Without another word, he dropped to the floor, his muscles tensing as he began to do push-ups, each movement deliberate and slow, the exertion building with every push. His heart rate quickened, but that wasn't enough. He needed to sweat, to feel the burn in his muscles. Each push was a defiance against the mist that threatened to engulf them.
Arcia, Solveig, and Orden watched, the tension palpable in the air. Bram continued, his breathing ragged but steady, until the sweat began to form on his brow. He didn't stop. He couldn't.
When he felt his muscles grow weak and his body hum with exhaustion, he pushed himself up and bolted for the door. Without hesitation, he pushed it open, the cold air biting at his skin, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the rhythmic pounding of his feet on the deck. He started running, forcing himself to keep moving, to stay in motion.
As he ran, the fog pressed in on him, but he refused to slow down. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. It was working. The fog didn't touch him. It stayed back, as if repelled by his energy.
Bram slowed only when he reached the edge of the ship, panting heavily but feeling alive, untouched by the mist. He looked back over his shoulder at the others still inside. "See? It's not about magic. It's about movement."
Arcia stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she nodded, a reluctant acknowledgment of his discovery. Arcia looked at her knight, Orden. "I've come too far to stop here, Orden. I've yet to accomplish my goals. Risking my life on a whim... I must have gone insane," she said while following Bram's lead.
Orden, still skeptical but with a flicker of doubt in his eyes, sighed. "We don't have time for questions. Let's move, before it's too late."
Bram returned to the door, opening it wide for the others to follow. "Keep moving. Don't stop."
As Arcia, Orden, and Solveig joined him outside, the fog swirled around them, but Bram felt confident now, more certain than ever. They would survive—not through magic, but through effort, through defiance. The myth had a purpose. The gods had spoken, and the key to survival was simple: never stop moving.
The hours blurred into each other, or maybe it was days. Bram couldn't tell. His legs ached, his chest burned with every strained breath, and his mind, once sharp, felt foggy with exhaustion. His heart thundered in his chest, pounding in a rhythm that felt as though it might shatter his ribs at any moment. Yet, he kept running, his feet slapping against the wooden planks of the ship's deck, the fog always just at the edge of his vision, hungry and relentless.
Around him, Arcia, Orden, and Solveig were in similar states. Solveig, the strongest of them all, had already collapsed twice, only to be helped up by the others to continue. Arcia's face was pale, her body glistening with sweat, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Orden, who had been silent for what felt like an eternity, was barely holding it together, his face twisted in frustration.
"Why aren't we safe yet?" he shouted between breaths. His voice was hoarse, panic creeping into the edges of his words. "How long are we supposed to run? When will this end?"
Bram couldn't answer. He didn't know. The only thing that kept him going was the raw, desperate will to survive, the need to keep moving. His body was no longer responding the way it should. His legs trembled, and the sweat soaked his clothes, but he couldn't stop. He knew that, just like the lazy man in the myth, if he stopped—if he gave in to exhaustion—the mist would claim him.
The fog was still there, slithering along the edges of the ship, sometimes curling inward as if it were trying to surround them, to pull them into its grasp. Bram could feel it pressing against him, pushing at the edges of his consciousness, urging him to stop, to give in. But he wouldn't. Not now.
"Keep moving," he managed to rasp, his voice raw. His body screamed at him to stop, to rest, but the thought of the fog creeping in, of the mist claiming them, made him push harder. He couldn't risk it. Not when they were so close.
Arcia, her expression one of deep concentration, glanced at him. Her face was flushed with fatigue, but she showed no sign of stopping. "How much longer?" Bram asked, though the words were barely more than a whisper against the wind.
Arcia shook her head, unable to find an answer. "I don't know," she said, her voice breaking with the weight of his exhaustion. "Just... just keep running. A little more. There's no one navigating the boat, so we will definitely crash. Brace for the crash too."
Bram heard nothing of what she said. The world around him had grown dim, the ship swaying unnaturally as though the ground beneath him had turned to mush. His vision blurred at the edges, and his breath came in short, painful gasps. His mind was starting to fragment, thoughts slipping in and out of focus. The mist was almost at their heels. It seemed endless.
And then, suddenly, it hit him. A moment of clarity through the haze of his exhaustion. The fog. The mist—it wasn't just a physical thing. It was feeding on them, not just their sweat or their effort, but their hope. The moment they gave up, the moment they doubted themselves or each other, it would consume them. The gods had cursed the lazy man not just with his wife, but with the fear of failure, of never being enough. And if they stopped now, they would become part of the fog.
But Bram could see something else too. The fog, which had crept closer and closer, was now retreating. Slowly at first, then faster. The moment it was touched by the sweat-soaked air around them, it seemed to recoil, slithering back, as if afraid of what it had almost consumed.
