Poison

The first light of dawn filtered through the canopy, casting the encampment in a soft amber glow. The usual sounds of labor stirred the camp—axes biting into logs, shovels digging trenches, and voices calling orders over the steady hum of progress. Jacob stood by the water basin, running his hand through the cool surface as he inspected the trench work completed overnight. Barret approached with a slight limp, his hands caked in dirt and sawdust. "Timber's holding up well, Captain," he said, nodding toward the gun platforms they'd reinforced. "We've started framing the first housing units, but it'll take time to get them livable."

Jacob gave a small nod. "Do what you can. We don't need perfection, just shelter."

Barret hesitated. "Aye, Captain. But the men are stretched thin. This pace won't hold forever."

Before Jacob could respond, Garrett strode up, his expression unreadable. "We'll manage," Garrett said, almost to himself. "We always do."

The morning passed in relative calm, the camp bustling with activity as pirates and freed slaves worked side by side to fortify their position. Even with the progress, there was an undercurrent of unease—a sense that something unseen was watching from the jungle. The natives had been silent for days, their absence as unnerving as their previous assaults. As the sun climbed higher, Jacob's unease deepened. The quiet wasn't just ominous—it was unnatural.

While Jacob walked the perimeter, his instincts on edge, the attack came. The camp was in full swing, tools clattering against wood and voices raised in conversation. No one noticed the dark shapes descending the cliffs, their bodies wrapped in shadows. The first native assassin reached the ground unnoticed, slipping through the loose perimeter with practiced ease. Others followed, scaling the jagged cliffs with a precision that spoke of years of mastery. At the same time, warriors emerged from the inlets, their movements swift and calculated. It wasn't until a sentry near the treeline fell with a gurgled cry that the alarm was raised.

The shout of "Attack!" rang out, but it was too late. The natives struck with lethal precision, targeting key leaders amidst the confusion. One assassin lunged for Barret, a bone dagger flashing in the sunlight. He barely managed to dodge, the blade slicing through his sleeve as he roared for help. Kofi was next. Two warriors emerged from the shadows, their spears aimed at his back. He turned just in time, grabbing a plank of wood to shield himself as he shouted for the men nearby to rally.

Jacob, at the center of the camp, had no time to react before he felt a sharp sting in his side. He looked down to see a dart embedded just below his ribs, its tip slick with poison. His vision blurred almost instantly, his knees buckling as he reached for his cutlass. Garrett was at his side in a heartbeat, slashing at the nearest attacker with a ferocity born of desperation. "Jacob!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos.

The necromantic energy within Jacob surged, an instinctive reaction to the foreign toxin coursing through his veins. Pain lanced through him as the energy worked, purging the poison even as his body weakened. The fight around him was a blur, Garrett and Renard rallying the men to push back the attackers. Muskets cracked, and the roar of a cannon split the air, sending shockwaves through the camp.

Jacob forced himself to his feet, gripping the cutlass with trembling hands. His vision cleared enough to see the chaos around him—natives moving like shadows through the camp, their bone weapons gleaming in the sunlight. He swung clumsily at an approaching warrior, barely missing as the man dodged and darted away. The necromantic energy pulsed again, stronger this time, and Jacob felt a cold clarity returning. The poison was gone, burned away by the dark power that now hummed beneath his skin.

"Drive them back!" Jacob shouted, his voice hoarse but commanding. The pirates rallied, their musket fire and blades cutting through the tide of attackers. Garrett barked orders, directing men to secure the perimeter while Renard's gunners focused on the cliffs and inlets. The natives, seeing their ambush faltering, began to retreat, their movements as silent and swift as when they had arrived.

By the time the last native disappeared into the jungle, the camp was in disarray. Blood stained the dirt, and bodies—both pirate and native—lay scattered across the ground. Jacob leaned heavily on Garrett, his breathing ragged as the adrenaline began to wear off. "Casualties?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Garrett's face was grim. "We lost eight, maybe more once we count the wounded. They knew exactly where to hit us, Jacob."

"They've been watching us," Jacob said, his jaw tightening. "They know who's in charge, who to take out to break us. This wasn't just an attack—it was a message."

Garrett didn't respond, his expression saying everything Jacob needed to know. The camp wasn't safe. Despite their progress, despite the fortifications, they were still vulnerable. And the natives had made it clear they weren't giving up the fight.

Jacob straightened, forcing strength into his voice. "Double the watches. I want guards on every approach—cliffs, inlets, treeline. If they come back, we'll be ready."

The men moved to obey, their faces drawn but determined. Jacob watched them work, his body aching but his mind sharp. The necromantic energy still pulsed faintly within him, a reminder of what he carried—and what it had cost him. The poison was gone, but its lesson remained: the natives were smarter, more dangerous than he had given them credit for. And if he didn't adapt, their next attack might be the last.