Seven days in the jungle had taught Shruti Baghel that knowledge without tools was just elegant starvation. She knew snow-lotus root could numb nerve endings, that frost-ash bark reduced inflammation better than any poultice, that crysanthemum nectar accelerated tissue regeneration by Prana-alignment. But without ceramic vessels to distill them, without a mortar and pestle to grind them, she was just a girl chewing leaves and praying the bitterness translated to healing.
Her ribs had knitted wrong. She could feel it—a ridge of bone beneath the sealed flesh, aching with every deep breath. The inferno lance had punched through muscle and cartilage, and while her Prana-starved body had managed to close the wound, it had done so with the efficiency of a scared child tying a knot: functional, but messy. She'd foraged enough analgesics to move without screaming, but not enough to forget she was one solid hit away from her chest cavity collapsing.
Today, the river had been generous. Three silver-scaled prana-fish lay on a sun-bleached stone, their scales still shimmering with residual life energy. She was focused on the fourth, her sharpened stick poised, when the water's surface betrayed nothing—but the air behind her went still. Not the stillness of wind dying, but the stillness of something large choosing not to breathe.
Instinct saved her. She sidestepped, her body moving before her mind registered the threat, and a black-furred missile sailed past her shoulder, claws scoring the stone where she'd knelt. She rolled, coming up in a fighting crouch, and her breath caught.
Black fire panther. Juvenile male, but already the size of a warhorse. Its pelt was void-dark, absorbing light, except for the flickering embers dancing along its spine. Its eyes were molten gold, fixed on her with predatory focus.
Of course, she thought, her mind strangely calm. The jungle doesn't just give you chances. It gives you tests.
"A beggar indeed has nothing to lose," she chuckled, sliding her broken sword from her belt. The blade was warped, but sharp enough. "Let's end this fast. It's you or me after this fight."
The panther snarled, a sound like coals cracking, and lunged again. This time she was ready. She slammed her palm into the river, Prana she didn't think she had flooding out, turning the water into a lattice of ice-daggers. The panther landed on them, yowled as its paws were pierced, but twisted mid-air with impossible agility and came down behind her, teeth sinking into her left shoulder.
She screamed—but the pain was distant, muffled. The teeth had pierced skin, yes, but they hadn't found purchase in muscle.
Why didn't it hurt more?
Her mind raced through possibilities, each thought a cold, clear drop in the chaos:
One: The panther was toying with her, holding back its full bite force. Predators did that with prey they intended to cripple, not kill immediately.
Two: Her Prana-depleted body had thickened its muscle fibers in defense, a survival mutation the Beggar's Frost might have triggered. Her flesh was denser now, less yielding.
Three: The numbing herbs she'd chewed that morning were more potent than she'd realized. She couldn't feel her own cheek, let alone her shoulder.
Four: The panther's teeth were fire-aspected, and her residual frost nature was actively repelling the heat, making the wound shallow. Elemental friction.
Five: She was already so saturated with pain—from ribs, from grief, from emptiness—that one more injury was just another drop in an ocean. Her nervous system had given up distinguishing.
Six: Most likely—she was dying already, and this was simply the first physical symptom of her body shutting down. The bite was incidental. The real damage was done seven days ago.
She liked the sixth one least. So she ignored it.
"Fatal mistake," she panted, shoving the panther back. She spun, leaping for a low-hanging branch, her feet finding purchase on bark—and the panther followed, its claws digging into the trunk like hot knives through butter. Right. They hunt in trees. I'm an idiot.
They met mid-air, the panther's black fire clashing with her frost. It swiped, she twisted, her broken sword scoring a line across its muzzle. It howled, the sound vibrating through the jungle, and suddenly its entire body erupted in black flames. The fire wasn't just on its pelt—it was its pelt, living shadow-flame that sought to consume her ice.
She shielded, throwing up a wall of frost. The fire met it with a hiss of steam, and she felt the heat crack her barrier, felt it scorch her palms. Not good. I'm not recovered enough for this.
She landed hard, rolling through ferns, and the panther landed with feline grace a meter away. It circled, tail lashing, preparing for the final pounce. Three jumps. Three chances. She could see the pattern in its shoulders, in the coiling of its hind legs.
But she'd been trapping it all along.
While it chased her through the trees, while it focused on her sword and her frost, she'd been bleeding Prana into the vines, the branches, the roots beneath their feet. Now she inhaled, and the entire network froze, a cage of living ice that snapped shut around the panther's legs.
"Finally," she breathed, "I can rest assured."
The panther roared, thrashing, its black fire melting the vines—but she poured more Prana into them, turning them into enchanted rope. Creepers of the jungle, she remembered her botany lessons. They respond to Prana like nerves respond to touch.
The panther's flames died down, its struggles weakening. It stared at her with those molten eyes, and she saw not rage, but calculation.
If he becomes my partner, she thought, I have an edge in future.
She stepped closer, her hand extended, frost still crackling at her fingertips. "I must not let this chance aside," she whispered, channeling more Prana—not to hurt, but to connect. Her mother had taught her this, in quiet moments: how to link with beasts, how to share will.
