The heat drove Nyira from the pride's sleeping space. The restless pull inside her had only worsened with the moon's rise, becoming a dull ache threaded through her spine, in her belly, in her breath. She hated it. Hated how weak it made her feel. How exposed.

The Marula Tree rose in the distance like a shadow of a dream—broad, ancient, its thick branches curved out like reaching arms. The pride often gathered beneath it during the dry season. It smelled of old sun, bark, and lion.

Tonight, it was empty.

Cool wind danced through its leaves. The moonlight bathed the ground in silver.

Nyira lay down beneath it, panting lightly. She pressed her cheek to the roots, trying to ground herself. Her mind buzzed, but her body moved on instinct, half asleep, half on fire. The heat was becoming a storm inside her skin.

She heard pawsteps.

Familiar. Strong.

The heat fogged her senses.

She didn’t lift her head, but her body recognized the presence—Zuribra. It had to be. His scent. That warmth. The way her skin reacted. He had come back early, maybe—come back to her.

She let out a soft chuff.

No words.

She didn’t need them.

The lion nuzzled her neck, deep and slow, and her body welcomed him without protest. She arched toward him, lost in the primal rhythm of her instincts. She was dizzy with the rush, every nerve alive with need, with relief. It felt right.

Felt like him.

But somewhere—just somewhere—something was off. A flicker in the scent. A sound she couldn’t place. A shift in weight that wasn’t quite Zuribra.

But it was too late to stop it.

Everything crashed around her—heat, pain, pleasure, confusion.

And when it was over, the lion left her side without a word.

Vanished into the night like a ghost.

Nyira lay still under the Marula Tree, body trembling, heart slow and confused. 

The warmth still clung to her skin like the fading scent of a kill.

Nyira could feel it even now—the phantom of him. Zuribra, or… who she believed had been Zuribra. The heavy press of a broad chest against her back, the rasping lick at her neck, a bite—firm but grounding. Dominant. Familiar. His front paws braced on either side of her, tail twined briefly with her own like a silent promise.

She’d given herself over, helpless beneath the pull of her heat, her instincts clawing louder than reason. In that moment, nothing else had mattered. Not who, not where—only the sensation, only the ache that had been quieted for a breath of time.

Her ears twitched at the sound of wind.

Nyira opened her eyes slowly.

The world was beginning to stir. The horizon bled gold and scarlet, the sky catching fire with dawn. It painted the savanna in warm, soft light—like someone had dragged a lion’s mane across the sky.

Her mother used to say that the Sun Lion rose each morning to burn away the darkness. That when the world turned red and gold, it was his paws brushing the clouds aside so his pride could see their way.

She closed her eyes again, breathing through her nose, tasting the scents of the waking land.

And beneath the earth, the bark of the Marula Tree still held his scent.

Zuribra.

She wanted to believe it was him.

Needed to believe it.

Because if it wasn’t, if it had been someone else—someone who had taken advantage of her confusion, her weakness...

Her claws dug silently into the dirt, barely making a sound.

She rolled onto her side, tail twitching, then curled in tighter beneath the Marula’s wide roots. 

She huffed, trying to ignore the sticky ache still deep in her limbs and the confusion gnawing behind her eyes.

Then—thump. A tiny paw pressed against her back.

Then another. Small, warm weights pressing down her flank as if she were a rock to be climbed.

Her ears flicked back in annoyance.

Flap. Flap.

Then—

“Agh!” she spun around with a growl, fur bristling, tail yanked back from a set of tiny teeth. Her claws were out before she could think, ready to strike—

But what met her eyes was not danger.

Two lion cubs. One standing stiff-legged, mouth open in a half-snarl, the other staring up at her wide-eyed with a small growl that sounded more like a cough.

She blinked.

"What in the maan leeu," she grunted, irritation twitching her whiskers.

The cubs were barely a moon old. All fluff and boldness.

She leaned in, sniffing them both.

“Pride-born,” she muttered. “They smell like… Eastern Pride.” Her tail lashed once, then stilled.

One of them batted at her leg.

Nyira narrowed her eyes, then reached down, took the scruff of the bolder one in her jaws, and lifted him easily.

She turned her amber gaze on the other. “Follow.”

She started walking, cub dangling from her mouth like a rabbit. The other stumbled after her with a squeak and a stubby-tailed wiggle.

The heat still clung to her. Her body felt heavy and too warm, but she moved steadily, one ear flicked back to catch every little sound, the other turned forward.

When she broke through the golden grass and into the open clearing where the pride rested, the lionesses stirred.

Zuribra was lying beneath the Marula, head down, eyes closed.

But she saw his ears shift.

His nose twitch.

