The sun rose lazily, spilling golden light over the cracked savanna earth. The heat of the day hadn't yet taken hold, and the breeze was soft—a rare kindness. Nyira stretched out beneath the shade of the thorn tree near the heart of the pride’s territory. Her amber eyes scanned the small bodies sprawled nearby: the cubs, all in varying stages of sleep or mischief. Kenna, ever adventurous, was pawing gently at a beetle while her younger sister dozed against Nyira’s side, her tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm.

The other lionesses were gone—off on a morning hunt while the air remained cool and the prey slow. It fell to Nyira today to watch over the little ones. She didn’t mind. Not really. The cubs were loud, exhausting, unpredictable, but there was a strange peace in caring for them, in feeling needed.

“Kenna,” she called softly as the older cub began to stalk the beetle into the thornbrush. “Stay close.”

The two-and-a-half-month-old cub pouted but returned, flopping dramatically against her sister and sending dust flying. Nyira huffed a laugh and groomed the top of Kenna’s head with a long, rasping lick. It was easy to forget the world when she was here—when tiny paws kneaded her side in sleep, when warm cub-fur nestled against her belly.

But not even this could fully distract her from the ache she carried in her chest.

Zuribra.

She dared a glance toward the western ridge where he often kept watch. He wasn’t there now—perhaps patrolling the southern border or simply giving the lionesses space. He did that sometimes. It was one of the things she loved about him. And love him she did, though she buried it deep beneath layers of pride and silence.

It wasn’t safe to love in a pride like theirs—not openly. Not when everything was balanced on tradition and expectation. Zuribra was the leader. She was just a lioness. Just another huntress. And yet…

He was always kindest to her.

Nyira had convinced herself for moons that what she felt was nothing. Respect. Trust. Familiarity from their shared past. But after last night—after the storm of memories that had returned to her, sharp and sudden—she knew the truth.

She had chosen him. Her body had chosen him long before her mind dared to follow.

A soft mewling sound drew her out of her thoughts. One of the younger cubs—barely out of the den—was trying to stand, wobbly and unsure. Nyira rose and padded over, gently nudging him upright.

"You’ll be strong," she murmured, her voice soft as feathers. "Stronger than you know."

The cub blinked up at her, trusting, unafraid. Her heart clenched.

She settled beside the little ones again. Kenna rolled onto her back and batted lazily at Nyira’s tail. Her sister nuzzled deeper against Nyira’s belly, seeking warmth and comfort. A few of the older cubs from Rae’s and Shadow’s litters chased each other in wide circles nearby, practicing pounces and mock-battles.

She watched them with a distant smile.

The pride’s future lay in these tiny, playful bodies. And maybe, just maybe, her future did too.

Because if she was honest with herself—truly honest—she knew the truth that had been simmering in her belly like coals. These cubs, these young lives, this peace—it made her long for more. A future not only shaped by survival, but by something quieter. Deeper.

Love.

Her ears twitched. Soft pawsteps behind her.

She didn’t have to turn to know it was him. She could feel his presence before he spoke.

“Everything quiet?” Zuribra’s voice was low, warm like the earth beneath her paws.

“Yes.” She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. “They’ve been calm this morning.”

He stepped beside her. Close, but not too close. The cubs barely noticed him—used to his scent, his looming frame, his protective shadow.

“They sleep easier near you,” he said.

She let the silence stretch.

“They trust me,” she replied. “I’m always here.”

Zuribra’s gaze shifted to the horizon, then down to the cubs curled around her legs. “And if I asked you to always be here—not just for them, but for me?”

Her breath caught. She turned to look at him.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t tease. He simply watched her with those deep gold eyes, unflinching.

“Zuribra…” she whispered.

“I know,” he said. “I know it’s complicated. I know you’ve hidden it. But I see it, Nyira. I’ve always seen it. And I won’t force it. I just want you to know—you’re not alone in it.”

The ache in her chest cracked. Warmth spilled out.

She looked down at Kenna, now asleep again, then at Zuribra.

“You remember that night?” she asked softly. “The night by the clearing?”

He nodded once.

“I never forgot,” she said. “I only convinced myself I had.”

