“Just a little.”
And standing before it, arms crossed, was Mumm-Ra the Ever-Living. Not the mummified horror of their nightmares. He was young. Beautiful. Golden-skinned and terrible, with eyes that held the coldness of deep space.
Mumm-Ra’s smile faltered. “The sun has no ears.” thundercats
Cheetara stepped forward, staff raised. “We don’t care what it wants. We care what’s right.”
Lion-O looked at the shadow on the floor—Cheetara’s silent, rippling shape. He looked at Tygra, whose jaw was clenched so hard blood ran from his lip. At WilyKit and WilyKat, holding hands, children again. At Bengali, whose claws had extended, ready to die. “Just a little
He raised one hand, and black lightning arced from the Plundered Sun, striking Cheetara. She didn’t fall—she folded , her body collapsing into a two-dimensional shadow on the floor, still screaming in a voice that came from everywhere and nowhere.
“You stabbed yourself,” she said finally. Beautiful
Mumm-Ra tilted his head, genuinely curious. “The engineer speaks wisdom. Unusual for a species that builds bombs before houses.” He turned back to Lion-O. “Here is my offer. Give me the Sword of Omens—the physical blade, not its dead heart. I will return your cheetah. I will let you leave. You can live out your days in whatever cave remains. You can even keep the sword’s hilt. A souvenir.”