Journal Entry, Crestwave Isle Voyage, Day 22

I’ve been moved to a new room—a cramped, dingy place that smells like sweat, damp wood, and old boots that should’ve been thrown overboard weeks ago. The walls are thin enough to hear the groaning of the ship at night, creaking like it’s sighing with exhaustion, and the occasional cough or grumble from the others. Squad Eight… they’re an odd bunch. Every single one of them has something off about them. Some have a limp, others bear scars that refuse to heal clean, and then there are the eyes—eyes that don’t quite look at you, but through you, like they’re searching for something behind your skull. They don’t talk much. But when they do, there’s always this feeling, like they’re keeping a lid on something. Anger, maybe. Fear, definitely. Or both.

I’ve done my research to understand why they call this ‘Squad Eight’ the Death Squad. The explanation is painfully simple. We’ve been tasked with scouting Snake Isle—completely on our own, without any support. For a full week, we’ll have to survive an island overflowing with abominations. No backup, no reinforcements. Just us.

Abominations are unpredictable. They’re twisted things—born from corruption—that don’t follow any known patterns. One minute, they’re dormant; the next, they’ll tear through an entire squad before anyone has time to react. It’s not uncommon for entire units to be wiped out because they didn’t know what they were up against. The survival rate? Pathetic.

It’s a strategy that works perfectly for everyone—except Squad Eight. We take the risks, and they reap the rewards. No wonder the death rate is so high. They don’t expect us to come back.

We’re eating in the dining hall now. I’ve decided to sit with them today. One guy’s sitting next to me, twitching every few seconds, his left eye jerking like it’s trying to escape his face. He’s been watching me for a while now, probably wondering what I’m scribbling down.

"Oi, stop fuckin’ writing," he snaps finally, voice rough as sandpaper scraping over iron. He’s chewing on some sloppy grain food, barely looking at me. "Damn kid."

Apollo stopped writing mid-sentence. It wasn’t like he had much more to say, anyway. Everything felt disjointed these days, like he was waiting for something to break loose, but didn’t know when or how it would happen. He placed his pen down, feeling the weight of the silence fall over them again, thicker than the fog that sometimes choked the ship's deck.

He missed Corin. The man’s steady presence had always been a comfort, even when the world around them felt like it was falling apart. Apollo hadn’t seen him since they threw him into the brig. He wondered what Corin was doing now—probably keeping himself out of trouble, like he always did. If anyone could make it through this mess, it was Corin. Apollo just hoped he hadn’t gotten into worse trouble than he had.

"Don’t mind Feurgo there," came a voice from across the table. It was Trojin, smiling so broadly it almost unnerved Apollo. His teeth gleamed white against his dark, sun-beaten skin. "He’s been grumpy since, well… forever. Got a stick so far up his ass, it might’ve hit his brain." He chuckled, the sound rough but genuine, his cloth-wrapped head turning just a bit too far to the right, missing Apollo’s face entirely.

The blindfold around Trojin’s eyes had caught Apollo’s attention before, but it wasn’t until now that he noticed how tightly it was wrapped—like the man was trying to keep something in, rather than merely hiding his sight. The smile, though, never left Trojin’s lips, like he was playing his own game, one only he seemed to enjoy.

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"You're supposed to be our leader after all," Trojin added, smirking. "So feurgo give the boy some slack."

Apollo knew well enough that no one here actually saw him as their leader. He was younger than all of them, more inexperienced, and truthfully, he barely knew how to fight. The others had lived through more battles, seen more deaths. That wasn’t lost on him. He didn’t mind the dismissal—he’d never led anyone before in his life, and wasn’t sure he wanted to start now.

Still, the comment stung, though Apollo tried not to show it. Trojin turned to face him—or rather, the space just beside him—his wide grin never faltering. "You’re doin’ alright though, kid. Don’t worry. Everyone is a little naive at the beginning. Well, except Rhelka. She came out of the womb with a blade in hand, I’m sure."

A sharp exhale came from the far end of the table. Apollo followed the sound, his gaze settling on the woman Trojin had just mentioned.

She was small, almost wiry, but her presence was sharp, like a blade concealed under layers of cloth. Her skin was pale, the kind of northern paleness that reminded him of corin, like she hadn’t seen a day of sun in her life. A jagged scar slashed down her forehead, cutting through one brow and stopping just before her nose. It pulled her face into a constant scowl, but Apollo suspected that was just how she naturally looked.

Trojin leaned back, a wicked grin spreading even wider. "Rhelka, don’t be shy now. Give the boy a proper welcome. You know how it is. First impressions and all that." He smiled to Apollo "she's are real leader, been here longer than anyone with three routes she's almost earned her citizenship.

Rhelka’s pale eyes flicked over to them, colder than the winters of Tzalith where she was born. "Shut up, Trojin." Her voice was as flat as the blade Apollo imagined she carried hidden somewhere in her coat. "Before slice that tounge out."

Trojin chuckled, unfazed. "Promises, promises. You know, Rhelka, I’m starting to think the only reason you haven’t killed me yet is because you secretly enjoy my company. Admit it. If you had the chance to shut me up, you’d miss my charming personality, and looks"

"I’d miss the help, my luck the only man that can fight here is a blind creep." she shot back, her spoon clattering into the empty bowl as she leaned back against the wall.

Apollo couldn’t help but smirk. There was a tension here, sure, but it wasn’t entirely hostile. More like the kind of back-and-forth you see between people who have been through too much together to care about tact anymore. He still felt out of place, though, like a young tree in a forest of oaks, not yet hardened by the seasons.

Feurgo twitched again, muttering something under his breath that Apollo didn’t quite catch. Trojin, of course, had no plans to let anyone sit in peace for long.

"She says she hates me, but you should hear her when she’s had a few drinks in her," Trojin said, winking—well, making a motion that Apollo assumed was supposed to be a wink. "Girl starts telling stories that’d make a sailor blush. Who knew a Tzalith-born could be so… warm?"

Rhelka’s eyes narrowed to icy slits. "Trojin, I swear to the guardian—"

He cut her off with a laugh, slapping the table. "See? Look at that! I get her all worked up just by showing up. Can’t blame her, though. I’m irresistible." He leaned toward Apollo, voice dropping to a loud stage whisper. "Between you and me, I think she’s mad i didn't compliment her other scar."

Rhelka’s hand hit the table with a sharp thud as she stood, glaring at him like she was imagining fifty different ways to kill him. "You’re an idiot, Trojin. One of these days, someone’s going to shut you up for good."

"Maybe," Trojin said, still grinning. "But that day’s not today, dear friend."

Apollo, trying to diffuse the growing tension, cleared his throat. "Well, it’s good to meet you, Rhelka. I’m… doing my best to help around here."

Her eyes flicked to him, colder than before. "Don’t try too hard, kid. The sooner you realize this place doesn’t need heroes, the longer you’ll survive."

She didn’t give him a chance to respond. With a final glare at Trojin, she walked away, her boots thudding against the floor, each step measured and sharp. As she disappeared into the shadows, Apollo felt the room settle into an uneasy quiet.

Feurgo, still twitching, muttered again, his voice like gravel. "She’s right. You’ll live longer if you stop trying to lead."

Trojin slapped Apollo on the back, laughing once more. "Don’t listen to them. They’re just grumpy because I’m their only source of entertainment. You’ll do fine, kid. Just stick with me, and I’ll make sure you don’t get eaten by abominations before you get eaten by a beautiful woman."

Apollo wasn’t so sure. But for now, sitting in this dimly lit, swaying room with these people, it was the best reassurance he had.