"It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves."
—Sir Edmund Hillary
Jack woke face down on wet sand, coughing seawater from his lungs. His body throbbed with bruises, his clothes torn and heavy with salt.
Around him, debris from the Daedalus washed ashore—broken planks, shredded sailcloth, shattered crates.
Groaning, he rolled onto his back. His first thought wasn't of the ship, but of his father's leather-bound book.
"Shit… where is it?"
His shaking hands searched until he felt it strapped beneath his coat. Relief hit like fire in his chest. The notebook was still intact, though waterlogged, its pages blurred by salt.
Jack forced himself upright. No ship. No voices. Only gulls wheeling overhead, and behind him a jagged wall of cliff.
The truth struck hard. The Daedalus was gone. The crew—scattered or dead.
"Anyone?!" His voice broke against the surf. "Old Man! Anyone—please, anyone!"
Only the gulls replied. Panic rose fast and sharp, stealing his breath—until memory cut through the fear.
Ashford's voice echoed in his head:
"Panic kills faster than any storm, Hale. Breathe first. Think second. Act third. That's how men survive."
The words steadied him. Jack inhaled, exhaled, forced his chest to slow. Step one: breathe.
He searched the tide line. A frayed rope coil. A flask, half-filled. A crate of spoiled rations, useless except for nails.
Small, meager—but something.
The sun dipped low. Shadows climbed the cliffs. Jack tried to scale them, but the wet stone betrayed him—his palm slipped, tearing open on a jagged edge.
Blood stung with salt. He cursed and stumbled back. No climbing tonight.
The tide pushed higher, threatening to reclaim his scraps. Jack hurried down the shoreline until he found a shallow hollow.
Damp, cramped, but shelter.
He dragged in driftwood and struck flint against steel. Sparks danced, died. Again. Again. Nothing.
Shivering, he wrapped himself in a shredded sail and lay down. The cold bit deep. His eyes drifted shut.
At first, he thought the surf followed him into sleep. But then he heard something else—the creak of wood, the beat of oars.
He opened his eyes. He was no longer in the cave.
A crimson sky burned above, a ship's deck splintered beneath him. Sailors moved around him, faces hard and sun-darkened.
One figure broke away. Broad-shouldered, blond, blue-eyed—an echo of Jack himself, but older, harder. A tarred rope slung across his chest.
"You've got the sea in your blood, boy," the sailor said, voice steady. "It'll try to drown you, same as it did me. But if you listen, you'll outlast it."
The dream shifted. Jack stood on a beach, the sailor showing him how to lash driftwood into a lean-to shelter.
Shelter first. Always shelter.
Another blink, and they crouched at a tide pool, prying sea snails and crabs from the rocks.
Food hides in plain sight. The sea gives—if you know where to look.
Then fire sparked from flint and tinder. The flame danced in the man's blue eyes.
Fire means life. Keep it alive. Even when the night whispers.
The sailor's tone hardened. He stood at the edge of a jungle, shadows writhing in the trees.
"And listen well. You're not the only predator stranded here. Ships brought more than men to this island. Some things learned to thrive long before you washed ashore."
Shapes shifted in the darkness—eyes glinting, teeth flashing. Jack's heart thundered.
When he turned back, the sailor was already fading into smoke. His voice echoed one last time:
"Remember what I've shown you. Survive—or the island will claim you like the rest."
Jack jolted awake in the hollow. No sailors. No fire. Only the hiss of the tide.
But the warning still burned in his mind.
Without delay, he shaved tinder from driftwood, struck flint, and coaxed a spark to life. This time, the flame caught.
He fed it with dry wood until the fire burned steadily, its warmth seeping into his aching body.
Jack stared into the fire, confusion twisting in his chest.
"Are the dreams… helping me?"
On the Other Part of the Island
The survivors of the Daedalus staggered onto the sand, coughing up seawater, clothes clinging to their frames. Some collapsed to their knees, others dragged crates from the surf. Smoke from the ruined ship still drifted across the sky behind them.
Sena Lancer was already on her feet. Her braid hung like a soaked rope down her back, revolver still holstered at her side. Her eyes swept the treeline where the jungle pressed close against the beach.
Too quiet.
Ashford barked orders, snapping the dazed crew from their shock.
"Check the wounded! Salvage what you can! Keep your eyes sharp—this island won't wait for you to snap out of it!"
Evelyn crouched nearby, her yellow gown torn and filthy. Her hands shook as she helped a sailor bind his wounds, forcing a smile despite the tremor in her arms.
Then—
A rifle cracked. Sand burst at Sena's feet.
"Get down!" she shouted, dragging Evelyn behind a half-buried section of the hull.
The crew scattered in panic as more shots rang out from the treeline. Figures emerged from the shadows of the jungle—pirates and scavengers, eager to pick apart what was left of the wreck.
Ashford cursed, ripping a fallen sailor's rifle from the sand. He braced, fired, and barked orders over the chaos.
"Form a line! Hold them here!"
The sailors scrambled into position. Some fired blindly, others too rattled to steady their aim. Still, the crack of rifles lit the beach.
Sena drew her revolver, resting it against the half-buried hull. She waited until a raider broke cover. One sharp squeeze—
Crack.
The man dropped into the sand.
Another rushed forward, sword raised. Sena pivoted, boots sliding in wet sand, and fired again. The man crumpled backward, lifeless.
Shouts rose from the raiders. One of them spotted the two women, his face splitting into a cruel grin.
"There are two young women here, boys! A feast tonight!"
Evelyn whimpered. Sena's jaw tightened. She leaned out, firing twice. Two raiders fell before the words could spread further.
Evelyn screamed behind her, but Sena didn't look back. She couldn't—not now. Evelyn had to stay down. Sena's revolver barked again, each shot dropping another man.
Then the hammer clicked. Empty.
A raider lunged at her cover, blade raised high. Sena reached over her shoulder and ripped free her climbing pick. Steel teeth sank deep into his forearm. He howled, dropping his weapon. She wrenched the pick free and drove a boot into his chest, sending him sprawling into the sand.
In the same motion, she snapped open the revolver, slammed fresh cartridges into the cylinder, and snapped it shut with practiced hands. Her breath was ragged, but her grip never wavered.
Ashford's line of sailors poured fire into the treeline, the rifles' thunder echoing across the cove. Sena rejoined the fight, her revolver cracking shot after shot until the raiders broke.
Finally, silence.
Only the hiss of waves and the groans of the wounded filled the beach. Smoke drifted low across the sand. The raiders had pulled back into the jungle.
For now.
They lived—but for how long?