Chapter 182: Unspoken Claims

In the northern sector of Isla, where the terrain was rougher and the winds carried the sharp scent of salt and stone, another group of arrivals stirred the otherwise disciplined rhythm of the excavation.

“Dad! Brother!”

Layla’s voice rang bright and unrestrained as she ran across the clearing, her laughter cutting through the noise of machinery and distant voices. She threw herself into Leonard’s arms before turning just as quickly to Liam, wrapping him in an equally enthusiastic embrace.

She stood out immediately.

Her peach summer dress fluttered in the wind—light, elegant, and far too eye-catching for a place filled with dust, scaffolding, and hardened workers. Against the muted tones of the site, she looked like a fragment of another world entirely.

Behind her, in striking contrast, Summer Vibora approached with measured grace.

Dressed in a flowing white dress that moved like silk with every step, she carried herself with effortless poise. At her side was Lucas, who looked far more at ease than he had expected to be when he first agreed to come.

It was Summer’s idea.

Or rather—her insistence.

She didn’t just suggest it—she pushed.

Summer kept at Lucas until he had no room left to say no, laying it out like a solid pitch every single time: the excavation needed medical interns, the exposure would be next-level for their pre-med track, and opportunities like this didn’t come twice.

Lucas resisted at first. Then hesitated. Then folded.

And just like that—they applied.

And got accepted.

No connections. No shortcuts.

Just like that.

Now they were standing on an island that felt less like a dig site and more like a full-blown operation—alive, moving, hungry for discovery.

And whether they were ready or not—

They were part of it now.

Tens of thousands of workers had already been deployed across Isla, transforming it into a massive, living operation.

The island had been divided into eight sectors, each functioning like its own world—with dedicated excavation teams, security units, and medical staff working in synchronized urgency.

Everything moved with one goal in mind:

Uncover the past—no matter how deep it was buried.

…

Summer and Layla were escorted to the medical staff quarters soon after their arrival. The accommodations were simple but clean, shared between assigned personnel.

They would be rooming together.

Layla, ever adaptable, took it in stride.

Summer, however, did not.

Her gaze lingered toward the distant modular houses, her expression tightening ever so slightly.

Their quarters were… far.

Far from where Liam was stationed.

A flicker of dissatisfaction crossed her face before she masked it, smoothing her expression into calm indifference.

…

By midday, arrangements had already been made.

Logan had specifically organized for the family to have lunch in the southeastern sector—a quieter area of the island, where fewer workers were assigned and the mess hall was not overcrowded with noise and movement.

It was one of the few places where conversation could exist without being swallowed by the scale of the operation.

Liam took the wheel of an off-road vehicle, its engine rumbling to life as he gathered his father, Lucas, Layla, and Summer.

Dust swirled as they pulled away, heading south across uneven terrain and half-cleared pathways.

…

Not far from the departure point, a man stood watching.

Artemio Fuegerro.

He was on his way to the northwestern sector, where his own assignment awaited.

But the sight of the departing group caught his attention just long enough to halt his steps.

His sharp gaze followed them.

Then—stopped.

On her.

Summer Vibora.

His brows drew together slightly.

There was something about her…

He watched the vehicle disappear into the distance, his mind turning quickly, efficiently—like a mechanism long trained to recognize patterns others would miss.

It only took a moment.

Then it clicked.

Aquilo.

Summer Vibora… was his half-sister.

Though the two had never been close—raised apart, bound only by blood and not by bond—the connection was enough.

Enough to matter.

“Interesting,” Artemio murmured under his breath.

But there was no curiosity in his tone.

Only calculation.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone with deliberate calm. His thumb scrolled through his contacts before selecting one.

The line connected.

Artemio didn’t waste time.

“Investigate Summer Vibora.”

His voice was low, precise—each word carrying quiet authority.

There was no emotion in his voice, just intent.

As he lowered the phone, his gaze remained fixed on the empty path where the vehicle had vanished—

As if whatever had just entered Isla… was no longer just another arrival.

…

By the time the midday sun climbed high, Persius, Amelia, and Logan were already seated inside the southern sector’s mess hall.

Compared to the other sectors, this one felt almost calm.

The hall was spacious, the noise subdued—only the low hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of utensils breaking the quiet.

Sunlight streamed through the wide openings, casting warm streaks across the long rectangular tables arranged in neat rows.

They had taken one near the center—a table meant for ten, though only four seats were occupied.

Amelia sat with her back to the entrance, unaware of the world behind her.

She leaned slightly forward, fully absorbed in conversation, her attention divided between her grandfather and the young archaeologist seated beside her—a foreign researcher with auburn hair and an easy smile. He spoke animatedly, gesturing toward a tablet filled with translated inscriptions, his shoulder angled close to hers.

Too close.

From certain angles, it looked as though their faces nearly touched.

Persius listened with quiet pride, occasionally adding insights, his earlier awe still lingering in his voice.

Logan, meanwhile, remained attentive but distant—his instincts always half-focused on the room.

…

The doors to the mess hall opened.

A small group entered.

Dust clung faintly to their clothes, evidence of travel across the rugged terrain.

At the front was Liam.

He stepped inside—and stopped.

His gaze locked instantly onto a familiar figure.

Amelia.

There was no mistaking her. Not when Persius Nades sat across from her.

Not when her posture, her presence, was etched so clearly into his memory.

His expression darkened.

Why is she here?

A flicker of irritation crossed his face.

And why didn’t Logan inform me?

But then— his eyes shifted.

And landed on the man beside her.

He was far too close.

From where Liam stood, it looked intimate.

Something in his chest tightened.

His jaw clenched.

The air around him seemed to drop several degrees.

Behind him, Layla and Summer exchanged quick glances, both instinctively sensing the sudden shift.

“Bro… what’s wrong?” Layla asked, her voice cautious.

No response.

Liam had already started walking.

Fast.

Each step deliberate, cutting through the space with quiet force. His strides lengthened, his pace sharp enough that Layla and Summer struggled to keep up.

Heads turned.

Conversations faltered.

There was something unmistakable about the way he moved—like a storm rolling in without warning.

At the table, Logan was the first to notice.

His posture stiffened slightly.

But before he could speak—

“Grandpa Persius.”

Liam’s voice cut through the hall.

Loud enough to draw every ounce of attention in the room.

Amelia froze.

That voice—

Slowly, she turned.

And in that single moment, the calm of the southern sector shattered completely.

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