Tiger × The Lone Edge
Into that table-smacking blow it loads the forest's first stir of pressure, striking the vital point straight.
The Lone Edge stands on its own peak under the Cold Moon, Deneb the lofty solitary star high in a waning gibbous. The Tiger and the Edge stack sharpness and presence to the brim. So you load the forest's first stir of pressure into one table-smacking blow, striking the vital point straight, fiercest of anyone at the negotiating table.
In a hard fight your one stroke finds the point that ends it, the force alone choking the other side's breath. Deneb sits at the top of the Northern Cross, far and cold and brilliant, the kind of star you see precisely because nothing is near it. That solitude sharpens you. You do not crowd the blade with company; you stand on the peak and you cut clean, and the cut lands because the whole mountain is behind it.
The break is that charge plus fierce loyalty means you win the matter but wound the people, roaring even your helpers away in the swing. A peak with nobody left on it is just a cold rock. The Cold Moon is the high winter moon, far and bright and freezing; brilliant to look at, hard to stand near. Aim the edge at the problem, not the room. The sharpest version of you is the one who can take the vital point and still have someone standing beside them when it is over.
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A mirror, not a prophecy. It reflects you as you are right now. How you walk is still yours to choose.