KAELEN STORMRIDER
Kaelen's body ached as he crawled up onto the jagged shoreline, the coarse black sand scraping against his palms and knees. The storm had torn him from his ship, tossed him around like a ragdoll, and left him battered, exhausted, and with little more than a thread of hope clinging to him. He could still taste the salt of the sea on his lips, but it was no longer a familiar, comforting taste—it was the sting of defeat.
The wind still howled around him, carrying the scent of the ocean, but it was no longer the violent storm that had claimed his fleet. The storm had subsided, but the damage it had wrought was clear. The sea was littered with wreckage, splintered wood, torn sails, countless dead bodies, and the remnants of the once-proud ships that had sailed beneath his command. What was once a mighty royal Vyrdantian fleet had been reduced to broken pieces, scattered across the shore like forgotten debris.
The remains of the Leviathan were barely recognizable. Her once-grand mast had snapped like a twig, and the hull, which had weathered countless battles, was now a crushed ruin, half-submerged in the sand. Kaelen's heart twisted in his chest as he gazed at the wreckage, the weight of his failure pressing heavily on him. His men—his crew—had followed him with loyalty, and now they were gone. The few survivors, those who had managed to make it to shore with him, were scattered, each lost in their own grief and confusion.
He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to push through the pain. He couldn't afford to wallow in it. His men needed him. He needed to focus, to think. The storm had left them stranded in enemy waters, far from the safety of Vyrdantia's shores. The wind still carried the bitter taste of the sea, but there was something else now, a sharp tang of something unfamiliar—a sense of foreboding. They had been brought here for a reason, and Kaelen had a sinking feeling that it wasn't by accident.
Druumari was the land sacred to Neryssa, Goddess of the Moon and Dreams, after all, and she in her own right was the deity married to Caelum, the God of the Storm and Seas.
He staggered to his feet, wiping the grime from his face, and turned his gaze back to the beach. A handful of his men had managed to make it to the shore with him, though their numbers were small. The others, those who hadn't been swept away by the storm, had either drowned or been lost in the chaos of the sea. The few survivors were huddled together, trying to tend to their wounds and collect what little they had left from the wreckage.
Kaelen's first mate, Orin, was standing at the edge of the wreckage, staring out at the sea with a grim expression. His face was streaked with saltwater and blood, his clothes torn and soaked. When he saw Kaelen approach, he straightened up, a somber look in his eyes.
"We're alive, Your Highness," Orin muttered, almost as if the words didn't mean anything. "But it doesn't feel like it."
Kaelen nodded, the weight of those words sinking deep into his chest. He had survived. But at what cost?
"Where's the rest?" Kaelen asked, his voice rough.
Orin's eyes dropped to the sand. "We lost most of them, my Prince. I— I don't know how many made it to shore. Few of the men were able to hold on long enough. The storm was… unlike anything I've ever seen."
Kaelen's gaze swept across the wreckage again, his throat tightening as he saw the shattered remains of his fleet. The fire that had burned so brightly within him, the hunger for victory and conquest, seemed to have been extinguished by the storm. In its place, there was only loss. And the eerie silence of the aftermath.
"We need shelter," Kaelen said, his voice hoarse as he turned away from the wreckage. His mind was racing now, forced to focus on survival, but there was a hollow pit in his stomach that he couldn't ignore. His fleet was gone. His men were broken. And he had no idea what lay ahead for them.
But survival was all he could think about now.
Orin nodded, his jaw set in a grim line. "I spotted a cave nearby, a little further inland. We'll need to find whatever supplies we can."
Kaelen glanced over at the others, who were still sorting through the wreckage and trying to salvage anything they could. His eyes briefly met theirs, but they quickly dropped their gaze, unwilling to meet his eyes for too long. He couldn't blame them. The storm had torn them apart, and now they were just… survivors. Waiting for whatever came next.
With a heavy sigh, Kaelen turned and began walking toward the jungle, Orin close behind him. The weight of the loss pressed on his shoulders, but he couldn't let it cripple him—not yet. The storm had given him no time to mourn. It had taken everything, and now it was up to him to rebuild.
As they walked, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore was a constant reminder of how close they were to death, how easily they could have been swallowed up by the sea. Kaelen's heart clenched at the thought of his men—their laughter, their camaraderie, their loyalty. He had promised them victory, and instead, he had led them into disaster.
The jungle loomed ahead, its dense foliage offering little comfort. The place felt alien, ominous even. Kaelen's instincts were on high alert, his senses sharpened by the fight for survival. Every rustle of leaves, every shifting shadow, made him twitch with readiness. There was something unsettling about this place—an oppressive stillness that hung in the air like a warning.
He turned to Orin. "Keep an eye out. We don't know what's waiting for us here."
Orin nodded, his expression grim. "Aye, my Prince. You think the storm was a sign?"
Kaelen shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. The storm had been unlike anything he'd ever encountered, a force of nature that had torn his fleet apart with the power of the spirits themselves. The druids of Druumari had warned him. They had warned all of them. And now here he was, stranded on their shores, surrounded by the wreckage of his own hubris.
"I don't know," Kaelen muttered, his voice distant. "But we've got no choice but to find out."
They reached the cave, a small opening in the side of a rocky hill, half-hidden by the thick underbrush. Kaelen crouched down and peered inside, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The space was dry, thankfully, and sheltered them from the wind. He motioned for the others to follow him, and one by one, they filed inside, each of them carrying what little they had salvaged from the wreckage.
Once they were settled, Kaelen sat down on a flat rock near the entrance, his back against the cold stone. His thoughts were swirling, chaos overwhelming him, but one thing was clear: he had failed. His fleet, his men, the mission—all of it had been lost.
And now, he was stranded in a haunted foreign land, facing an uncertain future.
He closed his mismatched eyes for a moment, letting the weariness wash over him. There was no escaping the reality of what had happened. But there was no time to dwell on it either.
They had to survive. And that, Kaelen thought, was the only thing that mattered now.