Hours dragged on like lazy waves, slow and unbothered. Time seemed to melt into itself, stretching endlessly over the rocking lull of the ship. Shawn slept through all of it, his body finally surrendering to the weight of exhaustion. No one came to check on him, and in truth, he was grateful for that small mercy. After everything—death, rebirth, blindness, and body-snatching—rest felt like the rarest treasure in the world.
For a while, the world was silent. Just the creak of wood and the soft slap of water against the hull.
Then came the thud.
Loud, sudden, and jarring. It wasn't the kind of sound you could sleep through. Something heavy had struck the side of the ship, hard enough to send a tremor through the floor beneath him. Shawn's eyes snapped open by instinct—though they saw only darkness. Still, he didn't need sight to understand what was happening. The vibrations told him everything.
His heart kicked into motion.
Maybe it's an attack, he thought, his pulse quickening. Maybe someone's raiding the ship... maybe the attackers are actually the good guys.
For half a second, hope bloomed—raw and naive. A rescue. An interruption. Something.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
But the dream shattered quickly.
The door creaked open on rusty hinges, followed by the harsh stomp of boots against the wooden floor. That sound had become familiar—too familiar. A gruff voice followed, grating and impatient.
"Wake up, brat. We've hit land. Buyers ain't far, so move."
Shawn barely had time to brace himself. A thick, calloused hand grabbed him by the collar and yanked him upright. Pain bloomed across his spine. Before he could even protest, something hard struck the back of his neck. White-hot pain shot through him—then the world tilted.
And everything went black again.
When he came to, his body was twisted uncomfortably, packed inside something tight, scratchy, and smelling of old rope, mildew, and sea salt. His head throbbed. His limbs were sore. From the faint sway and bounce beneath him, he realized he was being carried—slung over someone's back or dragged along like cargo. Muffled voices filtered through the rough material around him. Men's voices, laughing, grumbling, exchanging crude jokes and weary complaints.
So that's how it is, Shawn thought, bitterly. From dying once to getting sold twice. What an impressive résumé I'm building.
He let himself go limp again. No use fighting—not yet.
Seven men stepped off the ship, boots crunching into damp sand. The transition from sea to land was jarring—the sudden stillness, the scent of trees instead of salt, the earthy weight of humid air. For the first time in weeks, they felt solid ground beneath them.
The man at the front, tall and barrel-chested, stretched his back until it popped like firewood in a hearth. His coat flapped lightly in the wind, and his beard twitched as he muttered.
"Ahh, land," the Captain said with a groan of satisfaction. "I swear, the sea's trying to kill me more and more every year."
Behind him, one of the younger crew members—a wiry lad with too-big boots and a permanently confused expression—frowned as he adjusted the sack on his back.
"Then why'd you become a sea captain if you hate the sea?" Finch asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
The Captain stopped walking and slowly turned, fixing Finch with a look sharp enough to slice rope.
Finch gulped. "Just saying…"
The older man snorted and turned back toward the tree line. "Because I needed coin, wanted freedom, and couldn't stand licking the boots of nobles. The sea gave me all three. And selling gifted brats like this one?" He jerked a thumb toward the sack holding Shawn. "It gives me closure. Makes the scales in my head feel… balanced."
"Balanced?" one of the other crewmen laughed, a man with a missing tooth and arms like tree trunks. "That's one way to justify trauma, Captain."
The others chuckled—though the laughter was brittle. The kind that tried to cover up the silence beneath it.
Ahead, the forest loomed. Tall trees swayed gently, and their thick canopies blocked much of the sunlight. Strange chirps echoed between trunks. Something growled in the distance. The air grew heavy and wet.
Dothan, the scout, took the lead. He was lean and quiet, with eyes like a hawk's and a machete already in hand. Vines snapped and leaves rustled as he carved a narrow path through the undergrowth. Two men followed closely behind, dragging Shawn's makeshift sack along the dirt. The others kept their weapons close, eyes darting between shadows.
