The streets of Moudhaz had quieted somewhat as the late afternoon waned, casting long shadows between adobe buildings. The sun, now a blazing orange disc hovering near the horizon, bathed the plaza in golden fire. Merchants had begun to shutter their stalls, and the usual noise of commerce dulled to a gentle murmur.

  But not here.

  Not at the date stand where Sol, the bard of the Silk Coast, now stood caught in the tightening grip of danger.

  Zion moved forward with deliberate, steady steps, the heavy weight of his armored boots clicking softly against the smooth stone road. His eyes were locked on the three men—scavengers, likely low-tier criminals with more bravado than brains. Yet they were dangerous enough in number, and their posture was shifting quickly from predatory to defensive as they saw him approach. His hand rested calmly on the hilt of his sword.

  The one nearest, a thickset brute with a hook nose and the stubble of a neglected beard, sneered at him. His eyes flicked over Zion’s muscular frame, the lion’s mane partially braided and falling over one shoulder, and the massive sword resting in its sheath.

  "Ahem," the man scoffed, feigning confidence. "Can we help you, cat?"

  Zion didn’t blink. His voice, low and growling, rolled out like distant thunder. “Yes. Give back the bag to the lady.”

  Sol, despite the tension in her posture, couldn’t help but smirk behind the brute’s shoulder.

  "Yeah, listen to him, you creepy bastard. Before he bites your neck off."

  The brute’s grin faltered slightly, his hand instinctively tightening on Sol’s arm. Another man, younger, wiry, his hair slicked back with sweat and street filth, stepped beside him, puffing out his chest.

  "Why should we?" he said, motioning to the third, taller man behind them. "Huh? What's it to you, lion?"

  Zion’s golden eyes narrowed, his voice flat. “Because whatever’s in the bag isn’t worth your life.”

  The wiry one barked a laugh. "Really? And how could you possibly know that?"

  A third voice—uncertain, hesitant—spoke up from behind them. The younger man, smaller than the others, with wide, anxious eyes, shifted nervously.

  “Ahem, maybe we could… I dunno, talk this out? We could split the gold from the cunt—uh, I mean, the lady... and maybe share her too if that’s what you want.”

  Zion’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on his hilt. His tone dropped into something far colder. “You better not say that again. Or I’ll split you instead.”

  The brute gave a scoffing laugh. “Ha! You cat people are all the same. All the Tarnak are loud mouths with nothing to back it up.”

  Zion’s eyes glinted. His lips curled back to reveal a row of pointed fangs.

  “I’m not Tarnak.”

  The smaller, nervous man paled. “Shaleiko, he’s not a Tarnak. He’s a Leonxi. They’re not the same—he’s dangerous. We should just go.”

  “Yuukadzhib!” Shaleiko barked. “You coward. He just wants the girl for himself.”

  “I’m right here, you pervert!” Sol snapped, wrenching her arm free with a sharp twist, but the brute seized her again.

  Zion exhaled slowly. “I’ll give you four counts to leave.”

  They hesitated, the tension drawn taut like a bowstring.

  “One.”

  The tall one reached for his weapon, eyes flicking between his comrades.

  “Two.”

  Sol pulled slightly away, her fingers drifting near her own dagger.

  “Three—”

  Steel hissed.

  Shaleiko drew his sword in a flash, lunging with a stab aimed toward Zion’s stomach.

  The Leonine warrior moved in an instant.

  His blade was free in a blink, the steel glinting as it met the attack. Zion angled his body, absorbing the thrust, then sidestepped, knocking the man’s blade away with a powerful riposte.

  “You should’ve listened,” Zion growled, voice deep with rage. His fangs were bared now, eyes locked onto his prey.

  He lashed out.

  His sword swung, a controlled arc of silver light. Shaleiko barely managed to block, but Zion didn’t stop. He pivoted, stepped to the man’s right flank, and raked his claws along his forearm—blood sprang forth in bright lines, and the man howled.

  Then Sol struck.

  She had pulled her dagger in the chaos and stabbed the second man—Yuukadzhib—in the hand just as he reached for her bag. His eyes widened in pain and shock.

  “Argh!” he cried, stumbling back as Sol ripped the bag from his grip and sprinted behind Zion, clutching it to her chest.

  “I like a waltz with red sauce, Idiotiz,” she said with a wicked smile, as her dagger gleamed in the firelight.

  Zion turned, eyes flicking between the three.

  He didn’t flinch.

  He kicked Shaleiko in the chest, sending the man sprawling backward into a pile of empty crates, coughing and gasping.

  The remaining two were already drawing their blades. Metal sang as they closed in, surrounding Zion.

  But he stood still.

  A wall of golden fury and blade, the breath of war in his lungs.

  They didn’t know it yet, but their graves had already been dug.

  Sol’s fingers danced wildly across the strings of her lute, her back pressed to a nearby fruit cart as she began to strum with rising intensity. The melody was sharp, wild—like the shriek of steel across armor, yet alive with rhythm and force. Her eyes flared with energy, white orbs glowing faintly beneath the shadow of her blue chaperon hat.

