All hell broke loose.
What was supposed to be a trade deal turned out to be a setup. A trap.
Suddenly, without warning, the sky seemed to split open—arrows rained down like judgment day; a deadly hiss until before breaking through flesh and bone. The first scream shattered the heavy stillness that lingered over the camp. Then another. And another. Chaos erupted like wildfire in a dry bush. Panic surged through the ranks as death claimed both slaves and crew. Bodies were being pierced, and gutted; men were beheaded right where they stood.
From the shadows of the underbrush, they came—droves of Drax tribesmen with war paint smeared across their faces, eyes wild with fury and vengeance and sheer insanity. Their guttural cries echoed in the clearing, primal and deafening, like the sound of the jungle itself coming alive to feast on its prey. Their weapons, forged from both bone and iron, gleamed with the same murderous intent as those who held them.
Lucian watched as what seemed like a piece of Armageddon unfolded around him. Slaves and crew alike descended into raw instinctual survival, reason evaporating under the weight of fear. Bodies slammed against each other, scrambling, screaming. The chained lines of slaves yanked and twisted, trying to run, to crawl—anything to escape—but the shackles held fast, anchoring them to their doom.
Bodies were falling faster than they had time to catch their breath. The chains hampered their movement causing them to trip and trample upon the dead and the wounded. (As if death was not enough smh)
Bones cracked beneath their feet as they huddled together to protect themselves; blood burst from the mouths of the wounded like a crimson spray.
A flash of silver. A gust of air.
Then pain.
Lucian didn't flinch as an arrow grazed his cheek; the heat of blood running down his jawline barely registered. His hands were already scrabbling at the iron cuff biting into his ankle, ignoring the sting, ignoring the screams. The shackle didn't budge. Not an inch.
He cursed, spitting blood and dirt. His wide eyes darted across the forest floor, looking—begging—for something, anything to help him break free.
Then he saw it.
Montague's men—most of them already fallen, laid dying. The few still breathing were dragged by the Drax like wounded prey. Lucian watched in horror as one crew member' scream turned into a gurgle. The tribesman holding him didn't stop until his scalp hung from his hand like a grotesque trophy dripping with blood.
"Ah, hell no…"
Panic threatened to paralyze him, but something flickered in the corner of his eye. A creak. A sharp crack. Then a snap.
By either divine grace or the sheer force of desperation, one of the trees anchoring their chain gave way with a groan of protest. The heavy links clanked as the line of slaves shifted forward—still bound, but no longer rooted in place.
Lucian's heart leapt in his chest.
'Yes! Finally, a sliver of hope.' He thought excitedly {he doesn't learn does he}.
----
The massacre continued as the earth beneath them soaked with blood.
Chains rattled, metal screamed, and bodies hit the earth hard. Slaves bolted in all directions, dragging others with them in tangled bondage. Lucian was yanked forward, crashing into jagged rocks, his skin flaying open with each brutal tug. From the corner of his eyes, he caught a glimpse of Montague and a few of his men who were still alive retreating like cowards into the treeline, abandoning the slaves to die. Assholes. Fucking cowards.
Panic bled into pain.
Then—something changed.
"This way!" a slave's voice bellowed desperately. And like a hive, minds collectively in sync, every slave turned and sprinted in unison. The fallen were nothing more than weights to be hauled across sharp stone and twisted roots. Lucian's arms tore as he tried to slow the momentum, nails peeling against the forest floor—but the chain didn't care. The chain had one direction: forward.
Until it stopped.Abruptly.
Lucian rolled over, gasping, coughing, mouth filled with dirt mixed with saliva, trying to see what had stopped the momentum.
A huge figure loomed at the forest's edge—seven feet of raw, feral muscle. A Drax tribesman, shirtless, blood running down his torso, and wielding an axe so crude and enormous it looked forged from hell itself—the handle made of bone, rust-smeared, and ending in a jagged slab of metal. He wore the skull of some animal like a mask, two massive horns curling from its sides. In his fist, he held a slave by the head like it was a piece of fruit.
With one squeeze, the skull popped like a melon.
Chunks. Splinters. Red.Gruesome.
Silence strangled the group. The slaves froze—caught between primal terror and hopelessness. Some sobbed. Others pissed themselves. A few shit their pants; you cannot miss that smell. Human feces.
Lucian didn't wait. Neither did the bard.
Their hands fumbled for stones—sharp ones. They slammed them against their cuffs, again and again. Metal clanged. Sparks flew.
Screams erupted as more Drax warriors burst from the trees, still howling like beasts, axes cleaving through flesh and bone. Bodies exploded into gore with every swing. Those still chained behind Lucian were cut down like cattle. Those ahead didn't move—paralyzed, wide-eyed, like waiting to die.
