The stars had taken their thrones above Moudhaz, cold pinpricks of fire flickering beyond the velvet sky, but the Gracious Depths was awash in warm lamplight and low laughter. Zion sat once more in his usual place, tucked in the corner of the cabaret, where soft cushions muffled the clink of his armor and shadow wrapped around his shoulders like an old coat. He did not speak, nor sip his drink. He sat in stillness—no longer tense, but contemplative. His golden eyes drifted over the scene before him like a lion watching a world not meant for him.

  Men leaned into the arms of women, whispering secrets for hire. Dancers flowed between tables like dreams made flesh. Coins slid from calloused fingers as laughter rang sharp, dulled only by the murmuring of hookahs and the moan of stringed instruments. Sol was still on stage, her voice now softer, winding down to a gentle finale as her last song spun into silence. The final notes faded into the air like the smoke drifting from the brazier near the bar.

  Zion did not watch her perform. Not directly. His eyes passed over the stage often enough to follow her movements, but his thoughts were buried deeper—harkening back to something heavier than song.

  He wasn’t thinking of war, or death, or even vengeance. He was thinking of Arana.

  He could picture her—how she once sat across from him, armor half-loosened, her dark hair braided back for the road. She would speak plainly but smiled with her eyes. She would mock him gently for brooding and place a steady hand on his arm without asking. She never asked. She never needed to.

  And now she was gone.

  He missed her—deeply, selfishly, without pride. He had not said the things he should have. He had not answered when she called his name in the final hour. And here he was, left behind, surrounded by beauty and song, with only the ghost of warmth lingering in his chest.

  He looked at the women moving through the Gracious Depths. They were lovely. Professional. Poised. Some led men toward shaded alcoves or up narrow stairwells, hand-in-hand toward brief intimacy. Zion thought, absently, that perhaps a younger version of himself—less wounded, more curious—might have joined them. Might have sought something hollow to fill something deeper.

  But he knew it wouldn’t work. Not tonight. Not tomorrow.

  Whatever hunger was in his soul, it wasn’t for pleasure. It was for something he couldn’t name. So he stayed seated, silent, and alone. Let the others pretend for a night. He was done pretending.

  His thoughts drifted back to Mikli. The name was heavier now. He didn’t want to fight the man. He didn’t want to upend the city’s fragile balance of power. But if Mikli came for him—if the weight of one dead cousin was enough to draw blood—then Zion would meet him with sword in hand and a warrior’s resolve. He wasn’t here to play hero or martyr. But he would not die running. Not again. Not ever.

  He scanned the room once more. The Northerner was gone.

  The corner where he had once sat was empty, the cushion left untouched, the low table cleared of its glassware. Either he had slipped away with a courtesan, seeking heat in the hollow of a stranger’s body, or he was working under the cover of darker intentions. Zion couldn’t decide which worried him more.

  Before he could wander further into strategy, the lute fell silent. A final chord rang like a silver bell through the hall. The patrons applauded—not raucously, but with the reverence of a ritual completed. Sol bowed with a flourish, flipping her long dark hair over one shoulder, and began moving through the tables with her hat in hand. Coins dropped into the felt-lined brim like blessings—copper, silver, even a few glimmers of gold.

  Zion watched her with the calm patience of a beast watching a flame flicker in the night.

  It wasn’t long before she reached him.

  She approached not like a performer, nor a temptress, but like someone who had just returned from a long conversation with a hundred strangers and wanted to relax.

  Her smile was tired, but bright. Her voice soft, but certain. And as she sat beside him, her hat heavy with coin and her skin still warm from the stage lights, Zion gave her a nod—not of greeting, but of acknowledgment.

  The lamp-lit warmth of the Gracious Depths wrapped around them like a velvet shawl as Sol sauntered back to Zion’s table, her hat now a rattling pouch heavy with coin, the wide brim curled by time and use. She dropped into the cushion beside him, stretching her legs with a pleased hum, copper coins glinting faintly in the folds of her dress.

  “What a profitable night, lion,” she said, her voice coated in triumph.

  Zion didn’t move. “For some.”

  “Oh, don’t be like that. I’ll pay you. You didn’t enjoy the show?”

  “I don’t like music,” he answered flatly, staring at the low flame dancing in the hookah brazier across the room.

  “What? Who doesn’t like music, you profligate,” she gasped, pressing her hand to her chest in theatrical disbelief. “How dare you.”

