The sun slowly sinks behind the silhouettes of palm trees, casting long shadows over the rice fields stretching beyond the village. A warm breeze blows in from the sea, carrying with it the scent of salt and grilled spices wafting from the hearths. The children’s cries gradually fade as families finish their meals, seated on woven rattan mats in front of their stilted wooden homes.

  Little by little, the villagers make their way toward the large bamboo structure at the center of the village: the warung, an open shelter where community events take place. Tonight is a special evening: the dalang, master of the wayang kulit, will tell ancient stories—legends from forgotten ages.

  The men sit cross-legged on long mats made of pandan leaves, while the women and children take their places a bit further back. Excited whispers ripple through the gathering. Bamboo torches are planted around the warung, casting a flickering light on eager faces.

  Young boys play at imitating the heroes of legend, brandishing sticks like imaginary krises, but a stern glance from the elders reminds them of the solemnity of the moment. Off to the side, the musicians warm up, gently striking gongs and adjusting the skins of the gamelan drums, that orchestra whose resonances will accompany the performance.

  Suddenly, the voices hush. A figure appears at the entrance to the warung. It’s the dalang, a middle-aged man with a steady stride. His time-worn face bears an expression both kind and mysterious.

  He wears an udeng, a batik-woven headscarf, its intricate patterns symbolizing protection from benevolent spirits. His torso is clad in a black cotton jacket, simple yet elegant, and around his waist is a sarong in ikat, its deep hues evoking the earth and the sea.

  Tucked into his back is a keris, a ceremonial dagger with a wavy blade, symbol of his spiritual authority and his bond with ancient traditions. In his hand, he holds a carved wooden box containing his precious leather puppets, each one finely detailed and burnished by time.

  He slowly approaches the stage, kneels before a modest altar, and closes his eyes.

  Before beginning, he must honor the spirits. With a slow and deliberate gesture, he draws from a small rattan basket offerings of flowers, rice, and incense. He arranges them carefully before a stone figurine—a protective deity of the village.

  Swirls of incense rise into the night air, mingling with the scent of burning wood. He murmurs a prayer in the Kawi language, calling upon the blessings of the ancestors and asking the spirits to watch over the performance. A subtle shiver runs through the crowd: everything is in place—the magic of wayang can begin.

  The dalang stands and takes his place behind a large white cotton screen, stretched between two bamboo poles. Before him, an oil lamp of terra cotta, fueled with coconut oil, casts a golden light that will illuminate the leather puppets.

  With a precise motion, he opens his wooden box and takes out his characters: noble kings with refined faces, powerful warriors armed with spears, and grotesque demons with sharp fangs. He carefully lines them up on either side of the screen, ready to enter the scene.

  Behind him, the gamelan musicians settle in. One player adjusts the bronze keys of his gender, a xylophone-like instrument, while another tunes his kendang, a long drum that will mark the rhythm of the tale.

  The dalang takes a deep breath and strikes the ground with his foot, signaling the beginning of the show. A reverent silence falls.

  His voice rises, deep and powerful, carrying the first words of the story.

  "In ancient times, long before our ancestors walked this land..."

  His expert hands seize the first puppet and glide it across the screen. A graceful silhouette appears in shadow—the figure of a king on a quest for wisdom.

  Behind him, the gamelan begins an entrancing melody, its gongs echoing softly like whispers from the past.

  The show begins.

  Hours pass, but no one seems tired. The children, who at first whispered and crept between the adults’ legs, are now still, eyes wide open, captivated by the dalang’s skillful movements. The elders nod silently, savoring each word, each shadow that dances on the cotton screen.

  The gamelan sets the pace of the tale, its delicate notes accompanying the fates of cunning kings, hungry for power and trapped by their own deceit. A protective dragon, its shadow sinuous and its eyes blazing, emerges in black silhouette against the golden backdrop, defending a kingdom lost deep in the jungle. The dalang modulates his voice—rumbling to portray a cruel monarch, hissing to become the divine serpent who watches over the world’s balance.

