The Last Bloom

Long after the Age of Beasts had passed, the land of Tharros remained cracked and thirsty, its skies scorched gold with the memory of a dying sun. Mountains loomed like blackened bones on the horizon, and the winds whispered only the tales of extinction.

It was here that the last sabretooth wandered.

He had once been mighty, the thunder of his roar shaking forests, his presence parting herds like water around stone. But time, cruel and consuming, had stripped him of flesh and fame. Now, what remained was a gaunt echo of glory—ribs arched like dead trees, eyes haunted amber, limbs moving with the grace of memory more than strength.

Yet he did not die.

Drawn by something deep and old, he came to the edge of the world—a crag above the sea of dust. There, blooming defiantly against the stone, was a flower. Its petals pulsed with faint golden light, a relic of a magic long buried.

The sabretooth lowered his head. He remembered this scent—not the flower, but the feeling: life. The flower did not fear him. It bent gently in the wind, as if greeting a kindred spirit. In its presence, he felt warmth return to his bones, a heartbeat from the deep past.

He lay beside it.

And when the final light fell, it was not alone.