The sun was cruel that morning.
Not in heat — though it baked the grass to silver blades and cracked the soil into dying mosaics — but in brightness. It poured into the shallow den through the half-collapsed entrance, no longer blocked by Mara's bulk or shade. The fire weeks before had burned away much of the overgrowth, and now the cubs were exposed — to sight, to air, to sound.
And Siro could feel it.
The world was growing bigger.
Wider.
More dangerous.
He lay against the warm curve of Mara's ribs, watching his siblings sleep. His sister's legs twitched in her dreams. Tajo, the biggest now, snored through a half-swollen nose — a wound from their last fight, which Siro had won by drawing blood behind the ear with his budding teeth.
They were still barely the size of jackrabbit kits, but already the games had changed. The stakes had risen.
Teeth.
Milk wasn't just survival now. It was a contest.
There were four teats, but only three cubs remained. And Tajo wanted all of them.
Mara stirred, and the den hushed.
Even Tajo paused mid-snore, opening one golden eye. They all knew what movement from her meant now: she might rise. She might feed.
Or… she might leave again.
Her ribs were visible, her belly sunken. The fire had burned the herds away, and what prey remained was lean, fast, and far. When she returned, it was always with blood on her fur — sometimes fresh meat, sometimes just stains.
And sometimes… she came back with nothing.
Siro had started tracking the sounds of her return — the shuffle of paws, the flutter of dust, the particular gasp she made when she came home hurt.
Today, she rose slowly, stretching one leg at a time. Her muscles rippled beneath a skin pulled too tight.
No food this time.
Just silence.
Tajo moved first. He was bold now. Confident in his size. He shoved past Siro and the sister — her name hadn't been given; Siro thought of her as Claw, because she never bit — only struck.
Tajo lunged for the upper left teat. Claw went low, curling like a hyena pup at the belly. Siro hesitated.
He watched them.
Tajo snapped. Claw struck. The rhythm of their motion played out like a dance Siro had seen a hundred times, and always — always — they made the same mistake.
They fought while drinking.
And they didn't watch the other teats.
Siro moved soundlessly, slipping beneath Mara's front leg, and latched onto the lower right teat. He drank deeply, uninterrupted.
Mara didn't react. She only lay there, eyes half-closed, chest rising and falling like distant drums.
But he saw it — just for a moment — the flicker of an ear. Her nostrils flared. She smelled the blood in Tajo's spit. The bruises along Claw's side.
And something in her approved.
Not love. Not pride.
But perhaps acknowledgment.
An hour passed. The cubs fed, fought, and settled again, bellies round. Dust danced in the slats of light above. Siro curled against his sister this time — she always ran hotter, and her purrs soothed his racing thoughts.
Tajo remained across the den, licking at his paw like he was king.
Siro watched him.
He didn't hate his brother.
He didn't love him either.
He simply understood him — and knew that one day, they'd fight to the death. Not because they wanted to.
But because they must.
That afternoon, the world changed.
It started with a sound.
A low huff just outside the den.
Siro bolted upright. Claw hissed. Tajo jumped to his feet, already mimicking the postures he'd seen their mother use — tail up, shoulders high, mouth open.
But it wasn't Mara.
The scent was wrong.
Old fur. Male.
A lion.
All three cubs pressed into the back of the den.
Then — a growl.
Low. Ancient. Like stone splitting under heat.
The lion stepped in.
Not the rogue from before.
Bigger. Older. Covered in scars and dried blood. One eye was milky white. His mane was patchy and grey, like storm clouds frozen in place.
He looked at them, but not into them.
He didn't snarl.
He just watched.
And Siro felt it in his bones: this lion was not here to kill.
Not yet.
The male grunted and sniffed. Then he turned and left, a rasp of paw against stone.
Silence fell again.
It was Claw who moved first, slowly, trembling, toward the mouth of the den.
Siro followed. So did Tajo, trying to pretend he wasn't afraid.
They peered outside.
No lion. Just tracks in the ash. Leading east.
A warning. A presence. A shadow cast before the fall.
Mara returned an hour later.
She smelled him before she saw them.
She rushed into the den, sniffing each cub, her tail lashing. Siro felt her heart pounding through her ribs.
She pressed her nose against his skull. Growled.
A moment passed.
Then she moved to block the entrance with her body.
She didn't speak. She didn't purr.
She simply lay there, staring into the darkness beyond.
Waiting.
That night, thunder rolled across the southern hills.
No rain fell.
Just wind.
And in the distance, Siro heard a lion roar.
Not his father.
Not the rogue.
Someone new.
And the sound wasn't dominance.
It was claim.
A voice saying: I am here. I smell you. And I will come again.
Siro curled between his siblings, head resting on Claw's back.
He watched Mara's tail twitch, her body coiled like a spring.
And for the first time since the fire, he felt the old fear return — not of dying.
But of being forgotten.