  “Music interrupts the senses from what truly matters.”

  Sol raised a brow. “Let me guess. War?”

  “Life. People. You get so caught up in the tales of others you forget to live your own.”

  She grinned, tapping his shoulder lightly. “What are you even doing as a mercenary? Be a philosopher already.”

  “There’s no value in the work of words. Just in the work of hands. Men who live their lives writing die cowardly deaths.”

  “Eugh.” Sol rolled her eyes. “Says the one selling his sword for a buck. The way I see it, we’re cut from the same cloth.”

  Zion turned slightly, his expression sharpening. “Don’t be senseless. We are not the same.”

  “Of course we are,” she insisted, unfazed. “You dance on the battlefield. Your lute is a sword. Your song is a roar. Your waltz is the combat form. You dance for coin—so do I. Just two performers peddling their trade.”

  Zion fell silent, the weight of her words digging deeper than he expected. He had always harbored a quiet disdain for artists, for their flair and their fickleness. But what she said had a strange echo of truth. Still, he would not yield.

  “It’s not the same. I underwent years of training.”

  “So did I.”

  “My work changes wars. My work costs lives.”

  Sol leaned forward. “And you don’t think some wives would kill their husbands if they saw them here, throwing coin at me?”

  Zion’s jaw tightened. “We are not the same.”

  She smirked. “We are exactly the same.”

  She leaned in and patted his back with theatrical pity. “Or maybe not, because I bathe.”

  He winced, ears twitching.

  “I’m perfectly clean.”

  “What, how? Did you lick yourself?” she teased.

  Zion said nothing.

  Her grin widened. … you Leonxi do that?”

  Still, no response.

  “, by Glorianna’s lustrous hair, it’s true. You lion people do lick yourselves.”

  “I will entertain this mockery no longer,” he said coldly, rising to his feet with quiet dignity.

  “No, no—don’t go,” she said, standing quickly and pressing six copper coins into his palm. “Listen. Here. Go take a bath, will you?”

  “I don’t—”

  “You do, Zion,” she interrupted, grabbing his wrist lightly. “Come with me. Let’s get you sorted.”

  He sighed but allowed himself to be pulled along, his boots thudding softly against the rug-draped floor. Together, they crossed the cabaret’s wide lounge, weaving between dancers and drinkers, sidestepping giggling prostitutes and lounging guards. They reached the staircase, ascending into the upper levels of the Gracious Depths, where the music dimmed and the scent of oils and flower water grew stronger.

  Near a long corridor painted in hues of crimson and gold, they stopped outside a tiled threshold lit by hanging lanterns and lined with clay basins and steaming copper kettles.

  There stood a woman in a red dress, her figure bold and unapologetic. The fabric clung to her like smoke, her nipples clearly visible beneath it. She had golden, slitted eyes, deep red skin with veins of glowing tattoos running along her forearms, and fiery black hair that gradually turned into amber-red tips. Her ears were sharply pointed, her presence sharp enough to cut.

  Zion raised an eyebrow.

  Sol spoke with a bright grin. “You look gorgeous, lady. I’m Sol. This is my friend Zion.”

  Friend? Zion thought, internally bristling—but he said nothing.

  The woman smirked. “Oh, I know who you are. People call me Blaze around here. I’m a Popelementorum.”

  “I knew it!” Sol beamed. “I saw you when I came in—I knew it was a Popelementorum!”

  Zion glanced at her, unimpressed. “What is that?”

  Blaze arched a crimson brow. “We’re people of the elements. North, south, east, west. Water, Fire, Wind, Earth.”

  Zion replied bluntly.

  “We don’t like that name,” Blaze said, frowning. “It diminishes our uniqueness.”

  “It’s a name. Means the same thing. Doesn’t matter.”

  Sol stepped between them with a grin. “Well, well, before you destroy our chances at making new friends, Zion… I must ask—are you the one responsible for the bathing?”

  “No,” Blaze replied, clearly distracted by a flickering lantern above. “That’s Aaliyah. She’ll be here shortly. I’m just waiting for a patron.”

  As if summoned, a woman arrived from the corridor. She was shorter than Blaze, softer in build, but no less striking. Her hazel eyes gleamed beneath heavy lashes, her olive skin radiant in the candlelight, and her dark hair was tied into neat braids. Her smile was gentle, professional.

