The jungle air's thick, pressin' down like a weight as we gear up with the panther tribe. Sable's got her warriors movin'—sleek, silent, shiftin' between man and beast with a grace that makes me jealous. My scales are mostly gone, but the ache lingers, and that amulet's hummin' like a damn hornet's nest. The throne's call—"The throne demands"—keeps buzzin' in my skull, and I can't shake the feelin' we're walkin' into a trap. Elara's quiet, standin' by a fire pit, her bow strung tight, and I catch her glancin' at me—hurt still there from the ritual. Guilt twists my gut, but I push it down. Ain't time for that.
Sable stalks over, her panther eyes glintin'. "We track that scout," she growls, tail lashin'. "Valthor's near—his stench is on the wind." I nod, flexin' my claws, feelin' the bond from the ritual hummin' in my chest—strength, sure, but also a tie to her I ain't sure about. Elara joins us, her runes flarin' as she checks the heartstone. "It'll shield us," she says, voice flat. I grunt, grabbin' a spear from a warrior—feels good in my hand, solid. The tribe forms up, and we head out, vines partin' as we move.
The jungle's alive—birds screamin', leaves rustlin'—and my gut tightens with every step. The amulet pulses, guidin' us, and I wonder if it's leadin' me to glory or a blade in the back. We hit a trail, fresh tracks—cloaked boots, undead rot. Sable sniffs, shiftin' full-panther, and takes point, her warriors fannin' out. Elara stays close, and I feel her tension—maybe at me, maybe the hunt. "Keep your eyes open," I mutter, and she nods, arrow nocked.
We move fast, the trail windin' through thick trees, roots trippin' me 'til I growl—crossed it out, damn it—and steady myself. The air shifts, gettin' colder, and I smell it—death, sharp and sour. Up ahead, the scout's figure darts—cloaked, red eyes flashin'. Sable roars, leapin', but he's quick, vanishin' into a thicket. We charge after, me crashin' through branches, Elara's light guidin' us. The tribe's howls fill the air, and I feel the bond kickin'—strength flowin' from Sable, makin' my steps surer.
Then it hits—a trap. Vines snap tight, wrappin' 'round my legs, and I roar, fallin' hard. Elara stumbles, caught too, and the tribe scatters as undead pour out—skeletal frames, flesh hangin', swords drawn. My heart sinks—ambush. I tear at the vines, claws rendin', but they regrow, magic-infused. Sable fights, claws rippin' through bone, but there's too many. "Valthor's magic!" Elara yells, heartstone glowin' as she chants, a ward flarin' weak.
I transform, scales pushin' out, and rip free, roarin' as I charge. My tail swings, smashin' an undead, but one lunges, sword grazin' my arm—pain sears, and I curse—crossed it out, hell. Elara's ward holds just enough, and Sable's warriors rally, but I spot it—the scout, watchin' from a ridge, laughin'. My gut twists. Was this planned? The tribe's bond feels strong, but doubt creeps in—did Sable sell us out?
I fight on, claws tearin', tail lashin', but the numbers grow. Elara's light weakens, and I see her strainin'—fear in her eyes. I roar, pushin' to her, shieldin' her as an undead swings. My spear blocks it, shatt erin', and I grapple, snappin' its neck. Sable leaps, takin' down two, but she's bleedin', fur matted. The bond pulses, givin' me strength, and I feel her pain—real, not fake. Maybe I'm wrong about her.
The scout vanishes, and the undead falter, retreatin' into the trees. I pant, scales glintin' with sweat, and help Elara up. She's pale, heartstone dim. "They knew we'd come," she says, voice shakin'. Sable shifts back, gaspin', blood on her side. "Not my doing," she growls, meetin' my eyes. "A traitor, maybe." My gut clenches—trust's a thin thread here. The amulet burns, whisper louder, and I wonder if the throne's pullin' this chaos.
We regroup, the tribe lickin' wounds, and I check my arm—cut's deep, but the bond's heat seals it some. Elara leans on me, and I feel that pull—glade, ritual, now this. "Sorry," I mutter, and she nods, soft. "Later," she says, and I know we ain't done talkin'. Sable binds her side, glarin' at the trees. "We hunt the traitor," she says, voice steel. I grip my claws, noddin'—anger fuelin' me.
The jungle hums, danger close, and I feel eyes—Valthor's, the scout's, maybe the throne's. The bond with Sable's real, but the sting of betrayal lingers—who sold us? The amulet pulses, guidin' us on, and I know this chase ain't over. I stand tall, ready, knowin' every step's a gamble now.