Chapter 5: The Path of Shadows and the Voice of Ancestors

Night enveloped the island in a dense, velvet blanket. The small boat glided silently over the dark water, and each stroke of the oars, despite being wrapped in rags, seemed deafening to Flora. Beside her, Son and Brenn rowed steadily and powerfully, their silhouettes barely discernible in the darkness. The tension was almost palpable.

They landed in a small cove, hidden by rocks, far from where they had seen the natives during the day. Leaving the boat carefully camouflaged with branches, they delved into the jungle. Flora led the way, moving with the grace of a predator, her heightened senses catching every rustle, every scent. Son, despite his size, followed her with surprising quietness—years of pirate raids had not been in vain. Brenn brought up the rear, his professional guard's eyes scanning the gloom, covering their backs.

They walked for several hours, navigating by the stars and some inner feeling of Flora's. The forest at night lived its own, frightening life. Unseen creatures rustled in the undergrowth, giant spiders hung from branches, and the air was filled with the sweet, intoxicating aroma of unknown flowers.

Finally, they heard what they were looking for. The muffled sounds of drums and guttural singing. And then they saw the glow of fire, filtering through the dense wall of trees. They had found the village.

Crawling as close as possible, they hid in a thicket of ferns. The scene that unfolded before them sent a chill down the spines of even the seasoned Son and Brenn.

In the center of the settlement, which consisted of crude huts, a huge bonfire burned. Around it, natives moved in a wild, frenzied dance. Their bodies were painted with white and red clay, their eyes burning with madness. In the middle of the circle, on a high pole, human skulls were impaled. And at the foot of the pole, on a rough stone altar, lay a man. Apparently, a captive from another tribe. His body was covered in wounds, but he was still alive.

Next to the altar stood their chief—the same one in the headdress of feathers. He held a long obsidian knife in his hand and was shouting something in his guttural language, addressing either the sky or the crowd.

"Bloody devils..." Son hissed. "They're going to sacrifice him."

"Looks like we're too late to save this poor soul," Brenn stated grimly. "But look at those stones. They're ruins. Far more ancient than these savages. This technology... it's beyond anything I've seen in the Union. Whoever built this, they were powerful. And rich."

"Exactly! Rich!" whispered Son, his eyes gleaming predatorily in the dark. "If they built walls like these, their treasuries must be something else!"

"Our mission is reconnaissance, Captain. We've learned what we need to. It's time to go."

But Flora wasn't looking at the captive. She was looking at the altar. The stones it was made of were too smooth, too perfectly shaped for savage workmanship. And on them, she could see half-erased symbols. The same symbols she had seen on the tree. The script of her ancestors. These savages had set up their bloody shrine on the ruins of something great. Something they could neither create nor understand. Something sacred. A cold, furious anger gripped Flora.

At that moment, the chief raised his knife. The crowd roared in anticipation.

Flora could not allow this. Not here. Not on the land of her ancestors.

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"Brenn," she whispered, "see the one to the left of the chief? With the spear. Take him out. Quietly."

"Captain, this is madness!" Brenn hissed back. "It's three of us against an entire village!"

"Do it," Flora's voice had a steel in it that tolerated no argument.

Brenn swore but raised his small, powerful hand-crossbow. A short bolt shot silently from the string and embedded itself precisely in the native's throat. He gurgled and collapsed, not even understanding what had happened.

Confusion rippled through the crowd. The chief turned, trying to figure out what had happened.

That moment was all Flora needed. She slipped out of her cover like a shadow. Two throwing knives flew into the darkness, extinguishing two torches by the fire, plunging part of the clearing into shadow. Simultaneously, Son, understanding her plan, let out a deafening roar like a cave bear and hurled a head-sized rock into the bonfire, sending up a shower of sparks and smoke.

Panic erupted. The natives, not knowing where the attack came from or how many enemies there were, began to scatter. Flora, using the turmoil, darted towards the altar. Her target was not the chief. Her target was the captive. With a single movement of "Whisper," she cut the ropes binding his hands and feet.

"Run!" she shouted at him in the Common Tongue of the Union, hoping he would understand.

But then the chief spotted her. With a furious roar, he charged at her, raising his obsidian knife. Son and Brenn were already retreating towards the forest, fending off a few savages who dared to pursue them. Flora was left alone against the chief.

Their blades met. "Whisper" against obsidian. Steel against stone. Flora was faster and more technical, but the chief was stronger and fought with primal fury. He pressed forward, forcing her towards the fire. The heat scorched her back.

Flora dodged another blow, and at that moment, from the depths of the jungle, from a direction they hadn't expected, came a whistle. Short, sharp. And then a whole shower of arrows rained down on the village. Black-fletched arrows, fired with incredible precision. They struck only the natives, hitting neither Flora nor the captive she had rescued.

The chief staggered back, watching his warriors fall one by one. Superstitious terror flashed in his eyes. He looked at Flora, then at the dark forest from where the arrows were flying, and, letting out a cry of fear, he fled, taking the rest of his men with him.

The clearing emptied. Only the bodies of the slain natives, the dying bonfire, and two people—Flora and the rescued captive—remained as a reminder of the night's drama.

Flora was breathing heavily, staring in the direction from which the help had come. Who was it? Friends? Enemies? Or just... a third force in this incomprehensible war?

She heard footsteps. Son and Brenn emerged from the darkness.

"Captain, are you alright?" Brenn asked. "What the hell was that?"

"It was them. The archers," was all Flora could manage.

She turned to the rescued man. He was a young man, not much older than herself. His skin was fair, unlike the cultist-natives, and his hair was long and dark. He was wounded but on his feet. He looked at Flora with surprise and... gratitude.

"Who are you?" he asked in almost perfect Common Tongue.

Before Flora could answer, another whistle came from the forest, but this time it was different, melodic. Like a signal.

The captive flinched and looked towards the sound.

"They are calling me. I have to go," he said. "Thank you, stranger. You saved my life. My people will not forget this."

And before Flora could stop him, he disappeared into the same thicket from which the arrows had flown.

"So much for our 'tongue'," Son grumbled. "Gone. And didn't even say where the gold is."

"But now we know there are at least two tribes on this island," Brenn noted. "And they're clearly not fond of each other. And one of them, it seems, isn't so hostile towards us."

Flora didn't answer. She walked to the desecrated altar and ran her hand over the cold, blood-stained stone. Under her fingers, she felt the familiar outlines of her ancestors' runes. A cold, quiet fury rose within her. This wasn't just murder. It was sacrilege.

"They danced on the bones of my ancestors," she whispered so quietly that only Brenn heard her. Her voice was devoid of emotion, which made it all the more terrifying. "We won't just 'think it over,' Brenn. We will burn this filth from this land. We're returning to the ship."

They left the deserted village, leaving behind the bloody tide and the shadows on the ancient walls. The war on this island, it seemed, was just beginning. And Flora Disleyvane, without wanting to, had found herself at its very center.