Prestocat Lionheart walked out of the burning village with a tiger cub pressed against his golden armor. The cub's fur was singed. The cub did not cry. Behind him, the thatch roofs of Solaria's border hamlet folded into ash. He was the only armed fighter who had reached the village in time. The others arrived after, in scattered groups, with no one giving orders. Three of those fighters never came back out of the smoke. He had seen their faces clearly. The youngest looked barely old enough to hold a spear. He carried the cub through the night and did not stop until he reached the abandoned stone castle on the ridge. Ivy covered the gate. The towers stood empty. He had chosen the place a week before, when the burning village was still standing, because he had already begun to suspect that one sword would not be enough. He set the cub down inside the courtyard and lit a small fire. The cub watched him without blinking. In the center of the courtyard stood a blue stone he had hauled there himself. It pulsed faintly when good creatures came near. He had set it as the marker where warrior beasts would swear an oath to defend Solaria. Beside the gate he had mounted a polished golden paw on a pike, raised high enough to catch sun from any road. The paw was his call. Any beast with courage and a clean heart was meant to see it and come. For seven days he had waited. No one had come. He fought alone because he had no choice. Two nights ago he had taken a raiding party by himself at a river crossing and barely walked away. His blazing sword cost him something every time he drew it, and he was drawing it too often. The stone in the courtyard glowed only for him, and dimly. He understood the problem now. The beasts strong enough to swear the oath were the ones already serving lords, or guarding their own families, or dead in villages like the one behind him. He could not build an order out of men who would not come, and he could not keep the kingdom safe with one sword. The plan, as he had drawn it up, had failed. He looked at the cub. The cub had crept closer to the fire. Its paws were too small for a spear, too small for anything. Prestocat had set an age requirement for the order on the first day he wrote the oath. He had been firm about it. He thought of the young face he kept seeing in the smoke, and of the three fighters still missing, and of the empty courtyard behind him. He knelt down and offered the cub a strip of dried meat. The cub took it. Prestocat crossed out the age requirement in his head and began again.