Eleanor stared at the stone in her hand, unable to breathe. Her fingers refused to unclench, but the color was already visible to everyone watching. Black. Pitch black. The color of doom.
The gasps began as a low ripple—first from the strangers, then from her own group, and finally from the natives who erupted into triumphant chants and thunderous stomping, their blood-slick feet pounding the earth with anticipation. The drums increased, both in volume and speed, like a heartbeat reaching its peak before stopping altogether.
Liam's mouth went dry. His heart plummeted to his stomach as he took a step forward instinctively, only to feel a spear's tip press against his chest, halting him.
"No…" he whispered. "No, no, no…"
