The three ships scraped against the jagged shallows, their hulls groaning as they finally came to rest. The coastline loomed ahead—dark forests that breathed mist, cliffs etched with strange markings, and beaches littered with stones that glowed faintly in the dim light.
The survivors cheered weakly as the gangplanks dropped. For a moment, there was relief. The Sea of Trials was behind them. Land, at last.
Edric was the first to step onto the sand, sword at his side. His boots sank slightly into the black grains as he raised his chin. "We made it," he said firmly, though his voice was weary. "From here, we carve a future worth dying for."
Behind him, his knights and sailors dragged crates ashore. Elira hurried to record the strange flora and markings, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. Ronan scanned the treeline, hand resting on his dagger, mistrustful of the unnatural stillness.
The forest erupted. Shapes burst from the mist—towering beasts with elongated limbs and hides mottled like stone. Their eyes glowed faintly, not with hunger, but with intelligence and fury. Their screeches pierced the air as they descended on the landing party.
"Hold formation!" Edric shouted, rallying his knights. Swords clashed, shields locked, and for a heartbeat, the line held. But the creatures were relentless. Their limbs crushed men like twigs, their claws tore through armor as though it were parchment.
Elira screamed as a knight beside her was dragged into the mist. She remembered Driftport's whispers: Essence changes everything. The beasts are not like ours—they are born of it. She shouted desperately to the others. "Aim for the glowing veins on their chests! That's their weakness!"
Ronan had already noticed. With brutal precision, he darted forward, slashing at one creature's chest until it collapsed in a spray of unnatural ichor. "Listen to her if you want to live!" he roared.
But it was too late for most. The knights fell one by one, sailors were dragged screaming into the trees, and the beach ran red. Edric fought like a cornered wolf, but even his blade could not turn the tide.
By the time the beasts withdrew into the mist, silence returned to the beach—broken only by the crash of waves and the labored breathing of three survivors.
Edric stood amidst the ruin, blood staining his armor, his sword arm trembling. Around him, the last of his knights lay dead or torn apart. His chest heaved as reality crashed down. His father's expectations. His fiancée's hopeful gaze. All of it rested on him—alone.
Elira sank to her knees, clutching her journal to her chest. Her hands shook as she stared at the lifeless forms of the sailors who had trusted her knowledge. "All that planning… all that knowledge… and it wasn't enough."
Ronan leaned against a shattered crate, blood dripping from a cut across his brow. His usual grin was gone, replaced by grim silence. "That's the Continent for you. Doesn't care about your titles, your books, or your dreams. It takes. Always."
Edric turned to them, his voice hoarse but commanding. "Then it won't take us. Not without a fight. We may be all that's left, but together we have what it takes—discipline, knowledge, survival. We endure, or we join them."
The three locked eyes. For the first time, strangers became something more. Not allies by choice, but by necessity. The weight of survival pressed on them all equally.
Behind them, the waves dragged the broken remains of their ships back into the sea, as though erasing all evidence of their arrival. Before them, the misty forest waited—silent, watching, hungry.
They had come seeking riches, knowledge, and new beginnings. Now, they stepped into the Shrouded Continent as the last survivors of their doomed fleets.