The Starlit Grove's shimmer faded behind Saphira as she stood before the shrine's stone slab, its human runes pulsing like veins of starlight. The air thrummed with earth magic, a deep, resonant hum that stirred her fire and set her golden pelt bristling. Her paws pressed against the cold stone, the royal ring around her neck glinting faintly, its weight a tether to her father's legacy. The Iron Fang lay beneath, a relic of human shadow, its presence a whisper of power and peril that curled through her mind like smoke. Hunger gnawed at her ribs, her wounds from Kweva's ambush throbbed, yet her resolve burned hotter than exhaustion. The savannah's fate—and her crown—hung on what lay below.
She pushed, her claws scraping the slab, and the runes flared, their light searing her eyes. The stone groaned, splitting with a crack that echoed like a thunderclap, revealing a spiral stair descending into darkness. A chill breath rose from the depths, carrying the scent of rust and ancient decay, and the hum grew louder, a chorus of voices that weren't voices—human whispers, fragmented and alien. Saphira's fire magic flared unbidden, casting flickering shadows on the stair's walls, where faded carvings depicted upright figures wielding gleaming blades. Her heart raced, Maruna's tale of humans—two-legged beings who scarred the savannah—echoing in her mind. She stepped forward, her tail flicking, and descended into the shrine, the slab sealing shut above her with a final, ominous thud.
The stair twisted deeper, its walls narrowing, the carvings growing sharper—humans atop roaring machines, their metal claws cleaving stone, their towers piercing the sky. The air thickened, heavy with the weight of forgotten wars, and Saphira's flames sputtered, as if the shrine resisted her magic. At the stair's end, a chamber opened, its floor a mosaic of shattered stars, its ceiling lost in shadow. At the center stood a pedestal of black stone, cradling the Iron Fang—a sleek, jagged blade of silver and obsidian, its surface etched with runes that pulsed like heartbeats. Its edge gleamed, unnaturally sharp, and its presence hummed, a cold, alien energy that tugged at her fire, promising power beyond her own.
Saphira approached, her paws silent on the mosaic, her breath shallow. The Fang's runes flared, and the chamber shifted—walls dissolving into visions of a savannah long past. Towers of bone and stone loomed, rivers ran black with poison, and humans roared, their metal claws slashing beasts into ruin. Lions fell, their flames snuffed; elephants crumbled, their earth magic shattered. The Fang gleamed in a human's hand, summoning storms that drowned herds, its power a tide of destruction. Then the beasts rose—lions, rhinos, hyenas, united in fury—and the humans' towers fell, their bones buried by time. The vision faded, but the Fang's whisper lingered, a voice like breaking glass: Wield me, flame. Burn the rivers. Claim the savannah.
Saphira's claws flexed, her fire magic coiling in defiance. "I am no human," she growled, her voice echoing in the chamber. "I wield my own fire." Yet the Fang's pull was undeniable, its runes syncing with her heartbeat, amplifying the heat in her chest. She reached out, her paw trembling, and grasped the blade's hilt. A surge of energy coursed through her, her flames erupting in a blaze of crimson and silver, illuminating the chamber like a second dawn. The Fang bonded with her magic, its power a storm within her, but its whisper grew louder, sowing doubt: Burn them all. Kael. Maku. The savannah is yours.
She staggered, the blade heavy in her jaws, its weight more than physical. The chamber rumbled, and a new trial emerged—three spectral figures, human warriors conjured by the shrine's magic, their forms shimmering with starlight, their metal claws gleaming. "Prove your worth, flame-bearer," they intoned, their voices a chorus of dust. "Survive, or join us in shadow."
The first warrior lunged, its blade slicing the air, faster than any beast. Saphira roared, her fire flaring in a precise arc, deflecting the strike with a burst of heat. The Fang hummed, its runes guiding her instincts, and she countered, her flames searing the specter's form. It dissolved into ash, but the second warrior attacked, its claws weaving a storm of steel. Saphira dodged, her body a blur of fire and fury, the Fang's power summoning a gust of lightning that shattered the specter's blade. The third warrior was larger, its form a titan of starlight, its strikes shaking the chamber. Saphira's flames faltered, her exhaustion clawing at her, but she channeled the Fang's storm, unleashing a torrent of fire and thunder that consumed the specter in a blinding flash.
