"Survival can be summed up in three words—never give up. That's the heart of it really. Just keep trying."
—Bear Grylls
The Beach After the Firefight
Smoke drifted low across the sand. The last echo of gunfire had faded, leaving only the sound of waves and the ragged breaths of the wounded.
Sena Lancer stood with her revolver in hand, chest heaving. Her braid clung damply to her back, and her arms screamed from strain. Around her, sailors groaned, some clutching wounds, others staring hollow-eyed at bodies they had once called shipmates.
Then a voice cut through the silence like steel.
"Check the wounded! Salvage what you can! Keep your eyes sharp—those bastards will be back."
Ashford. His tone carried authority that snapped the men back into motion. Sailors dragged crates from the wreckage, hauling the injured toward cover.
Nearby, Evelyn knelt in the sand, her yellow gown smeared with dirt and blood—not her own, but from the men she struggled to save. Her trembling hands tied a strip of fabric around a sailor's bleeding arm, forcing herself to smile even through the shock.
Through the haze of smoke, a familiar figure staggered across the beach. His soaked coat was torn, a satchel clutched tightly to his chest. The moment she saw him, Sena's breath caught.
"Father!"
Professor Edmund Lancer collapsed to his knees, still clutching the satchel as though it were his lifeline. Only when he saw it intact did he exhale, his eyes finally softening as they found his daughter.
Sena knelt beside him, brushing sand from his graying hair. For a moment, her expression was not that of a daughter, but of someone almost maternal, worried for a man too obsessed with discovery to care for his own safety.
Edmund cracked a faint, childish smile despite the battlefield around them.
"You've grown into a fine fighter, Sena. Your mother… she would have hated what you've become. But I believe she'd also be proud of you."
Sena's lips trembled into a faint smile as she helped him up. "I'm just glad you're alive, Father."
Another figure stepped forward, emerging from the scattered survivors. He moved with deliberate calm, as though the chaos around him hardly touched him.
Tall, sharply dressed despite the storm, his dark coat was neatly buttoned, his gloves spotless save for a few grains of sand. He knelt beside a wounded sailor, eyes of cold steel scanning the injury with clinical precision before adjusting the bandage with practiced ease.
Professor Edmund Lancer's face lit with recognition.
"Lucien! You made it ashore."
The man stood and turned, his voice smooth, almost polite.
"I seem to have a knack for survival."
His eyes glinted briefly—something unreadable—but his tone remained mild.
"This is my colleague from Cambridge," Edmund announced proudly to those near. "An expert in ancient tongues and comparative myth. He agreed to be my second set of eyes for this expedition—and even helped sponsor it."
Professor Lucien Marrow straightened, brushing sand from his gloves. From his coat, he produced a silver pocket watch etched with the serpent devouring its tail. He flicked it open, studied the dial.
"It's nearly daybreak. We should move quickly before more scavengers return."
The Search for Jack
Ashford stalked the shoreline, voice hoarse as he shouted over the surf.
"Jack! Jack! Where are you?!"
Sena turned to him, concern pulling at her face. When Ashford caught her eye, he asked sharply:
"Have you seen a blond-haired boy with blue eyes? His name is Jack Hale."
Sena paused. For a heartbeat, she was confused—then the fog cleared. The image of the boy on the docks flashed in her mind. The one who had looked at her, not with mockery or condescension, but with something else.
"Hale…" she murmured. The name struck deeper. Richard Hale. The madman archaeologist. The man who had once claimed to discover the path to Atlantis.
"Is he related to Professor Richard Hale?" she asked, her voice tinged with admiration.
Ashford's expression shifted. Usually, the name drew only scorn and ridicule. Jack himself had run from that shadow years ago. But there was no mockery in Sena's eyes—only curiosity, and something close to respect.
"Yes," Ashford said at last. "He's Richard Hale's son."
Sena's lips parted, worry flashing across her face. She turned, scanning the beach for any sign of him. She was ready to run into the jungle when Ashford caught her arm.
