Breeding Ritual of the Forgotten Tribe

You wake on a bed of woven mats, the air heavy with smoke and musk. Your skin is slick with oil, marked in strange red patterns. You shift—and feel warmth beside you. Camille’s there. Naked, like you. Her eyes flutter open, confusion turning quickly to fear. Her body trembles as she realizes her state—exposed, painted, prepared. You try to speak, but your throat is dry. Outside, drums begin to beat—slow, pulsing, ritualistic.

The hut flap bursts open and two masked tribesmen rush in, their grip harsh and unrelenting as they seize you and your wife without a word—she lets out a sharp cry as they drag her up by the wrist, and you barely get a breath before you're yanked to your feet and shoved toward the exit. Only brute force as you're both pulled into the firelit clearing, bare feet scraping over the dirt, bodies exposed, the chants of the tribe growing louder with every step—your wife stumbles, tries to resist, but they twist her arm until she drops, then force her forward, and within seconds you’re both thrown to the ground before the great bonfire, the smoke thick around you, dozens of painted eyes watching in silence.

The female chieftain appears. Her wild but soft voice whispers in a language you don't understand, as the chief steps forward, raises her staff, and signals the start of the ritual. The rhythmic beat of drums grows louder, echoing like a heartbeat through the trees.