Twisted Nature

Bram woke up with a groan, every muscle in his body aching. His shoulder, now tied up in a makeshift sling, throbbed with a dull, persistent pain. The bruises on his ribs and the small, stinging cuts he'd received from the jellyfish-like creature were reminders of their harrowing escape. His body felt rested, but the discomfort lingered, a constant hum in the background. Slowly, he opened his eyes, his vision hazy at first, before sharpening into focus.

A pungent, putrid smell hit his nostrils, forcing him to wrinkle his nose. He realized he was lying on damp moss that squelched under him as he shifted slightly. The air was heavy with moisture, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed around him. Bram pushed himself up carefully, every movement sending sparks of pain through his battered body.

As his surroundings came into view, a sense of disorientation washed over him. He was in a swamp, but it wasn't like any swamp he'd ever seen—or imagined. Trees jutted out of the murky water, their roots twisted and half-submerged, but something about them was distinctly... wrong. To his left, he spotted a cluster of banana trees, their thick trunks shooting upwards. Yet, their size was imposing, absurdly large for what he knew banana trees to be. Just across from them stood a grove of coconut trees, but these were stunted and short, almost miniature in comparison.

He blinked, rubbing his good arm across his face. Banana trees towering over coconut trees? That didn't make sense. His gaze shifted again, this time to a wide papaya tree, its trunk unnaturally broad and warped. The more Bram looked, the more he realized that nothing about this place adhered to logic. It was as though the natural order of things had been carelessly reshuffled. Common sense had been tossed aside, and the result was something that looked like a child's chaotic drawing of a swamp—a mishmash of reality and imagination, distorted and surreal.

The sky above was a murky gray, filtering light through a thick canopy of mismatched leaves. The air felt heavy, laden with an almost oppressive stillness, broken only by the occasional croak of some unseen creature or the rustle of an unnatural breeze. Bram scanned the campsite. His companions were scattered around, some tending to small fires, others examining their surroundings with equal unease.

As he shifted to sit up fully, his shoulder throbbed sharply, forcing a hiss through his clenched teeth. The makeshift sling was crude but functional—likely Solveig's handiwork. He owed her and the others his life, and the thought stirred a mixture of gratitude and guilt within him. He'd made it out alive, but barely. The memory of the creature lunging for him, of Arcia's dagger slicing through it at the last moment, was still vivid in his mind.

But now, this place. Where had they ended up? It felt like the island was alive, its warped vegetation and unsettling atmosphere conspiring to keep them off balance. Bram couldn't shake the feeling that this swamp was not just strange—it was wrong.

"You're finally awake, brat," Orden's gruff voice broke through Bram's daze. His sharp eyes were already on him, scanning him like a hawk.

Bram groaned softly, pushing himself up a little despite the protests of his aching body. "Where...?" he began, but Orden interrupted.

"I fashioned a makeshift sling with whatever I could scavenge," Orden explained, gesturing to Bram's arm. The sling was a rough patchwork of torn fabric, sturdy but hastily tied. "I noticed your arm was hurt. Didn't know how bad it was, so this is the best I could do while we were running from that accursed cave."

"Running?" Bram echoed, his voice hoarse. His memories were hazy, but flashes of the cave, the creature, and their desperate fight flickered in his mind like fragments of a fever dream.

Orden nodded grimly, adjusting his sword belt as he crouched beside the campfire. "Yeah. Carried your sorry hide all the way out. Not that I had much choice. The others were too busy making sure none of those creatures followed us."

Bram blinked, trying to sit up straighter. His body protested with sharp pangs, especially his shoulder, but he managed. His gaze flicked to the sling, then back to Orden. "Thanks," he muttered, feeling a mix of gratitude and discomfort at needing to be carried like dead weight.

Orden grunted, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of amusement in his tone. "That's some power you got in that scrawny body of yours, kid."

Bram frowned, unsure what he meant.

Orden leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. "To make a creature of that size stagger with a mere stone—what are you, really, kid?"

The question carried more weight than curiosity; there was a cautious edge to Orden's tone, as though he wasn't sure whether he should be impressed or wary. Bram met his gaze, the memory of the rock throw flashing through his mind. He remembered the way his shoulder had screamed in pain afterward, the way it had felt like something had snapped the moment the rock left his hand. It had been instinctual, fueled by desperation, but the force behind it... even Bram didn't understand it.

"Desperate situations call for Desperate measures, Mr.knight" Bram muttered, averting his eyes. He could feel Orden's gaze lingering, scrutinizing him, but he offered nothing more. How could he? He didn't even have answers for himself. That deep, nagging feeling in his gut—that something about him, his past, wasn't right—had only grown stronger since they landed on this cursed island.

Orden didn't press further, but the tension in the air remained. "Well," Orden said after a long pause, standing up and brushing his hands off on his trousers, "whatever you are, don't get any ideas. Just keep pulling your weight, and maybe, just maybe, you won't get yourself killed before this is all over."

Bram watched him walk away toward the others, the words lingering in his mind. He wasn't sure whether it was meant to be encouragement or a warning.

"Little man, I see you're finally awake, after almost getting yourself killed by that scrawny creature," Solveig said with a teasing grin, though there was a trace of care in her tone. Her towering frame loomed over Bram as she crouched near him, her braided hair swinging slightly as she spoke.

"Go on then, kid, show me your shoulder. I'll pop it back in," she added casually, as though discussing the weather.

"Wait—pop it back in? What do you mean, pop it back in?" Bram asked, his voice rising with a mix of surprise and apprehension. He instinctively clutched his injured arm closer, his wide eyes darting to Solveig's massive hands.

