Between a rock and a hard place

As they walked, Bram's thoughts churned. The island's strange landscape, with its warped and exaggerated vegetation, felt like a dream—or a nightmare—brought to life. The towering banana trees and squat coconut palms were absurd enough, but the wide, fleshy papaya trees lining their path seemed almost alive, their massive fruits pulsing faintly with an unnatural glow.

Too many unknowns, Bram thought, his unease growing. They were walking into a trap, he was certain of it.

"Let's get moving. The faster we finish the trials, the better," Arcia said with a determined look, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

Bram sighed, pushing himself off the ground. His body protested with every movement, his shoulder still aching despite the makeshift sling Orden had crafted. Four more times of coming close to death—or actually dying—to go, he thought grimly as they began their journey.

For hours, they moved through the alien terrain, encountering grotesque creatures born of the island's twisted nature. Bram noticed the others had started pacing themselves, reserving their energy for what lay ahead. The humid air grew heavier as they pressed on, and the ground beneath their feet began to change.

"Sand?" Bram muttered as he stepped onto the gritty terrain. The swampy landscape had abruptly shifted into dunes dotted with small, muddy water pits and sand hills stretching as far as the eye could see.

"Let's move carefully," Arcia instructed, her voice cautious. "No turning back now."

But as they crept forward, the true nature of the terrain became apparent. Bram stopped dead in his tracks as he realized what they were stepping into.

"Quicksand!" he shouted, just as Solveig, the heaviest among them, began to sink rapidly.

"Solveig, stop! Don't pull on it! Don't force it! Just relax!" Bram yelled, his sharp voice cutting through the rising panic. He turned to Orden and Arcia, his mind racing. "Turn back now! Get me whatever you can—clothes, blankets, anything to make a rope!"

Orden and Arcia hesitated for a split second before springing into action, tossing scraps of cloth and gear toward Bram. As he hurriedly knotted the pieces together, he scanned the area for a sturdy log or branch. Solveig's weight was working against her; every movement she made caused her to sink faster.

"Come on, come on," Bram muttered under his breath as his hands worked. His mind raced with precise instructions, techniques he knew but didn't fully understand why. He'd wandered through deserts before, hadn't he? The Karalin Desert? How did he know this? Had he been taught, or who taught him...?

No time for distraction. Spotting a thick, long log nearby, Bram hoisted it up with his good arm, adrenaline dulling the pain in his shoulder. He dragged it over to Solveig, planting it firmly within her reach.

"Solveig, listen to me carefully!" Bram barked, his voice steady despite the chaos. "Use the log to shift your weight. Anchor yourself and move slowly. Don't fight the sand—use the log for leverage!"

Solveig's wide eyes met his as she followed his instructions. Slowly, her strong arms gripped the log, her muscles trembling as she shifted her weight. The quicksand resisted, but Bram's calm, precise guidance helped her maintain control.

Once she stabilized, Bram tossed the makeshift rope to her, anchoring himself , it took all three of them to pull her out. His injured shoulder screamed in protest, but he didn't stop. Inch by inch, Solveig emerged from the deadly sandpit.

Finally free, Solveig collapsed onto the solid ground, panting heavily. She looked up at Bram, a grin breaking across her face. "Just what are you, little man?" she said, her voice filled with relief and admiration. "How many times have you saved me now? You're slowly becoming worthy of me!"

Bram let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head.

"Where did you learn all that?" Orden asked, his voice gruff but genuinely curious. "Quicksand, you called it? Don't tell me your wandering journey excuse again."

"You really are full of surprises, Bram," Arcia said, her tone soft yet intrigued. "Here I thought I was doing you a favor by inviting you onto our boat. Turns out it was the other way around."

Bram didn't reply immediately. Instead, he stared at the sand, his mind racing. He was sure he knew how to deal with quicksand. The techniques felt second nature, like they'd been drilled into him. But had they? Had he really traveled through the Karalin Desert? Had strangers taught him, or was this knowledge planted in his mind from… someone else?

His thoughts jumbled together, growing heavier with every step.

A deafening roar shattered his focus. The ground beneath them rumbled as a massive sand crocodilian burst from the dunes, its elongated snout snapping wildly. Before anyone could react, another roar erupted—a guttural, monstrous bellow that sent a chill through Bram's spine.

A second creature appeared, towering over the crocodilian. This one was reptilian but bore the muscular frame and lookingmore like a giant moneky. Its glowing, predatory eyes locked onto the crocodilian as it let out another menacing scream.

"What in the gods' names is that?" Orden muttered, gripping his weapon tightly.

Bram's heart pounded as he realized the horrifying truth. They were caught between two apex predators, and neither seemed willing to let them go.

We aren't staying long enough to find out," Arcia said firmly, motioning for the group to move away silently. With no protests, they backed away from the monstrous battle unfolding in the dunes. Bram, his instincts on high alert, quickly built a mental map of the surrounding terrain.

"Let's circle around the sandy and swampy areas," he suggested in a low voice. "Eventually, we'll hit another terrain."

