We had killed a few of them in the fight, and Marion Davis had died at Cherokee hands. Some fled into the bushes, melting into the forest as they do. Homer, however, was missing. We were frightened that calling out to him would reveal ourselves to the escaped natives, so we began searching for him.

None of us saw him, none of us saw any of the natives either. So, we went back to the smoldering remains of the fight and hoped we’d find some sign of Homer. There was only smoking timbers and soot covered relics.

“HOMER!” I called out from the ashen village center.

“I don’t think he’s here, there’s no sign in the debris. If he—” Jonas was cut off by three arrow strikes into his chest.

Before we could react, swarms of arrows and spears buzzed through the air. Our hunting party scattered, fleeing towards our homes. Those of us who made it in one piece were greeted by a slave trader and three girls in the town center.

He smiled like an obese hyena and informed us that we had arrived in time for an auction.