The savannah stretched before the Dawn Coalition like a cracked mirror, its earth scarred by lightning and dust storms, its horizon trembling under a sky bruised with storm clouds. The air thrummed with the low rumble of hooves and the sharp cries of oxpeckers circling overhead, their wings slicing the dawn like shards of hope. Saphira led the march, her golden pelt streaked with sweat and thorn-scratched blood, the Iron Fang's weight dragging at her tattered cape, its curse a whisper that clawed at her resolve. Visions flickered—Roaring Rock ablaze, Veyla's wind snuffed, Gorath's herd reduced to ash—but she shook them off, her father's ring glinting at her throat, a tether to Azran's faith. The Starlit Grove faded behind, its silver glow a memory, and the Buffalo Highlands loomed ahead, a rugged expanse of rolling hills where Gorath's herds guarded their dominion.
The journey tested their unity. Dust devils spun across the plains, their howls masking the rustle of Kweva's hyena scouts, whose laughter echoed like a taunt in the dusk. Saphira's fire magic flared to scatter them, its heat carving a path through the haze, but each burst drained her, her ribs pressing sharp against her hide. Veyla, her flank still bandaged from Mudspire's spear, darted alongside, her flinty eyes scanning the shadows, her purr a steady drum. Khyra's lions flanked the rear, their fire magic a quiet ember, while Tormen's antelopes marched with cautious hooves, their curved horns glinting like crescent moons. The coalition moved as one, but tension simmered—trust was a fragile thread, and the buffaloes' loyalty hung in the balance.
At the highlands' edge, the earth shook with a thunderous rumble, and Gorath emerged, his massive frame a mountain of muscle and horn, his scarred hide etched with the marks of countless wars. His horns curved like blades, his dark eyes glinting with vigilance, weighing the intruders. The herd parted, their hooves carving a ring in the cracked earth, their low hum a hymn to their strength. "A lioness in our domain," Gorath rumbled, his voice deep as a storm. "You wear a royal ring, yet you bring a war to our peace. Why do you seek us, flame-cub?"
Saphira stood tall, her tail flicking, her fire magic coiling in readiness. "I am Saphira, daughter of Azran, rightful queen of the savannah. Kael's crown is stolen, his fire a lie that burns the truce my father forged. Maku's flood threatens to drown us all, and I carry proof—the pearls and scrolls from Mudspire. Join the Dawn Coalition, Gorath, and your earth magic can shield the savannah."
The herd stirred, their hooves stamping, their murmurs a ripple of doubt. Gorath's tail lashed, his horns gleaming in the dawn light. "Kael's fire holds our pledge, forged in promises of land. You offer war and a hunted name. Words are wind, lioness. Prove your worth in the old way—a trial of strength and wisdom. Withstand the charge of my herd's youngest bull, and answer a riddle tied to your cursed blade. Fail, and the highlands will not shield you."
Saphira nodded, her heart racing but her resolve iron. The herd formed a tighter circle, their hooves shaking the earth, and a young bull—lean but powerful, his horns sharp as daggers—stepped forward. His breath steamed in the cool air, his eyes blazing with challenge, and he charged, his hooves a thunderclap that split the dawn. Saphira crouched, her fire magic coiling like a spring, Maruna's teachings guiding her. As the bull bore down, she roared, her flames surging in a precise arc, forming a wall of heat that flared without scorching the grass. The bull faltered, his charge veering, his horns grazing her flank but drawing no blood. She leapt aside, her claws digging into the earth, and the bull skidded to a halt, his rumbles a mix of frustration and awe.
The herd's murmurs grew louder, their eyes glinting with surprise. Gorath's tail stilled, his gaze piercing. "Strength you have, lioness. Now, wisdom. Answer this: What is the Iron Fang's heart, and what forged its curse?"
Saphira's breath steadied, her mind racing through Maruna's warnings, the Human Ruins' visions, the Fang's hum. The highlands' air pulsed with her heartbeat, the earth urging her forward. "The Iron Fang's heart is power, a blade to unite or destroy," she said, her voice clear as a bell. "Its curse was forged by human greed, a shadow to break the savannah's soul."