  Then, suddenly, his tone changes.

  The music softens, taking on a mysterious hue. The dalang glides a new silhouette onto the screen: a man with the head and arms of a human, but the body of a serpent, moving through the dim shadows of a deep jungle. His voice grows deeper, slower, as if this story hails from another time, a world forgotten by men.

  "Long ago, beneath the sacred mountains, lived a terrible dragon..."

  On the screen, the dragon’s shadow appears—massive, terrifying. Its immense body seems to coil around the mountain itself. Its claws ravage the land, its maw spits a black fire that consumes all. But worse still: when it awakens, it blots out the sky, imprisoning the world in endless night.

  In the ravaged kingdom, only one person escapes its wrath: a princess of radiant beauty. She flees into the spirit world, taking refuge beyond the veil that separates the living from the ancient gods.

  But she is not alone.

  A young man, cursed by the gods and born with the body of a serpent, refuses to abandon her. Though the priests whisper that she is lost forever, he does not believe in the boundaries between worlds.

  He launches himself into the night, his serpentine body weaving through shadow. But how can one reach the spirit realm, where no mortal may enter?

  The dalang takes a deep breath. He lifts a new puppet—slender, strange—a winged serpent, its wings spread like those of a firebird.

  "If I must fly to find her, then I shall fly."

  On the screen, the silhouette of the serpent-man climbs the accursed mountain, his body twisting in the dark. He fights against raging winds, against the wrath of the gods, against fear.

  And then, at last, he finds the path to the other world.

  The lamp’s light flickers, casting a golden gleam across the screen. The dalang slows his voice, drawing out the moment. The villagers hold their breath.

  "But… is she still there to wait for him?"

  The gamelan holds its final note, hovering in the air like a sigh.

  The dalang lets silence take over. A living silence, in which each one imagines the ending. In which each one wonders if love can truly defy the gods.

  The sun shines high in the azure sky, and a light breeze from the Gulf of Corinth brushes the faces of the townspeople. The air is filled with the salty scent of the sea and the gentle murmur of waves lapping at the city’s quays.

  From the cliff overlooking the Bay of Hélikè, one can glimpse a fleet of Lacedaemonian ships, their sleek hulls painted in red and black, moored near the port. Soldiers, clad in short chitons and wearing crested helmets, tend to their weapons and shields adorned with the Spartan lambda. Local merchants, draped in linen tunics, bustle about carrying amphorae of oil and wine, haggling noisily with the sailors.

  Climbing toward the city’s heart, the white stone streets echo with the steps of citizens and the vibrant calls of traders praising the goods at their stalls: sun-drenched fruits, finely painted pottery, colorful fabrics from Corinth and Athens.

  At the center of the city, the great agora, lined with colonnades, is abuzz with life. Philosophers converse beneath shaded porticoes, young athletes train in wrestling under the watchful eyes of their masters, while children run laughing between bronze statues of the city’s heroes.

  But further on, following an avenue bordered by laurels and olive trees, one reaches the spiritual heart of Helike: the sanctuary of Poseidon Helikonios.

  This majestic temple, perched on a promontory facing the sea, is one of the oldest and most revered in all of Achaea. Its Doric columns, imposing and pure, rise toward the heavens like a challenge cast to the gods. At the entrance, priests clad in immaculate long tunics offer libations of wine and seawater, while inside, the colossal statue of Poseidon, sculpted from marble, dominates the sacred space. His beard is curled, his gaze impassive, and in his hand he raises his trident, symbol of his dominion over oceans and storms.

  Pilgrims from all over Greece murmur prayers and lay offerings: rare seashells, dolphin figurines carved in ivory, bronze statuettes of horses—sacred animals of the sea god.

  As the sun begins to set, bathing the city in golden light, the first notes of the cithara and the songs of sailors celebrating their last night ashore rise from the taverns.

