarters, the bell for evening drills had long faded. The halls lay hushed. Only the surf and the slow sigh of the wind stirred.
The Bound Hero looked up. A glance. A gesture.
“Come.”
Nothing more was needed.
The two walked together through the quieting grounds, past banners drooping with salt, past firepits reduced to ash. Each step was measured, as if the island itself had slowed. The worn path rose through grass bent low by the sea breeze, toward the crest of the dune.
At the top, the world opened wide. Below stretched the long curve of the beach, washed pale by the dying light. It was the place. The place where children had once stumbled ashore, half drowned, trembling, clutching one another against the storm.
And as they looked, another figure stepped silently into view. The Custodian, the one who had stood here all those years ago, who had been the first to see the Tidebound delivered by the sea. He did not speak. He only came to stand beside them. A silent witness then. A silent witness now.
The Player looked to him, and he to them. The Bound Hero’s hand brushed theirs.
A nod passed between all three, wordless, certain. Then the pair descended.
From shadowed lanes, from alleys and side-paths, they came. The Tidebound. Drawn as if by an unseen call, in twos, in threes, in fours. Their steps made no sound in the dusk. As they passed, hands reached out:
A forearm clasp, grip steady, lingering just long enough to mean I am with you.
A palm laid upon a shoulder, warm, grounding, before falling away.
A brief embrace, cheek against cheek, the faintest tremble of breath.
A hand pressed to the chest, a small gesture known only to Tidebound, heart speaking to heart.
Every touch left its weight behind, so that by the time they reached the sand, the Player carried the whole of their people with them.
The beach spread wide and dark beneath the last blush of sunset. The Tidebound formed no ranks, no drilled array, only fellowship. Arm in arm, hand in hand, head upon shoulder. Each pair or trio leaning into the next, a chain of quiet presence stretching along the tide’s edge.
The Player and their bondmate found a place at the center. Without words, the others shifted to make space, a subtle gesture of belonging. Behind them, high upon the ridge, the Custodian remained, a lone silhouette watching over them as he once had before.
Silence.
The surf rolled in, whispering, and withdrew again. The wind hushed. Every breath held. Not a cough. Not a sigh. Not a word.
Then it came, a single gasp, sharp and unbidden, shattering the stillness.
All turned as one.
Over the crest of the dunes, light flared. Lanterns. Dozens. Hundreds. Then a thousand or more. Stretching east to west, unbroken, until the horizon itself was ablaze.
Beneath every flame, a figure stood. Soldiers with weathered faces. Cadets with fists clenched to still their trembling. Custodians, tall and solemn. Villagers and pilgrims who had walked the length of the isle. All stood unmoving, lanterns aloft, their eyes fixed on the Tidebound.
A murmur of breath rippled through the gathering below. Some gasped, hands rising to mouths. Others clutched their bondmates close, tears breaking free, shoulders quaking. A few sank to their knees, overcome. Yet not a voice was raised. Not a word spoken. Only the sound of hearts breaking open together.
Then the bell.
One clear note, pure as glass, rolled out from the Academy.
A second, longer, fuller, echoing over the black waves.
A third, deep and resonant, so vast it seemed the very sand shivered beneath it.
At the final toll, every lantern lifted high, as if the sky itself had bowed. The shore, the ridge, the horizon burned with light. For a heartbeat, the Tidebound stood as the center of the world’s devotion.
And then, slowly, the lanterns sank. Row by row, one by one. The figures turned, and with steady steps, disappeared into the dark beyond the ridge.
The Tidebound remained.
Hands still clasped. Arms entwined. Heads resting, foreheads touching. Some wept openly. Some stared out to the sea, eyes shining, mouths trembling with words they would not speak.
The Player felt their Boundmate’s hand seek theirs, warm and strong. The squeeze said what words never could: We are not alone. Not now. Not ever.
Above, the Custodian lingered on the dune, his face shadowed but his eyes fixed on them. He had seen them come ashore as children, broken and lost. Now he saw them stand, no longer orphans, but Tidebound, whole, accepted.
He did not speak. He bowed his head once, low and solemn. A silent benediction.
The tide drew in. The tide drew out. Each wave smoothed the sand, erasing its own mark, leaving only the living line of the Tidebound upon the shore.
Unbroken.
I hope you enjoyed the read.
