She thought that those lizards had been the worst the island had nurtured. Of course, she was wrong. How could the gods have created such nasty abominations, she did not know, but she would demand an explanation once she died to a blade or cannonball.

There was no way she would get near those things, not when they could tear her apart in a blink. She would die out at sea, not here in this hellhole. That conviction pushed her forward, while keeping a constant eye on those sharp limbs and pincers.

The ants that surged in the lush jungle did not compare to the ones the tribe housed in their den. Perhaps it would have been wiser to try to intrude through the tall stony anthills, because the cave led her to what could only be called a nest.

She had seen a few women get out to gather water from the channel by the cave. The fact that it flowed from the sea should have clued her to the fact that it was not meant for the tribe to drink.

Barbara inched closer to the edge of a small precipice, having followed a narrow pathway through the dim lighted caverns. Now she had a perfect view of the many chasms and open cavities that composed the outer layers of the tribal lair. And what roamed in them.

The ants she had seen before covered themselves in amber, and the ones she was observing now were no different. Sadly, with how much these covered their exoskeletons, it was hard to tell they were insects at all. They looked more like huge golems than live beasts.

She had a good eye for gold, and even then, she was almost fooled into believing she was seeing living amalgamations of it. All around, on the ceilings and walls, everything gleamed. Amber encased the caverns, and it reflected what little light there was, so much that it allowed her to see clearly without sunlight.

After a few cautious looks, she neared a wall and took a small knife. She stabbed the amber, to then cut a part of it off, as silently as possible. Her eyes examined it very closely in her hand, and she could not help but smirk when she identified its properties. It was worth a nice sum of coin, for she had seen it peddled in some vagrant and luxurious ports. She pocketed it without thinking twice; it could pay her a month’s worth of rum if she sold it.

The ants were too busy to sense her or her moves. As well, they were accustomed to humans lurking through their nest. That was why she sidestepped and kept going deeper, trusting her instincts. The women she saw outside had neared the insects in a reverent manner, presenting water to them. Somehow, they were not ripped in half by those long-spiked pincers. The beasts never harmed the natives, as long as they were careful.

If Barbara had been recognized by her father and lived in the kingdom with the rest of nobility, perhaps she would have become a scholar. Sadly, she walked another path, never to study how the natives had a symbiotic relation with these huge monsters, which they revered and mimicked.

She could hear rumbling, and it did not come from the earth or inner magma below. Something big hid in one of these cavities, somewhere. Ants were communal creatures, and she was sure that this colony had to have a queen too.

There were no guards in this area, for the ants offered enough deterrence already. Only she was crazy enough to contemplate creeping through the narrow black tunnels that the natives traversed to reach the golden hives. She was more brash than a hungry tusked panther, that was for sure.

She came to a halt soon enough. The caverns ended. Her green eyes narrowed and pierced the huge black stony door in front of her, noting the engravings on it. It clued her on the fact that she had reached the edge of the hives, the start of the temple’s gut.

Humans were animals, but they could be much more dangerous than any other being. She learnt this through experience. A lot of pirates had double-crossed her, some for the kick of it. While most beasts killed to placate their hunger, men could inflict pain to satisfy their thrills.

Now, she liked to make some walk the plank from time to time, but she always reserved it for bastards she had to get rid of in one way or another. A painful human sacrifice for a heretic rite was absurd. Though… he almost deserved it for all the trouble he caused. Almost. 

She let out a long silent sigh, unsheathing her sword slowly. From this point on, she would surely encounter some obstacles… and she would deal with them like she had learnt to.

Barbara sneaked closer to the door, and then pressured herself against it. She was always attentive. Trying to recall every single detail was what had let her survive so long as a pirate. She soon heard what she expected.

There was small rasping from time to time, at the other side. She leaned away and cracked her neck, knowing that what she heard was the subtle creaking of the skeletal armor that the natives wore. If she was right, two guards lurked there.

Alright, just like that time in fort Velara. Just without Dolores shooting the marshal’s knee for you. You can do it.

Barbara hyped herself up, glaring angrily at the pressure plate that would force the door to open. After a few huffs, she punched it, to then dash into a corner that would hide her from view by the door.

Of course, the sudden rumble and slow ascend of the stone startled the guards, who let out some clicked gasps. They pointed their staffs, even if they expected a low servant to have opened it. When the door moved all the way up, they saw no one there.

The two sentries exchanged a look, tensing from their usual crouching stance. They seemed to have an argument on who was to go check what was up, but an agreement was reached. The youngest inched closer to the door, glaring under his mask made from dust scarab shells. There was no time for him to look side to side and spot the one who lurked, because the intruder acted swiftly as soon as he was in view and reach.