  "What are you doing?" Zion asked, his voice taut as the strings on her instrument.

  "Oh, this?" she said between breathless notes, her fingers never slowing. "Mun amie? This is a little vitality booster." Then she grinned wide and strummed harder. “Danze dez Akrorotai—it’s from the Silk Coast. A battlefield ballad. Great tempo for bloodletting.”

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  The music surged through the street like fire, sharp and erratic, yet undeniably invigorating. And as strange as it was, Zion felt it.

  Not just the rhythm, not just the beat—it was like a thread being drawn through his nerves, like his blood remembered the pace. His heart aligned with the tempo. His thoughts sharpened. His stance settled.

  He dropped into a lower guard, his knees bending slightly, feet parting to shoulder-width as he raised his blade before him. The sword’s length gave him the advantage—but not if they closed in. Not if they got under the reach.

  The three men surged forward together.

  Zion moved. Not just with reflex—but with clarity. Sol’s song pulsed through his veins like lightning. It was as if he saw a fraction of a second into the future. His arms moved before the enemy’s thoughts had finished forming.

  The first man—a square-faced thug with a jagged scar under his left eye—lunged in recklessly, his short sword aimed low for Zion’s gut. A feint? Maybe. But it didn’t matter.

  Zion read him like a map.

  He pivoted and brought his blade down in a powerful arc, catching the man’s shoulder just as his arm extended. The impact was brutal. Zion felt bone splinter beneath the steel—heard the dull, wet crack as flesh gave way and armor split. The man let out a strangled yell and staggered back, his blade falling from his hand as he clutched his limp arm.

  The other two flinched, eyes wide. The music only grew louder, Sol’s chords turning fierce, aggressive. Her head bobbed to the rhythm as she sang under her breath, voice like smoke and embers.

  They came again, emboldened by desperation. This time closer, tighter—hoping to collapse his reach advantage.

  Zion’s sword swept wide. Then he pivoted his body and—without hesitation—gripped the upper flat of the blade with his off hand. A dangerous maneuver, but it gave him control. The steel gleamed as he held the weapon horizontally, catching both blades mid-swing and forcing them apart.

  Steel met steel in a shriek of sparks.

  The two attackers recoiled—just a breath of space—but it was enough.

  Then the one who looked similar to the first—maybe a brother or cousin—roared in fury and surged forward, a reckless thrust with trembling rage behind it.

  Zion moved like flowing water.

  He sidestepped with uncanny ease, his blade dragging low. Then he brought it up with a vicious snap. The blade struck the attacker’s forearm. A wet crunch echoed in the plaza. Bone shattered—the radius, maybe more. The man's arm twisted grotesquely, his sword dropping to the stone with a clatter.

  But the man didn’t fall.

  Somehow, despite the mangled limb, he spun for a wild, pained swing with his good arm. Zion parried with a calm turn of the blade, knocking the strike away effortlessly.

  But that moment of distraction opened him to the last man—Shaleiko.

  Zion caught the flash of steel too late.

  The bandit lunged with focused precision, his blade punching forward like a serpent’s fang. It struck Zion square in the ribs—his armor flared with pain as the impact hammered through the plating. He grunted, breath leaving his lungs in a sharp burst.

  He stumbled back a step, boots grinding into the sand-slicked stone. The armor held—but only just. Bruised, likely. A cracked rib if he was unlucky.

  The sting from the earlier wounds screamed in his limbs. The strain on his sword arm throbbed, and a faint sheen of sweat clung to his fur.

  But he did not fall.

  His golden eyes burned brighter. His breath steadied. Sol’s song surged louder, fiercer—an aural storm of defiance.

  Zion raised his blade once more.

  “Poor form,” he growled, voice thick with fury, “leads to death.”

  And he came at them again.

  Sol’s voice rang out joyously through the lingering tension as if the bloodshed hadn’t just painted the cobbles red. “This is so exciting! I should come south more often!” she exclaimed, practically bouncing on her toes as her fingers danced through the final notes of the battlefield ballad. Her lute strummed on, its song unbroken even as the last man standing made his final desperate swing.

  Shaleiko, gritting his teeth, lashed out with reckless ferocity. His blade bit into Zion’s upper arm, just above the joint—sharp enough to score through the outer layers of his armor and draw blood. Zion staggered a step back, his breathing momentarily hitched. The blow wasn’t deep, but it was enough to sting. Enough to leave a mark. Enough to push him forward.

  Zion surged in with feral precision, using the opening left by Shaleiko’s overextended swing. He lunged, thrusting his sword straight into the bandit's chest. The impact was sickening—a low, wet crunch as the steel pierced through rib and lung alike. Shaleiko froze, a wide-eyed gasp escaping his lips, blood quickly filling his mouth as his hands reached up, gripping at the blade now buried in his chest.

  Zion didn’t flinch. He stared the man in the eyes, then yanked the sword free with a sharp twist. Blood spattered against the dusty stone beneath them. Shaleiko dropped to his knees, then collapsed, twitching once before going still.

