The morning sun shone down on the rocky beach, casting golden light across jagged stones and crashing waves. In the shallows, where the surf met the shore, Aerax's naked, wet body lay sprawled and motionless. His dark brown fur was matted with seawater and blood, clinging tightly to his lean frame. He looked almost lifeless—until his chest suddenly rose in a ragged gasp.
The ocean licked at his legs as if trying to pull him back, carrying with it the sharp scent of salt, seaweed, and something faintly metallic—like blood. All around him, debris from the wreckage floated: splintered wood, torn sails, a broken compass. The storm had come without warning the night before, swallowing the ship in a wall of lightning and black waves. When the sea calmed, only Aerax remained.
He was alone.
Above the shoreline, steep cliffs loomed, casting long shadows over the beach. The dense forest beyond swayed gently, concealing its secrets beneath layers of mist and ancient trees. There was no sign of human life. No smoke, no voices. No distant towers or flags. Just wild nature—raw and indifferent.
Aerax groaned and rolled onto his side. Pain lanced through his limbs. His fur was scraped, his arms bruised, and his ribs ached with every breath. Slowly, he sat up, then staggered to his feet. His legs trembled under him. He had no idea where he was—only that he had survived, while the others had not.
He looked up at the cliffs. If there was a way off the island, it wouldn't be found standing still.
So, with nothing but instinct, he began to walk.
The forest swallowed him quickly. Thick branches and thorny underbrush scratched at his arms and legs as he pushed forward. Sunlight filtered through the canopy above in thin shafts, giving the undergrowth a sickly green hue. Birds cawed overhead—though he couldn't see them—and something large slithered through the leaves far to his left.
Time blurred. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. Thirst made his throat burn. He walked until he lost all sense of direction, following animal paths and natural trails that seemed to loop endlessly. Just as he began to falter, a strange shape emerged ahead through the trees.
A temple.
Half-hidden by vines and moss, the ruined structure loomed like a forgotten monument from a time before memory. Crumbling white columns, stained with age and streaked with black mildew, stood like ghostly sentinels. The central dome had partially collapsed, and fallen debris lay strewn across a set of broad, cracked steps. No birds chirped here. No insects buzzed. The air was thick, still—waiting.
Drawn by something he couldn't name, Aerax approached.
Inside, the light was dim. Sunlight poured through the shattered dome, casting broken rays across the stone floor. Ancient statues lay toppled and shattered, their faces eroded beyond recognition. The walls were adorned with fading murals—mythological figures, painted in colors long faded, their eyes wide with emotion: awe, fear, reverence.
On the floor near the center of the room was a large, square stone slab. Unlike the others, it was darker in color—smooth, with edges so clean they looked untouched by time. A lid.
He hesitated. Then pressed his palms against the stone.
It shifted with a low, grinding sound. A sudden gust of cold air rushed up from below, carrying with it the earthy, metallic scent of something long buried.
Below the slab was a spiral staircase carved from stone, descending into darkness.
Aerax looked over his shoulder at the forest beyond. Then back into the temple. The forest offered only uncertainty. The staircase... offered something else. A direction. A purpose.
He stepped onto the first stair.
The descent was long and cold. Each footfall echoed off the walls. Dust clung to the air, swirling around him with every breath. Cobwebs brushed his shoulders. Somewhere far below, water dripped rhythmically, like the ticking of an ancient clock.
The deeper he went, the stranger the atmosphere became. The natural stone of the upper stairs began to change. Walls smoothed out, showing signs of craftsmanship. Strange glyphs were etched into the walls—none he recognized, but some resembled celestial constellations or twisted runes. As he touched one, a faint warmth pulsed beneath his fingers.
Eventually, the stairs opened into a vast underground corridor, swallowed in total darkness. But even in the absence of light, Aerax could sense something... ancient. Not dead, exactly, but sleeping. Waiting.
He continued on, one hand brushing the wall for guidance.
The corridor opened into a great hall.
His breath caught.
The room was massive—easily the size of a cathedral. Its vaulted ceiling reached high into darkness. Though the space had long been abandoned, its grandeur remained: dark stone tiles stretched across the floor in a symmetrical pattern like a sacred chessboard. Enormous columns lined the walls, carved with winding symbols and scenes frozen in time.
And on every wall: reliefs.
They told a story.
Aerax walked slowly, eyes wide, taking in the carvings. He saw kneeling figures with animal heads and elongated limbs, all bowing toward a central figure: a god-like being with a great halo above its head. In its hands, a cup wrapped with vines. In another carving, the god descended from the sky in a chariot of stars. In the next, he embraced a mortal woman. Then came separation—grief. The halo vanished.
Then came the darkness.
From the sky came monsters—things with too many wings and mouths that screamed without sound. Cities burned. Oceans boiled. The people cried out to the god, but he was gone—or bound.
On the front wall, above what might have once been an altar, was the final image: the god, now chained to a pedestal, head bowed, his black blood dripping into a vessel shaped like a gourd. Below him, figures gathered around the container, holding it up like a sacred relic.
Aerax stared at it for a long time.
Though he couldn't read the inscriptions, he didn't need to. The meaning was carved into the air itself.
This was no place for mortals.
And yet... something called him deeper.
He felt it now—a subtle pull, like a thread wrapped around his ribs, tugging. The vessel—the snail-shaped container of blood—was still here, hidden beyond this chamber, somewhere in the labyrinthine halls below.
He turned.
At the far end of the hall stood three stone doors, each one towering, stacked one above the other. Moss clung to their surface. Time had weathered them, but they stood unbroken. Each was marked with strange symbols: a tree, a serpent, a spiral.
No map. No guide.
Only choice.
Aerax stepped toward the middle door, the one with the spiral.
The air around it was colder. His fingers hovered inches from the stone before brushing it gently. Dust fell. The engraved spiral seemed to shimmer faintly, as if reacting to his touch.
Then, with a deep groan, the stone shifted. A narrow crack opened. From within, a gust of cold, musty air swept out—air that hadn't moved in centuries.
Aerax stood frozen, heart pounding.
Something lay beyond that door. Something ancient. Sacred. Or cursed.
He clenched his fists. Took a long breath. Then, without hesitation, stepped through the threshold and vanished into the new darkness.