*TALE OF THE LOST ISLAND*
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Chapter Six:
The fog peeled back like a slow exhale from the lungs of a beast, revealing the island in fragments — first a jagged cliffside, then twisting trees with leaves like tattered sails, and finally a beach of black sand that shimmered unnaturally under the dim sky.
No one spoke.
Eliot gripped the edge of the boat, his knuckles pale. It was as if the island had been watching them all along, waiting for this moment.
Behind him, the others whispered among themselves. The fog hadn't just confused them; it had changed them. They looked older. Or maybe it was just the weight of crossing into a place that felt untouched by time.
"Anchor it here," Eliot said quietly. His voice didn't carry far, but it didn't have to — the silence around them was heavy, absorbing every word like soil drinking up water.
Ropes were thrown. Wood creaked. The boat settled.
The crew hesitated. No one moved to disembark. Even Rourke, the usually fearless sailor, just stood there staring at the shore like it might open up and swallow them.
Eliot didn't wait. With a deep breath, he slung the old leather satchel across his shoulder — the one that held the blood-drawn map — and stepped down into the shallows. The cold water licked at his boots as he walked toward the beach.
Every step felt like a choice. A farewell to the world behind.
And then — his foot met the sand.
A strange warmth pulsed through the ground. Not heat… but memory. As though something ancient had been awakened by his presence.
Behind him, one of the crew whispered, "He's marked now."
Eliot turned but said nothing. He wasn't sure if it was fear or reverence in their eyes. Maybe both.
He scanned the landscape. Strange rock formations jutted out in patterns that resembled forgotten symbols. Trees grew in a spiral formation, leading toward the dark heart of the island. Somewhere far off, a sound echoed — like wind, but not. Almost like a woman's voice humming in reverse.
He took another step. Then another.
The island seemed to breathe around him.
Something shifted in the wind. Eliot stopped. There, half-buried in the sand near a cluster of coral, was a relic — a small, rusted compass with its glass shattered and a name engraved on the back: H. Mirelle.
Eliot picked it up, stunned.
The name sparked something in his mind.
Hadn't the mapmaker mentioned that name?
Before he could think further, the sky above groaned with a thunderless rumble. A flock of birds burst from the trees and scattered, like shadows torn free from the canopy.
And Eliot knew — this island was not just forgotten by man.
It had been waiting.
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