The jungle slept, but Nyra could not.
Her eyes, golden and unblinking, traced the slow movements of the moon above. Silver light spilled over Vastclaw's thatched rooftops and stone walls. The once-savage land now bore the mark of order — Chu Fang's order. Discipline had replaced desperation. Warriors trained with purpose. The weak found shelter. The strong, meaning.
And Nyra?
She was caught somewhere in between.
High above the camp, on a thick bough that jutted from a massive tree, Nyra crouched alone. The night wind kissed her fur and tugged at her thoughts. Somewhere below, Chu Fang was asleep — or pretending to be. And Raiya was likely pacing in circles, teeth clenched, fire boiling beneath that golden coat.
Nyra envied her.
Raiya was simple.
Proud. Direct. Honest in her rage and devotion.
But Nyra had always been shadow. Born in twilight, shaped in silence. Her tribe had taught her to survive, not to dream. Affection had been weakness. Attachment, a liability. She'd learned to move unnoticed, kill quickly, and never rely on anyone else.
And yet, here she was — heart tangled in something she couldn't hunt or escape.
Chu Fang.
The name alone stirred her chest like a thorn buried too deep.
At first, she had only followed him out of curiosity. He was different — too calm for a predator, too calculating for someone so newly reborn into this world. A Siberian tiger who thought like a king before he'd earned a crown. Nyra had expected him to break.
He hadn't.
In fact, he'd grown. Faster than anyone she'd seen. And not just in strength. His words had power. His presence made beasts stop and listen.
And that — that — was what scared her most.
Nyra didn't trust things she couldn't control.
But she wanted him.
And worse — she wanted to be wanted.
She jumped down, the landing barely a whisper. Her muscles flowed like water as she padded silently toward the eastern ridge. There, beneath a crude stone outcrop, was a spot she knew well: a hollow where moss grew thick and the stars were always clear.
He was there.
As always.
Watching. Thinking. Planning.
And when he turned at her approach, Nyra felt that same stupid tremor in her chest.
"You never sleep," he said, voice low.
"Neither do you," she replied, settling beside him.
They stared out across the sleeping jungle in silence. Below them, the walls of Vastclaw shimmered in the moonlight — not yet finished, but strong. Promising.
She finally spoke. "You've built something impossible."
He glanced at her. "Only the beginning."
Nyra hesitated. Then, "Why do you trust me?"
He didn't answer right away. He looked at her with those eyes — steady, unreadable.
"Because you never lie," he said.
That made her laugh — dry, bitter. "I lie all the time."
"But not to me."
She opened her mouth to argue — then shut it. He wasn't wrong. Not really.
"You're different, Chu Fang. And not just because you're stronger or smarter. You… you make me want things I never wanted before."
"Like what?"
She turned to him, fur brushing fur. "Like staying. Belonging. Being more than shadow."
He said nothing. But she saw the faint rise and fall of his chest, slow and steady.
She pressed closer.
"I want you, Chu Fang."
Silence stretched again. Then—
"I know," he said quietly.
Nyra looked away. "And Raiya?"
"She wants the same thing."
Nyra bared her teeth. "Will you make us fight for it?"
"No," he said firmly. "But I won't lie either — I care for you both. Differently. Deeply. This isn't about choosing one over the other."
"Then what is it?"
"It's about building something real. Not a harem. Not a war for affection. But a pride. A future. I won't force either of you to follow me. But if you do, then I'll carry the weight of what that means."
Nyra blinked.
The word pride lingered.
Not just a kingdom. A family.
It terrified her.
And thrilled her.
She looked into his eyes — not with lust, but with something rawer.
Hope.
"Then I choose you," she said, voice trembling for the first time. "Even if it breaks me."
Chu Fang leaned forward, and their foreheads touched — just for a second. Not a kiss. Not a claim.
But a beginning.
When she left, she didn't look back.
But she knew — she was no longer walking alone.