  “Are you here for a bath?” she asked warmly.

  “My friend here…” Sol said, gesturing dramatically, “he’s… stinky.”

  Zion narrowed his eyes at her.

  Aaliyah smiled kindly. “Oh, please. Come with me. Only three copper coins for a bath… or six if you want the full experience.”

  Before Zion could ask, Blaze answered flatly: “It means she’ll masturbate you.”

  Aaliyah didn’t blink. She just crossed her arms and gave Blaze a pointed look.

  Sol sighed and folded her arms. “We don’t need that. Just the bath.”

  Aaliyah’s posture relaxed. “Good. Then come in. I’ll prepare everything.”

  Zion gave Sol a final look, somewhere between a glare and resignation. She just grinned and patted his shoulder.

  “Don’t growl at the soap, lion. It bites harder than you think.”

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  With that, he stepped inside, the scent of oils and boiling water rising around him as the door shut behind.

  Steam coiled around the dimly lit bath chamber, curling up past the tiled walls and disappearing into vents carved in old stone. Zion sat within the sunken marble basin, arms resting over its edges, eyes half-closed but never quite relaxed. The water was hot, infused with desert lavender and white clay, though its scent was nearly drowned by the lingering oils and perfumes of a dozen previous patrons. He didn’t flinch at the warmth—it clung to his fur, clumped it in places. That made the job harder for Aaliyah.

  The attendant knelt at the edge of the basin, dutifully scrubbing at his shoulder with a bristled brush. She was methodical, quiet, and graceful in her movements.

  “You want me to stay silent or engage in conversation?” she asked softly.

  “I’m not in a mood to talk. You can stay quiet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  And so, the hour passed in awkward silence.

  Zion remained motionless, his golden eyes focused on nothing. In truth, his thoughts were far from the water or the woman. They circled instead around the Northerner, the way he watched from the corner, that pale, axe-bearing silhouette and the hawkish merchant beside him. There was something off—not just the posture, but the absence of ordinary motive. Zion had seen men sizing up marks before. This was different. Measured. Surgical.

  He wouldn’t sleep tonight. There was no rest to be had—not until he understood what was happening. And if the Northerner returned, if steel had to meet steel in the alleys of Moudhaz, then Zion would be ready.

  Aaliyah scrubbed harder now, her brow slightly furrowed. His fur was dense, stubborn in places. More like armor than body hair. She worked overtime to clean the salt, dust, and blood-stained residue of desert life from his shoulders and arms.

  When at last it was done, he stood from the basin, water cascading down his frame in heavy rivulets. Aaliyah offered a folded linen towel, which he accepted with a nod.

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied with a respectful dip of her head, stepping back.

  Zion dried swiftly, dressing in silence. First the trousers, then the cloth tunic. He lifted his sword next, checked its edge by instinct, then belted it against his waist before gathering the rest of his armor.

  When he returned to the room upstairs, Sol was there, sprawled across a plush box bed, legs crossed at the ankles as she scribbled something into a weathered songbook with a feathered stylus. She looked up at him with a grin.

  “See? Now you won’t have to lick yourself anymore.”

  Zion huffed and set his armor down with a thud that rattled the nearby lantern.

  He towered over her, casting a lion-shaped shadow across the soft blue rugs. Sol kicked her legs up slightly, lounging like a contented cat herself, her dark hair fanning across the pillow.

  “I love the beds here,” she said cheerfully. “It’s really chic, like we say. Très bon.”

  He glanced toward the corner and saw the sleeping bag laid out near the wall.

  “Yeah, I had Carmen bring that up for you,” Sol added, still focused on her notes. “Says it’s the best they have.”

  “It’s more than I expected.”

  “I’m a good friend like that.”

  Zion didn’t respond right away. His gaze swept the window and the shadows outside. He didn’t trust the silence. He knew how often it came before the knife.

  “We shouldn’t sleep,” he said finally.

  “What? Why?” Sol sat up. “Is this a Leonxi bit you’re doing? Like, no sleeping? Meditation warfare?”

  “You’re an elf,” he said flatly. “Don’t you meditate for rest?”

  “Erm… oui, but that doesn’t mean I can’t sleep.”

  “I thought elves didn’t need sleep.”

  “Well, it depends on the elf. I need my beauty sleep.”

  Zion raised an eyebrow but let the topic drop. Instead, he took a seat near the sleeping bag, pulled a short dagger from its sheath, and extended one hand.

