The Crystal Caves finally went quiet after them spider bastards, but my legs still shake from that venom and magic mess. I'm leanin' 'gainst a crystal pillar, breathin' hard, scales mostly faded but leavin' a itch under my skin. Elara's beside me, heartstone tucked away, her silver hair a mess and them green eyes lookin' tired but sharp. That ecstasy from the hallucinogens still lingers, mixin' with the doubt—real or cave trick? The amulet's hummin' steady now, that whisper—"The throne demands"—drillin' into me, and I'm wonderin' if I'm losin' my damn mind. Them undead and villagers are out there, and now this cave's got me spooked.
Elara stands, brushin' dirt off her leather. "We can't linger," she says, voice rough but sure. "The caves lead to the Forbidden Jungle. If we're lucky, we'll find allies there." I grunt, pushin' up, feelin' the ache in my bones. "Allies? In a place called Forbidden?" She smirks, a rare thing, and points to a tunnel mouth glowin' with green light. "Panther tribe. Shapeshifters. They hate Valthor as much as we do." I curse under my breath—crossed it out, hell—and nod. Ain't got much else goin' for me.
We head in, the tunnel widenin' fast, the air turnin' warm and thick with jungle stink—moss, flowers, somethin' wild. The crystals fade, replaced by vines hangin' heavy, their leaves glintin' with dew. My boots sink into soft earth, and I hear it—rustlin', low growls. My gut tightens, and I glance at Elara, her bow ready. "Stay close," she whispers, and I do, claws half-out, the beast stirrin' again. The amulet pulses, and that throne call feels closer, makin' my head spin.
The tunnel spits us into a clearing, and damn, it's somethin' else. Trees tower, their bark carved with tribal marks that glow faint, and a village sits 'neath 'em—huts of woven vines, lit by fire pits. Figures move, tall and lean, their skin dark with streaks of black, eyes glintin' yellow. Panthers—some human, some shiftin' mid-step, fur ripplin' into muscle. My heart pounds, and I step forward, Elara at my side. "We seek alliance," she calls, voice clear.
A woman steps up, taller than me, muscles corded like a warrior's. Her hair's a mane of black, and her eyes lock on mine—predator's gaze. "I'm Sable, chieftess," she says, voice deep, purrin'. "You stink of magic and blood. State your cause." I clear my throat, feelin' small. "Name's Job. This curse—" I tap the amulet—"tied me to the Scaled Throne. Valthor's after it, raisin' undead. We need help." Her lips curl, and she circles me, sniffin' like a cat. "Lizard blood," she mutters. "Interesting."
Elara explains—Valthor, the throne, our fight—and Sable listens, tail flickin' as she shifts half-panther. "We'll aid you," she says, "but there's a price. A bond ritual—proves your worth." My gut twists. "What kinda ritual?" I ask, voice gruff. She grins, sharp teeth flashin'. "Flesh and spirit. You and me, sealed by the tribe." Elara tenses, but nods, and I feel that hunger stir—damn it, not now. Sable leads us to a hut, vines partin' like curtains, and inside, a fire burns, its smoke thick with herbs.
She strips off her armor, revealin' sleek skin marked with tattoos, and motions me closer. "Undress," she orders, and I hesitate, glancin' at Elara. She looks away, but I catch a flicker—jealousy? I shrug off my rags, scales pushin' out, and Sable's eyes gleam. "Good," she purrs, steppin' in. The tribe gathers outside, chantin' low, and the smoke hits me—heady, makin' my blood race. She presses 'gainst me, her hands rough, explorin' my scales, and I feel the beast rise, hunger mixin' with her heat.
We move together, rough and primal, the hut shakin' with our rhythm. Her claws dig into my back, and I growl—crossed it out, hell—liftin' her 'gainst the wall. Her legs wrap 'round me, and I take her, the chant fuelin' us, magic flowin' like a current. Elara's outside, but I see her in my mind, and the guilt stings, mixin' with pleasure. Sable moans, her shift half-on, fur brushin' my skin, and I lose myself, roarin' as we peak, the tribe's voices risin' with us.
We collapse, pantin', and she pulls back, smirkin'. "You're bound now," she says, markin' my chest with ash—a panther claw. I feel it, a strength, but the doubt hits—Elara's silence, the throne's pull. The hut quiets, but a shadow moves outside—fast, silent. I tense, grabbin' my claws, as Sable hisses. "Intruder," she growls, shiftin' full-panther.
We burst out, and there's a figure—cloaked, red eyes glintin'—slippin' into the trees. "Valthor's scout," Elara snaps, bow up. Sable roars, leapin' after it, but it's gone, leavin' a chill. My gut sinks—spied on, maybe betrayed. The tribe rallies, weapons drawn, and I stand with 'em, feelin' the bond, but wonderin'—can I trust 'em? The amulet burns, whisper louder, and I know this alliance's fragile.
Elara meets my gaze, her face hard but hurt. "You didn't have to," she mutters. I sigh—smudged it out—runnin' a hand through my hair. "Had to, for us." She nods, reluctant, and we prep with the tribe, the jungle hummin' with danger. The scout's escape means trouble's close, and the throne's call won't wait. I grip my hands, ready, knowin' this bond's my strength—or my doom.