With a fast swing, a blade sunk into the side of his neck. It was not an instant kill, but it was enough to send him to the ground, in just a second. The other guard shouted something and reacted to his comrade being stabbed, of course, but he did not have much time to ponder a rescue.

Barbara snarled, sidestepped into view, and then lunged onto the native. She needed to quarrel a bit this time, because she could not take him by surprise like the other, but it was a won battle anyway.

After a few seconds, as staff and sword clashed, she noticed a spot on his chest where the materials of his armor did not blend completely. There was no way for her to slice past his weapon and stab there… but she could stop pressuring her blade with her left hand and take something from her belt.

The natives knew of firearms thanks to them fending off multiple intruding attempts from the kingdom. Sadly, the navy tended to use long rifles, and not all the tribe had seen flint guns being fired.

She proceeded to push him, and as he stumbled back and tried to bring the staff down on her, she took aim with her left hand. The shot was not that loud, yet it felt like an earthquake when it pierced that pale skin.

Barbara huffed, seeing him tumble back once more, the force of the shot sending him onto a black stony wall. The blood began to pour at her feet, sinking into the small engravings that decorated the ground.

She blew off the smoke on her gun, to then holster it again. The two barely got any pitying glances when she stepped over them and kept advancing. Those wounds would make them bleed out and prevent any alarms from being sounded, at least for a while.

As she growled, she descended some stairs that led her to lower levels. She came across some other guards, but there were paths in which she was able to hide to avoid crossing them. Soon, she began to see vast pits that had no apparent end, overseen by long stony bridges, like the one that led to that underground hoard.

She had no fear of heights, but she questioned how the tribe could live in the chambers that surrounded such void chasms. One misstep and they could fall. Now, she could not see it yet due to the grandness of the temples, but at the bottom flowed a huge river of magma.

As a pirate, she had a great sense of direction. She stood by an empty stony tribune, which loomed over a pit. She had an idea of where they could be keeping the sailor, for there were some structures that differed slightly from the rest.

All the entrances to the districts could be accessed from the pits. Most of the walls of the chambers were decorated with simple engravings on the black stones, but one was not carved. No, it was painted, with amber.

She stood there, contemplating the huge arcs at the end of a large bridge. There were no doors; it was the most hallowed looking edifice she could spot. Endless trails of amber framed every crook and cranny, giving the path and temple an eerie luminous look.

Some walls rumbled a little there. There were mechanisms that channeled lava into that area. It was clear where the sacrifices were usually conducted. One would occur soon; barely anyone roamed the underground pathways, surely gathered by a furnace.

Like countless times before, Barbara told herself to turn tail and leave. This was worse than any other venture she took part in before, much more dangerous. It was no brothel where she would get a few bruises for quarreling with the owner, no rogue pirate ship hauling kidnapped maidens, not even a royal fort where her comrades would be hanged.

Sadly, like every single time she perceived unfairness, she felt anger. And there was only one way in which she knew to channel it. She grasped her sword harder, growling while she glared down at the core of the underground temple.

“This is why I get laughed at in every tavern I set foot in.”

She should be like the other pirate captains. Lives were cheap in this world, replaceable and inconsequential. It made little difference to attempt to struggle against such cruel and unjust whims. Sometimes, the simple act of struggling fostered the circle of ruin. She knew that for a fact.

There was no logical reason for her to do this. She knew it, she agreed with the reasoning of her reluctance. And yet, she was still marching forth, in instinct. Her heart and mind were at constant odds, incongruent.

—————————-

He felt like a caged animal. Maybe he was. It did not matter that they did not bring him harm yet, nor that they brough him food. None of their reverential acts mattered if they were going to burn him alive later.

It had to be soon. He could tell that they were growing anxious. Every single chance of their deity being reborn made them joyous, expectant. It would only lead to disappointment again.

Olve let out a derisive chuckle, seating himself on a stony chair and looking at his arms and body. As a royal sailor, he was well built, buff in his slimness. The rationed food in the vessels and the exacting work molded him well.

“Still, don’t really think I’m that fit for a deity.”

If there were any mirrors, he would look at his reflection in solemn wonder. That would lead him to lament, for a few reasons. One, he was young, and about to die. Two, his innate aptitude had led him to a fruitless end, and his mentor would surely be disappointed in the afterlife. Three… Sure, he was good looking, if he were to trust the comments of the barmaids he crossed in most ports, yet he had never been able to find love.