"Don't fret, Miss Lancer," he said firmly. "If there's one thing the Hales are known for, it's tenacity. That boy will get back on his feet. He always does."
Just Before Daybreak
Jack woke to the crashing waves of the sea and the faint crackle of his small fire.
The flame was weak, wavering against the damp air, but it was life. His body ached with every breath, bruises deep in his bones, his palm raw from stone and salt.
The firelight danced over the leather-bound notebook at his side. Salt-stained, warped, but still intact. His only anchor.
He wanted to read it—his father's riddle burned in his mind—but survival came first. The book could wait.
When the first light touched the sea, hunger clawed at his stomach. He staggered to the tide pools, remembering the sailor's dream.
Shelter. Food. Fire.
He pried sea snails and crabs from the rocks. After gathering what he could, Jack returned to his hollow and cooked them over the flames he'd nursed through the night. Bitter, briny—but food.
Knowing he couldn't linger, he walked the shoreline until he found a tree line that pressed inland. After an hour, he stumbled into a clearing near a running stream.
Here. This would do.
Using straight wood, frayed rope, and sharp stones, he built a crude lean-to shelter. Clumsy, crooked, but enough to shield him from wind and rain. Sparks from flint finally coaxed his fire alive, burning brighter than last night's attempt.
Each small victory steadied him. The sailor's words rang in his skull: Survive, or the island will claim you.
Before the sun sank, Jack crafted a weapon—a crude spear, rope binding a jagged rock to a sturdy branch—his only defense.
The jungle pressed close. Whispers stirred through the leaves, branches shifting, unseen things moving in the dark.
Remembering the sailor's warning—fire means life—Jack fed the flames until they roared high.
Then the jungle went silent. Too silent.
His crude spear shook in his hands. His breath came in ragged gasps.
A growl rumbled from the underbrush, low and deep, like thunder waiting to break.
Then he saw it—black fur gliding out of the shadows, eyes gleaming like stars.
The panther.
The beast lunged.
Jack thrust the spear, but his arms shook, causing the point to waver. The panther slammed into him, claws slicing air, jaws snapping inches from his face.
He held. He pushed. He tried.
But fear was killing him. His knees trembled. His lungs locked. Death pressed close.
And then—time stopped.
The panther froze mid-leap, saliva suspended in the air like glass. The forest blurred, swallowed by golden haze.
Out of the mist strode a figure—bronze armor, round shield at his side, a long spear planted in the earth.
A hoplite warrior.
Behind the helmet, blue eyes stared straight at Jack. Cold. Unflinching.
The warrior spoke, words Jack didn't understand. His skull throbbed as if something were prying open a locked door. Then the flood came—language poured into him, and suddenly he understood.
"Fear makes the hand weak," the warrior said in Greek, his voice like a war drum. "But the spear is not wood and iron. It is will. Hold steady. Stand firm. You are not the prey."
The haze thickened. Jack blinked—and suddenly he stood in formation. Bronze shields overlapped around him, spears angled forward. The ground trembled beneath the march of warriors.
He looked down. The crude stick was gone. In his hands gleamed a polished dory, its bronze tip shining like fire.
His fear was gone.
The warrior's voice thundered again:
"Stand your ground. Fear is the enemy. The spear is your strength."
The haze shattered.
The panther was still mid-leap, claws out, jaws wide.
But Jack's grip was steady now. His stance was firm.
He roared and drove the crude spear forward with all his strength. The rock tip struck deep into the panther's shoulder. The weapon splintered, but the beast shrieked in pain.
Jack roared back, no longer prey.
The panther staggered, blood glistening in the firelight. Its burning eyes narrowed with something new—hesitation. Fear.
It slunk backward, step by step, until the shadows of the jungle swallowed it whole.
The jungle whispered again, restless and alive.
Jack tightened his grip on the shattered spear shaft, chest heaving. He knew the truth.
This wasn't the last time he'd see that predator.
Not by a long shot.