The tide dragged bodies across the scarlet shore, the waves lapping hungrily at their limbs before retreating like a beast momentarily satisfied. Broken wood, torn sails, shattered crates—all that remained of the Sea Drake lay strewn across the sand, half-buried beneath the relentless pull of the tide. One by one, the survivors stirred.
Borgrim's chest heaved, his lungs burning with the sting of saltwater as he pushed himself up on shaking arms. His fingers dug into the iron-rich sand, still warm despite the cold, wet ruin of his body. Everything was gone. His axe, his pack, the gold they had brought for the voyage—lost to the abyss.
Thordrek coughed violently, his body trembling as he tried to stand, only to collapse again, his legs refusing to hold him. Varnic and Durnhal lay nearby, their beards matted with blood and seawater, their once-proud armor dulled with filth and ruin. The twins, Rurik and Grumli, had washed up together, their faces pale, their bodies deathly still, until Rurik's fingers finally twitched, clawing at the sand.
Further down the shore, the Silver Axes struggled to rise. Khaltar rolled onto his back, his breathing ragged, his dark hair clinging to his face, streaked with salt and blood. Yaraq was on his knees, staring blankly at the wreckage, his body slumped in exhaustion. Reza lay curled beside the shattered remains of a barrel, her small frame trembling with the weight of what had just happened. Hadeefa, Nadra, Soraya, Arianne, and Zahra were scattered across the beach, their armor dented, their weapons nowhere to be seen. All of them lost something. Some had lost everything.
The last to stir was the captain—Rahotep. A man once proud, a veteran of the seas, now a broken figure upon the wasteland's edge. He struggled onto one knee, his sun-darkened skin coated in a sheen of blood and salt, his hands trembling as they searched for a sword that was no longer there. His ship—his life's work—lay in splinters across the shore, claimed by the same gods he had once defied.
After silent, came sudden blur of movement—Rahotep surged forward, his body fueled by fury, grief, and the crushing weight of loss. His boots tore through the wet sand as he descended upon Borgrim, fists clenched like iron. The dwarf barely had time to turn before the first punch landed. A sickening crack echoed across the shore.
Borgrim's head snapped to the side, blood spraying from his split lip. The impact sent him staggering, his heavy boots digging into the sand as he fought to keep his footing. But Rahotep did not relent.
Another strike—this one worse. A brutal hook to the ribs, forcing the air from Borgrim's lungs in a wheeze. The dwarf stumbled back, his vision flashing white from the pain. Rahotep pressed forward, relentless, unyielding, wild.
He grabbed Borgrim by the collar, dragging him forward before slamming a knee into his gut. The dwarf gagged, spit flying from his mouth, his insides twisting with agony. Another punch, this time to the side of his face—bone met bone with a gruesome sound. Borgrim's world spun, the taste of blood thick in his mouth as he hit the sand hard. But dwarves do not fall easily.
Borgrim roared, a deep, guttural sound that carried the rage of his ancestors. He rolled with the force of the blow, using his momentum to push himself up just in time to meet Rahotep's next attack. This time, he was ready. The sea captain lunged—Borgrim caught his wrist.
Rahotep's eyes widened for a brief second before Borgrim twisted, using the man's own strength against him. A sudden pull, a shift of weight, and Rahotep was sent crashing to the ground, landing hard on his back. But even as the sand erupted around him, he was already moving again, rolling up to his feet, eyes burning with wrath. Then they clashed.
A storm of fists, elbows, and raw desperation. The fight was brutal, messy, the kind that left bone shattered and blood soaking the earth. Rahotep fought like a man who had nothing left to lose—because he didn't. Borgrim fought like a dwarf refusing to be bested—because he couldn't.
Rahotep ducked a wild swing, slamming his shoulder into Borgrim's chest, sending them both crashing to the sand in a tangled mess of limbs. He clawed at the dwarf's throat, seeking purchase, but Borgrim bit down on his forearm, teeth sinking deep into flesh. Rahotep howled, wrenching back—Borgrim struck.
A headbutt, square to the nose. The crunch of cartilage breaking was unmistakable. Rahotep reeled, blood pouring freely, but still, he did not stop.
Sand flew in all directions as Borgrim and Rahotep crashed into each other once more, their bodies bruised, battered, and slick with sweat and blood. There was no thought now—only rage. Rage for what was lost, for the fortune drowned in the abyss, for the failure that left them stranded in this cursed land.
