The savanna was silent but alive—humming with crickets and the distant call of a lone owl. The moon had dipped lower now, washing the world in cold silver. Wind tugged at the grass like invisible paws chasing prey. And atop the hill, the silence broke with a snarl.

“Tell me the truth.”

Her voice cracked like lightning. Nyira’s claws bit the earth as she stalked into view. Her body moved with purpose, her breath sharp and labored, but her eyes—amber, bright, furious—burned hotter than ever.

Kova turned his head, slowly. He didn’t rise from where he lay at the edge of the hill, overlooking the vast eastern territory. His mane was tousled by the breeze, and his silhouette was stone-carved in moonlight.

“I knew you’d come back,” he said.

“I said—” Nyira stepped closer, her teeth bared “—tell me. The truth. No more riddles. No more games.”

Kova exhaled through his nose, calm in contrast to the storm she carried.

“You already know.”

“I want to hear it from your mouth,” she hissed. Her tail lashed behind her, belly taut beneath her fur. One of the cubs inside her kicked, but she barely felt it through the heat in her blood.

Kova stood slowly, towering in the moonlight. But Nyira didn’t back down. Her ears were forward, chest rising, claws flexed.

He studied her face, then said softly, “Why now?”

“Because I can’t sleep without hearing your voice in my head,” she snapped. “Because I dream of you on nights I wish I didn’t. Because this hill won’t let me forget what happened here.”

She paused, breathing ragged. “Because they’re growing stronger… and they’ll be born soon. And I need to know who they’ll look like.”

Kova stepped forward once. “You need to know if you should hate me… or mourn me.”

Nyira flinched. Just slightly. But it was enough for Kova to see.

His voice dropped. “It was one night. Beneath that tree. But it was real.”

“You snuck in,” she growled. “You stole that from me.”

“I came because you whispered my name in your sleep,” he said. “I came because you were the one who couldn’t stop looking back after I was exiled. You think I didn’t see you, pacing the grass near the old den? You think I didn’t feel it—every time your scent drifted too far from the others?”

He stepped closer, now only tail-lengths between them.

“You didn’t push me away that night, Nyira. You reached for me.”

She swallowed. “I wasn’t in my right mind.”

“You were more yourself than I’ve ever seen,” he said. “You were free. You were wild. And you were mine.”

Her breath caught, fury shifting to something more fragile in her eyes.

“No one can know,” she whispered.

“They don’t have to.”

“But the cubs—”

“They’ll be strong,” he said. “Like you.”

Nyira’s voice dropped to a raw whisper. “I’m not ready.”

“You are,” he said, stepping even closer. “You’re more than ready.”

Her eyes closed for a heartbeat, body tense, torn between fire and fear. Then she shook her head.

“They’ll ask. The pride. Who the father is. They’ll see.”

Kova leaned in, voice quiet and sure.

“Then tell them the truth.”

She looked up, startled.

He didn’t look away. “Tell them the truth, or don’t. But either way… they’ll have my eyes.”

Silence. A wind swept across the hill, stirring the grass into waves. Nyira stared at him, eyes wide and unreadable.

The moon shifted behind a thin cloud, casting shadows across Kova’s face.

And in her belly, the cubs kicked again—twice, like a signal.

The hill was empty when the first light crept across the horizon.

Nyira sat there alone, her sand-colored fur turned silver-blue by dawn’s hush. The grass around her bent with the wind, whispering as if still keeping secrets. The warmth of Kova’s presence had vanished with the stars, but the ache in her chest lingered. His final words echoed in her ears like a mark left on her skin.

They’ll have my eyes.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, unmoving, just watching the sun climb. Only when her belly shifted again—another small nudge from within—did she sigh and rise to her paws. Her bones felt heavy, and her heart heavier still.

As she made her way down the hill, the air began to warm, filling with the gentle rustle of waking birds and the distant yawns of lions still stretching in the shade. She kept her head low, not yet ready for the eyes of others.

But one gaze found her anyway.

Near the old log by the resting rocks, the elder lioness, Mirembe, was already up—grooming her chest fur with slow, deliberate strokes. Her muzzle was grayed, her body thin from age, but her eyes were wise, sharp, and kind.

Nyira hesitated. Mirembe said nothing, only flicked her tail once in silent invitation.

Nyira padded over, and without a word, settled beside her. The two of them sat quietly for a while. Then, gently, Mirembe leaned in and began to groom behind Nyira’s ear—slow, careful licks that spoke more of comfort than ritual.

Nyira exhaled, relaxing under the elder’s touch.

