The last thing Nero remembered was the roar of the waves—the way the storm had swallowed his research vessel whole, dragging him into the abyss. But instead of the cold embrace of death, he awoke gasping, his lungs burning as if he had been drowning for centuries.
Salt crusted his lips. Sand clung to his skin. Above him, the sky was a swirling tapestry of violet and black, lightning splitting the heavens like the wrath of some primordial beast.
Where… am I?
His fingers dug into the wet sand as he pushed himself up, his body unfamiliar—leaner, harder, marked with scars he didn't remember earning. A gust of wind howled past, carrying with it the scent of brine and something darker, something alive.
"By the tides… he lives."
The voice was rough, weathered by years of shouting over storms. Nero turned his head and saw an old man draped in tattered robes, his beard streaked with gray, his eyes sharp as flint.
"You should be dead, boy," the man muttered, stepping closer. "The sea does not give back what it takes—not unless it has a purpose."
Nero's throat was raw, but he forced out the words. "Where… is this?"
The old man's lips curled into a grim smile. "Welcome to the Isles of Myertys, lad. Land of the forsaken, home of the storm-cursed." He extended a gnarled hand. "Now get up. The tide's coming in, and the deep things hunger."
As if summoned, the waves crashed harder against the shore, their frothing edges hissing like serpents. In the distance, beyond the jagged cliffs, Nero saw the silhouette of a crumbling fortress—its towers clawing at the storm-wracked sky like the bones of a long-dead leviathan.
Something inside him stirred. A pulse, deep in his chest, like thunder given form.
And for the first time since waking in this strange, merciless world, Nero smiled.