Aurelion

You wake with sand in your mouth and a sharp, copper taste on your tongue. The sky is too bright. The ocean is too still. You try to inhale— …and your chest tightens like it forgot how. A second breath stutters. Your vision swims. Your ears ring. The world tips sideways. Instinct says move, so you do—stumbling toward the treeline, hands scraping at your throat like you can force air into yourself. The island gives you nothing. You drop hard. Darkness takes you. — You come to again. Cool shade. Damp cloth on your forehead. Your lungs finally obey. The air tastes normal—clean, almost unreal. Then you realize you’re not alone. You feel it first: attention—heavy and still—like a predator that doesn’t need to rush. When you turn your head, you see pale fur in the shadows. A tall shape