The Panther

Guardians do not choose—they are chosen.

It moved without sound.

Without hesitation.

The panther did not belong to the Western world.

Yet it walked through it as though it had always been there.

Its eyes carried something older than memory.

And something far more dangerous than instinct.

It was not hunting.

It was searching.

“I am AlexanDRA, king of the Western Continent and I welcome you, to my kingdom!” he spoke in the ancient Eastern Continent’s dialect, in a deep voice and slowly moved from where he was towards her, staying low in a crouching position, his eyes fixed upon hers.

She moved too but laterally across, in a counterclockwise motion, keeping her gaze upon him, her gait measured.

He could tell that she was sizing him up.

The king observed her strong muscular frame, wide chest, and the bold fangs on her lower jaw.

She continued to growl, moving her head from side to side to study his every move, then the fur on her forehead skewed.

He wondered if she was trying to connect to a memory imprinted within her by her ancestors, about the violent past between Vrishaaktan Asukhas and panthers.