Despite being well past sundown on a cloudy night, the tar dens were perfectly visible to Vras as he prowled the rooftops without fear. He was gratha. He would only be seen if he wanted to be seen. And the two-legs were so blind in the dark that he often wondered how they moved at all.

The tar s’thyr had asked him to stay in the forest, but Vras knew that to be a stupid request. The tar ara’tiss had asked Vras to protect the tar s’thyr and he couldn’t very well do that in the forest.

Once the sun had set Vras left the cover of the forest and crossed the open space, slinking silent as a shadow through the grass. Scaling the walls was no more of a problem than ascending the trees had been. He had gone around the tar den once, sticking to the walls, and keeping his eyes and nose alert for anything that might be a threat. Finding nothing but the scent of the two-legs and their animal companions, he had begun leaping deftly from rooftop to rooftop to inspect them more closely. This had proved somewhat more difficult as many of the smaller dens had slick stone covering them and his claws were unable to find purchase. But once he figured out that the top of each pitched surface was the most stable, he was able to more easily navigate as he continued his patrol.

Vras felt the pull to the tar s’thyr and was able to track him to the larger two-leg den where many tars had gathered. Their voices were almost painfully loud to his sensitive ears after so long in the quiet of the forest. Their speech was a confusing mix of words that he struggled to sort out, and soon he stopped trying. With concentration, he was able to understand the tar s’thyr, Maula, and the tar ara’tiss, but it had taken him many days of work. It was a source of great frustration for Vras that the tar s’thyr could not understand him in turn without using his magic, but the shadow cat could see no solution to that problem. It was just something that must be endured. And Vras was gratha. He could endure it.

Once he had located the den in which the tar s’thyr would be sleeping, he continued to patrol. Some of the tar that entered the walls had strange scents upon them, and he could see the glow of magic about many, and those he watched more carefully. Their ornaments that many wore on their hands or heads glowed like firelight to his sight. Some wore clothing that glowed similarly, albeit less brightly. Others had weapons with the glow, some bright and some faint.

Vras didn’t like it that some of those who glowed with magic went into the den where the tar s’thyr and Maula were resting, but he would not enter unless he heard sounds of battle. He would enjoy greatly the fear his presence would create among the two-legs, as is proper, but Vras knew that the tar s’thyr would not be pleased. Even less so if he killed them. So Vras contented himself with nestling in the shadows of a den across from where his charge was resting to watch and hope for the thrill of battle.

After a few hours, the noise inside the large den began to subside. Some who had gone in began to emerge, strange and harsh alchemical fumes coming from their skin that he could smell even from his position high on the roofs. Many, he saw, were having trouble staying on their feet. They stumbled into the darkness, and Vras followed some who glowed more brightly with magic than others to see where they would bed down in case they proved to be a threat later.

Once the streets were clear, Vras returned to the large den and made his way to the roof, where he would stay until he sensed the tar s’thyr wake. There was still some noise from within, but he found he could tolerate it now. Vras kept his body low and his eyes alert. He expected no trouble but was ever vigilant. The tar s’thyr must live to carry out the great hunt, and so Vras would see that he survived.

He did not know how he knew this, but he did. He could sense it. It had confused him when he had first met him on the mountains. His initial instinct was to attack, even though the two-legs was much bigger. But something kept him back. Something had whispered that he must not kill this two-legs.

And Vras knew this was not some oddity of all two-legs now that he had been around them so much. It was only the tar s’thyr that pulled at him and commanded his loyalty and obedience.

Vras glanced briefly beyond the walls to the living forest with its flickering lights that none of the two-legs could see. Really, why did they even have eyes if they did not use them? He felt guilty. Almost. But that was nonsense, he understood. Gratha knew no guilt. The tar s’thyr did not understand what he had asked, and Vras had not bothered to explain it. This is just how it must be.

The wind changed and a gust of air came wafting through the holes in the den below. It carried a fresh scent of all the two-legs in the den and stirred the ancient hunger within him. He once again fought his nature. Always there was the desire to rend their flesh and slake his thirst with their blood. The urge to take down the weaker ones as they stumbled half-blind through the dark was so powerful that his muscles actually started to twitch as he resisted the pull, the ever-present craving to feel that magic pouring over his tongue and to savor the warm meat. To be gratha was to have this desire. To be gratha meant to crave the sound of your prey’s death. His mother had explained this to him early as they stalked the mountains together.

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His mother. It had been many dawns since he’d thought about her. Vras found he struggled to remember the scent of her now. His memories had grown hazy over time. He tried to remember how many dawns it had been, but it was difficult for him. Vras was gratha. Life between one kill and the next held little meaning for gratha. The hunt was what they yearned for. The blood, the terror. Why remember anything of the in-between?