  Sol watched, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “What are you doing, Zion?”

  He extended the claws of his right hand—long, curved, natural blades, dulled by use and sand. Then he began to hone them with the dagger’s flat side, scraping carefully, rhythmically.

  “Sharpening my weapons.”

  Sol tilted her head, smirking. “Leonxi are so sexy.”

  “You will shut your mouth and not interrupt my ritual.”

  “Oh, it’s a ritual, now?”

  “It is a form of betterment upon the Eternal Lion’s creation.”

  Her smirk only widened. “Is this Eternal Lion god a thing for all Leonxi?”

  “Just the real ones.”

  She blinked. “What does that even mean?”

  “It means a real lion does not worship the gods of humans, elves, or dwarves.”

  “So, what’s the lore behind it, then?” she asked, her voice softening with genuine curiosity.

  Zion continued sharpening, but his voice took on the weight of practiced reverence. “The Eternal Lion is the primordial flame of the known world. He gave the first spark of creation—a roar that set time in motion. His paws shaped the land. His claws purged the first demons from it. We serve him through battle, and we earn coin in his name.”

  Sol leaned on her elbows, watching him. “Isn’t that like Libertas?”

  “Our purpose is not commerce or trade,” he said firmly. “Our purpose is to dignify our name through service of the blade. Not in the name of a kingdom. Not for titles. But for the betterment of the self. The Eternal Lion roared to the tribes of the Old Continent that we must always strive to perfect what we are.”

  Sol nodded, tapping her lip with the end of her stylus. “So… no temples, no priests?”

  “No priests. Only warriors. Only those who fight and win for themselves and others.”

  “And what happens when you die?”

  “If we die without shame,” Zion replied, “we return to the flame of the Eternal Lion. If not, our spirits rot, hungry and forgotten.”

  “Cheerful.”

  He didn’t answer. His dagger scraped again, whispering across the edge of another claw.

  Outside, the desert wind had begun to shift, rising over the rooftops of Moudhaz.

  It would be a long night.

  “Will you finally answer my question, Zion?” Sol’s voice drifted through the semi-dark, curious and stubborn.

  Zion didn’t look up from his claws. “What question?”

  “Why shouldn’t we sleep?”

  He paused for a moment, listening to the stillness of the room before answering. “I believe it’s not prudent after what happened with those bandits near the counting house.”

  Sol straightened up slightly on the bed. “What? You think they’ll come back… wait.” She blinked. “This is about that Mikli fellow, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Zion said, low and steady. “I’m concerned he will send someone to hunt us.”

  “Here? In the Gracious Depths?” She shook her head. “Why?”

  “I’ve learned the man I killed—Shaleiko—possesses blood ties to this Mikli.”

  Sol let out a soft groan, flopping back against the pillow. “Oh… merde. Not again.”

  Zion furrowed his brow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m a magnet,” she sighed. “I attract as much trouble with the underworld as I do with the law. It’s nothing you should be worried about.”

  “I see.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “Do not worry. I am at your employ. You will be protected.”

  Sol smiled faintly at the ceiling. “So kind. I’ll have some rest now. Get rid of the lights when you’re done, dear.”

  “Just be ready.”

  “Yeah, yeah… don’t worry, Zion. I’m always ready.”

  The hours passed.

  Zion sat motionless, leaning against the cool wall beside the sleeping bag. He had doused the lanterns after Sol drifted to sleep, leaving the room dim—lit only by the pale amber light of the moon outside the shuttered window.

  He didn’t sleep. Not really.

  His sword was in his hand, its tip resting lightly on the floor, angled so the reflection of any movement might be caught in its steel. Every breath, every footfall in the corridor beyond was measured and tracked by his ears. He was still, but never at rest.

  For several hours, there was nothing but the muffled sounds of music fading in the lower floors, laughter from drunken patrons, and the soft, steady rhythm of Sol’s breathing.

  Then something changed.

  Movement. Not in the hallway—but just beyond the door. A shuffling of boots. A pause.

  Zion’s golden eyes snapped open fully.

  The creak of wood. Slow. Careful.

  The door handle turned with a whisper.

  And then the door began to open.

  Zion’s grip on his sword tightened.

  He didn’t move yet.

  He waited.

  Watched.

  And prepared.

  The door creaked open further, letting in a sliver of golden hallway light—and then he saw him.

