The lion stopped, and his tail swished thoughtfully. His wings shifted, the feathers ruffled and soothed. "Not your freedom," he growled quietly. He turned his great head, and his eyes flashed in the darkness. "Mine."

Slowly, he turned around and padded through the sand toward Cyrus, and he peered at the boy carefully, reading his intentions and worth. This was a young man dedicated to what was right -- but he simply went about fighting for it in all the wrong ways. One day he might be a respectable leader. Someone worth trusting. He was, after all, the only human to have bothered speaking to him. Ralarulash had nearly forgotten the language before Cyrus had replied to his call.

He stood before Cyrus, and he showed his teeth in quiet warning. "Lay your hand on my head," he commanded. "Do not touch my wings or I will rip your throat out." He waited, quiet and uncertain, for Cyrus to do as he asked. "Now close your eyes and open your mind to me."

There was silence. Ralarulash did his best to calm himself down, once he was sure Cyrus wasn't about to go back on his word. He wasn't even sure this would work -- but he felt their minds linking, if only faintly, and he knew instinctively Cyrus' name, where he came from, why he was here.

The thoughts and memories that appeared in Cyrus' mind were slow and dim, like something long forgotten: blood and fear, a curse, loss and rage.

"Repeat after me," the lion growled -- and he began to recite an incantation in the old language. He spoke slowly and clearly, and he waited for Cyrus to echo his words.

It was the spell that would break his curse.