Sand-colored fur shifted through the tall yellow grass. Amber eyes scanned the open savanna.
Claws already unsheathed. Tail held low. Body crouched close to the ground.
Nyira.
Just a few pounces away, a herd of zebras grazed quietly, unaware of her presence.
"Move with the wind. Make sure they can't smell you."
Her mother's voice echoed in her mind.
Nyira adjusted her position, creeping sideways through the grass.
The wind brushed her face now—good.
They wouldn't catch her scent.
She inched forward, muscles tense, each paw placed with slow, careful precision.
She was close. So close.
One wrong move and the zebras would scatter. But Nyira had hunted alone before. She knew how to be silent. She knew how to kill.
Nyira tensed her back legs, muscles coiled like springs.
She pounced.
A low growl ripped from her throat as she broke from the grass in a blur of sand-colored fur.
The zebras bolted—black and white streaks thundering across the savanna. Dust flew. Hooves pounded.
She chased, eyes locked on a young one falling behind.
Her claws tore at the earth.
Heart racing. Breath sharp.
She was fast. But so were they, The wind whipped past her ears as she ran her legs burned, Still, she pushed forward, gaining ground.
She leapt again this time her claws stretched, Almost there.
A growl escape her as she continue running, closing in on the zebra.
She leapt again, Claws stretched, forelegs stretch out as she let out a GRRRA. This time, she landed true.
Her weight slammed into the zebra's flank, knocking it off balance. It let out a sharp, panicked cry before crumpling beneath her.
Nyira sunk her teeth into its neck, holding on as it kicked once… twice…Then stilled.
The savanna quieted. Only the sound of her breathing—deep, heavy, victorious—remained.
She stood over the fresh kill, chest rising and falling. Her amber eyes scanned the horizon, sharp and proud.
Alone. But not weak. Blood stained her jaw as she lifted her head to the sky, tail flicking once behind her.
Her mother's voice echoed once more.
"You will bow to no one."
And she hadn't. Not to hunger. Not to the wild. Not to fear.
Nyira was no pride lioness. She was a hunter, a fighter—a queen in the making.
Midway through her meal, a familiar laugh echoed through the grass.
Nyira froze, her muscles tense. That laugh—she knew it too well.
A low growl rumbled from her throat as her amber eyes scanned the tall grass.
Six spotted hyenas emerged, grinning, their eyes gleaming with hunger.
They had caught the scent—blood, flesh, and fresh kill.
Nyira lifted her head and let out a deep, snarling "RRAAGRR!" Her claws unsheathed, her tail lashed in growing irritation. "Back off," she snarled, narrowing her eyes.
The hyenas crept closer, testing her. One bold female lunged for a leg, but Nyira stepped over the carcass protectively, swiping her paw in a warning strike. The hyena darted back with a yelp.
Another tried to circle behind her. Nyira didn't move—only turned her head slowly, eyes locked. She wasn't giving up this meal.
Another tried to flank her left side—Nyira twisted, roaring so loud birds scattered from nearby trees. Her eyes blazed gold with fury.
They thought she was alone. Weak. Just a lioness.
But she was Nyira. Rogue-born. Survival-scarred.
Two more charged at once. She dropped into a crouch and met them head-on, slamming her shoulder into one, knocking it aside. The other bit at her hind leg—its teeth scraped her skin, but she turned and sank her fangs into its scruff, shaking hard. Blood filled her mouth, hot and bitter.
The hyena yelped and scrambled away.
Breathing hard, Nyira stood over the carcass again. Blood matted her fur, but her stance never wavered.
The pack hesitated.
One of them barked a warning—then, slowly, they began to back away, whining and snarling, watching her with narrowed eyes. They would not forget this.
Nyira stood tall, chest heaving, tail lashing.
"You'll get nothing from me," she whispered.
As the hyenas faded into the grass, she lowered herself to eat again, wincing from the bite, but victorious.
She was alone—but she had won.
She tore into the zebra once more, the warmth of fresh meat grounding her. Blood slicked her tongue, but she didn't stop. Her breaths came quick and sharp, each one edged with pain from the bite on her leg, but she didn't flinch.
Pain meant she was alive.
Pain meant she had survived.
The grass rustled again.
Nyira's ears flicked, head lifting. But it was only the wind.
Still, she didn't let her guard drop. Not entirely.
Hyenas wouldn't forget. They never did. One day they might come back with more—stronger, hungrier. But she would be stronger, too. She had to be.