  Tall. Bald. Shoulders like carved stone. A figure half-swallowed by the shadow but unmistakably marked by presence. The scent followed close behind: sweat and blood, iron and cold—like a butcher’s apron left out in the tundra. And beneath it, a strange, oily whiff… cod. It clung to the man like a second skin.

  The Northerner.

  Zion’s muscles tensed as the intruder stepped fully into the room, a glint of steel visible in his hand—a blade meant for quiet kills.

  The man took two silent steps forward.

  But Zion moved first.

  Like a spring uncoiled, he launched from the bed in a single motion, slashing sideways with the blade already in his hand. The sword cut through the dimness—and met flesh.

  “Aaargh!” the Northerner snarled, staggering back as Zion’s steel bit deep into his forearm. Blood dripped fast and dark onto the carpet.

  Zion didn’t pause. He yanked the blade free and followed it with a savage kick, catching the man full in the chest. The impact threw him backwards into a low dresser, which cracked under the sudden weight.

  “I knew you’d come,” Zion said coldly, sword raised.

  “You meddled with the wrong people, cat,” the Northerner growled through clenched teeth, the vowels thick with tundra bite—like stone rolled over ice. Each word dragged with a heavy, foreign grit, somewhere between a hunter’s snarl and a war chant.

  Zion stepped forward. “I could say the same about you.”

  Steel rang as the man surged up from the floor, swinging his axe in a wide arc. Zion’s claws met the blade, sparks flashing in the dim light. The two moved fast—faster than their size suggested—claws against steel, axe dancing around Zion’s guard as the Northerner circled like a wolf testing its prey.

  “I have slain many beasts before,” the Northerner said, voice rising with tension.

  Zion’s fangs gleamed as he swiped again, clawing the man’s chest—cutting through the pelt and drawing red. “Do not worry. I’ve slain more hunters than beasts.”

  Blood now streaked across the man’s chest. He winced but did not falter. “When I’m done, I’ll make a fine garment from your hide.”

  Zion’s response was as flat and final as iron. “When I’m done, you’ll be entirely forgotten.”

  The Northerner roared and swung his axe overhead. Zion caught it mid-air with his clawed hand, stopping the downward strike with sheer strength. Pain sparked through his palm—but he held fast.

  With his free hand, Zion slashed.

  The Northerner dropped the axe.

  But it was a feint.

  In a flash, the man’s hand dipped beneath his belt, drawing a short dagger with a handle made from ancient mammoth tooth. With a grunt of effort, he lunged and drove the blade into Zion’s gut.

  “ARRRH!” Zion roared, the pain searing through muscle and sinew. Hot blood spilled against the Northerner’s wrist.

  “You were saying?” the Northerner whispered smugly into his ear.

  But Zion didn’t buckle.

  With a snarl, he shoved the man backward, staggering him long enough to rip the axe from the wall where it had embedded itself in the chaos. He swung it like a man possessed. The Northerner ducked just in time—the blade singing past his face and biting into the wooden beam behind him, where it stuck fast with a thunk.

  Both men paused for half a second, breathing hard.

  The Northerner lunged again, dagger gleaming, but Zion was faster this time. He grabbed the man mid-charge, wrapping a thick arm around his torso and hurling him toward the wall. The Northerner twisted at the last second, catching the brunt with his side—but he managed to avoid a head blow by slamming his hips back and absorbing the throw.

  Still, the impact rattled the room.

  He didn’t lose his dagger. And as Zion closed in, the blade lashed out once more, meeting claw. Zion blocked it—but his nail cracked, blood welling from the wound. A clean, stinging strike.

  The Northerner grinned despite the bleeding gash across his chest. “This will make a majestic scar.”

  Zion narrowed his eyes.

  “I can give you a better one.”

  Zion moved like a thunderclap wrapped in flesh—raw instinct and momentum driving his body through the narrow room. He charged the Northerner with a guttural growl rising from his chest, his right claw flashing like silver lightning. It grazed the man's ear, slicing a shallow ridge along the cartilage. The Northerner reeled back, thinking he’d dodged the worst of it.

  But he forgot—Zion had two hands.

  The left came down with brutal precision, top to bottom, and raked across the Northerner’s face with savage force. The tips of Zion’s claws carved through flesh like parchment, slicing a jagged line from the man's brow through the corner of his eye, down toward his cheek. The wound opened instantly, blood cascading down his face in thick rivulets.