The world around Bram seemed to blur, his consciousness slipping into darkness as the ship's hull groaned and cracked. The sound of waves crashing against the shore echoed in the distance, but it was the overwhelming weariness in his body that sent him spiraling into unconsciousness. He felt no pain, no cold, no mist—just the sweet relief of nothingness.
When he woke, it was to warmth.
The harsh, ashen sky, the suffocating mist, and the ever-present threat of the fog were gone. The sun bathed the world in a golden glow, its warmth spreading across his body like a gentle embrace. The ground beneath him was soft, covered with thick grass that swayed lightly in the breeze. The sharp, salty smell of the sea lingered in the air, but this time, it was refreshing, almost sweet. The sound of birds calling in the distance was the only thing that broke the tranquility.
For a moment, Bram thought he might still be dreaming. The weight of exhaustion that had once threatened to crush him now felt like a distant memory. The fog, the trial, and the madness of the run were nowhere to be seen. It was as though the island was a different world altogether, a place untouched by the torment they'd endured.
He sat up slowly, wincing as his muscles protested. His body ached with a deep, raw fatigue, but there was no sharp pain, no sense of urgency. The crewmates, too, lay scattered around him, each of them slumped on the soft ground, their bodies still but breathing. Solveig, Orden, and Arcia—all of them seemed as if they had fallen into the same deep slumber that had claimed him.
Bram's first instinct was to check on them, to make sure they were alive. His eyes flickered over their forms, relieved to see their chests rising and falling steadily, their faces softened in rest. They had made it. The fog had not claimed them after all.
He took a deep breath, the cool, salty air filling his lungs. Despite the peace around him, the confusion gnawed at him. How had they survived? How had they ended up here, on this seemingly perfect island, without a trace of the nightmare that had haunted them?
It was as if the very island had wiped away all the suffering they had endured—nothing was left but the calm, the beauty of the place. But the questions still loomed in his mind. How had the island suddenly appeared? Had they truly outrun the fog, or had they... been saved?
The sound of a distant rustling broke his reverie. Bram's gaze snapped toward the edge of the beach, where the waves lapped gently against the shore. Through the trees, something moved—a shadow, swift and fluid, just out of reach. He stood up, legs wobbling as the ache in his muscles resurfaced. He moved toward the sound instinctively, his mind still racing with unanswered questions.
The world was still too quiet, too perfect. It didn't feel real. He hadn't imagined their escape. They had run, they had fought, and they had survived. But this place… it felt like something had changed. The mist was gone, but what was it that awaited them here?
Suddenly, Bram's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of soft footsteps behind him. He turned, his breath catching in his throat.
"Bram?" she called softly, her voice hoarse but steady.
Bram met her gaze and nodded, his thoughts still muddled. "Is this real?" he asked, his voice rough. "I don't know how we ended up here. The fog... it was gone, just like that."
Arcia looked around, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the beach, the horizon, and then the jungle that loomed in the distance. "I don't know, either," she admitted. "It doesn't make sense. But... it's real enough now."
As Arcia stood beside him, her hand resting on her still-aching side, she took a moment to study him. Her gaze was filled with something between awe and gratitude.
"You know," she began, her voice soft yet clear, "we wouldn't have made it without you. Your quick thinking, your determination—it's what saved us."
Bram blinked at her, shaking his head slightly. He had never been one for praise, and her words felt too heavy to accept. "It wasn't quick thinking," he muttered, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "It was dumb luck. I didn't know what I was doing half the time."
Arcia's eyes softened, a knowing look crossing her face. "It may have felt like luck, but you figured it out. You saw the connection, you understood the trial when none of us did. You kept us going, even when we didn't think we could anymore."
Bram couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. Luck, yes, he had a fair share of it—but it had been the culmination of everything they'd learned together, the desperation in his mind, the sense that something had to work. The truth was, he hadn't been sure of anything, but he had pushed them forward anyway, driven by a mix of instinct and pure willpower.
"I just kept running," he admitted, staring down at the sand beneath his feet, "hoping that somehow it would work. I didn't think we'd make it."
Arcia chuckled, shaking her head. "Well, it worked, didn't it? That's all that matters."
Bram glanced back at the others, still unconscious, their bodies slowly recovering from their ordeal. Solveig's breathing was steady, and Orden's face was slightly less pale than before. His eyes then wandered to the horizon, to the jungle that waited beyond the beach, and to the many unknowns that still hung in the air.
"I don't know," he said slowly, more to himself than to Arcia. "It doesn't feel like we've truly escaped yet."
Arcia followed his gaze, her expression thoughtful. "I think you're right. Something about this place doesn't sit well with me either. But for now… we survived. We should rest while we can."
Even though the scenery was breathtaking the lingering sense of fear never left him, the island that will soon test them in ways that bram never even though possible.