The circle of bayonets tightened menacingly, but A’lia refused to budge, protecting Phyr with her body. Between her paws she clutched the Thunderbox. In the moonlight, the artifact looked metallic, and yet somehow natural. It bore many runes along its angled edges that did not seem engraved so much as grown. It pulsated with a tangible energy the moment the catwoman touched it, as if responding to the pads of her paws.

One of the musketeers said something in Orian, a string of strange words and clicking sounds.

“Perhaps,” A’lia clicked back, “then you may take him as a prisoner. But do him no harm. And first… let us see if the legends are true.”

Somewhere at the edge of his mind, Phyr realized that A’lia was not speaking common after all… that somehow, he was simply able to understand her.

Still pinning Sa’resh, A’lia placed the Thunderbox on his chest and touched it with both paws, as if laying them over the keys of a piano. She played the runes like a musician plays a melody, and for each symbol she caressed Phyr felt a flood of energy from the box. Sweat soaked his shirt and beaded down his temples. Phyr was not especially fond of magic in any form, but he knew any movement would tempt his death.

Suddenly A’lia raised her arms, and lightning rose from the Thunderbox to stab at the skies. It broke apart the undulating auroras it touched, changing their colors and sending them shimmering in all directions. As the brilliance of the lightning faded, a soft glow emanated from the artifact. It expanded upwards and outwards until it encompassed the entire clearing between the forest and the southern wall of Meno.

The broken auroras arced toward its radiance like moths to a flame. They slithered and shimmied through the air, a rainbow of wavy energy. They sank into the Thunderbox, passing by Phyr’s very eyes, close enough for him to imagine he heard whispers from the ethereal essences. It seemed to last forever, but then suddenly the light faded and A’lia slumped forward. She lay nose to nose with the dark elf, the artifact pressed between them.

“I will see you free,” she whispered, “I swear it.”

Strong paws pulled her away. A storm of musket butts battered Phyr into a ball. He tried to protect his head with his lone arm but one of the Orians struck a solid blow to his temple and his consciousness wavered. Clawed hand-paws pulled him upright and forcibly marched him toward the breached gates. His eyes fluttered, but Phyr no longer saw any auroras in the area.

So it does more than make lightning after all.

Phyr’s feet dragged as the cat folk carried him through the ranks of musketeers and cannons guarding the broken gate. They bore him along roads so finely cobbled they seemed as smooth as cement, into a great stone building with vaulted blue doors, and down to a damp dungeon where they dumped him in a cell.

Sa’resh lay on a pile of straw as they slammed the heavy ironbound door, trying to ignore the bruises and contusions that covered his body, in particular the nasty knot that throbbed on his temple. He calmed his breathing as best he could, inhaling the stale, musty air. In that moment, he lived, and little else truly mattered.

How long before these cats decide to torture the Scourge of the Silver Furs for information? Or for sport?

Closing his eyes, Phyr drove away the panicked thoughts. He imagined himself back in Serenti, sitting on the back porch of the baron’s manor house in the sunlight, smoking a pipe in Edim’s honor. He could stay on that porch for as long as they kept him in the cell, and would keep the pipe blazing so long as he remained a prisoner.