The chamber stilled, the mosaic beneath her scorched, the pedestal empty. Saphira panted, the Fang clutched tightly, its runes dimming but its whisper persistent: You are more now. Burn the weak. Rule alone. She shook her head, her father's letter flashing in her mind—Rule with courage—and tucked the blade into her cape, its weight a burden she vowed to master. The stair reappeared, leading upward, and she climbed, her steps heavy but unbroken, emerging into the Starlit Grove as dawn's first light kissed the glowing grass.
The buffaloes stood watch, their horns glinting, Gorath's massive frame a sentinel at the grove's edge. His eyes narrowed, sensing the Fang's presence, and his rumble was cautious. "You claimed it, lioness. The shrine's trials spared you, but the curse begins. Guard your heart, or the Fang will burn all you love."
Saphira's tail flicked, her voice steady despite the Fang's whispers. "I'll wield it for the savannah, not for greed. Thank you, Gorath, for guarding this place. Will you stand with me when the flood comes?"
Gorath's horns dipped, his gaze heavy. "Neutrality is our shield, Saphira. Kael's fire holds our pledge, but your flame stirs doubt. Prove your crown, and our horns may tilt." His words were a promise, faint but real, a crack in Kael's dominion.
Before Saphira could respond, the grove's peace shattered. A low rumble rolled across the plains, not of earth magic but of hooves—Rhogar's rhinos, their armored hides cloaked in dust, charging from the north. Zara's hippo trackers, their mist trailing like ghosts, had reported Saphira's location to Maku, who dispatched the rhinos to crush her before she could wield the Fang. The buffaloes roared, their hooves stamping, but Gorath signaled restraint, his eyes fixed on Saphira. "Your fight, flame-bearer. Show the savannah your fire."
Saphira crouched, the Fang's weight grounding her, her fire magic surging with its alien power. The rhinos thundered closer, their horns lowered, their earth magic sending tremors through the grove. She roared, her flames erupting in a blinding arc, amplified by the Fang's runes. Lightning cracked from the blade, splitting the dawn, and a storm of fire and thunder engulfed the lead rhino, its hide scorched as it staggered. The herd faltered, their rumbles a mix of fear and fury, but Rhogar's voice boomed from the rear, a warlord's command: "Crush the lioness! The plains are ours!"
Saphira moved like a tempest, her flames weaving through the rhinos' charge, the Fang's power guiding her strikes. She burned one beast's flank, its earth magic crumbling; she summoned lightning to scatter another, its horns grazing her side but drawing no blood. Yet the Fang's whispers grew louder—Burn them all. Let none stand—and her vision flickered, a fleeting image of Roaring Rock ablaze, Gorath's herd reduced to ash. She snarled, forcing the curse down, her fire precise, not reckless. The rhinos retreated, their hooves shaking the earth, Rhogar's bellow a vow of return.
Saphira collapsed, her breath ragged, the Fang's weight dragging at her. The grove's starlight flickered, as if mourning the violence, and Gorath approached, his rumble soft but grave. "Your fire is mighty, Saphira, but the Fang's curse stirs. Flee now, before more come. The savannah watches, and your path grows darker."
She nodded, her pelt singed, her wounds reopened but her resolve unbroken. "I'll guard my heart, Gorath. The Fang will serve the truce, not break it." She turned southward, toward the Windscar Plains, where the cheetahs roamed, their speed a shield against her pursuers. The Fang's curse whispered still, its visions of fire and ruin haunting her steps, but Azran's words—You are my heir, the flame that burns eternal—held her steady.
Beyond the grove, the savannah stirred. Zara's trackers slunk back to Mudspire, their mist carrying tales of Saphira's power, and Maku's jaws parted in a slow, predatory grin, his plans shifting to counter the Fang's threat. In Roaring Rock, Kael's spies whispered of a lioness wielding storms, and his fire flared, his claws gouging the throne as he ordered the King's Guard to hunt her. The oxpeckers flitted through the skies, their sharp eyes catching glints of silver and flame, and in the Elephant Temple, Maruna's rumbles wove prophecies of a queen whose choice would burn or save them all.
Saphira's paws left faint prints in the dust, the Fang hidden in her cape, its curse a shadow over her heart. The Windscar Plains lay ahead, a land of wind and speed where allies waited, but the savannah's tides were rising—Kael's tyranny, Maku's flood, Rhogar's horns. Her fire burned brighter, a spark forged by sacrifice, but the Fang's whisper lingered, a question she could not yet answer: Would she wield its power to save the savannah, or destroy it to end the human shadow?