The others closed in, but neither combatant cared. Khaltar reached first, grabbing Rahotep by the shoulders, trying to pull him back—only for the captain to thrash violently, breaking free. He shoved Khaltar aside and lunged again, his fists swinging wildly, seeking Borgrim's skull.
Yaraq seized Borgrim's arm, trying to stop the dwarf from retaliating, but Borgrim jerked his limb free with a snarl and swung a heavy fist straight into Rahotep's gut. The air left the captain's lungs in a ragged gasp, but he retaliated immediately, smashing his elbow into Borgrim's temple, sending the dwarf staggering.
Gorim, bloodied and furious, threw himself between them, gripping Borgrim's arms, while Thordrek and Durnhal grabbed at Rahotep. But nothing stopped them.
Borgrim lashed out, his boot slamming into Rahotep's knee, sending the captain crashing down—but even from his knees, Rahotep punched upward, catching Borgrim's jaw with a brutal uppercut.
"Enough!" Someone bellowed—a voice lost in the chaos.
The others tightened their grip, bodies pressing between them now. Varnic and the twins tackled Borgrim down, pinning his arms against the sand as he roared, still fighting to reach his foe. Nadra and Arianne held onto Rahotep's arms, struggling against his raw fury, his fingers still clawing toward the dwarf as blood streamed down his face.
Rahotep wrenched himself free from their grasp, his body trembling, his breaths ragged. His bloodied fists clenched at his sides, knuckles split, fingers shaking from the force of his rage. One final blow.
His fist drove into Borgrim's face like a hammer striking stone. The dwarf's head snapped back, his body going limp as he collapsed into the sand, motionless.
The fight was finished. But no victory had been won. Rahotep turned, his legs unsteady beneath him, yet he walked. Away from the others. Away from the wreckage of his fury. Step by step, he moved across the shore, his boots dragging through wet sand, leaving a trail of blood behind. And then he saw it. His ship—or what remained of it.
The mighty vessel that had once cleaved through storm and wave, now a shattered corpse upon the jagged shore. The great mast, which had towered high against the sky, lay broken—splintered like the bones of a fallen beast. The sails, once proud and full, were torn to ribbons, flayed by the cruel hands of the sea.
The hull, his home, his legacy, had been ripped open like a gutted carcass, spilling its lifeblood of wood, iron, and lost treasure into the merciless tide. The water lapped at its remains, dragging pieces away bit by bit, as if the ocean itself sought to reclaim what little was left. He dropped to his knees.
The salt wind stung his wounds, but he felt nothing. The ache in his knuckles, the sting of broken ribs—all meaningless. His ship was dead.
Gone were the nights spent beneath the open sky, the creak of timber beneath his feet, the laughter of his crew echoing across the deck. Gone was the vessel that had carried him across a thousand horizons. Now, only wreckage remained.
The tide whispered, cruel and ceaseless, erasing footprints, swallowing remnants. Soon, even this—even this grave of his past—would be lost. He bowed his head, his shoulders trembling, and the sea took another piece of him.
Yaraq approached in silence, his steps light against the wet sand, as if he carried the weight of countless years upon his back. A man who had seen too many battles, lost too many friends, and buried too many dreams beneath the tide.
He did not stand over Rahotep but sat beside him, his breath slow, steady. The wind howled its mournful dirge, yet in its song, there was no reproach—only acceptance. Thirteen days at sea.
A journey that had begun with promise, with laughter, with coin exchanged for safe passage. Now, it ended in ruin. Broken wood. Sunken treasure. Shattered pride. The sea had taken its due, as it always did.
Yet, Yaraq did not look at the wreckage. He looked at Rahotep—the fury still simmering beneath his skin, the loss carved into his features like an unhealed wound. The captain did not speak, but as he turned, he saw the lines on Yaraq's face, the weariness in his eyes. A veteran who had survived more than just war—he had endured time itself. And in that weathered visage, Rahotep found ease.
The fight had taken nothing from Yaraq. He had long understood that everything came with a price. No voyage was ever wasted, no matter how it ended. Even in ruin, the path forward remained.
Behind them, the others began to gather, the chaos of their battle fading into quiet understanding. One by one, they stepped closer—not as enemies, nor as victors, but as survivors.
Borgrim stood first, bruised and unsteady, yet his hand reached forward, open. A gesture without words, an offering of truce. Then Gorim. Then Khaltar. Then the others.