He had hoped for more in life, to be honest. His heart had sought to rise to the highest rank in the royal navy, prove he was worthy of respect. He was flawed but dedicated, and capable of success. That was what he had wanted to demonstrate, and he failed.

His thoughtful blue eyes were fixated on the murals on the walls. The entity depicted there was selfless. Although he liked to pretend that he was as well, he knew he wasn’t at all. He wanted to belong and serve, yet only because of the scorn he had suffered.

He sighed and proceeded to move his hands to start praying, like every morning, as commanded by all royal captains. However, he stopped himself, frowning strongly. His hands lowered gradually, as he debated how the gods had never answered his insistent prayers. Not once, not when in dire need, or when conflicted by inner thoughts.

Why would they answer now?

Olve glared at the murals again, now differently. The reverence the figures showed did not seem as senseless, even if it was still misguided to him. He debated the way in which the gods of the pantheon behaved, at least according to their sacred scripture. Travalak, the god of war, murdered the goddess of beauty, Martran, just because her charms and ballads were preventing two ancient nations from rushing into battle. Their beliefs were as bloody as their conquests, to say the least. Death was accepted, sometimes encouraged.

He paced there, brushing the painted stones with a hand. His focus was so attentive that he did not notice the faint sound of steps outside, nor the small scuffle that soon echoed. There were two soft thuds, two guards taken out, yet his anxious thoughts were preventing him from paying mind to what could be a precedent to his doom.

It was only when a pressure plate was stepped on outside that he flinched and looked at the door, which began to slide up to make way into his constricting chamber. It did not take him long to see that a woman stood in that darkness, at which point he relaxed slightly.

She was carrying a small bowl in her pale hands, her skeletal robes clearly ones of a servant. Since others had come before to bring him food, he did not notice the way in which her eyes gleamed maliciously under her mask, or how a second figure lurked outside in the dark by the two fainted guards.

Olve was extremely weary of all the members of the tribe… but he was not suspicious enough. All had shown nothing but reverence for his involvement in the imminent sacrifice, so he had no reason to think some could wish to end him in other ways and for other motives.

He did not attempt to escape when the girl stepped closer, believing that the two guards were still out there in the dark corridor. She eyed him subtly while she placed the bowl on a small table; as well, she bowed to him more sternly than others had done before.

Olve raised an eyebrow at her, noting how she did not backstep reverently out of the chamber like the other servants. She simply stood there and stared at him, like if she wished to make sure he ate before leaving.

That irked him, in more than one way. He hated to be stared at, more so in his current circumstances. She quickly noticed his growing apprehension. That was why she spoke, and even if he did not understand the language, he could tell that the way she motioned enthusiastically at the food was faked.

He was not hinting any interest in eating, and that was bothering her, enough for her to become more adamant. When she approached closer and insisted with alluring words and motions, he had enough. She scowled under her mask sharply, pushed off softly with a hand.

Olve did finally reach for the bowl while he glared at her sternly. Her clear attempts at wooing him were upsetting already, but it was when he neared the food to his face that he became angered for real. Upon inspection, there was a faint smell to it, one he recognized.

The food was poisoned, with a toxin that was easy to extract from a regional plant. It was sold in the black markets, most commonly for spies and rebels to buy. Anything ingested that was laced with it would kill the victim in a few hours or less. It was something he had come across, not only due to a few assassination attempts carried by some insurgents.

He was hated for being a member of the royal navy, a man devoted to the kingdom, an enemy of the rebelling colonies. There were only a few instances in which he was shunned and reviled for his most hidden secrets. He could understand the motives of those sentiments, but not the ones of this one murderous act.

His realization was evident, and she had been very weary of it. Her posture and compelling demeanor changed instantly, and although he could not see her face much under her mask, her grimace was telling. He proceeded to throw the food to the ground with a snarl, stepping closer to her and towering as he inquired angrily.

“What the hell are you trying to-?!”

If he had spoken the language, he would have gotten his answer. Sadly, he understood nothing when the other figure shouted and lunged from the corridor, having watched silently the exchange.

A man literally threw himself at him with a thorned knife in hand, prompting the girl to gasp in alarm when both fell to the ground in their clash. She shouted and seemed to try to ask her tribemate to stop, yet her calls were ignored in fury.

Olve huffed, holding for dear life the wrist of the man to prevent him from stabbing at him. If he had reacted any slower and failed to catch him, his heart would have been pierced. There was nothing but rage in those eyes, hate. He kept yelling something repeatedly, but he could only focus on fending him off.

