Ash didn't flinch when the small cold droplets from her fur reached his paws. He kept his gaze pinned on the setting sun, which now looked like a bleeding wound torn open across the sky, staining the coastal waters the colour of old wine. Ash knew how to get to her. He always took what he wanted, and this time he felt surer of himself than ever. Yet a single thought kept circling on the tip of his tongue, restless as a trapped moth: "Does she truly not remember who she is, or is she merely playing the part?" It wouldn't let him sink deep enough into the weaving of a plan.

While the lion was grinding thoughts behind his skull, Argo padded up to him until she stood almost close enough to touch. He caught the scent of wet fur and wild cherries.

His voice rumbled low, nearly swallowed by the tide. He finally turned his muzzle toward her. In his blue, almost transparent eyes, stripped bare of any human softness, the silhouette of the sphinx flickered like a candle flame caught in glass.

The lion took one slow, deliberate step toward her, invading her space inch by inch, until his heavy breath grazed her cheek like a ghost's fingertip.