  Emerging from a tavern with salt- and lime-whitened walls, Lykos, a young Spartan hoplite, stretches and inhales deeply the sea air. The drunkenness of wine barely fades under the fresh breeze from the gulf. Around him, the city of Hélikè still shimmers under the glow of torches and oil lamps hanging from the portico columns. Further away, the temple of Poseidon looms on the horizon, a sacred silhouette standing against the night.

  He walks slowly toward the harbor, his leather sandals creaking on the paving stones polished by centuries. Before him, the Lacedaemonian ships sway gently, their figureheads—carved as rams’ heads or sea monsters—seeming to gaze into the black depths of the water.

  Suddenly, a movement catches his attention.

  A woman darts from the city, slipping like a shadow between stone columns. Her rapid breathing, nearly a sob, echoes through the night’s silence. She crosses the rocky ground bordering the bay, barefoot, driven by an anxiety Lykos does not yet understand.

  Then a cry. A sharp impact.

  She has stumbled on a rock, her momentum sending her tumbling, arms flailing to break the fall. Lykos rushes forward.

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  She’s already getting back up. A grimace twists her beautiful face, and her hand trembles as it grazes her injured leg. Blood beads along her calf.

  Lykos slows his approach, hands open—showing he means no harm. When she looks up at him, her breath catches.

  She is stunning. Golden skin under the starlight, long black hair gleaming like the sea under the moon. Her delicate features recall the statues of goddesses in the temples.

  A vestal of the sanctuary?

  The thought crosses his mind. If she belongs to Poseidon’s temple, then he has no right to touch her. A servant of the god must not be seen in secret—least of all by a warrior.

  He hesitates, wants to speak… But she backs away.

  Her gaze, at first questioning, turns evasive. Her breathing grows erratic, panicked. She staggers, placing her hands on her head as if trying to fend off some inner collapse.

  Then, suddenly, she turns.

  She runs toward the shoreline, forgetting her wound. There, a small sailboat, tied to a wooden stake, seems to be waiting for her. Had an unseen companion brought her here? Or did she somehow know—strangely, instinctively—that time was running out?

  With a swift motion, she jumps into the boat, unties it, and the sail swells with the night breeze. Lykos stands frozen, helpless, watching the frail silhouette slip away across the black waters.

  He doesn’t understand.

  Not yet.

  Lykos rejoins his companions at their temporary camp. He will spend the night ashore, with the other hoplites, before setting sail again in the morning.

  But in the morning, there will be no sea.

  No city.

  As the first rays of dawn brush the temple’s columns, a strange rumble rises from the ground. A low, distant growl, as if the earth itself were groaning in pain.

  Birds suddenly take flight in flocks toward the inland hills. Dogs howl in fear.

  Then the shock.

  The earth jolts with a violent spasm, throwing men to the ground. Cracks split the paved streets, roofs collapse in a rain of shattered tiles.

  At the temple, the columns sway. The statue of the god Poseidon shatters, its head rolling among the debris.

  Cries mix with screams. Some run toward the sea, others toward the hills, desperately seeking shelter where none remains.

  Then, absolute silence.

  The gulf empties. The water recedes abruptly, exposing the sea floor, revealing forgotten wrecks and fish flailing in the mud.

  A man shouts. Another falls to his knees.

  Lykos stares at the horizon, heart pounding in his chest.

  A wall of water.

  It comes—tall as a titan’s cliff, advancing with relentless speed.

  The air reeks of salt and death.

  The tsunami strikes Hélikè with a deafening roar. Water crashes through the city, shattering buildings, ripping up the quays, swallowing the streets. Screams vanish beneath the fury of the waves.

  Lykos is swept away, hurled into the chaos of the sea.

  As the city disappears beneath the waves, one image flashes through his mind—fleeting, vivid: the young woman, escaping in her boat before dawn.

  What did she know?

  Loch Garth stretches peacefully in the hollow of a valley carved by wind and the tides of time. Its dark, shimmering waters mirror the ever-shifting sky of the Shetlands—sometimes washed in cold gray, sometimes glowing with the golden light of a low sun. The loch is edged by endless moorland, where purple heather and silvery moss cling to ancient stones.

