Siro tasted blood for the first time during play.
Not from a kill. Not from prey. From Claw's ear.
She'd struck first — fast, sudden, her paw cutting through the dust like a snake — and Siro had spun, slipped past Tajo's flank, and bit her back, just beneath the rim of the ear.
She didn't yelp.
She turned. Struck again.
The den had become a battlefield.
Not a bloody one — not yet — but every stretch of earth was contested. Every teat, every inch of Mara's shadow, every fallen feather or dry bone carried meaning. Claw took the high ground — a flat rock near the entrance. Tajo claimed the right side of their mother's ribs, always feeding from the same two teats, daring anyone to take them.
Siro didn't claim anything.
He moved. Waited. Watched.
That morning, a piece of antelope skin lay in the dust near the back of the den — leftover from Mara's last kill. Tajo dragged it away like treasure, growling if Claw got near. He gnawed at it as if it were fresh, chewing and chewing like he understood what lions were supposed to do.
"Stupid," Siro thought. He chews for show.
Claw didn't challenge him. She circled. Sat. Watched.
Siro joined her.
They sat in silence, side by side, eyes on Tajo's gnawing frenzy.
He pretended not to see them.
Siro leaned close to Claw's ear. Not a whisper — lions don't whisper. But a breath.
"He can't hold it all night."
Claw's tail flicked once. Agreement.
They didn't attack.
They waited.
That night, Mara left again.
There was no ceremony to it. She simply rose, yawned, stretched — and stepped into the grass. Her golden hide vanished in the tall blades like a ghost slipping into dream.
Siro watched her go with a numb heart.
He wasn't sad anymore.
He was calculating.
How long will she be gone this time?Will the rogue come back?Will that new male return?Will Tajo try to take the whole den again?
He looked over.
Tajo was asleep. Loud. Legs sprawled.
Claw was awake.
Watching him.
Siro stood and padded toward her. No growl. No invitation.
They sat in the center of the den, facing each other. Their breath puffed soft clouds into the cold night air.
He nudged her shoulder.
She struck his nose.
He recoiled. She crouched. Smiled — in that lion way, the lip twitch that means try again.
So he did.
The dance began.
Not a fight — not yet.
A test.
Paws struck.
Teeth snapped.
They moved like smoke and heat, slinking, pouncing, dodging, circling again. Tajo grumbled in his sleep, then rolled over, unaware.
Claw lunged — and Siro slipped under.
He caught her rear leg.
Bite. Twist.
She yowled — more in shock than pain.
But she didn't run.
She turned.
And struck him squarely in the mouth.
Blood.
It wasn't a lot. Just a thin taste.
But Siro stopped.
So did Claw.
They stood there, panting.
And then — they touched heads.
It wasn't affection. It wasn't love.
It was recognition.
Two wolves in the same skin. Two lions who understood that dominance wasn't a roar or a stolen teat.
It was timing. Precision.
It was restraint.
In the morning, Tajo was furious.
He saw the blood. Scented the bruises. The dance had happened without him.
He roared — as much as a cub can — and lunged for Claw. She dodged.
He turned toward Siro.
Siro didn't move.
He stared him down.
And when Tajo struck, it was messy — no grace, no rhythm. Just rage.
Siro let him come.
And then he used his weight — not against him, but with him. He rolled into the charge, turned his body, and slammed his shoulder into Tajo's side. The bigger cub stumbled.
And Claw was there, behind him.
She struck his hindleg.
Tajo yelped and fell.
He didn't fight them again that day.
He lay in the far corner of the den, licking himself, glaring.
The hierarchy had shifted.
Four Days Later
The cubs ventured outside.
Not far. Just to the entrance.
Mara was gone again. Siro could tell by her scent — it had cooled, thinned. No longer fresh. She'd gone to hunt at night, likely circling back toward the scorched western grounds where the impala sometimes returned.
Tajo was the first to step out.
Always trying to reclaim power through boldness.
Claw followed.
Siro hesitated.
Not from fear.
From awareness.
The sun was hot again. The ash had thinned, and green shoots were returning to the edges of the black field. Insects swarmed the air in tight spirals. Above, vultures circled something — distant, but recent.
Claw sniffed at a small beetle. Batted it once. Ate it.
Tajo chased a grasshopper, failed to catch it, then pretended he wasn't trying.
Siro walked to a flat patch of earth and lay down.
And watched.
The world was too large for them.
And something was wrong with the wind.
It tasted… sweet.
Decay.
Something had died nearby.
He looked at his siblings.
Tajo, proudly patrolling the mound like a juvenile king.
Claw, sitting just beneath the den lip, her fur catching sunlight like molten bronze.
Siro had no pride.
No joy.
Only the certainty that they were prey right now.
Soft things in the open.
If a hyena pack passed…
If the rogue returned…
If the vultures called something hungry closer…
They would not survive.
He stood and returned to the den.
Claw followed.
Tajo stayed.
Half an hour passed.
Mara returned.
She had meat. Her belly was full. Her tail swayed — relaxed. She saw Tajo sunning outside the den and purred low in approval.
Siro saw it.
A crack.
A weakness.
Mara valued boldness. Risk.
Siro would need to wear a mask.
That night, Siro waited until Claw was asleep.
He crept beside Mara.
Curled into her chest.
She licked his ear.
A rare gesture.
Reward.
He did not purr.
He only thought:
"One day, you'll be gone.He'll challenge me again.She'll choose a side.And I'll need to be more than fast.I'll need to be inevitable."
Later That Night
Siro dreamed of the fire again.
Only this time, it spoke.
Not in words.
In sound. Like breath dragged over bone. Like blood hitting stone.
He stood in the scorched field of his birth.
Alone.
And the sky opened above him — not in light.
In teeth.
He awoke growling.
Claw stirred beside him.
Tajo slept soundly.
And Siro understood: he was no longer a cub.
Not truly.
He was a lion becoming.
And when the time came, only one of them would wear the bloodmane.