The girl had taken down her mask to try to show her distaste for her mate’s reaction, and if Olve could pay mind to the fact, he would have recognized some of her features. She looked a lot like the native that had been sacrificed before.

Being chosen was an honor; there was no greater purpose than to try to revive their god. That was why she felt scorned, at the thought that someone else could perhaps be more worthy than her brother; it was much more insulting that an outlander was considered more fit.

She had only wanted to sneak in and try to kill him with the toxin, keeping a low profile by knocking the guards unseen. Sadly, her lover was as insulted as her, if not more, and seeing Olve react sent him into a lunge.

The fight was unfair and sudden, but it did not take long for the odds to get even. Olve growled and pulled; he made the man scream as he bent his wrist sideways. It was no wonder that the knife was dropped, for a crack echoed. An emaciated servant was no match for an experienced soldier.

His attacker was now disarmed, and yet, he was not dissuaded. He stared in disbelief as the native yelled a curse, recovering from his pain and tensing to tackle him again. It was a senseless attack, because he had stood up into a defensive stance, and he was much more buff than him.

Indeed, when the man threw himself at him again, he was ready. He expected the clash, and he swung a fist to greet it. There was another crack, this time from the mask, which he punched squarely.

The scrawny looking native dropped to the ground after one more punch to the gut and one precise kick. That ended the quarrel, as neither could nor wanted to prolong it. At last, Olve could spare a glare at the girl, who stood there with a hand over her mouth.

Shouts and rushing steps had begun to echo outside, yet she did not run away. Instead, she pointed at him and began to shout curses, her eyes now somehow more hateful. Her yells were half cried, and he could only wonder the reason of such angered sorrow.

It only took some seconds for the quarrel to gain notice. Both he and the girl flinched when five guards stepped into the chamber from the dark corridor, and she paled when they were followed by the chief.

The old shaman looked at the fainted man at Olve’s feet; his alarmed expression only faded when he was sure that there were not cuts on their prisoner. Instead of showing anger for the fact that a comrade had been struck down, he began to yell at the girl, who cowered slightly.

Olve tried to reach for the fallen knife on the ground, he really did. Sadly, the natives could move as fast as the very ants that they fostered in the caverns. A guard hit the blade with his staff and sent it out of his reach in one swift move.

He cursed their uncanny slyness, rendered powerless once more. While shouts were exchanged, he wished he could yell too to curse their frenzied ways. He could do nothing but stare and stand idle while the girl and chief argued loudly.

She was crying, motioning strongly with her arms and hands. First, she pointed at her accomplice, with a tone that sounded apologetically defensive. When that only prompted a dismissive judging snarl, she grew prideful.

Once more, she pointed at Olve, with a motion that was meant as an insult. Then she pointed at herself, trying to make herself stand as tall and grand as possible. The way in which she spoke finally clued him that she was trying to argue her aptitude as a possible sacrifice; her hands loomed over the ground, to then lay on her chest in a ripping motion.

The chief was unmoved by her arguments and fervent requests. Like all other women who wished to bring their god to life, they were scorned, considered unworthy and a desperate asset. With one simple wave of hand, an order was given.

She kept yelling while the guards dragged her and her accomplice out. To what fate, Olve did not know. He had other things to worry about. The chief turned to him and began to bow repeatedly, muttering apologetic words. He seemed to try to excuse the actions of their kin, cursing them even.

Olve did not care, and honestly, he began to ponder if he should have eaten the poison. The chief was now glancing at the mess around him, noting how the quarrel had scattered what little furniture there was. The fact really displeased him, so he clapped his hands and called, causing a few servants to march into the room. He commanded and pointed outside, then at him. It did not take a sharp mind to understand the intent; the shaman smiled at him and brushed his own amber markings, laughing as he pictured them on him. Their god would surely appreciate that its future form was treated with care.

The guards took a hold on him, far too many to fight off. They invited him out the chamber, and it was an offer he couldn’t refuse. Soon, he was led to a ceremonial room, were they dressed him in accordance with the ritual.

He was left alone one last time, in a chamber from where he could hear the rumbling of the furnace and the lava that would be cast in it. There was a mirror there, made of amber and black stone. He brushed his ceremonial robes and engravings, with nothing but resignation. They truly embellished him with the most precious trinkets they had, and everything would burn together into ash and dust.

He had always been seen as a tool, and this was no different. A smile grew on his lips, solemn. He accepted what was to come, and he only hoped that it would bring some fulfillment to the natives. Serving the aspirations of others was all he had done in life, after all.