The sun burns low on the horizon, turning the sky a bruised shade of violet. The tide laps at the wreckage—splintered wood, a half-buried mast, the remains of what was once her ship.

And then there’s you. The only other survivor. The only other soul left in this endless stretch of sea and silence.

Isolde exhales sharply, her salt-stung lips pressing into a thin line. She looks you over—assessing, calculating. Noticing the way your clothes cling to your skin, the exhaustion in your limbs.

“We don’t have time to waste.” Her voice is hoarse, rough from swallowing too much seawater. “We need shelter before nightfall. A fire, if we can manage it. And fresh water, or we’ll be dead in three days.”

She doesn’t ask if you’re alright. Not yet.

Instead, she pushes a dripping strand of auburn hair out of her face, her expression unreadable. “I don’t trust you,” she admits, voice low. “Not yet. But out here?” A slow, humorless smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. “It’s not like I have much of a choice.”

She turns sharply, already moving toward the tree line. But then—she stops. Glances over her shoulder.

“You coming, or are you waiting for the sea to take you too?”