She licked her paw and wiped the blood from her muzzle, her golden eyes hard with quiet resolve.
They think I'm just a lioness, she thought, her mother's voice echoing faintly in the wind. But I'm not just anything. I am Nyira.
A lone lioness. A rogue. A fighter.
The sky above her had turned orange with dusk. The shadows grew longer, stretching across the savanna like claws. The wind carried scents of dust and far-off prey—but no danger, not for now.
With her belly full and her victory claimed, Nyira stood and limped toward a small patch of brush. She would rest. Heal. Wait for the night to pass.
Tomorrow, she would hunt again.
Tomorrow, she would rise again.
Because she had no pride.
No protection.
Only herself.
But that had always been enough.
When done eating, Nyira got up, her muscles aching but strong. One round ear twitched as she trotted forward, leaving behind the stripped remains of the zebra. No real path lay before her. No scent trail. Just the wide savanna, endless and wild, stretching into forever.
That's why she loved being alone.
No pawsteps to follow.
No orders to obey.
No pride to hold her back.
Only the wind in her face, the sun on her fur, and the beat of her heart—steady and sure.
The grasses whispered around her, brushing against her sides. A bird took flight nearby, and she paused only a moment to glance at it before moving on. She didn't need to chase it. She wasn't starving anymore. Not today.
The wind shifted.
Nyira stopped.
She lifted her head, inhaling deeply through her nose. Her eyes narrowed. Something was watching her. Or had been. The scent was fading fast—but it had been there. Not hyena. Not lion either. Something else. Jackal, maybe.
She kept moving, but slower now, more alert. Ears pricked forward. Each step light and careful.
Rogue life was never quiet for long.
Even when there were no battles to fight… the world itself could be a battle. Against hunger. Against heat. Against the loneliness that sometimes crept in during long, silent nights.
But Nyira never let it win.
She crossed a shallow dry streambed, her paws kicking dust into the air. The wind shifted again, and with it came the soft, faint scent of rain. Far off. Maybe two nights away, if the sky didn't lie.
Good. She'd need water soon.
But not yet.
The sun sank lower behind her. Her shadow stretched long across the grass. She kept walking, not knowing where she was going—only knowing she had to keep moving.
Because stopping meant thinking. And thinking meant remembering. And she wasn't in the mood to remember right now.
She was nearly ready to find a place to rest—maybe under the low-hanging acacia she spotted in the distance—when a sound stopped her cold.
Snap.
Not the wind.
Not a bird.
Something heavier.
Nyira froze mid-step. Her ears turned sharply, muscles locking into place. The sound had come from behind her. Or maybe to the left. She couldn't tell.
She sniffed the air. Nothing new. Only the scent of grass and dust. And yet… her instincts screamed.
Silence now.
Too silent.
Even the cicadas had stopped singing.
She turned, slow and careful, her eyes scanning the tall grass, golden in the fading light. Her tail flicked once, tense and low. She crouched slightly, ready to spring forward—or spin and fight.
Nothing moved. Nothing appeared.
But she felt it.
Not hyena. Not jackal.
Something else. Something… wrong.
Her fur bristled along her spine, but she didn't run. She never ran.
After a moment, she straightened and gave a low growl—not loud enough to call attention, just enough to warn the wind.
Then, calm and cold, she turned her back on the silence and walked on.
Whatever it was could wait.
If it followed her… it would regret it.
She didn't realize she'd crossed the scent line until her paws stepped on grass that was flatter, more beaten down by heavy bodies and lazy sunbathing. The wind shifted—and that's when she smelled it.
Lion scent. Strong. Male.
Her ears flicked back.
She looked around. Nothing stood out at first, but the land felt different. Watched. Owned.
Pride territory.
Nyira narrowed her eyes, gaze flicking toward a nearby tree marked with old claw scores. She sniffed again. More than one male. Fresh. Within a day.
She should turn back.
But her paw kept moving forward.
Because rogues don't fear boundaries—they just read them carefully.
Still, her muscles stayed tense. She lowered her body slightly as she moved through the dry grass, more careful now. Her tail dragged low but steady. A flicker of memory—her mother's voice in the dark.
"If you smell pride—don't trust it. You're not one of them. Never will be."
Nyira gave a breathy snort. She wasn't here to belong.
She just wanted shade. Water. Silence.
Then she'd be gone.
Just passing through.
At least… that's what she told herself.