The panther's hackles rose. Then fell.
It bowed its head.
"Wait," she said aloud, confusion breaking through her focus. "What is this? Why are you—"
A second roar shook the canopy. A second panther—smaller, sleeker, with silver embers instead of gold—landed between Shruti and the male. The female. And I'm out of Prana. She raised her broken sword for a final strike, knowing it would be futile but refusing to die on her knees.
But both panthers bowed.
"What is this?" Shruti repeated, lowering her sword warily. "Are you... playing with me?"
The female panther lifted her head and spoke. Not with words, but with wilderness communication—a pattern of growls and ear twitches that translated directly into meaning, bypassing language. Shruti's mind processed it automatically, her Prana-starved brain somehow still able to parse the code.
You smell like the little girl who cried when we left.
The male panther added: You also smell like the king who promised we'd see her again.
Shruti's sword clattered to the ground. "No. No, that's impossible. My father's pets were—"
Released to the jungle on your eighth birthday, the female finished, her silver embers brightening. As is tradition. To make room for your own bonded beasts.
The male stood, shaking off the last of the ice-vines, and padded toward her. We were waiting. The jungle told us the king's line had ended. We came to see.
"To see?" Shruti's voice rose. "You came to see by attacking me?"
I was, he admitted, unrepentant. Test your reflexes. You passed.
The female bared her teeth—not a snarl, but a grin. He bit you though. Bastard.
She whirled on her mate, biting his tail hard enough to make him yelp. You hurt her!
She didn't bleed!
That's not the point!
They started fighting in earnest then, a whirlwind of black and silver flame, snapping and snarling without real force, like siblings squabbling over a toy. Shruti watched, torn between disbelief and hysterical laughter.
"They really haven't changed," she muttered.
The female pinned the male, her paw on his neck. Apologize.
He looked at Shruti with molten-gold eyes. Sorry about the shoulder.
Properly.
...Your Highness. The title was grudging, but sincere.
Shruti sat down hard, her legs giving out. "I'm not 'Your Highness' anymore. I'm just... Shruti."
Just Shruti smells like survival, the female said, padding over to sniff her hair. Just Shruti smells like vengeance.
Just Shruti smells like the countdown game, the male added, his tone eager. Are we playing?
She looked between them—these beasts who'd been her childhood companions, now apex predators who'd just tested her to the brink of death. And found her worthy.
"We're playing," she said, and her voice was the coldest thing in the clearing. "But the rules have changed."
The female licked her cheek, her tongue raspy but warm. We like new rules. The old ones got boring.
The male tried to do the same, but his mate swatted him. She's not a fish you're claiming. Have some dignity.
You licked her first.
Because I didn't bite her!
Shruti laughed. It was a broken sound, barely human, but it was real. "Do you have names? Or should I keep calling you 'male panther' and 'female panther'?"
The female sat back, tail curling neatly around her paws. Your father called me Chandra. Because my flames look like moonlight to human eyes.
The male flopped down, less dignified. He called me Surya. But you can call me 'the one who didn't mean to bite you that hard'.
Chandra growled. Or you can call him Idiot. It's more accurate.
Shruti's smile felt strange on her face, like muscles remembered but reluctantly. "Chandra and Surya. The moon and sun." She paused, her voice softening. "My father had a sense of humor."
Your father had a plan, Chandra corrected, pressing her forehead against Shruti's chest. He told the jungle to watch for you. To test you when you came. If you survived, we were to serve.
If you died, Surya added cheerfully, we were to eat you. Waste not.
"How practical." Shruti's hands found their way into their ruffs, feeling the warmth of their flames without burning. "Then I guess we're bonded."
Bonded, Chandra agreed, her purr vibrating through Shruti's ribs. Countdown partners.
Does this mean we get to kill Agnihotri? Surya's tail lashed eagerly. Because I've been practicing my 'terrifying war beast' roar. Listen. He took a deep breath.
Don't you dare, Chandra snapped. You'll alert every Prana-eater in a five-mile radius.
He deflated. Spoilsport.
Shruti watched them, this impossible pair, and felt something in her chest crack and reform. Not Prana. Something older. Something like home.
"Agnihotri," she whispered, the name tasting of ash and promises. "Let's see how they celebrate when their ghost comes home."
The panthers pressed closer, their flames warming her skin where the jungle had left her cold. Chandra's voice was soft in her mind: The jungle told us your father is dead. Your mother too.
And we felt the technique you used, Surya added, unusually serious. The Beggar's Frost is... loud. It screams across the world-grid. They'll come looking.
"Let them look." Shruti stood, her hands resting on their heads. "By the time they find us, the countdown will be over."
Day one? Chandra asked.
"Day one," Shruti agreed. "Starting now."
She felt it then—a resonance in her chest, answering the purrs of her new partners. It wasn't Prana, not yet. It was something quieter. A ledger of debts, written in frost and fire, waiting to be collected.
The jungle around them hummed in approval.
The countdown had just gained its hunters.