The group nodded, and they began moving again, the tension slowly dissipating as the sounds of the battling beasts faded into the distance. Hours passed as they carefully navigated the border between the quicksand and the swamp, until finally, the ground beneath their feet changed. The wet, unstable earth gave way to solid land, and before them stretched a grassy plain dotted with wildflowers and patches of rocky hills.

"Let's make camp here," Arcia decided, pointing to a spot near a small hill that offered some elevation and cover. They were all exhausted, hours of traveling around the terrains had sapped their energy. Orden immediately began unpacking supplies while Solveig and Bram were tasked with finding food.

Food, it turned out, was plentiful here, but Bram couldn't shake his caution. Strange fruits and vegetables grew in abundance, but they were twisted versions of what he recognized. Long, banana-shaped fruits with the texture and taste of mangoes hung from trees, and root vegetables with unnatural, spiral patterns jutted from the ground.

Solveig, less concerned, grabbed everything she could carry. Bram, however, was more selective, choosing only the most normal-looking fruits. "Try this first," he told Solveig, handing her a fruit.

Solveig shrugged, biting into the fruit without hesitation. "Tastes fine to me," she said with a grin, though Bram still waited a moment before taking a bite himself.

As they ventured deeper into the plains, Bram noticed something unusual—a thin trail of smoke rising in the distance, near a denser patch of trees.

"Other humans?" Solveig asked, her voice filled with excitement.

"Other humans," Bram repeated grimly. To him, the smoke didn't promise safety; it meant uncertainty. More humans could mean allies—or enemies.

"We have to check it out," Solveig insisted.

"Keep your guard up," Bram said. "And stay quiet."

As they approached, the hope in Solveig's expression quickly faded. The camp they found was a massacre. Blood was splattered across the ground, and more than twenty corpses lay scattered around the site, their bodies mangled and half-eaten. The stench of death was overwhelming.

"Gods…" Solveig whispered, stepping back in horror.

Bram, swallowing his revulsion, scanned the area. Something about the scene didn't sit right with him. He climbed a nearby tree to get a better vantage point, and what he saw froze his blood.

In the distance, near the edge of the camp, he spotted the culprits—or rather, culprits. A predatory cat-like beast was tearing into one of the bodies. Its claws glistened with blood, and its sharp teeth easily ripped through flesh. The creature, with olive-green fur, was slightly larger than the average palm. At first glance, it didn't seem particularly threatening—until Bram saw the rest of them.

Thousands of the creatures covered the landscape like a shifting sea of green, their numbers forming an overwhelming, deadly pride. Their mouths dripped with blood, their small size compensated by sheer numbers and razor-sharp precision.

Bram clenched his jaw, his mind racing. They had far better odds against the reptilian ape than these creatures. A pack like this didn't just hunt; it consumed everything in its path.

He signaled to Solveig, pointing away from the camp. She nodded, her face pale as they quietly retreated. The two moved as quickly and silently as they could, leaving the nightmarish scene behind.

When they were far enough away, Bram whispered, "We need to warn the others—now."

Without waiting for a response, they broke into a sprint, their footsteps light but urgent as they raced back to their camp. The memory of the carnage and the green sea of death etched itself deeply into Bram's mind.

As they closed in on the camp, Bram felt a flicker of hope, only for it to be crushed the moment the scene came into view.

Orden and Arcia were tied up, restrained in a crude but effective manner. Arcia sat with her back against a rock, her left arm bound awkwardly to her side, preventing her from reaching for her dagger. Her tattooed wrist, usually in full view, was now deliberately hidden beneath a cloth wrap. Meanwhile, Orden's eye was swollen and blackened, clear evidence of a scuffle. Arcia glared defiantly at two strangers standing nearby—a red-haired man and an auburn-haired woman.

The woman's arm was bleeding from what looked like a deep gash, likely inflicted during the struggle. Both strangers turned sharply as they noticed Bram and Solveig approaching, their expressions shifting from smugness to alertness.

"Drop whatever weapons you're carrying!" the man barked, his voice rough but steady. He held a knife in one hand, its tip glinting in the fading light, while his free hand gestured toward Orden and Arcia. "Your comrades' lives are at stake here."

"Do as he says," the woman added, her tone no less commanding, though her posture betrayed exhaustion. Blood dripped from her wound onto the ground, but she kept her weapon raised and ready.

Bram's mind raced as he took in the scene. He subtly signed to Solveig to stand down, though he could feel the tension radiating off her. Her fingers twitched, itching to act, but she held her ground.

"Why don't I ever get a moment's break?" Bram muttered under his breath. He raised his hands slowly, showing he meant no immediate harm.

"Good," the man said, though his eyes flicked warily to Solveig's towering form. "We don't want any trouble, but if you don't cooperate, they die."

Bram glanced at Arcia, who met his gaze with a steely calm that somehow reassured him. Even bound, she looked ready to strike at the first opening. Orden, on the other hand, was less composed, his jaw clenched tightly as if suppressing a snarl.

"Fine," Bram said aloud, keeping his voice measured. "We'll do what you say. Just calm down."

As he carefully placed his dagger on the ground, he couldn't help but note the slight tremor in the woman's hand. They were desperate—that much was clear—but desperate people were unpredictable, and that made them dangerous.