It was the dead of night. The moon hung high and heavy in the sky, casting long, silvery shadows over the ruins of the White Tiger village.
At the entrance, two figures stood panting, their chests heaving in the cool night air.
"You..." Syris wheezed, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "You go find... my mate. I will handle the brute."
Kael, who was breathing raggedly, let out a wet, rattling cough. He winced, clutching his side where the skin was still knitting itself back together.
"No," Kael rasped, his golden eyes burning with stubbornness. "I will battle the Black Tiger. You find my mate."
"Do not be an idiot, Kael," Syris snapped, his voice rising despite his exhaustion. "You are wounded. You cannot even shift into your beast form. If you fight him now, you will just get tossed around again and will ultimately die."
