Kylack’s boots sank into the sand with every step, the gritty crunch beneath him swallowed by the vast silence of the beach. His gaze lingered on the ship, the only visible link to the world beyond, its ramp now hoisted and sails pulled taut as it drifted further into the blue. Above, seawhips circled like silent phantoms, their long wings cutting through the air and casting fleeting, jagged shadows over the sand. Squad Eight was stranded—abandoned with only a week’s worth of dried rations and stale water strapped to their backs. It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough.

  With a rough hand, he rubbed at his face, trying to shake off the sluggish remnants of sleep. The air here felt thick, damp—an oppressive, unnatural wetness clinging to him like a damp cloth. It was nothing like Solthara. The dunes of his homeland flickered to life in his memory: restless, golden waves of sand rolling beneath a fierce sun. Solthara had been his home, his family. But that life felt a world away.

  He ground the memory down, shoving it deep into the back of his mind. Now was no time for sentimentality. He looked over the group, noting the faces tightened with unease, their shoulders taut beneath the weight of the heat. The sun seemed to press down on them, a constant, smothering presence. No one dared to speak, as if voicing their fears would turn them into something real.

  Then a sharp voice sliced through the silence like the crack of a whip. “We set up camp here before dark.” It came from a woman with ashy grey hair, strands whipping around her face in the wind. Her stance was firm, grounding them all despite the shifting sand underfoot. She wasn’t loud, but she spoke with a certainty that demanded attention.

  “Once we’re set up, we’ll scout a few meters into the forest. Don’t stray far, and don’t be curious. If you see any signs of corruption, you turn back immediately.” Her gaze was hard as it swept over them. “Trust me, if you want to live, don’t look twice at anything that doesn’t belong.”

  The group seemed to release a collective breath, her words steadying them like an anchor. Kylack watched her, a reluctant respect stirring within him. She didn’t shout, didn’t bark orders, yet the squad listened. He remembered Trojin mentioning her once. Trojin... just the thought of the man set him on edge, his presence always unsettling, the cheerfulness at odds with the quiet danger in his movements.

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  A familiar voice jolted him from his thoughts. “Well, if it isn’t my old friend Kylack,” came a drawling voice from behind. Kylack’s hand instinctively tightened around the knife in his pocket—a small, sturdy blade his father had once given him. He turned to see Trojin, grinning with his usual unsettling brightness, his face wrapped tightly in the stained bandages that obscured his eyes. Beside him stood a boy, short and wiry, with wild, dark hair that caught the fading sunlight. Kylack squinted, recognizing him only after a beat.

  “Tch,” he muttered. “Trojin, don’t get too attached to the kid. He’s liable to cause even more trouble than you.”

  Trojin’s grin widened, seemingly unfazed by the grim surroundings. “You must’ve seen Apollo up there with the captain. Brave and dumb, this one. But I admire the kid’s guts. Stood up there like iron.”

  Kylack allowed himself a small, grudging nod. He hadn’t spoken to Apollo yet, but word had spread quickly about the boy’s brief, defiant exchange with the captain. Now, as leader of Squad Eight, the kid would have to prove himself fast. The squad seemed to respect Rhelka more, but the boy’s appointment gave them something to whisper about in this cursed place, however reluctant they were to voice their hopes or fears aloud.

  “Brave and dumb, alright,” Kylack murmured, casting a glance at Rhelka. “But if she’s right, most of us won’t make it out of here either way.”

  Trojin shrugged, tracing an old scar on his wrist, his fingers ghosting over the rough line absentmindedly. “Maybe. But if there’s a chance, I’d rather believe in it than just give up. Besides…” His voice trailed off, leaving only his steady gaze, or what should have been a gaze, if he had any eyes beneath those stained bandages.

  Kylack felt the weight of the young man’s stare—Apollo’s gaze sharp, as though studying him. It was unnerving, this silent assessment from a boy who had barely survived his own trials. Must be the lack of sleep, Kylack thought, rubbing a weary hand over his face.

  Rhelka’s voice rang out again, as firm as ever, snapping their attention back. “Trojin, Kylack,” she said, voice carrying a quiet strength that stilled any murmur of dissent. “Less flirting, more work. We don’t have the luxury of getting distracted.”

  Kylack straightened, nodding in respect, while Trojin gave a slight, amused nod. There was something about her—a force that commanded, but with a grounded wisdom. She reminded him of the old teachings in Solthara, the lessons of endurance and discipline. He didn’t even know her well, but he knew he’d follow her