Dead men tell the best tales - I hope you like.

CHAPTER 1: THE CHEST IN THE CAVE

The storm had come suddenly, as if the island itself had willed it. Rain lashed the cliffs and waves slammed against the shore, their rhythm like the heartbeat of an angry god. Marcus clung to the jagged rocks, his fingers raw and trembling. The wreck of his small fishing boat was far behind him now, swallowed by the sea. He had only one thought: survive.

When the storm finally relented, the island revealed itself in patches of green jungle and gray stone. Exhausted and soaked to the bone, Marcus stumbled inland, his boots sinking into the soft sand. The air smelled of salt and earth, mingling with something faintly metallic that he couldn’t place. He pushed forward, driven by the primal need to find shelter before nightfall.

The cave appeared as a dark maw in the side of a cliff, partially hidden by a tangle of vines. Marcus hesitated, peering inside. It was deep and dry, with just enough light filtering through cracks in the stone to make out the space. Relief washed over him as he ventured in, dropping to the ground in exhaustion. For the first time since the wreck, he allowed himself to breathe.

It was then that he noticed the chest.

It sat against the far wall of the cave, half-buried in sand and dirt, its metal edges tarnished with age. The chest wasn’t large, but it was sturdy, with intricate carvings of waves, stars, and what looked like the face of a wolf etched into its surface. Marcus’ curiosity sparked. Who had left it here? And why?

He approached cautiously, brushing away the sand and debris. The lock had long since rusted away, and the lid creaked as he pried it open. Inside was a tightly rolled bundle, wrapped in thick, waterproof animal hide. He unwrapped it carefully, revealing a thin sheet of metal, engraved with delicate lines of script.

The letters shimmered faintly, as though they carried a light of their own. Marcus’ heart raced as he read the first line:

“To you, who finds this tale: heed my words, for they are both warning and guide.”

The script shifted, seeming to form new words as his eyes traced the lines:

“This island is not as it seems. It is a place of trials and treasures, a world of isolation and dreams. But beware—the path to what you seek may cost you more than you are willing to give.”

Marcus’ hands shook as he continued to read. The story spoke of a man, centuries ago, who had been stranded here just as he was now. The man had explored the island, following clues that led him to the cave of the wolf—a formation at the base of the tallest peak. There, the man found wonders beyond imagining, but the story ended abruptly, with a final warning:

“When you find the wolf’s den, remember: to take is to inherit. To inherit is to remain.”

Marcus leaned back, the metal sheet trembling in his grip. The words were both a mystery and a challenge, daring him to step into a story that was not his own. Outside, the wind whispered through the vines, carrying with it the faintest howl, like the cry of a distant wolf.

He looked out into the growing darkness, then back to the scroll. A choice lay before him: remain in the safety of the cave or follow the trail of the long-dead man who had written these words. The wolf’s den awaited, and with it, answers—or perhaps his doom.

Marcus smiled faintly, tucking the scroll into his pack. If the island demanded a tale, he would give it one.

Morning arrived with a golden light that broke through the cracks in the cave walls, painting the interior in streaks of warmth. Marcus stirred from an uneasy sleep, his body sore and mind restless. The scroll sat beside him, its metallic surface glinting faintly as if eager to resume its tale. He traced his fingers over the etched lines, committing the directions to memory.

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“The jagged tree at the heart of the jungle,” he murmured aloud, recalling the first landmark described in the scroll. “Beyond it, the stream that splits the earth. Follow it to the stone that bleeds.”

The instructions were cryptic but vivid, each phrase conjuring an image that tugged at his curiosity. He slung his pack over his shoulder, tucking the scroll safely inside, and stepped into the humid morning air.

The jungle was alive with sound: the chatter of unseen birds, the rustling of leaves in the breeze, and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs. Marcus moved cautiously, his eyes scanning for the jagged tree. It didn’t take long to find it. The tree’s bark was blackened and twisted, its limbs reaching skyward like claws. A remnant of a long-ago fire, perhaps. He paused to examine it, his fingers brushing the rough surface.

From there, he followed the scroll’s guidance. The stream was easy to locate, its waters clear and cool as they cut through the dense undergrowth. Marcus knelt to drink, the cold liquid a brief relief from the day’s heat. He continued downstream, searching for the next clue—the stone that bleeds.

Hours passed, the sun climbing higher and turning the jungle into a sweltering maze. Doubt began to creep in. Had he misunderstood the scroll? Was this all some elaborate trick, a wild goose chase left behind by a desperate or mad man? Then he saw it: a boulder at the edge of the stream, streaked with red. Marcus approached, his heart quickening. The red wasn’t paint or moss but mineral deposits, seeping from the rock like blood.

“The stone that bleeds,” he whispered, his doubt evaporating. He knelt, searching the area for the next clue. There, carved faintly into the stone, was an arrow pointing upstream. Marcus followed it, weaving through the thick foliage until he reached a clearing.

The clearing was dominated by a towering cliff, its surface jagged and weathered. At its base was an opening, a dark void that seemed to swallow the light. Marcus froze. The mouth of the cave resembled the wolf’s head described in the scroll, its “jaws” formed by sharp rock outcroppings.

He hesitated. The warnings from the scroll echoed in his mind: To take is to inherit. To inherit is to remain.

But the pull of the unknown was too strong. With a deep breath, Marcus stepped into the cave, the darkness closing around him like a shroud. His footsteps echoed faintly, the air growing cooler with each step.

What he didn’t expect was sunlight spilling from the back of the cave. As Marcus ventured further, the space opened into a vast chamber, large enough to fit several buses. The rear of the cave overlooked the ocean, a breathtaking view framed by jagged cliffs. The chamber wasn’t just a cave—it was a home.

There were signs of habitation everywhere. A bed made of driftwood sat to one side, along with a couch that looked like it had been pieced together and repaired countless times. The countertops were smooth and rounded, as though crafted by heat rather than tools, their stone surfaces seamless and polished. Above, crystals embedded in the ceiling emitted a soft, otherworldly glow, casting the room in an amber light.

Marcus wandered in awe. A tarp-covered telescope stood near the edge of the opening, positioned to survey the vast ocean. A bookshelf, filled with thick volumes, lined one wall. At the center of the chamber stood a desk, upon which lay a massive book, its cover worn with age. Marcus hesitated before flipping it open.

The pages were blank. Nearby, an assortment of writing tools—quills, coal pencils, chalk—were neatly arranged, awaiting use. His gaze drifted to the shelves below, where more books were stacked. They weren’t part of the rock wall, as he’d first assumed. Each bore a name written on the spine. Marcus scanned them, a chill running down his spine when he noticed that one book—his book—lacked a name.

The realization hit him: if he stayed, he would write his name on the spine, just as the others had. He could study the books, unlock their secrets, and perhaps master the magic of this place. But if he did, would he be trapped here, just as the scroll had warned?

He moved to explore further but stopped when he noticed a door at the back of the chamber. It was wooden, sturdy, and oddly out of place in the otherwise natural cavern. No keyhole adorned its surface, and though Marcus pushed against it, the door didn’t budge.

The questions began to pile up. Who had built this place? Where was the previous occupant? And if this was a sanctuary, why did it feel so much like a trap?

Marcus stepped back, glancing again at the book with no name. The choice loomed before him, heavy and inevitable. Would he write his name and remain, surrendering to the island’s mysteries, or would he search for a way to leave, defying the pull of this strange and magical haven?

For now, the door and its secrets would remain locked. Marcus resolved to explore the island further before making any decision. The island, he suspected, wasn’t finished with him yet.