Chapter 1: Dawn Island

Isaac Robinson, April 28, 521

The first light of dawn stings my eyes as I groan back to consciousness. My mouth is parched, my tongue swollen and sticky with the taste of salt and bile. A cold sweat clings to my skin despite the already warm black sand beneath me. My ribs ache with each shallow breath.

The world shakes violently when I try to sit up. The volcanic beach stretches out in the pale morning light, the normally jet black sand now a dull charcoal in the pre-dawn darkness. Behind me, the silhouette of a volcano cuts a jagged line against the bright sky, its peak shrouded in lazy gray steam.

My stomach lurches as the smell hits me-the rotten-egg stench of sulfur, stronger now in the cool morning air. I barely have time to turn around before I'm choking on nothing but acid and seawater, my whole body convulsing with each painful thrust. The vomit splashes onto the wet sand, the acidic stench mixing with the volcanic gases.

The tide pools nearby steam unnaturally in the crisp dawn air, their surfaces iridescent with mineral slicks. My vision swims as I collapse back, the black sand clinging to my damp cheek. The rising sun paints the ocean in sickly yellows and greens, the waves moving lazily like oil.

A distant seabird's cry echoes across the empty beach, the sound making my throbbing head pulse harder. I try to focus on what appears to be a village down the shore, but my eyes won't cooperate-the thatched roofs blur and double in my vision.

The heat is already building as the sun climbs higher. My skin feels tight and feverish, my muscles weak and shaking. I know I need water. I need shelter. But right now, even lifting my head makes the world spin dangerously.

As the first direct sunlight hits my face, I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain. The black sand beneath me seems to pulse with heat, or maybe it's just the fever. The village could be miles away.

The world tilts with every staggering step as I drag myself toward the cluster of thatched roofs. My throat burns, my legs tremble as if they could give out at any moment. The black sand has given way to packed earth, the sulfuric stench fading beneath wood smoke and the salty smell of drying fish.

A woman stands by a weathered wooden house, hanging faded laundry on a clothesline. Her back is turned, her movements calm and practiced. I try to call out, but my voice comes out in a broken whisper.

I take another step. The ground shakes beneath me.

"Help..." It's barely more than a breath.

The sheets flap in the morning breeze as my knees give out. The last thing I see before the darkness consumes me is the woman turning, her eyes widening, her hands reaching out as I crumple to the dirt.

Time passes...

A sharp, metallic taste lingers in my mouth as consciousness returns. The murmur of hushed voices cuts through the fog in my head.

"Do you think he's a pirate?" a boy whispers.

"Pirates have scars and eye patches," a girl replies matter-of-factly. "This one just looks sick."

I force my eyes open, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the window. Two faces hover at the foot of the bed-a boy with sun-bleached hair and a gap-toothed grin, and a girl clutching a shell necklace, her brown eyes wide with curiosity.

When they realize I'm awake, the boy gasps and stumbles back. "Mama! The dead pirate is awake!"

My throat burns as I stammer, "Not... a pirate." The words barely register above a whisper, but the children freeze.

The girl leans closer, studying me with sudden fascination. "Then why were you in the sea?"

I try to answer, but my voice sticks in my throat. Suddenly I hear heavy footsteps approaching. The smell of salt and herbs grows stronger as a shadow fills the doorway.

The boy is tugging at someone's skirt. "Mom, he says he's not a pirate!"

I try to brace myself on my elbows, but the room tilts dangerously. The last thing I see before darkness threatens to engulf me again is a woman's calloused hands reaching for me, her voice firm but not unkind:

"Dead or not, pirate or not-let's get you some water first."

Before I can even lift my head from the sweat-soaked pillow, the woman is already looming over the bed, her silhouette framed by daylight, one hand resting on the curved sword at her hip. The leather-wrapped hilt of the blade is darkened by years of use, the metal crossguard scuffed from wear.

She pushes a steaming wooden bowl toward me. The smell hits me like a physical blow - rancid seaweed cooked in vinegar.

"Up," she commands.

I barely get my elbows under me before she pulls me upright with surprising force. The room spins violently as she shoves the bowl into my hands. The liquid inside looks like swamp water, with chunks of... something floating in it.

I take a sip and nearly vomit.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" I yell, spitting brownish droplets onto the straw mattress. "IT TASTES LIKE ROTTEN FISH!"

The little boy gasps from the doorway. His sister claps her hands over her mouth, her eyes dancing with delight at the outburst.