He wasn’t sleeping.

Of course he’s not, she thought with a small snort.

A dark brown lioness padded forward from the cluster of bodies—broad-shouldered, with a low belly and heavy-lidded golden eyes.

“My cubs,” she said, voice rough with breath but calm with certainty.

Nyira placed the cub down gently.

The lioness—Shadow, Nyira now remembered—stepped closer, gave her a look that wasn’t quite gratitude, wasn’t quite inspection.

Then she pressed her cheek to Nyira’s in silent thanks before nudging her cubs toward her side and walking away.

Nyira stood there for a moment longer, her gaze drifting back to Zuribra.

Still still.

Still pretending.

She flicked her tail once, eyes narrowing, before turning her back on him and padding toward the edge of the shade.

She didn't trust silence. Not when it followed her like a shadow.

The sun had dropped low, turning the savanna gold and blood-red. The pride was settling—stomachs full, paws stretched, bodies draped over one another in lazy evening heat.

Nyira sat alone near the outer ring of resting lions, her body coiled like a spring, tail flicking in slow rhythm.

She didn’t look up when she heard him return.

But her ears twitched.

Zuribra’s pawsteps were heavier than usual, dust clinging to his legs. He passed a few lionesses who greeted him with soft puffs, but his path curved straight toward her.

He didn’t speak—just sat beside her, close but not pressing. His presence thickened the air, like heat before a storm.

She kept her eyes forward. “You smell like elephant dung.”

Zuribra let out a low chuff. “It rained near the watering hole. Got stuck in the mud.”

“You always find the messiest parts of the territory?”

He leaned his shoulder against hers—slow, deliberate. Warm.

“You miss me?” he asked, voice rough.

She huffed, whiskers twitching. “I miss silence.”

His tail flicked up, brushing lightly beneath her chin. She batted it away with a growl that wasn’t quite angry. Zuribra shifted his weight and bumped her with his flank—solid and warm. A playful push. A test.

She bumped back. Harder.

He let out a soft purr and rolled onto his side, stretching out, mane brushing her shoulder. His head turned, green eyes half-lidded.

“You smell different,” he murmured.

Her muscles stiffened. “Heat does that.”

Zuribra nosed at her neck, just once. Not deep. Not demanding. Just… familiar.

“You still smell like Nyira,” he said, almost like a secret.

She stared at him, something tight and confusing building behind her ribs. “What if I don’t know who that is anymore?”

Zuribra nudged her paw with his own. “Then I’ll remind you.”

He stood, tail flicking her flank on purpose this time, and padded slowly toward the brush beyond the pride’s edge.

Nyira watched him go, her ears pinned in thought. Then, without a word, she stood and followed—just a few tail-lengths behind.

Not too close.

Not too far.

But following.

Just enough.

After they lay side by side, Nyira softly press against him, as he curl around her

But sleep didn’t come easy that night. But she fell asleep, nose bruised under a paw.

Nyira’s eyes snapped open to darkness.

The moon was high now, casting long shadows over the clearing. Most of the pride was asleep—soft breathing, slow twitches, occasional chuffs of dreaming cubs.

But something pulled at her.

A scent.

She lifted her head, blinking slowly.

Plum. Dust. And something sharp beneath it.

It wasn’t Zuribra’s scent. Not exactly.

Her pulse quickened. She rose silently and padded to the edge of the clearing, her steps careful. The grasses hissed and shifted around her like whispers.

She sniffed the wind again.

It was faint—faint, but there.

She followed it toward the Marula Tree, each step guided more by instinct than thought. The clearing was empty, ghostly in silver moonlight.

And then she saw it.

A patch of grass—flattened, like something heavy had rested there not long ago.

And on the bark of the Marula, just above one of the gnarled roots—

A claw mark.

One deep groove, fresh, carved into the wood.

Too fresh.

Her ears flicked back.

Nyira turned sharply and padded back to the pride, her breath tight in her throat. She didn’t wait for morning.

She found Zuribra lying near the inner ring of the pride, one eye half-open as if he never fully slept.

“I smelled something,” she said lowly. “Plum. Dust. And I found a claw mark at the tree.”

Zuribra sat up, frowning. “A claw mark?”

She nodded. “And crushed grass.”

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze searching hers. Then—

“You’re smelling shadows, Nyira.”

He said it gently, but it cut sharper than if he’d roared.

Nyira stared at him. She couldn’t decide if it hurt more because he didn’t believe her—or because he did and was afraid to admit it.

She backed away without another word, retreating to her resting spot alone, the wind stirring around her like ghosts.

And far in the distance, just beyond the rise of the hills, the scent still lingered.

Not gone.

Not yet.