By midday, patience had begun to unravel.
"This forest's a damned oven," Finch muttered, swatting at a mosquito that landed on his neck. "If we keep walking like this, I'll start photosynthesizing."
"That'd be the first useful thing you've ever done," someone muttered from behind.
"Shut up," Finch snapped, stumbling over a root. "Next time we get a job, I'm selling myself to a farm. At least cows don't sass back."
Their laughter echoed through the trees, this time with a bit more ease. Tired men clinging to small jokes.
But the forest didn't laugh with them.
It began with a rustle. A shift in the wind.
A low growl rolled from a nearby bush—too deep to be anything small. Eyes blinked open in the shadows. Yellow, narrow, watching.
"Beasts," Dothan warned quietly, blade rising. "Form up."
The rest of the crew reacted fast, instincts kicking in. Swords were drawn. Spears leveled. Even the axe-wielder, an old brute called Marris, raised his chipped weapon with a growl of his own.
The first beast lunged from the underbrush.
It was fast. Too fast. A blur of muscle and fangs—wolf-shaped, but bigger, thicker, and covered in scale-like ridges along its neck and spine. Its eyes glowed faintly, and a twisted horn curled above its snout like a malformed crown.
Steel met flesh. Screams followed.
The fight was over quickly—but not cleanly. Blood painted the ferns. One man limped away, nursing a bite on his arm. Another had his shirt shredded, barely escaping a worse fate.
Marris kicked the creature's corpse over and wiped his axe on its hide.
Finch prodded it cautiously with his sword. "So... anyone know if this thing's edible?"
"Only one way to find out," Marris grunted, already crouching beside it with a knife, skinning with practiced ease.
This time, the laughter that followed was lighter—less forced. They were used to this. Danger was normal. Fighting for your next breath was just part of the rhythm.
Two days passed in a haze of green.
The forest fought them every step of the way. The ground was uneven, roots twisted like traps, and insects swarmed like soldiers. They killed two more beasts, built smoky fires, and cooked whatever didn't try to bite them back. Arguments flared over snoring, food, and whose turn it was to carry Shawn's sack. No one volunteered.
Shawn stirred only when someone forced food into his mouth. The rest of the time, he drifted—caught between half-sleep and full despair. The salt of the sea had faded, replaced by soil and sap, and with every passing hour, the distance between him and freedom grew longer. He could feel it. He could feel the earth swallowing his chances.
By the evening of the second day, the canopy above began to thin. Shafts of warm light touched the ground. The air felt lighter, cleaner. And up ahead, the trees parted just enough to reveal the shimmer of running water—a stream, perhaps, or the edge of a clearing.
But it wasn't the water that stopped them in their tracks.
It was her.
A figure stood ahead, directly in their path. A woman—tall, unmoving. Her cloak was long and brown, blending into the bark around her. A wide-brimmed hat covered her face in shadow. She didn't speak. Didn't flinch. Just stood there, as if waiting.
Finch squinted. "Hey, lady," he called out, waving one arm. "You're kinda lost. We just fought off five monsters that looked like nightmares. Unless you're here to—"
"Quiet," the Captain snapped. His hand hovered near his blade. His instincts—honed over a lifetime of surviving when others didn't—screamed in alarm.
"Something's wrong," he muttered. "Way wrong."
The woman raised her head.
And beneath the shadow of her hat, her eyes began to glow. Faintly. Eerily. An unnatural light that didn't belong to any human face.
The crew froze.
Finch took a step back, voice barely above a whisper. "Uh... Captain? Are we selling her or running?"
The Captain didn't blink. He drew his blade in a single, smooth motion. "Neither," he said coldly. "We survive first."
The others followed, blades flashing in the fading light. The trees stood silent. The forest watched. And somewhere deep inside his sack, Shawn held his breath—unaware that everything was about to change.