"Break, you stubborn piece of shit—break!" Arrrggghhh!
Clang. Crack. A shackle snapped, rusted through. Lucian's leg was free.
No time to waste. He quickly scanned the chaotic scene, looking for a path—any path, a way of escape. But his eyes and the bard's eyes locked onto each other. They were screaming for help now, begging him not to leave her as her hands fumbled with the chain, useless, helpless, trapped.
'Leave her. Run. Save yourself.' a voice echoed in his head. But Lucian quickly dismissed it.
He scrambled awkwardly to her side; and quickly examined the links-found the weakest point kissed by salt and corrosion.
"Here. We Strike here!"
She obeyed, they frantically hammering until it gave. Another shackle broke, and they were now free to escape
Then—"Please. Don't leave me." A desperate voice.
The ginger.
Lucian cursed under his breath. He slid over to him to not be noticed, he then began inspecting the metal chain for a weak spot but there was none.
"Fuck!"His voice cut through the air.
His hands began to tremble as he searched the link beyond the ginger—past the bloated corpse and stiff limbs of the slave that took the first arrow
Lucian turned to the others. "If you hit it here, the chain will break."
They stared, confused.
The bard's voice cracked, dry, and bitter.
"Even if it does, there's still a two-hundred-fifty-pound corpse between us and freedom. We can't drag that, but fine." ( I guess She forgot she was just in a similar position…people)
Lucian's breathing quickened. The slaughter was closing in.
He didn't argue. He acted.
Gripping the stone, now chipped and serrated from banging on the chains, he grabbed the dead man's leg. He began to hack, skin split and Flesh peeled, Bone cracked and dark Blood splattered across his face.
He tore through the leg and snapped the chain free. The bard and the ginger turned—only to see Lucian kneeling in a pool of viscera, coated in gore, holding the freed shackle like a trophy.
They gagged. The bard vomited violently.
Lucian didn't flinch.
He tossed the shackle to the ginger and stood, ready to bolt—
But it was already too late.
They were surrounded.
A ring of death, closing tighter with every breath. The blood-drenched Drax warriors snarled like starving wolves, axes raised, circling the last three survivors. Lucian, the bard, and the ginger stood back-to-back, backs slick with sweat, hearts pounding like war drums.
'Is this it? Is this the end?'
Then—just as the first axe began to swing—a guttural voice tore through the tension like thunder cracking the sky. The Drax froze mid-charge, weapons halted inches from flesh. The earth seemed to hold its breath.
The voice came from the giant—him—the one who crushed skulls like fruit. He pointed a bloodstained finger straight at Lucian, then gestured to the severed leg lying in the dirt, a mangled mess of bone and sinew. His words were thick with growls and snarls, the Drax tongue primal and violent.
"What… Why did they stop?" the ginger whispered, eyes wide with fear and disbelief.
The bard's voice was low, tight with unease.
"He saw what you did."
Lucian's eyes didn't leave the towering beast.
'Fucking masochist.'
A sudden roar erupted from the Drax. They slammed their weapons against the ground, creating a deafening rhythm of war. The circle widened, just enough to give Lucian room to move—and then, without warning, two bone-handled knives were hurled at his feet. Primitive, cruel blades, shaped for one thing only.
Killing.
Lucian didn't move. "What now?"
The bard didn't look at him. Her gaze stayed locked on the chieftain, eyes dark with fear, heart beating as though it would burst through her chest at any moment.
"All I know is what I've heard in the taverns. Drunken sailor tales. The Drax worship a god called Sigmet—a butcher deity. It's said that he demands blood, pain, spectacle. And they give it to him."
Lucian clenched his fist and squinted his eyes.
"They call it the Blood Pit. Two warriors enter. One leaves. The other feeds the fire."
The ginger whimpered. "You mean they want us to fight?"
The bard shook her head. "No. Just him." She nodded toward Lucian. "He cut through a man to free a slave. The Drax see that as strength… or madness. To them, it's the same."
Her voice was calmer now, her heart rate becoming almost normal.
Lucian stared down at the knives. The ground beneath them was saturated with the blood of the fallen. He could smell the iron, thick and wet. The Drax were grinning now, fangs bared as their insanity surged. They weren't stopping the fight. They were offering it.
A challenge.
A sacrifice.
A show.
Entertainment for their god.
Lucian bent down, slowly, and picked up the blades—one in each hand.
The weight of life and death settled in his grip.
"Well, let's give the bastards a good one."( maybe he had really lost his mind at sea).