  “AHHH!” the Northerner cried out—a raw, animal howl of pain and rage. Staggering backward, half-blinded and blinking through crimson, he reached desperately for his axe. With a bellow of fury, he yanked the embedded weapon from the wall and turned it downward, swinging toward Zion’s head in a savage, desperate arc.

  Zion saw it—but too late to fully evade.

  He twisted his torso, and the axe narrowly missed his skull. Instead, it slammed into his left shoulder with sickening force. Bone met iron with a dull thunk—the impact jarring through his frame like a lightning strike. He roared, the sound shaking the room like a struck war drum.

  Pain flooded his nerves, radiating down his arm in pulses.

  “You’ll pay for this,” Zion snarled through clenched teeth, blood trailing down his shoulder like molten fire.

  “You haven’t paid enough yet, cat,” the Northerner hissed back, his voice slurred from pain, clutching at his mangled eye as blood streamed down his face.

  Then he struck—lashing out blindly with his dagger, swiping with erratic, desperate fury. Zion leaned back, readying for the parry—when the Northerner froze mid-motion.

  His entire body stiffened.

  A sharp gasp escaped his lips. The dagger in his hand trembled. A strange, wet sound followed.

  He stumbled forward slightly.

  Behind him stood Sol, her silhouette framed in the flickering light. She drew the rapier from beneath her pillow, gleaming faintly. Then she struck like a moonlight fang, blood dripping down its narrow length. Her dark hair was tousled from sleep, her expression fierce and brilliant.

  “En garde, hommi d’glaces,” she said with a vicious grin, her eyes full of daring.

  The Northerner spun toward her, fury flaring—but she was faster. Another lunge. Another stab. This time just below his ribs. He cried out, twisting to retaliate—but Zion caught his arm.

  With a powerful surge, Zion slammed him into the wall, his right hand rising to grip the man’s throat with crushing force. His claws were slick with blood—his own and the Northerner’s—but he held fast. His left arm hung limp, useless at his side, the wound in his shoulder still seeping.

  “Mikli sent you?” Zion growled, fangs bared inches from the man’s face.

  The Northerner coughed, blood flecking his lips. “I won’t say.”

  Zion’s grip tightened.

  “Damn you!” Zion snarled. “Say it and you may live.”

  The Northerner bared his teeth in a broken grin. “And what honor is in that? I am a warrior... not a coward.”

  Zion’s jaw clenched. “Then die a warrior.”

  “? ?re o camp,” the man whispered. A phrase heavy with old weight. A warrior’s oath, uttered in the tongue of icy fjords and forgotten bloodlines.

  “Zion—wait!” Sol shouted, stepping forward, her hand half-raised.

  But it was too late.

  Zion’s claws plunged forward—deep into the Northerner’s abdomen. The sound was wet and final, a dreadful tearing that filled the room like a death knell. His hand twisted, pulling upward, and the Northerner’s torso buckled as his innards spilled forth in a grotesque, steaming heap onto the floor.

  The Northerner gasped once, then fell silent—his final breath gurgling from his mouth as his body sagged against the wall and slid lifelessly to the ground.

  Zion stood over him, bloodied, panting, fury still flickering in his golden eyes.

  “Here’s your warrior’s death,” he growled.

  “Merde! Merde!” Sol cursed, nearly stomping her foot in frustration. “We could have asked him things!”

  “He wasn’t going to tell,” Zion replied, his voice cold and without remorse.

  But then the noise started.

  From the hallway outside—yelling, confused shouts, the sound of furniture being moved, boots slapping against tile. Someone screamed. Another door slammed open. Then another.

  The Gracious Depths was waking up.

  Zion winced. The pain in his shoulder was growing worse by the second. He could feel his fingers on that side beginning to go numb. Blood soaked into his fur and dripped from his fingertips. The dagger wound still throbbed in his gut, not deep enough to kill—but far from shallow.

  Sol moved toward him, already pulling her lute from its strap. “I’ll help you. Let me get my lute.”

  “What for?” Zion asked, his voice ragged.

  “Just stay there, idiot,” she snapped. “I will fix this.”

  She dropped to one knee beside him, already tuning a soft, minor chord.

  Outside, the chaos built like a tidal wave ready to crash.

  Inside, the lion and the bard prepared to face its wrath.