Echoes of the Wind Plains

The wind howled across the steppe, carrying with it the scent of charred wood and blood. Kalima Chileshe crouched low behind the remnants of a shattered watchtower, his fingers digging into the brittle earth. The blue-white flames licking at his knuckles flickered in time with his ragged breath.

*"They're close,"* John Mwanabeti growled beside him, his golden aura pulsing like a second heartbeat. The heat radiating off him made the air shimmer.

Kalima didn't need to ask who *they* were. The Iron Fist Legion's scouts had been hunting them for days, ever since they'd raided Zhang Wei's supply caravan. A foolish move, perhaps, but hunger had a way of making men reckless.

A twig snapped in the distance.

Humphrey Bwalya's whisper was barely audible, but the vibrations slithered through the ground like a serpent. *"Three riders. Crossbows loaded."*

Mwansa Nkalamo melted out of the shadows, his form flickering like a dying candle. *"We could run."*

*"No,"* Kalima said. The word tasted like ash. *"We've run enough."*

The first scout crested the ridge, his bronze-plated automaton mount clanking with each step. The man's eyes widened as he spotted them, his hand flying to the signal horn at his belt—

Kalima's flames erupted.

The scout's scream was cut short as the fire consumed him, leaving nothing but a blackened silhouette in the saddle. The automaton staggered, its qi-core sputtering, before collapsing into a heap of gears.

John was already moving, his fist slamming into the second rider with enough force to send horse and man tumbling. The third scout loosed his bolt, but Humphrey's sonic scream shattered it midair. The scout barely had time to register the shadow blade materializing at his throat before Mwansa ended him.

Silence settled over the plains, broken only by the distant cry of a carrion bird.

Vincent Kabonde stepped from the ruins, his fingers twitching as he surveyed the bodies. *"Wasteful,"* he muttered. *"We could have used them."*

*"For what?"* Kalima snapped. *"More experiments?"*

Vincent's smile was thin. *"For information. Zhang Wei isn't just hunting us. He's digging something up near the Mourning Moss Swamp."*

That gave Kalima pause. The swamp was Chisangalalo Zulu's territory—or what remained of it after his miasma had poisoned the land. If Zhang Wei was there…

*"We need to move,"* John said, wiping blood from his split lip. *"Before they send more."*

Mwansa's shadows coiled around his arms. *"And go where? The Wind Plains clans won't shelter us. The White Lotus Society barely tolerates us. We're out of options."*

*"No."* Kalima clenched his fists, extinguishing the last of his flames. *"We find Zulu. If Zhang Wei is after something in the swamp, it's tied to us. To our past."*

The others exchanged glances. They all knew what that meant. The Ghost Tigers had been monsters once. Redemption didn't erase the scars they'd left behind.

A gust of wind stirred the tall grass, carrying with it the faintest echo of laughter—childlike, mocking. Humphrey stiffened. *"Did you hear—?"*

Then the ground trembled.

Timothy M'hango emerged from the ruins, his gravity field distorting the air around him. His usually placid face was tight with strain. *"We're not alone."*

The earth split.

From the fissure rose a figure clad in tattered imperial robes, her skin the color of bleached bone. Her eyes were empty sockets, but her smile was all too human.

*"Little tigers,"* she crooned. *"Did you miss me?"*

Recognition hit Kalima like a fist to the gut. *"Mei Ling."*

The name was a curse, a prayer, a wound that never healed. She had been one of them once—before the experiments, before the betrayal, before Zhang Wei turned her into *this*.

Her laughter echoed across the plains as she raised a hand, and the shadows at her feet writhed like living things.

*"Run,"* she whispered. *"It'll be more fun that way."*

The Ghost Tigers didn't need to be told twice.

As they fled into the gathering storm, Kalima couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning. The past had claws, and it wasn't done with them yet.

The wind carried her voice after them, a promise and a threat:

*"I'll see you in the swamp."*