The world blurred as Syrena was dragged through the jungle, thorns catching her clothes, branches whipping past her face. The islanders spoke in clipped tones—urgent, distrustful—though she couldn't understand the words.
Her heart pounded, mind racing. Why separate me? What do they think I am?
The men hauled her into a clearing, where a larger group had gathered—women, elders, more warriors. They circled her, voices rising in argument. Fingers jabbed at her bound hands, at the strange jewelry she wore, at the streak of silver in her hair.
Syrena knelt in the dirt, her heart hammering as the chanting swelled. The elder's sharp gaze never wavered, and now others began approaching—bearing garlands of bone, strange powders, and a gleaming ceremonial blade.
Words flew among them, gestures aimed at her hair, her skin—at the way her eyes caught the light. They saw her as something more than human. Something sacred.
Or cursed.
A woman daubed red paint in streaks across Syrena's arms and neck. The tall elder—clearly the shaman—stepped before her, lifting the curved blade high. Its edge shimmered wickedly in the light
Syrena's breath caught. They mean to sacrifice her!
She strained against the ropes, but they held fast. No help would come. No one could hear—
"No...! No! Let go of me!" she screamed.
A sharp shout echoed from the treeline.
"LET. HER. GO!"
Sawyer.
He burst through the crowd like a storm, iron shackles hanging loose from one wrist, the other trailing chains. His shirt was torn, skin bloodied from his struggle. Rage burned in his eyes.
Several warriors lunged to stop him—he struck them down with fists and chain, moving with the fury of a man possessed.
Sawyer.
He burst through the crowd like a storm, iron shackles hanging loose from one wrist, the other trailing chains. His shirt was torn, skin bloodied from his struggle. Rage burned in his eyes.
Several warriors lunged to stop him—he struck them down with fists and chain, moving with the fury of a man possessed.
"SAWYER!" Syrena screamed as the shaman raised the blade to her throat.
With a roar, Sawyer tackled him, sending the blade skittering into the dirt. More warriors surged in, spears flashing. Sawyer fought like a madman, taking cuts to his side and shoulder, blood soaking his clothes.
Then—gunfire.
From the trees, Sawyer's crew poured in—led by Briggs and old Harrow, muskets blazing. The warriors faltered under the onslaught.
Briggs reached Sawyer, hauling him to his feet. "Captain—she's alive, but we must move—NOW!"
Sawyer staggered, barely upright. "Get her. Get her now."
Two men cut Syrena's ropes. She collapsed into their arms, gasping. Through the chaos, her eyes met Sawyer's—he was pale, blood running down his side, but still standing, still watching her.
"Don't you dare fall now," she whispered through tears.
The crew dragged them both back toward the beach, gunfire and shouts ringing through the jungle. The islanders gave chase, arrows slicing past their heads.
They reached the longboat. Sawyer half-collapsed into it, teeth gritted against the pain. Syrena climbed in beside him, clutching his arm.
"Row, damn you!" Harrow bellowed. "ROW!"
The boat surged toward the ship, arrows splashing into the sea around them.
Safe. Not yet. But close.
Syrena leaned over Sawyer, her fingers brushing his blood-slicked hair. "You're a fool," she whispered, voice shaking. "A damned fool."
His eyes fluttered open—worn, fierce, unyielding. "Couldn't let them take you. I made you a promise remember?"
She shook her head but in her eyes he saw a mix of awe and something else... something he didn't want to put a name to.
Not yet.