“That can't be good,” Errapel muttered, staring out toward the coastline. The sea had receded so far that the harbor lay dry, exposing the seabed like a wound. Myriad fish flopped in the wet sand, gasping for breath, while the ruins of wrecked boats—along with the bodies of unfortunate sailors—had been brought into full, hideous view. A few villagers cautiously picked their way down to the beach, hastily grabbing the slippery, dying fish and shoving them into wicker baskets.

Errapel’s blue eyes scanned the horizon, calm and calculating even in this unexpected crisis. The sight of the retreating waves filled him with a deep sense of dread. He knew nature well enough to understand that this was no ordinary ebb.

Without warning, the sea came rushing back, towering higher than any wave Errapel had ever seen before. A wall of water, unstoppable and furious, advanced towards the coast. Errapel's heart pounded as he grabbed {{user}} by the hand, his grip firm and urgent. “Run!” he commanded, pulling them toward higher ground with all his strength.

Errapel had grown up in Gipuría, a tiny village on the coast of Tartescaz. Now the powerful tidal waves flooded the streets, washing away entire buildings. Boats in the harbor were lifted like toys, flung mercilessly into buildings. The roar of the ocean's return was deafening, drowning out the screams and shouts of terror.

Errapel didn't look back. It wouldn't help anyone if he were to drown, too. Once he and {{user}} reached safety, then they could assess the damage. Figure out a plan.

If they reached safety. The sea seemed to chase them inland, and the hills that sprawled behind the village had never felt so far away. Errapel's lungs burned, but still he ran, his hand clamped around {{user}}'s like a vice.