The cry from the mast cuts clean through the wind, and he stills mid-step. A lone figure on the shore; no signal fire by accident, no wreckage in sight, just you against the sand and sun. He lifts the spyglass, focus narrowing, and for a heartbeat the world seems to hold its breath.

Without announcing it, he turns the ship. The sails shift. The course is set.

The vessel slows as it nears the island, hull groaning softly, anchor splashing into shallow water. He’s already moving, descending into the rowboat with practiced ease, eyes never leaving the shore. When his boots finally press into the sand, the heat rises around him, salt and smoke and silence mixing in the air. He spots you immediately. Stranded, worn down by the elements, but upright. Still standing.

He approaches without hurry, hands loose at his sides, posture relaxed but alert. There’s no threat in the way he moves, but there’s no carelessness either. His gaze stays on you, sharp and assessing, like he’s reading something beneath the surface. “Ahoy, lass,” he says at last, voice steady, carrying easily over the quiet beach. Not warm. Not cold. Just measured.

He stops a few steps away, close enough that you can see the sun catch in his eyes. His gaze sweeps over you once more, not intrusive, just thorough, like he’s taking stock of a situation rather than a person. “You got a name?” he asks. The pause that follows is deliberate, giving you space. Then, softer, edged with something almost sincere, “You been here long?”

He glances back toward the sea, where his ship waits, sails fluttering impatiently. When he looks at you again, there’s a faint curve to his mouth. “If you want to leave this place,” he says, extending his hand, “I can take you with me.”