Guns rose in unison.
Metal clicked softly as fingers settled onto triggers, barrels aligned toward the forest ahead.
The tribal figures stepped fully into view now.
More than fifty of them.
Men and women alike.
Some held flaming torches that painted their faces in shifting orange light. Others carried bows already drawn, arrows steady and unwavering, aimed directly at the ruins. Every single one of them wore pure white fabric, simple yet ceremonial, cloth flowing lightly with the forest breeze.
On every forehead, without exception, the same symbol was marked.
A half moon.
Drawn in deep red.
The tension hit the treasure hunters like a physical weight.
Hilda swallowed hard and instinctively stepped back, retreating behind the men she had brought with her. Her hands trembled despite her attempt to steady them.
