The dry season crept in slow and silent, like a stalking lion through the grass. The golden savanna shimmered with heat, and the wind carried the dust of cracked earth and old bones.

Nyira moved through the underbrush with a practiced grace. Her heat had passed days ago, leaving her body calm but her thoughts storming. Each day brought her deeper into the pride’s rhythm—grooming, patrolling, sharing in the hunt. She laughed now and then. She slept easier.

But the shadow of something not-quite-right always followed her.

And lately… it had a voice.

The sun hung low in the sky, washing the savanna in orange-gold as the pride settled near the tall grasses for rest. Nyira had dragged a chunk of meat from the latest hunt farther away from the others, wanting space.

She’d been uneasy since the last heat haze left her. Not in her body—but in her mind.

Zuribra had been quieter, though still close. The flirtation between them returned, but he no longer touched her the same way. Something in his scent was… restrained. And then there was Kova.

She felt it each time the wind shifted. His scent—faintly coppery, darker than Zuribra’s—lingered like the coolness of early night.

"Evening suits you, Queen of the Marula Tree," came a voice from the tall grass.

Nyira spun, her ears sharp, tail lashing. Kova emerged slowly, his dark-golden coat catching the last light. His green-gold eyes glimmered, unreadable.

"I'm not your queen," Nyira said, her voice flat, but her muscles tensed under her skin.

Kova tilted his head, walking in a wide arc around her, as if sizing her up.

"You smell like new life and night breeds,” he murmured, almost as if to himself. “Like something old has awakened inside you."

Nyira’s ears flicked, a chill crawling down her spine. "What are you talking about?"

He paused just behind her, too close. "You don’t remember? No… perhaps it’s better that way."

She turned sharply, growling. “Back. Off.”

Kova only laughed softly. "You didn’t say that last time. Under the Marula Tree."

Nyira froze. Her pupils narrowed. Her breath hitched—but only for a second. She snapped her teeth. "You weren’t there."

Kova gave no answer. He just smiled. A smile not warm. Not kind. A lion’s grin with nothing behind it but teeth and shadow.

He stepped back into the brush, his voice low and sing-song:
"Can’t wait to see you again, my queen... when the moon rides high and your tail curls with longing."

Later that night, Nyira lay curled near the base of the tree where the pride slept. Zuribra had gone out on patrol again—something he’d been doing more and more.

Nyira’s eyes opened slowly to the night above. She could hear the breathing of the lionesses. The occasional snort of a cub. But her thoughts were not at rest.

What did Kova mean?
Why did he speak like he knew her body—like he’d been there?

She remembered that night vaguely. The haze. The scent. The weight pressing her into the earth.

She had believed—no, she had wanted to believe—it was Zuribra.

But Zuribra never mentioned it again. He didn’t even tease her about it. That wasn’t like him.

Nyira got up quietly and padded away from the sleeping pride. She sat beneath the Marula Tree, staring up at its thick branches twisting toward the sky. The memory tugged at her, bits and fragments, scent and breath and the scrape of teeth.

Later that day, as the pride gathered beneath the acacia trees for shade, Zuribra led a patrol toward the west boundary. Nyira offered to go too, but he had gently nudged her away with a puff of breath against her shoulder. “Rest today. You’ve earned it.”

So she stayed.

But Kova did too.

He paced the edges of the pride like a circling jackal, never quite in or out. The lionesses kept their distance. Only the cubs were too young to sense the rot behind his charming mask. One even climbed over his tail; Kova let it. But when Shadow called the cub away, Nyira caught the flicker of something cruel in his smile.

He came to sit near her that evening as the sun bled across the sky.

“Your scent has changed, little moon. You smell like new life and night breeds.”

Nyira froze.

The wind gusted. Her heart dropped.

“New life…?” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Haven’t you wondered?” he tilted his head, eyes gleaming, “Why your dreams are full of teeth and warmth? Why you ache in your belly not from hunger, but from… becoming?”

Her mind screamed to not understand—but it did.

That night.

The marula tree.

She remembered the feel of fangs against her neck. Of being held down by strong forelegs. Of being claimed.

She had thought—

She had wanted to believe it was Zuribra.

She had never asked. Never questioned.

Nyira stayed beneath the Marula Tree long after the moon had climbed high. The air was cool, but not enough to chase away the heat rising under her skin—not the kind from the season, but something else. Something crawling beneath her fur, something not right.

She rolled onto her side, eyes fixed on the stars.

She should have been sleeping. She should have been resting after the hunt and heat and exhaustion, after Zuribra's closeness… but her mind wouldn't stop. It clawed at the strange words Kova whispered like thornbush seeds stuck between her toes.

