Revolutions

148 - The Distant Shores

The prow of the ship knifes through the mist, splitting it into ragged shreds that curl and dissolve into the churning sea. Brine clings to everything—skin, lungs, the damp wood beneath boots—and the air feels heavy, taut, like the stillness before someone screams. Captain Uxío Lema narrows his eyes at the horizon, where steep cliffs rise from the fog. Their slopes drip with green, and their shadows don't shift beneath the overcast sky.

This isn't where they were supposed to land.

Gartzen silently moves beside him, cautiously inspecting this new land. Captain Lema can sense his unease. It's the same knot in his gut that tightened the moment they were pulled into those strange currents, like an invisible hand dragging them off course. They should've been sailing straight for Legido's coast, months away. But after less than a month at sea, the ocean had changed beneath them. One moment the water was calm and blue, the next, the current shifted with a violent hunger, swallowing their route and spitting them toward this foreign shore.

The ship had bucked and groaned as jagged rocks scraped across its hull, cracking timbers with a sickening splinter. The rudder had snapped in the calamity, and the crew scrambled to pull the vessel free before the waves finished it off. Now the ship lists awkwardly in the shallows. Its wounded frame leans against the rocks like a soldier left behind in the field.

It doesn't make sense. The journey to Legido was supposed to be straightforward: no strange tides, no storms. So how in the nine hells did they end up here?

"We're lucky we didn't sink," Gartzen mutters beside him, wiping seawater from his beard with a swipe of his hand. "But the rudder's done for. We'll need materials if we're going to patch her up." He gestures toward the listing ship with a tilt of his chin.

It's as if steam fumes from Captain Lema's ears. There's nothing he hates more than being at the mercy of unknown forces—whether they be strange currents or unfamiliar shores. But without a working ship, they're stranded.

He squints at the dark shoreline, tension gathering between his shoulders. He feels there's another looming problem: this place is too quiet.

"Any sign of life?" Lema asks, though the question feels like a whisper into the void. Gartzen shakes his head, but both men know better. There's always someone watching.

Captain Lema grips the worn wood of the railing, the familiar grooves beneath his fingers grounding him. This is how it starts. You step onto unfamiliar shores, surrounded by a world you don't understand, and everything feels calm enough—until it isn't. You can sense it, that invisible line, the moment when curiosity curdles into danger, when the unknown turns sharp. One misstep, and you'll be the one sprawled in the dirt, staring up at a sky you've never seen before, bleeding out from wounds you didn't know were coming.

The ship drifts closer, and the hull groans with every lurch against the shallows. The shoreline sharpens into view—sparse beaches of wet stones and towering cliffs draped in blue-green foliage. The vegetation climbs like veins, strangling the rock. There's something suffocating about the landscape, something unsettling, something signaling that this land is beyond hostile.

A flash of bronze catches Captain Lema's eye.

Figures emerge from the tree line, moving deliberately, fluid as predators circling prey. They wear deep blue tunics with bronze adornments that glint under the pale sky, and their wickedly sharp spears catch the light. They move in formation, their expressions unreadable beneath masks carved from wood and painted with swirling patterns—herons with sharp beaks, crocodiles with jagged jaws, and barracudas with gaping maws full of teeth.

The water slaps against the hull. Captain Lema inspects the faces of the warriors on shore. Cold eyes. Firm grips. Not a hint of welcome.

Gartzen leans close. "We're not exactly getting a warm reception."