They walked for hours, days—time lost meaning. Snarf fell twice, and each time Tygra caught him with a whip of his bolo, the last of his power. Bengali’s fur turned gray at the temples. When they finally emerged, it was not into the spire’s base but into its heart: a circular chamber the size of a cathedral, filled with floating screens showing every corner of Third Earth. At the center, suspended in a column of black light, was the Plundered Sun—a star the size of a fist, weeping energy into Mumm-Ra’s machines.
“In the chest.”
“I won’t,” he lied.
“Then we move tonight,” Lion-O replied. His voice was not the boastful cry of the lord who’d once challenged the Ancient Spirits of Evil. It was the rasp of a leader who’d watched his family starve. thundercats