Silence fell, the dawn light flaring as if in approval. Gorath's rumble was slow, resonant, a judgment carved in stone. "Well answered, Saphira. Your fire and wisdom honor the highlands." He stepped closer, his massive head dipping. "The Dawn Coalition has our horns—not as warriors, but as allies. Our earth magic will shield, not strike, until your crown is proven. But beware—the hyenas lurk, and your blade's curse stirs."
Before Saphira could respond, a chorus of laughter, sharp and demonic, sliced through the highlands, the air thickening with the stench of ash and bone. Kweva Shardmaw's Bone Cacklers surged from the shadows, their spotted pelts smeared with warpaint, their bone beads rattling like snakes. Their manes, hacked into war crests, glinted with lion teeth, and their eyes gleamed with predatory ecstasy. Kweva slunk at their head, her shard-toothed grin cutting through the gloom, her obsidian eyes burning with vengeance.
"Hey-ho, flame-cub tested!" she crooned, her voice poisoned honey. "Gathering horns, dreaming of crowns. Time to dance the game of laughing death!" Her pack's chant swelled, a twisted hymn that shook the earth:
"Hey-ho, lion lost,
Sleep will come, but at a cost.
Give us blood and maybe breath,
Or play the game of laughing death!"
The buffaloes rumbled, their hooves stamping, but Gorath raised a horn, signaling restraint. "This is her fight," he growled, his eyes fixed on Saphira. "Prove your fire, flame-bearer."
Saphira roared, her flames erupting in a searing burst, illuminating the highlands like a second dawn. The Cacklers surged, a snarling tide of fur and fangs, their laughter a drumbeat of doom. She moved like a flame with claws, her training honed by exile and grief. The first hyena leapt, only to meet her jaws, her fire searing its throat as it collapsed. Another lunged—she twisted, her claws raking its side, her flames igniting its pelt. Two more charged, their bone beads shattering as her fire engulfed them mid-leap, their screams swallowed by smoke.
Kweva watched from the rear, her yellow eyes gleaming with satisfaction, her mangy hide untouched by sweat. The pack bled and died, but their numbers pressed Saphira, her flames flickering as exhaustion clawed at her. A hyena tore at her hind leg, another grazed her shoulder. She roared, her fire blasting one into ash, but her breath grew ragged, her limbs heavy. The Fang's curse whispered—Burn them all, end the laughter—its visions flooding her mind, but she fought it, her mercy a spark of Azran's vision.
Then Gorath's rumble shook the highlands, a thunderous call that froze the hyenas' chant. "Enough!" he bellowed, his hooves slamming the earth, sending a ripple of earth magic that staggered the pack. The buffaloes advanced, their horns lowered, and the Cacklers faltered, their laughter turning to whimpers. Kweva's eyes blazed—she sank her shard-like teeth into a fallen comrade's pelt, dragging it as she vanished into the shadows, her final cackle a vow: "This isn't over, flame-cub! The savannah will feast on your bones!"
The highlands fell silent, the dawn light returning, its glow soft against the bloodied earth. Saphira panted, her flames sputtering, her body trembling but unbroken. Gorath approached, his massive frame casting a shadow across her. "You fought like a queen," he rumbled, his voice heavy with respect. "The highlands honor your fire. We join the Dawn Coalition as shields, not swords, until your throne is won. Rest now—the hyenas' shadow follows, and Xajin's blade looms."
Saphira bowed, gratitude mingling with resolve. "Thank you, Gorath. Your earth will hold the flood, and together we'll burn the lies." She turned to the coalition, her pelt bristling with determination, the Fang's hum a shadow over her heart. The buffaloes' hooves joined the march, their strength a steady drum, but the oxpeckers' cries sharpened, their wings slicing the sky. A glint of emerald flickered in the distance—Xajin's eyes, a predator cloaked in smoke, tracking her every step. The savannah watched, its winds carrying whispers of war, and Saphira's flame burned brighter, a spark forged by sacrifice, but the true battle was only beginning.