  Zion calmly wiped the blade across Shaleiko’s tattered tunic, clearing it of blood. His golden eyes turned to the two remaining men, still standing several paces back, pale and shaking.

  "You can go home," he growled, his voice like thunder. "Or die. Choose."

  They exchanged a glance. Panic overtook pride. They didn’t speak—they didn’t need to. In an instant, both turned and fled, slipping through the gathered crowd like frightened jackals.

  One of them looked back over his shoulder, face twisted with rage and fear. “Mikli will hear about this! Sheitan!”

  Zion didn’t even blink. “I do not care,” he said coldly.

  The fight was over. Sol plucked a few more notes, then let the music die off with a dramatic little trill. “Oh, how unfortunate,” she sighed, tossing her head as her white hair glinted under the afternoon sun. “I had such a good follow-up song planned.”

  Zion turned toward her, frowning. “That song. Why did it give me focus?”

  She smiled coyly, already winding the strap of her lute back over her shoulder. “Oh, dear. I’m good like that. It’s in the paper, no?” She winked. “The fine print. Vitality, clarity, inspiration—every bard worth her ink knows a few tricks.”

  Zion ignored the flourish in her tone and crouched beside Shaleiko’s corpse. He rifled through the bandit’s belongings with cold efficiency, unfastening the scabbard from his belt and pulling free a modest pouch of coin. The silver clinked softly in his hand. Just enough to make it worth the trouble. He added it to his own pouch without ceremony.

  Sol, meanwhile, raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re fidgeting with the dead. Not very honorable for a knight.”

  Zion didn’t look up. “I’m a mercenary.”

  “Well don’t exert yourself, lion,” she said with a grin. “I jest. He clearly deserved the rancid bog frog. Carry on.”

  Zion stood at last, sheathing his sword in a single, practiced motion. A small crowd had gathered—locals and travelers alike murmuring amongst themselves, drawn by the clash of steel and the flash of blood. Zion’s tail flicked once in irritation.

  “I hate spectators,” he muttered.

  Sol leaned into his side with a smirk, her voice low. “Yeah, well, they were giving me trouble, no? So I hope the citizens of this fine city have the decency to recognize this was necessary. Even if it was... a bit theatrical.”

  Before either could say more, the city guard arrived—three mounted officers in polished chainmail bearing the sigil of Moudhaz: a crescent moon set against a rising sun. Their horses stomped against the cobblestone as one of them, a broad-chested man with a dark beard and sun-scorched skin, dismounted.

  “What happened here, foreigner!?” he barked, pointing a gloved hand toward Zion. “You attacked locals, foreigner... cat.”

  Zion tensed. His fist hovered just inches from his hilt.

  But before he could speak, Sol stepped forward, all charm and grace.

  “Oh, my beautiful guard!” she said brightly. “He is merely my... bodyguard. A mercenary I’ve employed. He was authorized by me to execute these low-lives.” She motioned to Shaleiko’s corpse with theatrical flourish. “I’m sure the local laws allow for armed protection, do they not?”

  The guards turned to Zion, suspicion still in their eyes.

  “Is that true, cat?”

  Zion’s golden gaze met the captain’s. A moment passed.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  The guard grunted and waved to his companions. “Clear the body. Toss it to the kennels. Bandits are a plague.”

  Sol chimed in behind them, brushing her hands together with mock dignity. “Bandits are always a plague.”

  As the body was dragged away and the crowd began to disperse, Zion stepped closer to Sol, lowering his voice.

  “Who’s Mikli?” he asked.

  She shrugged with a playful tilt of her head. “Oh, I do not know. But maybe we should find out, no?”

  “I’d rather find it.”

  “Oh, very well,” she said, clutching her bag tighter. “So now that you’re in my em—”

  “You haven’t offered me coin,” he cut her off.

  She laughed, a lilting, melodic sound. “Oh, you really are a mercenary, darling.”

  Zion gave her a flat look. “We can talk about this soon. Right now, I’d rather leave.”

  “Oh, leave with me, then!” Sol gestured dramatically toward the road. “We should go to the Gracious Depths.”

  “I will not go to a whorehouse.”

  She pouted. “It’s a cabaret, not a brothel. It’s refined! It's prestigious! And people will tolerate that... unsavory personality of yours if they see you with me.” She batted her lashes. “And as you’ve noticed, yes... perhaps I do need a bodyguard.”

  Zion didn’t answer immediately, but his expression softened—only slightly.

  “We’ll discuss the terms over tea. They have one of the best blends in the city.”

  He stared at her, his silence weighing heavily.

  “Acceptable,” he said at last. “Do you have a horse?”

  “I go by carriage,” she admitted. “But for you? I can make an exception and ride beside you.”

  “Then move,” Zion ordered, already turning.

  He strode toward the hitching post where Ardyon awaited, the tall stallion snorting and pawing at the ground. The crowd was behind him. The blood was behind him.

  Ahead?

  Maybe a new contract.

  Maybe another problem.

  And—for now—that was enough for a new life.