Chapter 5: The Forgotten Isles

The sea was merciless.

Alon awoke to the sensation of water sloshing against his skin, his body aching from the battle. His canoe bobbed in the aftermath of the storm, drifting aimlessly. His limbs were weak, and his breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to steady himself. The sky above was a dull gray, the last remnants of the storm clouds dispersing across the horizon.

He winced as he sat up, his muscles stiff. The events of the night before came rushing back—his desperate fight against the sea monsters, the surge of power from his tattoos, and the overwhelming realization that he was no longer just a boy from the village. He was something else now. Something marked.

But before he could process his new reality, the sight before him stole his breath.

Land.

A cluster of islands stretched before him, their towering cliffs and lush forests almost hidden behind a thick mist that clung to the waters. These were no ordinary isles. There was something eerie about them, something forgotten by time itself. The wind carried no scent of human life, only the briny tang of the sea and the faint, almost imperceptible whisper of voices carried by the breeze.

Alon narrowed his eyes, gripping the edges of his canoe. Was this Pulau Lanawari? Had the storm brought him here by fate or by the will of something else?

He had no choice but to find out.

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As he guided his canoe toward the shore, his fingers trembled slightly. The water around the islands was unnaturally calm, as if it feared disturbing whatever slumbered within the land. The moment his feet touched the damp sand, a shiver ran through him. The ink on his skin tingled, reacting to something unseen.

But something was wrong.

The island felt... hungry.

As he took cautious steps forward, he realized he was not alone. Across the beach, remnants of wreckage from other ships and boats lay scattered along the shore. And then he saw them—others, like him, castaways. Some sat hunched over, their clothes tattered from the sea. Others stood, wary, watching him as if assessing whether he was friend or foe.

Before he could approach them, something else caught his eye. Beyond the trees, at the base of the cliffs, a massive shadow loomed.

A ship.

Not just any ship—a grand galleon, its hull weathered but intact, resting against the rocks as if stranded there for years. Its sails were lowered, its deck bustling with movement. People. Merchants and explorers, men and women from lands far beyond his own, dressed in finely woven tunics, doublets, and breeches, their high boots caked in sand and salt. Some bore plumed hats, others armored vests of polished steel, marking them as soldiers or noble retainers. Their features were pale, their hair golden or dark like the foreigners Alon had only heard whispers of from traveling merchants.

Alon's stomach tightened. Who were they? Had they been stranded like him? Or was this island their domain?

He immediately dropped lower, seeking the cover of the tall grass and jagged rocks along the shoreline. He could not risk being seen. These people were outsiders, and though they appeared stranded, Alon had no reason to trust them. He had heard enough stories of foreign raiders and slave traders. For all he knew, these people were no different.

His heartbeat was steady but quick as he crawled forward, inching toward the treeline where the jungle could provide better cover. He needed to assess the situation before revealing himself. Every step on this island could mean danger, and he was already vulnerable. The kraken's blood, still soaked into his skin, made him a beacon for creatures unknown.

He crept along the undergrowth, careful not to make a sound, positioning himself near enough to eavesdrop on the ship's crew. Voices drifted to him from the galleon's deck.

"We need to find fresh water soon," one man grumbled. "The barrels are running low, and this island isn't exactly welcoming."

Another voice, sharper, spoke. "Aye, and the longer we linger, the more likely we'll never leave. You saw the last group that went inland, didn't you? Never came back."

A third voice, softer yet firm, cut through the discussion. "We don't have a choice," a woman said. "If this place holds anything of value, we must find it. The Kingdom of Varenhelm is expecting results. We cannot return empty-handed."

Alon's ears perked at the last voice. It belonged to Captain Isabella Draven. He could now see her standing at the helm, overlooking the shore. She was unlike the rest. Her presence commanded authority—long, dark curls fell over her shoulders, a fine coat of deep crimson trimmed with gold draping over her form. She bore no steel armor, no musket on her back, yet there was something in the way she carried herself, an aura that told Alon she was their leader.

Draven watched the shore, her sharp eyes scanning. Her thoughts churned as she noticed movement in the undergrowth. A boy, young but with an undeniable presence. His skin bore deep ink, swirling and intricate, unlike anything she had seen before. His lack of armor or weapons made him appear unassuming, yet something about him set her on edge. Those tattoos—tribal, commanding, and unnatural—spoke of something beyond mere decoration.

Who was he? A native of these isles? A lone survivor?

Her grip tightened around the pommel of her sword. The way he moved, how he watched them from the shadows, was almost predatory. And yet, there was hesitation in his stance, as if he, too, feared them as much as they feared him.

She knew better than to let her guard down. With careful steps, she descended from the helm and made her way toward the shore, her gaze fixed on the shadow moving within the undergrowth. Stopping just beyond the treeline, she lifted her chin and spoke, her voice clear but edged with caution.

"You there," she called out. "I know you're watching. Step forward."

Alon remained still, his muscles tensed. He could flee, but he knew that revealing weakness would only embolden them. Slowly, he rose from his crouch, stepping out from the shadows, the intricate tattoos across his body now fully visible under the dim light.

Draven's eyes flickered over his form—his bare chest adorned with swirling ink, his sun-darkened skin, the tension in his stance. She had never seen markings like his before, and something about them unsettled her.

"Who are you?" she asked, keeping her hand near the hilt of her sword, where a faint pulse of energy shimmered along the blade. A subtle, almost imperceptible ripple of mana coursed through the steel, reacting to the tension in the air. "And why do you skulk in the shadows like a thief?"

Alon squared his shoulders, his voice measured. "Who are you to ask? This island does not belong to you."

Draven's lips curled into a smirk. "That remains to be seen."

A soldier stepped forward, his brows furrowed as he eyed Alon with suspicion. "Boy, do you even know who you're talking to?" he demanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Draven raised a hand, halting him. "Captain," the soldier then spoke hesitantly, "do you think the island is cursed?"

Draven let out a slow breath before responding. "Cursed or not, we have little choice. We either survive, or we perish like the others."

Alon's fingers tightened around his spear, the ink of his tattoos flaring for a brief moment as a ripple of energy coursed through the weapon. He hadn't intended to react, but the soldier's presence had set him on edge. The sudden sensation startled him—he hadn't yet learned to control the power that now ran through him.

Unbeknownst to them all, beyond the thick canopy of the forest, something else watched. Predators, hidden in the foliage, their eyes gleaming with hunger. Silent, patient hunters, drawn to the newcomers, awaiting the right moment to strike.

Alon felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. A sense of danger far greater than the ship's crew lingered in the air.

The island was not just forgotten—it was waiting.