Just as the priest inhaled deeply, his blade ready to descend, the jungle held its breath. The rhythmic chants of the natives rose to a fevered pitch, their eyes shining with bloodlust and wild devotion. The priest's face twisted in a fanatical grin, his painted body shimmering with oil and streaked with red pigments, symbols of their gods and death. His hand moved—swift, practiced—and the sharp stone knife came down in a clean arc toward Eleanor's throat.
Blood sprayed onto the altar.
Eleanor gasped—eyes wide, heart halting. She felt the warmth of liquid splashing against her chest, the iron stench of blood flooding her nostrils. Her body froze. Then she closed her eyes, waiting for the sharp, final pain. But… it never came.
Screams erupted—shrill, chaotic, not of victory but confusion and outrage. The kind of scream a pack of wolves makes when something unexpected threatens their feast.
