Smoke clung to the streets of Matiran, thick and acrid, carrying the bitter tang of burned flesh and scorched stone. Shale stumbled into the chaos, the last warmth of Ariana’s tavern fading behind him as screams and mageia tore the city apart.

  Golden Guard psyads moved like specters through the crowds, their mageia flaring bright and violent. Fire danced at their fingertips, bolts of lightning crackling from their palms to scatter the mob. Shale watched a man’s body burst into flame, his outline burned into the stone wall behind him—a shadow that would never leave.

  The emperor had lost the divine mandate.

  Shale grabbed Ariana by the arm, dragging her from the mouth of the alley as another blast of fire seared too close. Her ears flattened, but she barely flinched.

  “Where’s safe?” Shale barked, his grip tight.

  Ariana blinked, eyes glassy from the drinks, her tail flicking lazily. “Safe? There’s no such thing.”

  He shook her, snarling. “Where?”

  She blinked again, squinting toward the burning skyline. “Solokhian quarter. Bunch of human refugees holed up there. Some big cat leads them.”

  The words dropped into Shale’s gut like lead. He knew that name before she even said it.

  The White Lion.

  His stomach twisted, but his feet were already moving. “We’re going.”

  Ariana stumbled as he pulled her along, half-laughing, half-protesting. “What’s the rush? They’re not hunting us.”

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  “They’re hunting everyone,” Shale growled.

  They slipped through the smoke-choked streets, ducking under collapsing archways and skirting the edges of imperial patrols. Behind them, the Golden Guard burned through protest lines, psyads wielding mageia with a ferocity Shale had only seen in wartime. Civilians screamed and scattered, but nowhere was safe.

  Barricades rose ahead—scrap metal, sandbags, makeshift walls of broken wagons and stone. The entrance to the Solokhian quarter stood defiant amid the ruin, guarded by men and women gripping human-made bolt-action rifles, their polished barrels gleaming under torchlight.

  The rifles clicked as the bolts chambered, a chorus of readiness that steadied Shale’s breath even as it set his nerves on edge. Not the wild fire of psyad mageia. Cold, mechanical precision.

  Ariana paused beside him, eyeing the rifles with a faint smirk. “I thought humans hunted with sticks and stones.”

  Shale shook his head. “They learned. They had to.”

  One of the guards, a broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache, raised his rifle as Shale and Ariana approached. His voice carried the rough edges of Solokhian speech, thick with the bite of another land. "Turn back. Is not your fight."

  Shale raised his hands. “I’m here for the White Lion.”

  The man’s gaze narrowed, tension thick in the air. Then, slowly, the barrel dipped.

  “Follow me.”

  They were led deeper into the quarter, where barricades tightened, watchpoints bristled with riflemen, and fires burned low to stave off the dark. The guards' voices, when they called out orders, rolled with that same rough Solokhian cadence—short, clipped commands with a hard snap of consonants. The streets held order amidst the chaos beyond. Ration lines formed beneath banners sewn from scraps, medical tents stood at corners where wounded were tended with quiet efficiency.

  Shale’s eyes caught on a figure—a dryad soldier, rifle slung over one shoulder, his bark-speckled skin hardened from years of war. Their gazes met for a moment, neither speaking. Not just humans here.

  Ariana stumbled along, half-inebriated, grinning lazily at the order around her. “See? Told you they were friendly.”

  Shale kept walking, heart hammering. This wasn’t a refuge.

  It was a fortress.

  As they reached the heart of the quarter, a scout peeled away from the watch line, approaching them with a nod. “The Lion will see you soon.”

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