The morning sun painted the plains gold, soft winds rippling across the grasses like breath. Birds chirped in the distance, and the pride began to stir—stretching, yawning, grooming. But beneath the old thorn tree, Nyira lay still, her sides gently rising and falling, the curve of her belly more visible now. She was just over two and a half moons into her pregnancy, and the weight of it sat not only in her body—but deep in her heart.

Across from her, Asha sat—barely more than a yearling, with wide eyes and ears too big for her head. Curious. Observant. Just on the edge of becoming a huntress, just beginning to see the cracks in the world.

“Why do the others treat you like you’re… above them?” Asha asked suddenly. “Even the older lionesses. Even Zuribra.”

Nyira chuckled softly, but there was no amusement in it. “They don’t. Not really.”

Asha tilted her head. “They do. They lower their heads. They listen when you speak. You’re just a lioness like the rest of us, aren’t you?”

Nyira looked at her, her gaze sharp, thoughtful. She shifted slightly, wincing as the cubs inside her pressed awkwardly against her ribs.

Then she said, “Sisi ni sawa.”

Asha blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It means ‘we are the same.’” Nyira’s voice was quiet, but steady. “You and me. The same blood. The same strength. The same right to stand beneath the sky.”

Asha’s brow furrowed. “But you’re having cubs. Important cubs. You’re Zuribra’s—”

Nyira’s voice snapped, not loud, but cold enough to silence the air between them. “I am no one’s possession.”

Asha flinched, eyes wide, but Nyira softened just slightly, her tail curling protectively around her side.

“I carry cubs, yes. That doesn’t make me better—or safe. Sometimes it makes me a target. Sometimes it means I carry not just life, but memory. And not all memories are kind.”

Asha stared at her, uncertain. “But… I thought you chose him.”

Nyira looked away, her jaw tight. The light breeze caught her mane, rustling it like dry leaves.

“I thought I did too.”

The silence that followed was heavy, humming with the weight of things unsaid.

Asha shifted her paws. “Is it true… what they say? That Kova—”

Nyira’s eyes snapped back to her. “That’s not for them to say. Or for you to repeat.”

Asha swallowed, but nodded. “Sorry.”

Nyira leaned forward slightly. “One day, you’ll stand where I am. Maybe not with cubs. Maybe not under this tree. But in a place where your past and your future demand answers at the same time. And when that day comes, remember this—sisi ni sawa. No matter what they call you. No matter what they expect of you. You are still you. That matters more than any legacy they try to give you.”

Asha’s eyes shone, wide with understanding, even if the full meaning hadn’t settled in her bones yet.

Then Nyira slowly rose to her paws, her legs shaky beneath her swelling belly.

“I’m going to the river,” she said. “Tell Zuribra, if he comes looking.”

“Should I come with—?”

“No,” Nyira interrupted. “Sometimes… a lioness needs to walk alone.”

She padded away, each step slow but steady, her silhouette strong against the early light.

But in her chest, the storm still churned.

Because the cubs inside her were waking with kicks.

And every step toward the water felt like walking closer to a truth she couldn’t escape.

As Nyira moved through the tall grass, the blades brushed against her belly, whispering like spirits. Her ears stood forward, alert to every sound; her tail hung low, swaying like a weighted pendulum of thought.

Above her, the sky was endless and cold, the stars blinking like the eyes of ancestors.

She paused.

Lifted her gaze.

Then, quietly—gruff and reverent—she muttered to the moon:
"Moeder, maanleeu. Waak oor die trots, oor my. Gee my welpies 'n sterk siel en lewe, asseblief."

The words tasted old and powerful in her throat. Ancient Afrikaans her mother had whispered during nights of thunder and fear. She grunted at the sky, a lioness’s prayer wrapped in wild roots and dust.

The river came into view, its waters silver under the moonlight. She shook her head to clear her thoughts and lowered it to drink.

And that’s when her cubs kicked—hard—beneath her ribs.

She grunted softly, placing a paw to her side.

But then…

A scent.

Wild plums.
Storm winds.
Fire and memory.

Her head snapped up.

Every hair along her spine lifted.

A growl rolled low in her throat.
"My queen..."
The breeze whispered it. She didn’t.
The land did.
The savanna knew.

Her paws began to move before her mind caught up. She padded toward the scent, then trotted. Faster. Her tail lashed. Her amber eyes burned with something ancient—**rage, clarity, love, pain—**it all coiled together into purpose.

Under the moon, her sand-colored coat looked almost white, ghostlike. The old scar on her shoulder gleamed like a warrior’s badge, carved not by fate, but choice.

She crested the ridge—and froze.

There he was.

Kova.

Perched on the hill like a phantom, his dark mane rippling in the wind. Watching. Waiting. Exactly where she knew he’d be—where he always waited when he wanted to be found.

He turned slowly, his eyes catching the moonlight, glowing like embers.

A purr rumbled in his throat, low and thick.

"You came, my beautiful rogue queen."

His voice was velvet draped over claws.

Atop the hill, the wind howled like a wounded beast. The stars above were sharp and cold, and the grasses below whispered with secrets too old to name.

Nyira stood facing him—her tail low, but her stance strong. The moonlight painted her sand-colored coat silver, her scar catching the light like a jagged mark of fate. Her belly, heavy with unborn cubs, rose and fell as she breathed, steady but sharp.

Kova stood several tail-lengths away, watching her. His mane rippled in the wind like a lion caught between king and storm.

“You came,” he said, voice like rough stone. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

Nyira’s eyes glinted. “I shouldn’t have.”

He took a step forward. She didn’t move, but her eyes narrowed.

“You’ve avoided me for moons,” he said. “But still, you followed the scent.”

“I followed the wind,” she snapped. “It brought me here. That’s all.”

Kova’s gaze dropped to her swollen sides for only a moment. When he looked back up, something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

“They're close,” he said. “The cubs.”

A beat of silence passed. Nyira's claws flexed against the ground. “Don’t speak of them,” she warned, her voice low and dangerous. “They are mine. Not yours. Not anyone’s.”

“No one knows who the father is,” he said, voice dipping lower. “You never said.”

“And I won’t,” she growled. “Let the wind carry the truth or bury it. Either way, it’s not yours to speak.”

Kova’s tail lashed once, agitation slipping through his mask.

“Is it shame that silences you?” he asked. “Or regret?”

Nyira’s ears flattened. She stepped forward—not close enough to touch, but enough to make Kova’s muscles twitch.

“I don’t regret anything,” she said. “Except coming here.”

For a moment, it seemed the world held its breath.

Then—

Crunch.

A pawstep behind them. Grass parting. A presence too curious, too young to know better.

Kenna.

The young lioness stood at the edge of the hilltop, wide-eyed. “Nyira? What are you doing up here—?”

Nyira’s head turned sharply, a snarl half-formed in her throat. Kenna froze.

She had come too close. Too soon.

The spell broke.

Nyira turned without a word, her muscles rippling as she moved past the startled lioness. Her breath was tight, her face unreadable.

“Nyira—wait—” Kenna called after her.

But the older lioness was already gone, swallowed by the grass, the moonlight chasing her back toward the heart of the pride.

Kova remained where he was, unmoving. Watching the place she had vanished with eyes that burned.

Kenna approached him slowly, confused. “Was that… about the cubs?”

Kova didn’t look at her. His tail lashed once behind him.

“No,” he said, voice empty. “That was about power.”

And far below, the savanna stirred.