The woman doesn't flinch. She simply pulls her sword halfway out of its scabbard with a sharp metallic hiss.

"Either you drink it," she says calmly, "or I will knock you unconscious and pour it down your throat while you sleep. Choose."

I swallow.

With a shuddering breath, I raise the bowl to my lips - and throw it back like a shot of bad whiskey. Heh, that brings back memories. The vile concoction burns to the bottom and coats my tongue with what tastes like liquefied volcanic rock. My whole body convulses in protest.

But within seconds, a strange warmth spreads through my chest. The pounding in my head eases. My vision clears just enough to see the woman's satisfied nod as she sheathes her sword.

"Good," she says. "Now that you're not dying..." She pulls up a stool with her boot. "...tell me why the currents washed you up on my beach with no boat, no weapons, and," she looks at my trembling hands, "no sea legs to speak of."

The woman's grip on her sword hilt tightens slightly as she studies me. "First, tell me your name, boy."

"Isaac," I say, my voice still harsh from seawater and sickness.

She tilts her head, waiting.

"Robinson. Isaac Robinson."

Something flickers in her eyes-recognition? Suspicion?-but it's gone before I can be sure. She exhales sharply, then nods. "Lira Varek." She gestures to the children hovering in the doorway. "This is my son, Jory."

The boy - sun-bleached hair, a grin missing two front teeth - bounces on his toes. "Hiya, shipwreck!"

"And this is my daughter, Nessa."

The girl is younger, maybe seven or eight, with serious dark eyes and a grip on her mother's belt. She doesn't speak, just looks at me, as if deciding if I'm worth the trouble.

The fire crackles between us in Lira's dimly lit kitchen. She wipes her hands on her flour-dusted apron, studying me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing.

"Isaac Robinson," she said, testing the name. "That last name doesn't belong to people from this archipelago."

I kept my hands steady around the warm mug of cider she'd pushed toward me. "It's a mainland surname. My father was from there. But I've lived on an island all my life."

Lira's fingers tapped the wooden table. "Which island?"

" A small one." I took a slow sip, the spices burning my tongue. "The kind that doesn't show up on maps."

The lie came easily. The truth was more complicated.

Lira sat back, her chair creaking. "You speak like a scholar. Strange for one raised among fishermen."

"My father valued education." I traced the rim of the cup. "Even in isolation."

Outside, the wind rattled the shutters. The firelight danced across Lira's face as she watched me.

"And your father," she said finally. "Where is he now?"

The cider turned to ash in my mouth. "Still researching, I suppose."

The firelight flickered across Lira's face as she sat on her weathered stool, her calloused hands resting on her knees. Her piercing gaze made my skin tingle.

"So, island boy," she said, her voice rough like sun-bleached driftwood. "What brings you to this island?"

I set the untouched mug aside and met her gaze.

"I was trying to reach the continent," I said, the half-truth coming easily. "Signed on a merchant ship from the southern islands. Paid my last coins for passage."

"Then the storm hit," I continued, my fingers curling into the palms of my hands. "Not just bad weather. Something... wrong with it. Waves coming from three directions at once. Compass spinning like a top."

Lira's eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing.

"The ship broke apart quickly. I woke up alone on your black sands - no wreckage, no other survivors. Just me."

The fire crackled loudly in the heavy silence that followed. Outside, the wind carried the distant smell of salt and seaweed.

Lira stood with a grunt, her joints protesting. "Lucky for you," she said, brushing flour from her apron, "the supply ship from the mainland arrives tomorrow. And I happen to know the ship's crew well - if you'd like, I can ask them to take you with them."

I forced a smile. "I would appreciate that."

Lira studied me for a long moment. "Okay, but before that, I have to ask you one last question: Why do you want to go to the continent?"

I exhaled, the truth spilling out before I could stop it. "In Gaia, at the port of Migdagland, the Guild is recruiting volunteers for an expedition. They're preparing to sail to Meridian - the new continent discovered four years ago." My hands clenched at my sides. "I want to join them."

Lira's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes - recognition? Concern? "Meridian," she repeated slowly. "That's a long way for a boy without coin."

"I don't need coin," I said. "Just a chance."

"Why do you want to go to Meridian?" Lira asked.

I answered with a twinkle in my eye: "That's easy - I want to find the Eldritch."

The fire crackled between us, casting shadows that danced like the waves that had brought me here.