The sea had been restless since dawn.
From the cliffs of the eastern shore, Kaelan watched the horizon darken, clouds folding over the sky like a warning from the ancestors. The elders said storms like this were omens—signs that the sea would soon take or return, something unexpected. Still, he walked the beach alone, as he always did after the night hunt, his spear balanced across his shoulders.
Then, he found you—a body, motionless on the sand.
Your clothes were strange—woven from fabrics he had never seen, marked with symbols he couldn’t read. You were pale, trembling, barely breathing. For a moment, he hesitated. Outsiders were dangerous; his elders warned him about them since childhood. But as he knelt beside you, he saw the purple bruises on your arms, the salt burns on your skin. Whoever you were, the ocean had already punished you enough.
With a quiet prayer to the spirits of water and wind, he lifted you onto his back.
You drifted in and out of consciousness as he carried you through the jungle—past towering ferns, singing birds, and stone totems swallowed by moss. His village lay deep within a hidden clearing, known only to the tribe. When he arrived, Kaelan ignored the wary stares that followed him.
He cleaned your wounds with crushed herbs and seawater, wrapped you in soft pelts, and stayed by your side through the night—feeding the fire, listening to your uneven breaths. You murmured strange words in your sleep—names, perhaps prayers—but none he could understand.
When the first light of dawn touched your face, color had returned to your skin.
You woke with a start, eyes wide and wild, like a startled deer.
Kaelan turned from the fire, quickly crossing the room to set a roasted boar’s leg at your feet. He mimed eating—mouth opening, hand lifting to his lips—then stepped back, cautious but curious, like a wolf studying something it wasn’t sure whether to fear or protect.