Children of Gehenna

The morning light fought a losing battle against the heavy gray clouds overhead. Tristan's eyes, still weary from the turmoil of night, slowly adjusted to a new day on Gehenna. The beach where he had been forced to witness such an atrocious scene—the same harsh stretch of sand where he'd endured a brutal waking and a guard's punch—now was calm and silent. Although, there was no comfort in the gentle lapping of the sea, no promise of rescue; only the oppressive weight of punishment.

Without any warning, the rough, authoritative voices of the guards shattered the weak silence. They moved among the newly arrived prisoners with brisk efficiency, corralling them together as if they were wild animals. 

"Time to move!" one guard barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The shoreline isn't safe with that storm coming!"

In a matter of minutes, Tristan and the rest of the displaced prisoners were forced off the beach and marched inland. The sand was quickly replaced by uneven, rocky terrain. The humidity was suffocating, a damp weight that clung to every inch of exposed skin, making each step feel like walking through thick, invisible molasses. As Tristan shuffled along with the group, his eyes darted from one face to another—some etched with defiant determination, others, with crumpled hopelessness.

Every so often, Tristan caught a glimpse of someone who stood apart from the others—a scar here, a hardened gaze there—details that might hint at future alliances or rivalries. But for now, survival was the only concern. There was no time to decide who to trust when nature itself was already plotting against them.

The guards led the prisoners along a narrow, winding path that cut through an expanse of dense, twisted woodland. The trees here were no ordinary forest; their trunks were roughened, their branches contorted into shapes that defied natural growth as if some unseen hand had intentionally reshaped them. The air was heavy with a discernible hum—a sound that Tristan couldn't quite place, like the low murmur of a secret language carried on the wind. It was as though the very forest were alive, watching every move they made.

Tristan's internal monologue churned as he struggled to make sense of it all. 

'These trees… they seem to twist in ways that defy logic,' he thought, his gaze fixed on a massive "oak" whose limbs curled upward like pleading hands. 

'And that hum—it's almost like the forest is whispering to me…"

The further they moved from the beach, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. The once-familiar sound of the ocean faded behind them, replaced by the eerie rustling of leaves and the periodic creaks of branches bending in the gusting wind. Tristan's heart pounded in his ears as he tried to focus on his surroundings. Every snap of a twig, every distant cry of an animal—or was it something else?—set his nerves on edge.

Above the murmurs of the forest, the growing roar of the approaching storm was unmistakable. The wind began to pick up, while the sky darkened as if preparing to unleash its fury. The guards' footsteps quickened, and their voices took on an edge of urgency. 

"Keep moving!" one of them shouted. "The storm's almost upon us!"

The prisoners, pressed together by necessity, trudged on along the narrow, winding trail. Tristan's mind reeled with the conflicting impressions of the island—its unnatural forest, the raw energy in the air, and the persistent sense of being watched. There was something uncanny about Gehenna; its very nature seemed to plot against those who dared set foot on its soil… or it's skin even.

After what felt like ten minutes of stumbling through the oppressive woodland, the guards finally halted in a small, rocky clearing. Here, the terrain opened up, revealing a flat expanse bordered by thick undergrowth and a scattering of ancient stones that had clearly seen better days. This was to be their new holding area— crude, temporary, devoid of any signs of order or shelter. No tents, no fires, just a cold, barren clearing that felt just as inhospitable as the island itself.

The moment the guards halted their hurried footsteps, a heavy silence descended over the group. Tristan, still catching his breath, scanned the clearing. The ground was hard and uneven beneath his feet, and the dense forest beyond seemed to edge in as if trying to reclaim the space. The storm's approach was now unmistakable: a distant rumble of thunder vibrated through the ground, and dark clouds gathered low on the horizon.

Before anyone could settle into the uneasy quiet, one final authoritative voice rose from among the guards. A man with graying hair and a face set in lines stepped forward. It was clear from his bearing that he was in charge—a warden of sorts.

He surveyed the assembled group with a cold, measured gaze. 

"Listen up!" he barked, his voice carrying across the clearing, leaving no doubt that he expected absolute compliance. 

"You've been brought here because you've been deemed unworthy of the life you once knew. This island, Gehenna, doesn't care about your past. It doesn't care if you were noble or peasant—it will only test your worth. And I warn you now, any attempt to flee or defy these orders will be met with force. You will remain in this clearing until further notice. When the storm subsides, you will be moved to a more secure location."

His words were delivered without emotion, but an underlying threat was noticeable. 

"Now, huddle together if you must, but do not stray. And remember—if you lose control, so does the island." He paused, letting the silence hang, and then added. 

"And a final piece of advice."

 "Never trust anything."

With that, the warden stepped back, and the guards began to disperse. One by one, they left the clearing, their heavy boots crunching on the rocky ground as they moved off to enforce further orders. 

The prisoners were now alone.