Solveig raised an eyebrow, her grin widening into something that almost seemed mischievous. "I may not be a healer, but I do know a dislocated shoulder when I see one. Now quit whining and let me fix it," she said, her no-nonsense tone making Bram's stomach tighten.

Bram gulped, swallowing his nerves. "Fine, but... slowly. Just—just be careful and do it painlessly," he stammered, already wincing at the thought.

Solveig chuckled, shaking her head. "Alright, little man, we'll do it painlessly. On the count of three," she said, her large hands already gripping Bram's shoulder with surprising gentleness.

Bram shut his eyes, bracing himself. "Okay... one—"

Before she even got to "two," a sharp pop echoed through the air, followed by an immediate wave of dull, radiating relief. Bram's eyes flew open in shock.

"There. That didn't hurt too much, did it?" Solveig said, smirking as she leaned back, inspecting her work.

"Didn't hurt? What happened to the count of three?" Bram demanded, his voice cracking slightly as he clutched his now-relocated shoulder.

Arcia letting out a soft laugh, clearly amused by his indignation. "Where does all your bravery go, I wonder?" she teased, her grin as wide as ever.

Before Bram could retort, a soft, melodic voice chimed in from behind him. "You almost seem like a different person when you're not in danger," , giggling lightly as she approached. She sat down gracefully beside them, her green eyes glinting with amusement. "What happened to the courageous warrior I saw yesterday? The one who led us to victory against that creature?"

"The courageous warrior still feels pain," Bram muttered, his cheeks burning slightly as he avoided Arcia's gaze. He rubbed his shoulder, the soreness much less severe now.

"Wait..." Bram froze, his brows knitting together as her words registered. "Yesterday? I was out for an entire day?"

Arcia nodded, her expression softening. "You were exhausted, Bram. Between your injuries and whatever strength you used up throwing that rock, it's no surprise your body needed rest," she said.

"You threw that rock with enough force to stagger a creature of that size," Solveig added, her tone more serious now. "I've seen knights and soldiers unable to pull off something like that, and you're just a scrawny little thing. What's your secret, huh?"

Bram hesitated, glancing between them. He didn't have an answer—at least, not one he could give. That nagging feeling in his gut, the one that told him something about himself wasn't right, stirred again. But he couldn't explain it, not yet.

"I... I guess I just got lucky?," Bram said finally, shrugging with his good shoulder. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either.

"Well, whatever it is," Solveig said, standing up and stretching her long limbs, "you'd better figure it out soon. Because luck won't save us if something worse comes along."

Her words hung in the air as the three of them fell silent, the weight of their situation sinking in.

"We've been shifting camps on a six-hour basis. Luckily, we haven't run into any large monsters yet," Arcia said, her voice measured but tinged with concern. She gestured toward a peculiar creature scuttling nearby—a small lizard-like animal with an elongated body, segmented scales, and a set of translucent fins protruding from its back. "Though with the abundance of smaller creatures like that," she continued, narrowing her eyes, "it's safe to assume there are no large predators in this area. At least, not for now."

Her words hung in the air, offering little comfort. The faint rustle of leaves and the distant buzz of insect-like noises served as a constant reminder of the island's strangeness.

"Eat." Orden's voice broke the uneasy silence as he passed a skewer to Bram, a charred, unrecognizable piece of meat speared on the stick.

"Making a fire in a place like this takes caution, but luckily the huge banana trees cover the smoke trail".

Bram glanced at it hesitantly. He could make out the curled, blackened claws of whatever it had once been—perhaps one of the peculiar lizards roaming the swamp. His stomach churned, but hunger gnawed at him more fiercely than his reluctance. Taking the skewer, he forced himself to bite into the tough, slightly bitter meat, grimacing as he chewed.

Desperate times, Bram reminded himself, swallowing the bite with effort.

"We need to keep moving toward the center of the island," Arcia said after a moment, her tone more decisive now. "The next trials is likely somewhere near the heart of this place. That's where the path is leading us."

Bram wiped his mouth and glanced at her. "And how do you know that? What makes you so sure?"

Arcia didn't meet his gaze directly but continued speaking. "It's all we have to go on. Four more trials, from the information i gather all i know is that the challenges seem to become more frequent the closer we get to the center."

The uncertainty of it all weighed heavily on Bram. He hated not knowing what lay ahead, hated not understanding the rules of this game they'd been thrust into. How much time did they even have left on this island? A week? Days? Hours?

"And how exactly are we supposed to finish all four trials?" Bram asked, his frustration slipping into his voice. "We don't know where they are, what they'll test us on, or even if we'll survive the next one!"

Arcia turned toward him, her calm demeanor cracking ever so slightly. "Do you think I don't know that?" she said, her voice edged with tension. "I don't have all the answers, Bram. But this is what we do know: the closer we get to the center, the more likely it is we'll encounter the next trial. Sitting here debating won't change that."

Her words silenced him, but something in her tone made Bram narrow his eyes. She knew more than she was letting on—he was sure of it. There was a certainty in the way she spoke about the trials, an undertone of withheld knowledge.

"You seem awfully confident about this whole 'center of the island' thing," Bram said, his voice low.

Arcia's eyes flicked to him sharply, but before she could respond, Solveig interrupted. "Enough, you two," she said, her voice firm as she finished tying up her satchel. "We don't have time for bickering. If we're moving, let's move."

Orden grunted in agreement as he adjusted his gear. "The kid's got a point, though," he said, glancing at Arcia. "You're holding something back, miss arcia. You'd better make sure the information your master gave is atleast accurate."

Arcia didn't reply, her face impassive as she turned and began leading the group forward through the swamp.