But he remembered the hated farisk. How it had swooped in on silent wings and tried to pull his mother into the sky. He remembered the pitched battle and the triumph when his mother had ripped the cursed wing from the farisk’s body. How it had screamed! How the blood had poured out of its mortal wound. It had glowed so brightly that it had hurt Vras’s eyes to see it. Pain and fear made the blood glow brighter, made it taste better. Made the meat sweeter. And his mother had made it suffer.

“Hello, little one,” a voice suddenly said from behind.

He reacted instantly, all six powerful legs thrusting him up and spinning him around, fangs bared and ready to—

Vras was halted instantly as his eyes fell upon the creature that had somehow come upon him unawares. He fell back on his rear four paws, stunned, and gazed in wonder at the sight before him. The creature seemed to be made of light. Vras’s rage and battle lust evaporated immediately as the warm radiance of an alien yet familiar sun washed over him. He blinked and tried to focus and slowly the shape became clearer. His eyes adjusted to the light of the powerful magic the creature possessed. It was a female two-legs, but not like the others. Her hair, skin, and eyes were as pale as the snow in the peaks.

“I must confess, I did not expect to find a gratha this far from the mountains. What brings you to a two-leg den?”

“I am protecting the tar s’thyr,” Vras said simply.

The woman let out a tinkling laugh.

“Are you, now?” the creature said and she cast a rueful glance at where one of the moons was peeking through the clouds. “Oh, Vish, your father will not be pleased.”

She laughed again and clapped her hands.

Vras suddenly realized the female creature was speaking to him in his own language.

She was not using the magical words that the tar s’thyr used that made his whiskers tingle.

“What are you?”

One of her white eyebrows raised.

“You don’t know? Did your mother not tell you of the people of your homeland?”

“My mother died in a fight with a farisk.”

Vras sent the flashes of his memory of the battle to the creature.

“Oh,” the creature smiled. “Your mother was magnificent. All of the blood! You must have been dazzled.

Vras flicked his ears in agreement.

“I am Luvari, little one.”

This creature, Luvari, crossed over to him, bold and unafraid, and stroked his ears. A shiver ran through his whole body at her touch. Vras leaned into it and began to purr. The pads at the end of his tentacles opened up, and he plucked gently at the skin of her hand.

As her fingers worked into his fur, around his ears, and then down to his neck, visions began to enter his mind. Visions of a land so cold and frozen yet so full of light and power that Vras was stunned by it. He saw more creatures like her, and he saw other gratha prowling both the blackness of winter and summer lands. He saw some of them walking alongside creatures like the one beside him, and others doing battle with them. Glorious fights with blood glowing so brightly that it looked metallic. Then he saw gratha under other suns and other stars, hunting beasts he had no name for. He saw all that and more besides.

“My kind made you, little one. We made you to be the perfect hunters. The perfect killers. Tell me, what was your mother’s name?”

Vras sent her the image of midnight-black claws slashing a throat.

“Yes, I remember her. She came prowling around my cabin once, many years ago, before you were born.”

Suddenly, an image appeared in Vras’s mind of his mother. Her scent once again flooded his nostrils, and he felt a longing for her that he had almost forgotten.

“What I remember of her,” she said. “To keep you company as you guard the tar s’thyr.”

Vras was overcome with a feeling he didn’t know how to describe. So instead, he licked her hand and purred.

“Do you guard him also?” Vras asked her.

“No, little one. I just check in on him from time to time. I have plans for him.”

“A great hunt,” Vras said. It wasn’t a question.

“Indeed,” she said with another laugh. “That is one way to think about it. I am pleased to know a gratha will be by his side.”

The woman closed her eyes and the surrounding magic began to swirl and flare, the intensity making him squint, but he did not look away. Then the light dimmed, and she opened her eyes once again and looked to where the moon would be if it were not obscured by the clouds.

“Yes,” she said, her voice low and sinister. “Vish, you are a crafty bitch.” Then Luvari turned her attention back to Vras. “You will taste the blood of many foes, little one. But you will not be little for long. All will fear you and despair.”

Vras felt his chest swell with pride.

“I am gratha. This is how it must be.”

The woman knelt then and brought her silvery-white eyes level with his, and he saw something he recognized there. She knew the lust for battle and blood as well. She knew the hunger.

“Yes,” she said, her voice echoing some dark need that resonated in Vras’s chest. “That is how it must be.”

Her ice-pale eyes grew large in his vision, and Vras felt himself swallowed by them, falling into a wintery world where warmth was not even a memory. Where this creature and her kind were all-powerful, and where gratha prowled almost uncontested.

“Your mother died before she taught you all that you needed to know,” Luvari said. “I can teach you some. Watch, and learn.”

And Vras did.