"You smell like new life and night breeds."
"You didn’t say that last time."
"Under the Marula Tree."

She had remembered the weight.
She had remembered the breath on her neck.
The low moan.
The scrape of teeth.

She had believed… she had wanted to believe it was Zuribra.

But if it wasn’t?

Her chest tightened. Her claws dug into the dirt. Her ears flattened as the world tilted slightly beneath her.

She remembered what her mother used to say in low voices when other lionesses weren’t listening.

"If you wake under the wrong tail, daughter, let the moon lion guide your heart back."

She had thought it was just a story.

Now she wasn't so sure.

Morning came too slowly. She had returned to the pride before dawn but hadn’t slept. Not truly. Her body rested. Her mind paced.

Zuribra wasn’t there.

But Kova was.

He lay under a patch of shade near the outskirts of the pride's chosen resting ground. One of the younger lionesses — Skina — was stretched out near him, laughing at something he murmured.

His eyes flicked to Nyira as if pulled. Not by accident. Not by curiosity.

By possession.

Nyira’s skin itched with fury.

She turned away.

Later, as the sun reached its peak and the lions retreated to shade, Zuribra returned from patrol. Dust clung to his legs. His mane shimmered with sweat and sun.

Nyira padded toward him, slowly, steadily.

“Long patrol?” she asked, voice low.

Zuribra gave a soft grunt, then shook his mane, eyes meeting hers. “Farther than I meant to. The scent of strangers near the northern border.” A pause. “What kept you up last night?”

Nyira froze—just slightly. Her whiskers twitched. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Zuribra stepped closer. “You came back smelling like fear.”

She didn't answer. Not right away. Then: “Do you think Kova is strange?”

Zuribra paused. His expression didn’t shift, but his eyes narrowed a fraction. “He’s my brother.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Zuribra looked away. “He walks the line between clever and… something darker.”

Nyira stared at him. “And you let him stay?”

Zuribra gave a long sigh, shoulders rolling in frustration. “We’re pride lions. Blood matters more than we like.”

Nyira’s throat burned. “What if blood rots?”

He didn’t answer that.

But when he looked back at her, something in his gaze softened. “You don’t have to stay near him.”

She leaned in just slightly, voice a whisper. “He said I smelled like new life.”

Zuribra’s ears flicked. His jaw worked.

“That’s just something Kova says,” he muttered.

Nyira looked at him then. Really looked. The hesitation. The twitch of his tail. The shift of his paws. He knew something.

She stepped back. “Do you think I smell like new life?”

Zuribra didn’t answer. He simply watched her walk away.

She walked past the kill without looking at it. Her belly ached, not with hunger, but with the slow blooming sickness of doubt.

Behind her, she caught the tail-end of a whisper.

“She’s playing Zuribra. She wants the throne, not the pride.”

Another voice, quieter, but sharper:
“She’ll run when the cubs come. Just like a rogue.”

Nyira didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t snarl. Didn’t whip around.

But the words stuck to her ribs like burrs.

She padded to the edge of the camp where the grass grew higher, where no one would follow, and lay down in a patch of thorn-shadow. Not quite outcast. Not quite home.

Her ears flattened.

Maybe I should have run…

She didn’t go back for meat.
Didn’t answer Zuribra’s low call when he passed near the dens.

That night, she ate alone.

That night, Nyira curled beneath a thicket near the pride, unable to bear the open tree or the closeness of others. Her thoughts were sharp, circling, too fast to rest. Her body… felt strange again. A pressure low in her belly. A tingling in her flanks.

Kova's voice haunted her:
"You didn’t say no last time."
"You moaned for the sun lion, but it was the shadow you welcomed."

She hissed to herself, curling tighter.

But deep inside her, the first truth had already begun to bloom.

Something was changing.

And it had nothing to do with heat.

Nyira caught Zuribra by the riverbank the next evening, his reflection rippling beside hers.

"You didn’t tell me the truth," she said.

Zuribra didn't turn to look at her. "About what?"

"Kova. He’s not part of this pride, is he?"

A long silence.

Then, slowly, Zuribra said, “No. He’s not.”

Nyira’s breath caught. “But you said—”

“I said he was my brother,” Zuribra interrupted, voice hard. “I never said he was welcome.”

Nyira took a step back, claws kneading the soil. “Then why is he here?”

Zuribra’s jaw tightened. “Because I haven’t found the right moment to drive him out. Because he came back with honey in his mouth and poison in his eyes. Because once before, I spared him... and it cost lives.”

Nyira’s ears pinned back.

Zuribra finally turned to face her.

“I should have told you the moment he crossed into our land. I thought maybe this time—” He stopped himself, growling low. “But now... now I think he’s done something unforgivable.”