Varentar

The city spills down the cliff face in terraces of pale stone, each layer catching the sunset like polished gold. The harbor is a perfect crescent of deep blue water, calm and mirror-like in the fading light. Dozens of piers stretch out like fingers, and the masts of anchored ships turn to black silhouettes against the glowing horizon. Sea birds wheel overhead, their calls echoing clean and sharp. For a moment it looks like a painting — prosperous, peaceful, almost regal.

But then the details start to register.

The lower terraces, closest to the water, look darker — not from shadow, but from grime and neglect. Some of the tiled roofs that should shine red and yellow are sun-faded or missing chunks. A handful of piers tilt at odd angles, their posts warped, half-sunk like broken ribs jutting from the sea. A few ships are clearly abandoned: sails torn, hulls spotty with algae, ropes dangling uselessly.

To the left, the great lighthouse — once a proud white tower — stands silent. Cracked. Its glass dome is dark, and a chain-link fence wraps around the base. Even from this distance you can see boards covering the old service doors, nailed in haste.

Further up the cliff, the merchant district should be bustling. Instead, the wide stone streets look too empty for this hour. Market awnings sag as if nobody bothered to pull them down properly. Some are patched with mismatched scraps. Smoke from chimneys is thin — fewer ovens cooking, fewer families thriving.