The rain poured relentlessly, soaking the jungle floor into a mess of slick, heavy mud. Baby Leo, barely three months out of the womb, hesitated at the edge of the clearing. His tiny paws sank into the muck, trembling not just from cold but fear. His mother, a powerful lioness named Nyira, had already crossed half the swamp, her golden fur streaked with brown sludge, her eyes fierce.
“Move!” she growled, voice sharp as thunder cracking overhead.
Leo whimpered, taking one tentative step—and then froze again.
Nyira’s patience snapped.
With a sudden bound, she stormed back through the mire, snatched him by the scruff, and dragged him forward. Mud splashed as his small body flailed, legs scrambling for traction. He cried out, not in pain but in sheer confusion. Why was she so angry?
Because he didn’t listen.
Because danger lurked behind hesitation.
Nyira wasn’t just teaching him to walk—she was teaching him to survive.
When they reached the other side, she dropped him roughly. Leo tumbled into a puddle, panting, coated in muck. She loomed over him, her massive frame silhouetted by stormlight, and gave him one solid swat—not to harm, but to make a point.
“You follow,” she hissed.
Leo looked up, wide-eyed, ears flat. He understood. The jungle had no place for the slow or the timid.
He stood.
Nyira turned, satisfied, and disappeared into the underbrush.
This time, Leo followed.
