When he woke, the world was silent except for the rhythmic lap of waves against the shore. His body ached, every movement pulling at bruised muscles as if he were pieced together from broken fragments. The coarse sand clung to his skin, grounding him in its rough stillness—a harsh contrast to the chaos of the sea that had tried to claim him.
The sea had spat him out like a discarded memory, leaving him sprawled on foreign sands with lungs full of salt and eyes raw from brine. He choked, coughed, and sucked in air like a starving beast. This wasn't rebirth. This was nature's way of mocking him, reminding him that life, cruel and relentless, still had unfinished business.
The boy lay there for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with shallow, ragged breaths. Against all odds, he was alive.
His hand darted back, trembling as it searched through sand-matted hair and damp leather. For one breathless moment, there was nothing—just emptiness. Then his fingers brushed the worn leathery grip of his sword, and his chest loosened. Relief flooded him, grounding him as he clutched the last tether to the life he had lost. It steadied him, even as it felt foreign in his battered hands.
In the storm, he had welcomed death—let it pull him under, eager to shed the weight of pain and memory. But the sea, cruel and unrelenting, had spared him. Now, lying on unfamiliar sands, he felt hollow, his grief and rage left behind in the deep. In their place was something sharper: a purpose cold and relentless, demanding to be answered.
For a long moment, the boy lay there, his chest rising and falling with shallow, ragged breaths. Against all odds, he was alive. But with that relief came the stark realization of his situation. He was alone, or so it seemed, stranded on a shore that felt otherworldly in its silence and isolation. This was no familiar land. Its air carried an ancient weight, a sense of separation, as if this place existed apart from the rest of the world. He had heard whispered tales of lands beyond the horizon, realms closed off and forbidden, but those were stories told in the firelight, far removed from reality. Yet here he was, standing on the edge of a place that felt like a legend made real.
His fingers dug into the sand as his senses sharpened, scanning the horizon for signs of life. To his left, the coastline stretched into the mist, jagged rocks jutting out like the bones of some ancient beast. Broken timbers and shredded sails lay scattered like remnants of a forgotten war. Among the wreckage, lifeless bodies sprawled in unnatural stillness, their eyes turned to the gray, unyielding sky.
One figure stood out among the wreckage: the fisherman. He lay twisted near the waterline, his face slack, his eyes open and empty. The boy's stomach turned as a tremor ran through him. The man who had shared bread, quiet stories, and fleeting hope was now just another piece of debris on this unforgiving shore.
The boy couldn't look for long—the hollow ache in his chest threatened to pull him under. With a quiet resolve, he turned away. The man deserved more than to be left here, exposed to the tide and scavengers. But what could he do? The storm had claimed them all.
Above him, the sky remained heavy, the clouds clinging low and dense. Their oppressive gray hue seemed to stretch endlessly, refusing to yield even the faintest sliver of sunlight. This wasn't the world he knew; this was something else.
To his right, the sand gave way to dense vegetation. Towering trees rose like sentinels, their gnarled roots gripping the earth with ancient force. Mist coiled around their trunks, alive with shifting shapes and faint, flickering lights. At first, he thought it was fire—but the glow was cold and spectral, like moonlight trapped in glass.
The forest wasn't just alive—it was aware.
The towering trees seemed older than time, their twisted roots gripping the earth with a ferocity that spoke of eons. The bark bore intricate patterns, spiraling grooves that shimmered faintly with bluish light. The fog moved with purpose, curling around the trees as if driven by an unseen will. He blinked, swearing the mist had shifted toward him, only to pull back as if retreating. The silence pressed in, unnatural and oppressive. No birdsong, no rustling leaves—just the sound of his own labored breathing.
It wasn't just the stillness that unnerved him. It was the sense of being watched.
A crow cawed sharply, breaking the silence. The boy turned to see the bird perched on a jagged piece of driftwood, its black feathers glossy and wet. It cocked its head, studying him with unblinking eyes, before letting out another harsh cry. Without waiting for a response, it spread its wings and disappeared into the mist. Even the crow knew better than to linger here.
The boy sat up slowly, his muscles screaming in protest. His mind spun with questions. Where am I? The land felt ancient, sacred, as if it had existed long before his time and would endure long after.
For a moment, he let himself drift. Was this some cursed island, one that sailors spoke of in hushed tones, or had he truly drifted into another world entirely? He scanned the mist-draped horizon, his pulse quickening. What kind of place breathes like this? His mother's voice came to him in fragments: the warm timbre of her words as she spoke of Niflheim, the land of mist and the dead. Could this be it? The air felt thick with memory, and every inch of this place carried an unsettling familiarity, as if he had stumbled into the pages of her stories. Is this where the dead go? The thought sent a shiver down his spine. Everything around him felt too vivid, too sharp for the living.
"No," he whispered aloud, the word sharp and grounding. His hands clenched, the coarse grit of sand biting into his skin. This wasn't death. His body ached too much for that. But if it wasn't death, what was it?
The silence of the forest pressed in on him, unnatural in its stillness. The boy's mind flickered between explanations: a forgotten land, a cursed island, or worse—somewhere beyond the mortal realm entirely. The forest's presence whispered answers just out of reach, and each pulse of the glowing trees felt like a heartbeat in time with his own.
A low, mournful howl cut through the stillness, long and deliberate. He froze, his breath caught mid-gasp. The wolves were no myth. Another followed, sharper and closer—a chorus rising through the fog. Beneath it came the faint and almost imperceptible sound of movement: the shuffle of paws on damp earth, the whisper of branches shifting under unseen weight.
His thoughts scattered. Myths, other-worlds, legends—they didn't matter anymore. Survival was the only truth. And the wolves? They were letting him know they were coming.
His pulse quickened, but his mind stayed sharp. Lying here won't save you. If you're not preparing, you're moving. If you're not moving, you're dead.
With a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet. His legs wobbled, the sand shifting beneath him, but he steadied himself. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on him, every muscle screaming for reprieve. Yet he knew rest was a lie he couldn't afford—not here, not now.
If he faltered, if he hesitated, the wolves would find him, and the questions burning in his mind would die unanswered.
If this place wanted his life, it would have to fight him for it.