The sun hung low in the sky, draping the land in a gold-tinged hush. Nyira lay in the shade near the edge of the pride’s territory, her eyes half-lidded, tail flicking lazily over her paws. Yet her body felt strange—warm and aching, not with pain, but with something deeper. Something she couldn’t name.

Nearby, two older lionesses groomed each other slowly, their movements rhythmic, comforting. Nyira watched as one of them—a lioness named Marai—paused and gently licked the other’s belly, then purred with a mother’s softness. It stirred something in Nyira’s chest. She didn’t understand why until Marai spoke.

"The cubs move so early these days," Marai chuckled. "You’re only a moon or two in, and already they're kicking."

The other lioness smiled, her eyes glowing. Nyira’s ears flicked forward. Her gaze dropped to her own belly. Had she been eating more lately? Sleeping longer? She remembered feeling dizzy earlier, then the soft roll of something beneath her ribs just the night before. Could it be...?

She stood, uncertain. Her steps were light, but her thoughts heavy. She walked away from the grooming pair, moving deeper into the pride’s camp, searching for Zuribra.

He was lying beneath the old thorn tree, half-asleep, mane rippling slightly in the warm breeze. Nyira stopped in front of him.

"Zuribra."

He opened one eye. "Hm?"

She hesitated. "I think... I might be with cubs."

Both eyes snapped open. In an instant, Zuribra rose to his paws and stepped closer, his nose pressing softly to her belly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His deep purring rumbled through his chest, and then he nuzzled her neck, rough but warm.

"You’re sure?"

She gave a small nod. "Almost."

He licked her cheek, breath hot against her ear. "You’ve just made me the proudest lion in the grasslands."

But even in his joy, Nyira saw the flick of his tail—the way it lashed once, like a warning in the grass.

That night, under the cold stars, Zuribra called the pride together. His voice rang clear across the savanna.

"Kova," he called, loud and sharp, "you are not welcome here. Not anymore."

Kova slinked from the shadows, eyes gleaming like fireflies in the dark. "Brother..."

"Don’t ‘brother’ me," Zuribra growled. "You trespassed. You crossed a line. You’ve been warned before. This time, you don’t walk back in. You walk out—and if you come back, I won’t be speaking next time."

Kova's face twisted, not in fear, but in knowing. "Then I will leave... for now."

Nyira’s eyes met his as he turned. That riddle-smile lingered on his face, the kind that meant secrets still curled under his tongue. But he left.

Zuribra stayed standing until the wind swallowed the last trace of Kova’s scent. Then he walked to Nyira’s side and rested his head against hers. Her body still trembled. His breath was calm.

"You're safe now."

But neither of them said aloud what hung between them: that safety had a cost.

And Kova had never left for good before.

Nyira lay beside Zuribra beneath the old thorn tree, listening to the wind rustle through the branches. The warmth of his mane brushed her cheek, his steady breathing calming the restless stir in her heart. Yet beneath it all, her mind turned, coiled like a viper under dry leaves.

She had wanted to believe the heat had simply blurred her memories. That it was Zuribra—always Zuribra—who had pressed against her that night beneath the Marula Tree. That his scent, his strength, his voice had guided her through the fog.

But the more time passed, the more the doubts returned.

Zuribra had never spoken of that night, not even when they mated again under the stars, and not when she told him of the cubs. He had smiled, roared, even gathered the lionesses to hunt in celebration—but he had never once claimed that first moment between them.

And Kova… Kova’s words haunted her.

"You smell like new life and night breeds..."
"My queen..."

Her belly stirred again, a faint flutter like grass catching the breeze. She lowered her head against Zuribra’s flank, eyes distant.

“Do you think... the cubs will look like you?” she asked softly, almost too softly.

Zuribra’s ear flicked. “Some might. Some might not. Cubs take what the first Hunter give them.” He didn’t sound worried.

Nyira forced a smile. “I hope they have your strength.”

“You already gave them yours,” he rumbled, licking her ear. “They’ll be unmatched.”

She wanted to believe him. Truly. She curled close, her eyes slipping shut.

Yet even as the darkness claimed her, she dreamed of amber eyes watching from the tall grass, of riddles whispered under her breath, of heat and shadows that moved like claws across her back.

And somewhere, far off beyond the safety of the pride’s circle, the Marula Tree stood—its wide branches cradling secrets, and the scent of a lion who had not truly left.

