Nocturnal Raid, Instant
Illus. John Matson

It's fortunate I am watchful, for Urborg panthers are silent during the kill--even observant as I was, I almost didn't notice this one's approach. I saw the flash of movement in the darkness toward Bwire, and moved forward to intercept it, and caught the full brunt of the great cat's charge--more than enough to knock me flat as its hind legs clawed at my boiled-leather armor. Scrambling away, I recovered my balance and then closed with the panther on my terms.

"That's the second time I've saved your hide, shaman," I snarled as I slashed at the great cat. "You are in my debt." Bwire gave no answer, for he was already chanting the ritual of the Raising the Night. My strength grew with every word, for I knew my name would soon be praised by every child of the clan, and my glory would be great. My knife connected with the panther's throat, just as it reached its teeth toward my own throat. I heard a snapping sound, but whether it was my neck or the panther's I could not say.

I was dying, but I was hardly afraid; I knew Bwire's words would unite me with the panther and with the feral shadow he held in one hand, and they would bring us back as the Spirit of the Night; the elders had taught me this, and surely it was so.

But I knew another thing that Bwire had forgotten, or perhaps he had never known: though raising the Spirit of the Night would kill me, it is an honor for a Breathstealer to be sacrificed in such a way. The Breathstealer lives on within the Spirit, and knows the panther's strength and the shadow's stealth: stronger, quicker, and wiser. What is more, the sacrificed Breathstealer passes on this legacy of strength and wisdom to another, and I chose an elder of my clan. After centuries, we had lost the secret of the ritual of Raising the Night. Now it was restored to the Breathstealer elders, the elders of my clan, the Panther Clan. But what they did with it is another story, for another day.