  Its shores are marked by timeworn rock formations, standing like sentinels against the storms of the North Atlantic. In places, the sea seeps gently into the loch, forming a fragile balance between the freshwater from hill-born streams and the salty tides that arrive from the west.

  Sometimes, seabirds glide silently above, scanning the waters for fish. At other times, when the sea is rough, the wind carries spray for miles, cloaking the shores in a misty veil.

  But in those days—around 3,500 BCE—the loch was more than a landscape. It was the beating heart of a small Neolithic community, a natural sanctuary where men and women had made their home, a refuge from the unpredictable elements of their world.

  Not far from the loch, a stone village stretches along the shore, sheltered by the rolling hills. The dwellings are circular, built from thick slabs of stone, carefully stacked to withstand the violent winds of the North Sea. Their roofs are made of woven branches and peat, keeping the interiors warm and dim.

  Inside, a fire crackles in each hearth, casting shadows across the low-ceilinged rooms. Mats of dried heather cover the floors, and on stone shelves rest flint tools, rudimentary pottery, and a few carved animal bones—perhaps offerings to the spirits of land and water.

  The community lives from both sea and earth. Men fish along the loch with tendon lines and bone hooks, while others paddle to rocky coves in skin-covered coracles to gather mussels and shellfish. In the plains, primitive wheat and barley grow under the watch of women and children, while stocky sheep graze, watched over by quiet shepherds.

  In the evenings, around the fire, the elders tell stories of their ancestors—of gods hidden beneath the sea, spirits of the wind, and creatures from the deep. The loch, they say, is sacred—a place of passage between worlds, a mirror that reflects the unseen.

  But what they do not know is that beneath this seemingly unchanging horizon, the sea hides an ancient secret—a force that slumbers.

  One day, everything will change.

  The sky fills with heavy shadows, thick with wind and salt. Dunn, a fisherman with pale hair tied back, struggles against the capricious waves, his seal-skin coracle tossed by the swell. His vessel, a frame of hazelwood covered in darkened leather, is light but vulnerable to the waves forming at the loch’s mouth.

  He pulls hard on his single oar, trying to steer his boat toward the calmer waters at the loch’s end. Each trough threatens to swallow him whole, each crest lifts him like a scrap of driftwood. He feels the storm in his bones—a heavy weight pressing on the air, on the sea itself.

  At last, after a final effort, Dunn reaches a sheltered cove. He leaps into the icy water up to his knees and hauls the coracle onto shore. The storm will strike hard tonight. Shelter must be found.

  The wind whistles through the stone dwellings, small round structures nestled into the hills. Dunn pushes the heavy door to his home and slips inside.

  There, the fire casts shadows in the cramped room, a flickering halo of light on thick walls. The scent of damp wood slowly burning mingles with that of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, wrapping the space in a comforting warmth.

  Around the central hearth, clay pots filled with steaming stew wait to be served. A woman adjusts a heather mat, and a child, barely awake, rubs his eyes beneath a coarse woolen blanket.

  But outside, the wind now howls like a wounded beast.

  The storm breaks with terrifying force.

  The wind tears at the peat roofs, sharp cracks echo through the night as ill-secured doors slam open. Rain lashes in violent bursts, turning paths into rushing streams of mud.

  Dunn stays awake, listening to the fury of the elements. The sea roars in the distance, but he is too far inland to see the extent of the destruction.

  By morning, the storm has passed. Only the faint whimper of the dying wind wanders among the hills. Dunn steps out of his home, squinting in the pale light of dawn.

  He expects to see collapsed roofs, nets swept away, lost animals. But something is wrong.

  The other men are gathered at the edge of the village. All stand still, facing the path that leads from the sea.

  There’s a murmur, then a stifled cry.

  Dunn sees the woman.

