As they closed the final steps to the grass, the handlers straightened in unison.
Six men in polished half-plate bowed low at the waist, the Evermoon sigil gleaming against their breastplates. Two others—clearly beast handlers rather than guards—inclined their heads more cautiously, one of them keeping a gloved hand on the looped chain around the flame lion’s thick neck.
"My lady," the foremost guard greeted, his voice smooth but edged with respect. "Everything is prepared as instructed."
Arianne inclined her head with composed approval. "Thank you."
The handlers’ eyes flicked to Michael. Recognition showed in a few of their faces, though none dared to comment. They offered him a polite bow, but not the deep obeisance they gave Arianne.
Michael gave them a faint nod in return, then let his gaze drift back to the creature at the center of it all.
It was impossible to pretend he wasn’t curious. The beast looked far too weak for what he knew of its kind.
He glanced at Arianne, lowering his voice a notch.
"If I may," he murmured, "why does it look so... spent?"
Arianne didn’t look away from the creature. For a moment, she simply watched the slow, shallow rise of its flanks as it breathed. Then she spoke, calm and matter-of-fact.
"It’s drugged," she said. "A tranquilizing infusion, administered in small doses over the past day."
"It’s not ideal. But these creatures are notoriously volatile. If it were at full strength, there would be no safe way to bring it here alive."
Michael understood immediately—logistics were logistics.
"So it’s conscious," he said, "but too weakened to resist."
She turned to look at him fully.
"It will recover after the taming is complete. But in this state, it is much less likely to attempt to kill me in the first moments."
Arianne lifted her gaze to one of the older guards standing nearest the handlers—a man with a narrow, weathered face and a faint scar across his cheek.
"Captain Varris," she called softly, "you’re familiar with this process. Have you prepared the materials?"
The man inclined his head. "We have, my lady. Everything is as you requested."
He gestured to one of the handlers. Without a word, the handler turned and strode to the edge of the lawn, where a covered iron table stood waiting beneath a small awning.
Michael watched as the man grasped the handles and rolled the table forward. Its wheels grated softly against the gravel until it came to rest a few paces from the flame lion.
When the handler folded back the covering, Michael finally saw what they’d been preparing.
Laid out in precise rows were bundles of dried herbs tied with twine, a glove, two stoppered glass bottles—one pale green, the other thick and black—brushes, a small brazier with cold coals, and a shallow bronze bowl. A thin-bladed knife gleamed at one end, set neatly atop folded cloth.
Michael arched a brow, but before he could ask, Arianne stepped forward and began gathering items with smooth, practiced motions.
Her voice carried over her shoulder as she worked.
"Beast Taming, the real way, requires bonding of spirits."
"Spirit bonding is...not something that can be accomplished through force alone," she explained. "The master-subordinate bond requires a union of essence."
"Spirit," she added calmly, "or what some call soul."
Michael’s interest sharpened. Soul. Of course. He’d suspected as much.
Arianne laid the herbs carefully in the brazier and uncorked one of the bottles, tipping a small measure of black liquid onto them. A bitter, resinous scent drifted into the air.
"It is nearly impossible to sense a creature’s spirit, much less draw it to you," she went on. "That is why this ritual exists. The reagents help thin the veil."
She set the bottle aside, picked up the slender blade without hesitation—and drew it smoothly across the side of her palm.
Michael watched, saying nothing as bright blood welled and fell in slow droplets into the bronze bowl.
Arianne didn’t even flinch.
Once the flow was sufficient, she placed the knife aside and reached for a small vial—the second bottle, the one filled with deep pale green liquid.
She poured it over the cut, and in the space of a heartbeat, the wound sealed as though it had never existed.
Only then did she turn to Michael.
"This is the first step," she said quietly. "The circle must be fed with the binder’s own life."
Michael inclined his head slightly, studying the brazier, the bowl, the flicker of flame starting to catch in the herbs.
Arianne did not linger to admire her handiwork.
After a while, she took the bowl of mingled blood and resin-soaked herbs and walked a short distance away.
The handlers on the other hand instinctively tightened their grips on the chains, though the flame lion barely moved.
Michael followed Arianne with his eyes.
When she reached a clear patch of grass, she set the bowl down and knelt. One gloved hand dipped into a shallow satchel at her belt, drawing out a flat, bone-handled brush tipped in bristles stained the color of old ink.
Without glancing back, she spoke.
"The next step is the circle," she said. "Everything begins there."
Michael tilted his head slightly. "And...you draw it yourself?"
Arianne nodded. "Always."
She unscrewed the stopper on the bowl. A dark, almost syrupy liquid slid down the inside as she tilted it carefully.
"You don’t need to understand what you’re doing in this part," she went on evenly. "Many beast tamers never truly do."
She set the bowl beside her knee, dipped the brush into the mixture, and lifted it again, letting a single viscous drop fall back into the pool.
"If the steps are correct...the rest will follow."
Her hand moved, sure and unhurried, sweeping the first curved stroke across the grass. A faint shimmer passed over the wet line as if the air itself recognized it.
Michael watched, studying each precise motion.
Arianne’s brush glided on, completing the first ring, then spiraling outward into nested loops and branching glyphs. Every few seconds, she paused to refresh the brush in the bowl, then resumed without breaking her rhythm.