The scream of the Black Tiger King was a primal, distorted roar of pure agony.
Carik thrashed wildly in the dirt, his massive paws swiping blindly at the air, ripping up clumps of grass and earth. He rubbed his massive head violently against the ground, trying to dislodge the obsidian dagger embedded in his left eye, but the movement only made the blood gush faster, painting his black fur crimson.
Vara stood frozen, her chest heaving, staring at the carnage. She spun around, her eyes scanning the tree line, searching for the assailant.
A single figure emerged from the shadows.
He moved with a liquid grace that made the very air seem heavy. His long black robes whispered against the grass, untouched by the dirt or the dust of the brawl. His face was a mask of aristocratic boredom, framed by cascading dark hair.
It was the Snake King.