  Sitting on a rock, just a few steps away, she watches them with a peaceful smile. Her long black hair, still wet, cascades over her shoulders. Her face is delicate, almost unreal in the strange morning light.

  She wears a strange garment, made from a fabric unknown to them—too fine, too fluid for this world.

  How did she get there?

  They should have seen her arrive, heard her footsteps… Yet there are no tracks in the soaked mud.

  Did the sea bring her? The storm? The night itself?

  Some already reach for rudimentary weapons. Others remain frozen in silent fear. Is she a sign? A spirit?

  She does not move. She gazes at them with gentleness.

  As Dunn takes a step forward, a strange feeling passes through the air.

  Everything stops.

  The wind ceases abruptly. Even the birds, who had timidly resumed their songs at sunrise, fall silent.

  Then comes a sound.

  A low, deep noise, as if the earth itself were exhaling slowly.

  Dunn feels his stomach tighten.

  He turns his head. Toward the sea.

  What he sees steals the breath from his lungs.

  Where the sea should stretch endlessly, there is nothing.

  The water has receded, sucked back toward the horizon, exposing wet sandbanks, deep crevices, and ancient wrecks, shattered like empty shells.

  Then…

  A tremor.

  Something moves in the distance.

  A massive shadow, incomprehensible—a liquid wall raised by angry gods.

  The silence is absolute. Not a breath, not a cry. Only the low rumble of a world tearing apart.

  The mysterious woman rises slowly, her long black hair lifting around her as if stirred by an invisible breeze. She does not tremble. She does not flee. She waits.

  Dunn feels his heart hammer in his chest—a frantic beat, like that of a hunted animal.

  The sea collapses upon them.

  A wave—a liquid mountain—rises, devouring everything in its path. Its foaming crest hides the sun, and its gaping trough, monstrous and yawning, seems ready to swallow the earth itself. But it moves slowly, as if held back by an unseen force, suspended in time, its terrible energy waiting for a signal.

  The villagers scream now—some falling to their knees, others running aimlessly, trapped between the impossible and the unimaginable.

  But the woman remains calm.

  She raises her arms—not in defense, but in welcome. As if she is waiting for the wave. As if she embraces it.

  Then she turns her head slowly and extends her arm toward the space behind her.

  There—where moments earlier there had been only moorland and wind-battered rocks—something has opened.

  It is not a passage carved in stone, nor a tunnel into the earth’s depths.

  It is a door without a door.

  A black rectangle, perfect, cut into the very air. A stable abyss in the heart of chaos.

  The air around it shimmers strangely, as if space itself were bending, twisting slightly, before smoothing out again. A subtle mist escapes the threshold, cool and unreal, contrasting with the charged, electric atmosphere outside.

  Beyond it, Dunn sees nothing. No light, no shadow, no landscape. Only the unknown—the inexplicable, the unthinkable.

  The woman turns her gaze to him, and he shudders. Her eyes are not of this world.

  She holds out her hand, then makes a beckoning gesture.

  An invitation to survive.

  The villagers recoil in unison, terrified. Some whisper prayers to the old gods, others clutch their tools like useless weapons.

  But Dunn does not move. He looks at the doorway, then at the woman who offers them a choice.

  A cry rings out behind him. His child weeps, clinging to his mother’s leg. She hesitates a second, then in a desperate motion, lifts the child and runs to the opening.

  The first to cross the threshold.

  Nothing happens. No explosion, no collapse. Only silence, suspended for a moment.

  Then another follows. And another. The entire group rushes toward the unknown, driven by the instinct to survive.

  Dunn remains behind, eyes fixed on the wave that still approaches—closer, yet still strangely slowed, as though struggling against something.

  The water twists. Black vortices form on its surface, as if diverted by an invisible force.

  The ocean’s roar intensifies.

  The door is still there—wide open, offered to those who dare.

  Dunn meets the woman’s gaze. She holds out her hand.

  He makes his choice.

  And behind him, the water monster finally falls from the sky.