The ruins of the island rose around Leo and Owen like the ribcage of some ancient beast left to rot beneath centuries of tide and storm. Jagged walls thrust upward from the moss-choked earth, their stones slick with salt and time. Arches leaned against one another at impossible angles, as though the city had fallen mid-collapse and never risen again. Everything smelled heavy, wet stone, brine, and something metallic lingering beneath it all, sharp and bitter, like rusted chains left too long in seawater.
They moved cautiously, each step sinking into the spongy ground with a muffled squelch. The silence of the ruins was fragile, broken only by the drip of water through fractured ceilings, the far-off cry of gulls circling overhead, and the slow, relentless crash of waves gnawing at the island's edge. Every sound seemed amplified, as if the island itself was listening.
