Nyira walked into the pride clearing with a low huff, her amber eyes scanning the brush for shade. She spotted three lionesses resting beneath the wide arms of a thorn bush—Hunter, Shadow, and the elder, Mirembe.
They were grooming one another, sun-warmed bodies curled like old roots, tongues rasping across fur in slow, familiar motions. Their voices carried in soft murmurs: talk of the wind, cubs, prey trails, and border threats.
"Sharing tongues."
That's what they called it.
Zuribra had explained it once—ritual grooming, a bonding act. He'd told her gently, "If you want to be accepted, Nyira, you might try it. It shows trust."
Nyira's tail-tip twitched.
She watched from a distance as Hunter, her sun-brown body stretched luxuriously on her side, sighed beneath Mirembe's practiced licks. The elder's tongue moved with the care of an old mother—deliberate, slow, wise.
Nyira hesitated.
Then she trotted forward, trying to hold her head level. Not too proud. Not too low. Neutral, maybe.
The moment she crossed the shade line, all three lionesses froze.
Eyes snapped to her. Ears flattened. Tails curled tight.
Shadow's teeth glinted as she bared them with a soft growl. Her coat, a deep, earthy brown—neither gold nor black—shimmered in the shadow, and Nyira understood then how she earned her name.
Nyira slowed to a stop.
"Go away, rogue," Hunter snarled, her tail flicking behind her in sharp irritation. She shifted, half-rising in a tense crouch, as if preparing to lunge or bolt. "This is pride tradition. You don't belong in it."
Nyira's own claws slid from their sheaths, quiet but clear. "Zuribra said I was a guest. I'm to be treated like one of you." Her voice was tight, cold, but not loud. She wouldn't roar—not here.
A rasp of laughter broke the tension.
Mirembe.
The elder didn't lift her head, but her whiskers twitched with dry amusement. "Zuribra may call you a guest," she said slowly, her voice cracked but strong, "but a rogue will always put herself before the pride. Why should we treat you as one of our own?"
Her eyes flicked up to meet Nyira's—and though the words were sharp, something in that gaze wasn't pure hatred.
It was caution. Memory. Maybe even a challenge.
Nyira stood there a moment longer, breathing slow through her nose, ears flicking in irritation. Then she turned sharply and walked away, her tail held just high enough to show she wasn't cowed.
But the whisper of their voices followed her.
And they stung.
Nyira hadn't made it far before Mirembe's voice drifted after her like a thorn caught in the wind.
"She's still a rogue. A threat."
The words weren't shouted. They weren't even meant to sting.
But they did.
Nyira's ears flattened. Her tail lashed once behind her before falling still. She didn't turn around. She didn't give them the satisfaction.
The savanna opened wide ahead of her. The grass rolled like the sea, golden and dry. She needed space. Air. Something to bleed the heat behind her eyes.
Without a word to anyone—not even Zuribra—Nyira slipped through the tall grass and disappeared beyond the pride's main den. She moved like a shadow, quick and low, her pawsteps silent.
She found herself near the southern edge of the territory, where acacia trees leaned low and scattered prey trails crisscrossed the dirt. A herd of impala grazed near a gully, twitching their ears, flicking flies.
Nyira dropped into a crouch.
Her lean belly brushed the earth, her body taut with practiced muscle and instinct. Muscles coiled beneath her shoulders, years of rogue training pulsing in her limbs. Her breath came slow and deep. She remembered her mother's voice, sharp as a thorn:
"Don't wait for permission. Hunt like your life depends on it—because it always does."
Nyira crept forward. One of the impala lifted its head, sniffing the breeze. She froze. Wind in her face. Good. They wouldn't smell her.
She counted three… four… five of them. One limping, hanging back.
Her target.
She darted forward, fast as a flash.
The herd burst apart like thunder.
She chased the weak one, claws shredding grass. Her heart roared. Her blood sang. This—this was what she knew. This was survival.