“You didn’t sleep,” Mirembe murmured after a while.

“No,” Nyira answered softly.

“Something’s troubling your bones.”

Nyira didn’t answer at first. But Mirembe waited, the way elders do—patient as the land.

Finally, Nyira spoke, her voice hushed. “I dreamed I was a cub again. My mother was grooming me like this. And the moon was full. She told me to follow the wind and listen for what the stars don’t say.”

Mirembe smiled faintly. “A wise mother.”

“I didn’t understand her then,” Nyira added.

“You will. Soon.”

Another pause. Then Mirembe shifted, looking at her from the corner of her eye.

“You’re far along now. Two and a half moons?”

Nyira nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Mirembe resumed grooming. “It won’t be long.”

A silence fell between them again, this one heavier, full of what had not yet been said. Nyira felt her chest tighten. Then, softly:

“Mirembe… where do lionesses give birth?”

The elder stilled her tongue mid-lick, then slowly sat back.

“Not here.”

Nyira blinked. “Not… in the pride?”

Mirembe shook her head gently. “Not unless they have no choice. It’s tradition—and safety. A mother leaves when the time comes. Finds a quiet place. Alone. Far from the dens. Far from noise.”

Nyira’s ears tilted back. “Alone?”

“It’s the way of our kind,” Mirembe said, voice low. “The first moments of a cub’s life belong to silence and scent. Not the roar of the pride. Not even the father’s shadow. Just mother and cub. Just breath and blood.”

Nyira stared at the ground. “But what if something happens? What if I—what if they—”

“You’ll be fine,” Mirembe said gently. “You’re strong. You were born for this.”

Nyira’s tail curled close around her.

“I don’t know where to go.”

“You will,” Mirembe assured. “The land will call you. You’ll feel it in your paws, in your bones. When it’s time, you’ll know.”

The wind tugged softly at Nyira’s fur.

“Did you ever leave?” she asked.

“I did,” Mirembe whispered. “Twice. And both times I came back with my heart full.”

They sat in silence again, but it was a different kind now. Not heavy. Not dark. It was soft. Shared.

Mirembe leaned in, brushing her nose against Nyira’s cheek. “When the time comes, don’t be afraid to follow the wind.”

Nyira gave a small nod, her gaze drifting toward the eastern hills. Toward the wild grass. The unknown.

And somewhere in her mind, she saw amber eyes in the dark.

They’ll have my eyes.

She exhaled slowly. Then closed her own.

The sky had turned the color of old embers—deep orange fading to violet—as the last light of day kissed the savanna’s brow. The pride had settled in for the night, drowsy with warmth and the hum of insects. Nyira stood alone just beyond the outer ring of the resting lions, her body silhouetted against the tall grass that whispered her name.

Her belly was low now, round and full with life. The time had come.

She looked back once—at the slumbering forms of her kin, the elders curled near the cubs, the mothers dozing with their tails over their noses. A quiet peace she was about to step away from.

A pawstep behind her made her ears twitch. She didn’t turn. She already knew it was him.

Zuribra stood just behind her shoulder, his broad frame calm, dark mane lifted gently by the wind. He didn’t speak at first. Neither did she.

Finally, she whispered, “You followed me.”

“I always do,” he said.

She turned to look at him then. His eyes, deep brown with threads of gold, searched hers with something like sadness—or perhaps understanding.

“I didn’t want to leave like a shadow,” she said. “You deserved more than silence.”

Zuribra stepped closer, brushing his head gently against hers. “You didn’t have to say anything. I knew.”

Nyira’s breath caught. “How long?”

“A while,” he murmured. “You were never mine, not really. Not like that.”

She lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He smiled faintly, not with bitterness, but something older. “You’ve always belonged to the wind.”

She pressed her forehead to his chest for a brief, aching heartbeat. “You were kind to me. More than I ever asked for.”

Zuribra’s rumbling voice was low now, almost swallowed by the grass. “Then remember that kindness when the night grows long and the pain comes. You won’t be alone in spirit. I’ll be waiting for your return. No matter how long.”

Her eyes burned. “Thank you.”

He nosed her cheek, warm and gentle. “Go now. Before I beg you to stay.”

She lingered one moment more, then turned, walking into the tall grass, her figure bathed in moonlight. She didn’t look back—not because she didn’t care, but because it hurt too much.

And Zuribra stood still as stone, watching her vanish like mist, his expression unreadable but proud.

She was gone by the time the stars claimed the sky.

And the savanna was quiet once more.