In the drowned marshes of Doaden, where the fog never lifts and the water swallows all trace of time, the Waybeacon still burns. No mortal hand kindled its fire, the marble pavilion rising immaculate amid the decay, its white stone untouched by moss and rust. At its heart stands a vast brazier, its flame tall and soundless, a column of pure radiance that defies the swamp’s gloom.

Around the beacon stand three shattered statues, their faces long eroded. Once saints or wardens, they are now draped in the silks of the Cult, each faintly mirroring the Moth Queen with gazes lifted toward the flame.

The faithful believe the Waybeacon to be a remnant of Azerai’s divine fire, a spark of creation lost to the world. Yet to those who draw too near, its purity becomes hunger. The light offers not salvation but surrender, calling all things living to dissolve within it. In that endless glow, the swamp’s silence deepens, and the marble endures - perfect, eternal, and utterly alone.