Bai Yue sat on a smooth stone at the edge of the jaguar survivors' camp, her knees drawn to her chest, watching the sun paint the eastern sky in shades of gold and rose. Behind her, the clearing was quiet. The cubs were still asleep, curled in a tangled pile of fur and limbs beneath a makeshift shelter of woven branches. The husbands were scattered nearby, each keeping watch in their own way.
Han Shān stood at the tree line, his white hair catching the light, his eyes fixed on the distant column of smoke where the temple had fallen. Zhāo Yàn had somehow produced a set of soft leaves and was lounging on it like a king surveying his domain, though his nine tails were drooping with exhaustion. Yàn Shū was already awake, his glasses fogged as he bent over one of the wounded jaguars, checking bandages.
And Cāng Jì...
Cāng Jì was perched on a massive fallen log like a golden gargoyle, his arms crossed. Right, Cang Ji.