Zuribra’s gaze softened. “Then let’s not pretend anymore.”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t look away either.

The cubs stirred, and she leaned down, brushing her nose against the smallest one’s fur. Zuribra lay beside her then, not touching, just near enough for his warmth to reach her.

And as the sun rose higher over the plains, Nyira allowed herself—for just this morning—to feel it.

Love.

Real and silent and steady, like the earth.

And she didn’t push it away.

The night was warm, thick with the scent of dry grass and stars. Nyira lay beneath the thorn tree, the cubs nestled against her flank, breathing softly in sleep. Even Zuribra had retreated to the western ridge, giving the pride a moment of calm.

But Nyira couldn’t sleep.

Her eyes were open, fixed on the sky—on the dark places between the stars, where memories lurked like ghosts. For days now, something had been clawing at the edge of her thoughts. A half-formed memory. A feeling she couldn’t name.

And tonight, it surfaced.

It started with a scent.

A wild, heady scent. The memory of heat—of her body burning, her mind cloudy with instinct. The dry season had just begun to wane when she went into her first heat. She’d fled the pride lands, needing space. Wind. Silence.

But someone had followed her.

She remembered the way he stepped into the clearing, slow and quiet. How his mane wasn’t full yet, how he spoke in low tones. “You’re far from the others,” he had said.

She hadn’t answered. Her body had been too loud, her thoughts hazy. He didn’t come too close—not at first. “Do you want me to go?” he’d asked. And her voice—young, unsure—had said, “No.”

He stepped closer. The rest unfolded in touches and warmth. She had believed she’d chosen. That she had sensed something honest in him. That it had been—

Nyira’s eyes widened.

Her stomach dropped.

It hadn’t been Zuribra.

Her breath caught in her throat as the memory sharpened like claws unsheathed. The shape of him. The scent. The mane that had been just starting to grow in—rough and uneven. The voice, slightly deeper, more practiced than she’d remembered.

Her body had chosen someone, yes.

But her mind had been tricked.

It was Kova.

Kova had followed her that night.

Kova had waited in the darkness and taken the place of the lion she thought she wanted.

She sat up abruptly, her chest tight. The cubs stirred lightly beside her, but she didn’t feel them. Her heart pounded, her thoughts racing.

It had been Kova.

Not Zuribra.

Not the gentle, quiet warmth she had told herself she remembered—but the lion who had circled her for moons, pressing, flattering, hungering for power. The one who had always spoken of legacy. Of strong cubs.

The one she had feared.

Her mouth went dry. Her body trembled.

She had been in heat. Vulnerable. Clouded.

And Kova had waited until she couldn’t tell the difference.

He had taken what wasn’t his to take.

“Why didn’t I see it?” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “Why didn’t I know?”

“I wondered if you ever would,” came a voice behind her.

She turned. Zuribra stood there in the dark, golden eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. His face was calm, but heavy. Sad.

“You knew,” she said, her voice brittle.

He nodded once. “I suspected. After that night… the way Kova walked. The scent on him. I should have stopped him. I should have followed you.”

Nyira’s throat burned. “You didn’t.”

“No.” His voice was full of guilt. “And I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

She rose to her feet, unsteady. Her body still remembered warmth, a choice. But now, it was ash.

“I thought I had chosen,” she said, voice shaking. “But I was just a prize to him. A legacy. He didn’t ask. He just took.”

Zuribra stepped forward, then paused. “You weren’t to blame.”

“I should have known,” she hissed, pain rising like a wave.

“No,” he said, more firmly. “You were in heat. That’s why he waited. He knew you’d be confused. He planned it.”

Nyira turned away, shoulders stiff. “And the cubs…”

“They’re yours,” Zuribra said quietly. “Only yours. Whatever blood they carry, they’re yours. And mine to protect—if you’ll let me.”

She closed her eyes.

Everything had changed.

She remembered now. All of it. And it hurt more than forgetting ever did.

But she was not broken.

She turned to face Zuribra, jaw set. “Then protect us. But not because you feel sorry. Because you want to stand with me.”

“I do,” he said. “I always have.”

And in the silence that followed, beneath the pale moon and a sky full of stars, Nyira did not cry.

She simply stood—taller, colder—and began to burn.