“It was a very shallow stab.”
And the Plundered Sun—that ancient, lonely star, tricked into cruelty—remembered.
They walked for hours, days—time lost meaning. Snarf fell twice, and each time Tygra caught him with a whip of his bolo, the last of his power. Bengali’s fur turned gray at the temples. When they finally emerged, it was not into the spire’s base but into its heart: a circular chamber the size of a cathedral, filled with floating screens showing every corner of Third Earth. At the center, suspended in a column of black light, was the Plundered Sun—a star the size of a fist, weeping energy into Mumm-Ra’s machines. thundercats
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Don’t do it again.”
“NO! I am eternal! I am—”
That night, as the true stars came out for the first time in a decade, Lion-O sat on a boulder outside their new camp. Cheetara sat beside him. Neither spoke for a long time.
“And fifty mutants guarding it,” Panthro grunted from where he was trying to weld a cracked gauntlet with a melted spoon. “We tried that two moons ago. Remember? When Lynx-O lost his other eye?” “It was a very shallow stab
Lion-O ignored him. He spoke to the Plundered Sun. Not in words—in the language before words. The language of shared wounds and stubborn hope. He showed the sun a memory: Snarf, staying awake for three nights to warm Lion-O’s milk when he was a cub with a fever. Tygra, building a model of Thundera’s solar system out of scrap metal so the kits would remember their home. Panthro, offering his last ration bar to Cheetara without her seeing.
“There’s a Munitions caravan leaving the Dog City tomorrow,” Bengali said for the third time. “Plastoid shells. Power cells. Maybe even a working cloaking emitter.” Bengali’s fur turned gray at the temples
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