She leapt.
Her claws sank into the impala's flank. She bit deep, held tight. It struggled, cried out, then fell hard in a cloud of dust. Nyira rode it down with a snarl, panting, blood hot in her mouth.
The impala stilled.
Silence returned.
Nyira stood over her kill, chest heaving. The grass around her bent in waves, whispering nothing.
No pride. No celebration. No sisters to praise her.
Just blood and breath and empty space.
She sat beside it, licking her paw, then dragging it slowly over her muzzle. Her ear flicked as flies gathered. The impala's warmth faded beneath her.
She was used to eating alone.
She always had been.
And yet now… she hated it.
The wind shifted behind her. She didn't look back—but her muscles tensed.
Was it Zuribra? A lioness? Or just the savanna watching?
She didn't know. But she took another bite of the kill, slower now.
They could whisper. They could glare.
But they would never take her claws.
The sun had begun to fall, bleeding gold and crimson across the sky. Long shadows stretched across the clearing as the pride began to settle for the evening—lionesses lounging near the dens, cubs tumbling like dust-kicked leaves, and Zuribra resting beneath the Marula tree, his eyes half-lidded but never unaware.
Nyira padded into the clearing without a sound.
Blood clung to the fur around her muzzle and paws—drying now, darkening. Her body moved with quiet purpose, her belly low, her shoulders proud. She carried nothing but herself. She needed nothing more.
A few heads turned. Eyes followed her as she walk
No one spoke.
Not Hunter.
Not Shadow.
Not even Mirembe.
Not the other lioness that look on form shadows and rock. But their eyes follow, tail flickering, ears laying back.
She saw the moment they noticed the blood on her muzzle, dried in dark streaks around her mouth, staining the fur of her chest and forelegs. They knew what it meant. A solo kill. A rogue's hunt.
A challenge, perhaps.
Her steps didn't falter.
Not when she passed the old sun-bleached log where the lionesses often slept.
Not when she passed the cubs, who quieted for just a second before returning to their games.
Not even when her eyes met Zuribra's.
He was lying under the shade of the Marula tree, his mane glowing like polished bronze in the fading light. His green eyes followed her without expression—steady, silent, searching.
She looked back at him, but only for a moment. There was nothing to say.
She gave a flick of her tail—not quite a greeting, not quite dismissal—and walked past him toward the far edge of the clearing.
She didn't need the shade.
She didn't need the comfort.
She needed space.
By the bones of an old tree, where the earth sloped slightly and the grass grew wild, she finally stopped. She lowered herself with the quiet groan of tired limbs and curled her body slowly, careful of the weight she carried. Her belly, rounded with life, pressed gently into the soil.
A breeze lifted her mane, and she closed her eyes for a moment.
She felt the distant ache in her jaw from the kill. The quiet tremble in her paws from the sprint. The pulse of her cubs within her—strong, steady, real.
She was not proud. She was not weak. She was simply there.
Alive.
She began to clean the blood from her fur, slowly licking each paw, dragging her tongue over her shoulder, her chest, her side. No one came to help her. No one offered soft words or a shared tongue.
That was fine. It had always been fine.
But as she licked, her ears twitched to the sound of the other lionesses—laughing softly now, talking, grooming again. Their tails brushed together. A cub nuzzled against Hunter's flank. Shadow yawned with her teeth bared and relaxed beside her sister.
They weren't being cruel. They weren't being kind.
They just weren't including her.
She paused mid-grooming, her tongue stilled against her foreleg. The air was thick with heat and dust and the low hum of a life that kept moving—with or without her.
They think I'm still a rogue, she thought. Maybe I am.
She lay down fully then, resting her head on her paw, ears angled just enough to listen. Her eyes remained half-lidded, pretending to drift, pretending not to care.
But inside, something coiled tight in her chest. Not grief. Not fury. Something heavier.
Still outside. And still… standing.