The first thing he was aware of was the taste of salt.
It filled his mouth, his throat, a sharp, burning familiarity that was somehow comforting. Then came the sound—a rhythmic, thunderous hush and crash that vibrated through the sand beneath him. The sea.
He opened his eyes to a bleary world of pre-dawn grey. Above him, the sky was a wash of bruised purple and pink. He was lying half in, half out of the water, each gentle wave lapping at his legs before pulling back with a hiss of foam.
He sat up, his body aching, his mind a perfect, terrifying blank.
Who...?
He searched for a name. Nothing.
Where...?
He looked around. To his left and right stretched an endless curve of sandy beach, littered with driftwood and seaweed. Behind him, dunes rose, crowned with sharp, unfamiliar grasses. There was no house, no boat, no sign of anyone.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through the fog in his head. He scrambled to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him. He was wearing simple, dark trousers and a thin tunic, both soaked through and clinging to his skin. They felt strange. Foreign.
A larger wave rolled in, splashing up to his chest. Instead of knocking him off his feet, the water seemed to steady him. The cold shock cleared more of the fog from his mind, and with it came a single, inexplicable certainty: the water was not his enemy.
He waded deeper, until he was waist-deep in the surf. The push and pull of the current felt like a conversation against his skin, a language he couldn't understand but knew in his bones. He looked down at his hands, pale and pruned from the water, and had the absurd thought that he should be able to do… something. To answer back.
He raised a hand, focusing on a small wave receding from him. Stop, he thought, not with words, but with intent.
The water ignored him. It was just water.
The moment broke. The strange feeling passed, leaving only the hollow emptiness of his memory and the growing chill of the morning air. He was a boy, maybe eight or nine years old, alone on a beach with no idea who he was or how he got there.
A shout echoed from the dunes.
He flinched, diving behind a large, bleached log, his heart hammering against his ribs. Peeking out, he saw two figures crest the dune. They were a man and a woman, dressed in practical, worn clothing, carrying nets and baskets. Fishermen.
Their eyes scanned the beach, and they saw him immediately. There was nowhere to hide.
"Hey! Boy!" the man called, his voice rough but not unkind. "What are you doing out here? Storm's just passed!"
They hurried towards him, their faces shifting from curiosity to concern as they got closer. He stood frozen, water dripping from his clothes.
"Are you lost, child?" the woman asked, her voice softer. She knelt in front of him, her eyes searching his face. "Where are your parents? What's your name?"
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His name. What was his name? He looked from her face to the man's, then back to the vast, grey ocean. A single, clear image surfaced in the void of his mind: a three-pronged spear, wrought of gleaming bronze.
"T-Tri..." he stammered, the word feeling clumsy on his tongue.
"Tri?" the man repeated, confused.
The boy shook his head, the image fading. The only thing left was the sea. He pointed a trembling finger towards the endless water.
The man and the woman exchanged a long, heavy look. The man sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Washed up from a wreck, maybe? Poor soul. Must have hit his head."
The woman nodded, her expression settling into a sad resolve. She reached out and took his cold, wet hand in her warm, calloused one. He flinched at first, then clung to it. It was the first real anchor he had.
"Come on," she said gently, pulling him away from the water. "You're safe now. We'll take you to the magistrate. We'll figure this out."
He let himself be led away from the shore. With every step, the sound of the waves grew fainter, and the strange, comforting connection he felt to the water began to feel more and more like a dream. He looked back only once, at the sea that had brought him here and then abandoned him.
The man looked down at him. "Don't you worry. You're in District 4 now. We look after our own."
District 4. The words meant nothing to him.
But as they led him up the dune and away from the only home he could remember, a single, stubborn thought took root in his empty mind, a silent promise to the ocean he was leaving behind.
I will come back.