The savanna breathed in the heat of late afternoon. Orange light baked the horizon and shimmered off cracked bones jutting from the dust like old teeth. The scent of blood still lingered—fresh, iron-heavy, pungent. It led Sahari right to the carcass.

He padded low to the ground, powerful limbs tense, tail twitching. It was his kill—a young gazelle he’d tracked for two days. But when he rounded the sandstone outcrop, he stopped cold.

Someone was already there.

Perched casually atop the ribcage like a twisted throne sat a stranger—a vulture hybrid, lanky and tall, with a sharp beak where a nose should’ve been and plumage that looked scorched by sun and travel. His long fingers were blood-slicked, picking daintily at a strip of muscle.