Nyira lay stretched across a sun-warmed rock, her lean body pressed into the heated stone, one paw raised lazily to groom behind her ear. The hum of insects filled the dry air. The golden light painted her fur like sand polished by fire.
But her tail flicked with irritation. Not at the flies.
At the words.
The ones whispered when they thought she wasn't listening.
The glances, the way lionesses shifted away from her in the shade.
"She doesn't belong."
"She hunts like a loner."
"Zuribra only protects her because—"
She didn't need to hear the rest. She'd heard enough.
Zuribra had tried to reassure her earlier, voice calm, trying to hold peace like it was a fresh kill and not something constantly slipping from his jaws.
"They just need time. They'll see you belong."
She wanted to believe him.
But it felt hollow. Words made from clouds. Too soft to hold the truth.
Nyira huffed, dragging her tongue over her foreleg once more. She was just about to shift into a nap when her ears snapped forward.
A sound.
A sharp yelp.
Then—hissing grass.
Her paw froze mid-air.
Another cry—a high, panicked squeal. Soft, desperate.
A cub.
Nyira rose instantly. Her ears flicked forward, eyes narrowing as she scanned the tall grass. The scent hit her next—young, soft, still milky. A cub's scent. And not just any cub—Eastern Pride.
But no mother. No Zuribra. No adult.
She moved.
A blur of muscle and instinct, she bolted into the grass, her movements silent despite the speed. The grass parted like breath around her as she followed the yelping squeals, heart pounding.
And then—she saw it.
A tiny cub, maybe two moons old, tangled in a bend of grass, body low and eyes wide. Inches away—
A snake.
Coiled. Black-green. Its tongue flicked once, tasting the air. Its head poised to strike.
Nyira snarled.
She leapt, claws unsheathed.
With a roar that split the stillness, she slammed her paw down between the snake and the cub. The serpent reared, hissed, and struck—but her jaws were faster.
She grabbed it mid-lunge, clamping down just behind the head. The taste was bitter, coppery. She crushed it, shook hard once, and flung the body into the grass.
The cub squealed again, stumbling backwards and falling onto its side.
Nyira crouched low, panting once. Then gently—carefully—she nudged the cub with her nose.
Its small body trembled.
Still breathing.
Alive.
Her ears twitched, listening. No other pawsteps. No calls. No lioness searching in panic.
Was no one looking for this cub?
Nyira bent and picked the small ball of fur up by the scruff. The cub gave a faint, muffled squeak but didn't resist.
She turned and padded back toward the pride, her steps heavy but steady, her head held low to protect the cub.
As she reentered the clearing, several lionesses looked up.
Shadow stiffened, eyes narrowing.
Hunter rose to her paws, tail lashing.
Zuribra approached quickly from the edge of the brush, eyes flashing. "Nyira—what happened?"
Nyira laid the cub gently on the ground, her breath steady. "He was out near the southern trail. Alone. Snake almost got him."
Gasps followed her words. One lioness—the cub's mother—rushed forward, scooping her kit up in her jaws and backing away without a word. Her eyes met Nyira's, full of conflict. Gratitude. But also shame.
Zuribra looked at Nyira for a long, long moment. Not as king. Not as mate. Just as lion to lion.
Nyira turned away before he could speak.
She walked back toward her rock, slowly now. Her heartbeat had finally slowed. The blood from the snake flicked from her claws as she lay down again.
The pride returned to its rhythm, slowly, warily.
No one thanked her.
But no one looked at her the same.
The sun hung lower now, softening the heat with a warm orange haze. Nyira lay back on her rock, eyes half-closed, but her body remained alert—ears flicking at every sound, tail twitching now and then. She didn't expect thanks.
She didn't need it.
But she felt someone approaching, soft pawsteps. Not fast. Not heavy.
Wary.
She opened one eye.
The lioness stood just a few tail-lengths away. Fur dark gold, body tense, claws half-unsheathed. Her ears were tilted forward, alert—but not aggressive. Her cub lay tucked safely near a shaded bush behind her, dozing now.
Her voice came low. Rough with what almost sounded like… shame.
"You could've let him get bitten."
Nyira didn't move.
"Why didn't you?"
She lifted her head just a little and shrugged, casual, like it wasn't worth the weight of words.
"He's pride." Her gaze didn't waver.
"Isn't he?"
The lioness stared at her for a heartbeat too long.
Then she blinked, turned, and padded away—slowly, quietly. No thank you. No nod. But she didn't bare her teeth. Didn't growl.
And that meant something.
Nyira watched her go, then dropped her head back onto her paws.
A breeze stirred the clearing.
Later, when the lionesses returned from patrol—Mirembe, Hunter, and a few others—they passed by Nyira's spot. Still no words. Still no shared tongues.
But one tail brushed lightly against hers.
Then another.
Not accidents. Not friendship. Just… a pause. A flicker.
Not acceptance.
Not yet.
But the wall had cracked.
And Nyira didn't smile.
But she stayed.
The shadows had stretched long across the clearing by the time he approached her.
Nyira lay on her side atop the sun-warmed rock, grooming her foreleg, the snake blood finally cleaned from her claws. The breeze had softened, and the pride had gone still—mothers nursing, hunters resting, cubs dozing under their mothers' flanks.
She heard him before she saw him.
Heavy, deliberate pawsteps. A pause. Then his scent, all grass and dusk and power, washed over her like heat returning to stone.
Zuribra.
She didn't lift her head.
"You're not limping."
His voice rumbled low and even. Not praise. Not scolding.
Observation.
She flicked an ear. "It wasn't a hard fight. The snake was slow."
A pause. Then, "But you still ran straight into it."
"I smelled the cub," she said simply. "The cub mattered more."
He sat beside the rock, just close enough that his mane brushed the tall grass. The green in his eyes caught the light like river moss. "They'll remember what you did."
Nyira huffed. "They'll pretend they didn't."
Zuribra's whiskers twitched. "Some will. Mirembe won't."
She finally lifted her gaze to him—slow, deliberate. Their eyes met. Her amber to his deep green. Neither flinched.
"You act like you know them so well," she said, voice softer now, but not gentle.
"I lead them."
"That doesn't mean you understand them."
Zuribra didn't answer right away. Then his gaze shifted—lowered slightly. Not out of weakness, but thought.
"You're right," he admitted. "About some things."
Nyira blinked.
Then—quietly, like it slipped out without her meaning to—she asked, "And what am I wrong about?"
He looked at her again, and this time, he almost smiled. Just a twitch of one corner of his mouth, a subtle curve like a lion testing the air before a pounce.
"You think you're still on your own."
Nyira's ears angled back slightly. Not defensive—just uncertain.
"I've been on my own," she said. "Long enough to stop expecting anyone else."
Zuribra stood slowly, his body casting long shadows over the grass. He didn't come closer, didn't press. He only looked down at her, voice low.
"Then maybe it's time to stop expecting, and start deciding."
And with that, he turned, walking back toward the dens—his tail swaying behind him, confident, sure, but not smug.
Nyira didn't move for a while.
She lay there, heart beating slow but heavy, staring after him long after he was gone.
She didn't know if she was angry at his words—or grateful.
Maybe both.