One of Shadow’s cubs—Kenna, a fierce little thing with bright gold fur and dark orange eyes—tumbled through the grass, her paws far too big for her body, but no less determined.

“Nyira! Nyira!” she pounced in a playful yelp, skidding to a halt just near Nyira’s tail.

Nyira turned her head slowly, ears flicking with amusement, her whiskers twitching as she smirked. “What, little cub?”

“I caught a rhinoceros beetle!” Kenna purred proudly, puffing out her chest. Her tail stood tall, nose pointed straight to the sky as if she had just downed a buffalo calf.

Nyira let out a soft purr, tail flicking with mild interest. “Good. Continue like that and you’ll follow in Son Leeu’s pawsteps.”

Kenna tilted her head, curiosity blooming in her eyes. “Son Leeu? Who’s that? A big lion?”

Nyira chuckled, sweeping the little cub between her front paws, drawing her close until Kenna sat nestled in the curve of her chest. “Bigger than any lion you’ve ever seen. Son Leeu is the great Sun Lion—he who gave us fire in our blood, roar in our lungs, and strength in our bones.”

Kenna’s ears twitched. “Did he live in the sky?”

Nyira nodded, her gaze lifting toward the blazing morning sun as it crested higher above the grassland. “He still does. That’s him, there—see how he paints the world in gold? Every sunrise is Son Leeu waking, stretching his mane across the sky. His light tells the hunting lions to rise. His warmth tells the cubs to play. Without him, the world would be cold and full of shadows.”

Kenna followed her gaze with wide eyes, lifting her chin so far back she nearly toppled over. “Does he watch us all the time?”

“He does. And when you’re brave, and clever, and protect your pride, he roars with pride up in the sky.”

Kenna gave a little gasp. “Will he roar for me if I catch a lizard?”

Nyira licked the cub’s head. “He already is, little beetle-hunter.”

Kenna giggled, tail flicking excitedly as she wriggled free and bolted off again into the grass. “I’ll catch three! Maybe four!”

Nyira watched her go, her own tail curling around her side. Her eyes lingered on the sun, glowing strong in the blue sky. For a fleeting moment, the worries faded, washed away in the golden light of a small cub’s joy and the lore of lions that had shaped her since birth.

And somewhere in her heart, she hoped Son Leeu really did roar with pride—for Kenna... and maybe one day, for her cubs too.

The sun had climbed higher now, casting the grass in bright swathes of light and heat. Nyira stretched her limbs slowly, the warmth easing the soreness in her joints. She had barely risen when Zuribra padded over, his steps slow, deliberate. His mane caught the breeze, wild as always, but his eyes were soft when they found her.

“She’s a lively one,” he murmured, glancing toward where Kenna now pounced on a twig with fierce roars.

Nyira gave a purr of agreement. “She’ll grow into her fire well.”

Zuribra lowered himself beside her, close enough their shoulders touched. A pause settled between them before he finally spoke again.

“You tell such stories. About Son Leeu, Maan Leeu, and the old blood… but you’ve never said where you come from.”

Nyira didn’t answer right away. Her tail brushed gently over her paws as she looked out over the savanna. Then, slowly, she spoke.

“My mother was a wanderer,” she said. “Never belonged to a pride. She moved with the rains, followed the stars, made dens in thornbrush and hills.”

Zuribra nodded, watching her with that stillness he carried when he truly listened.

“My father…” her eyes flicked to the far tree line. “He was a pride lion. Strong, proud. His mane smelled like dust and old bones. But I followed my mother’s blood.”

Zuribra’s brow twitched. “Why?”

Nyira turned her head to him, her voice quiet but steady. “Because she kept her promises. She said we may not belong anywhere—but we would always have each other. And she meant it. She taught me to hunt, to track, to survive. She taught me to speak with the stars and feel the winds. She taught me not to trust lions who say one thing and do another.”

Zuribra’s ears turned slightly. He lowered his head, brushing his cheek lightly against hers. “Do you trust me?”

Nyira’s eyes didn’t waver. “You haven’t broken your word yet.”

He gave a low chuckle, warm and rich like distant thunder. “Then I’ll have to keep being careful.”

“You will,” she said, and this time, a rare smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. “Or Maan Leeu will know.”

Zuribra nuzzled her jaw with quiet affection, then rose to his paws. “Come. The herds have moved west. If we’re quick, we’ll catch them before the sun leans too far.”

As they walked together, side by side through the grass, the wind stirred around them—full of stories, of memory, and of bloodlines carried forward in pawprints across the earth.