Nightfall on the Savannah
Crickets hummed beneath the golden grass, and the cool wind rustled through dry acacia branches. Night had settled over the savanna, and the stars glimmered like ancient watchers in the sky.
Hssss…
In the distance, the low hiss of rolling tires broke the silence—metal machines cutting across the earth.
Leon lay in the tall grass, his golden fur dappled with dried blood and dust. His amber eyes gleamed faintly in the moonlight as he tracked the sound. About a hundred meters away, a rugged off-road vehicle rumbled past a dry riverbed. The smell of oil and sweat wafted faintly on the breeze.
He didn't move.
Didn't growl. Didn't stalk.
Just watched.
Even in this wild land, humans came and went—researchers, trackers, the occasional armed patrol. These weren't poachers. Not yet. And Leon had no intention of revealing himself unnecessarily.
He had once been human himself, though that memory now lingered like smoke on the wind—present, but fading.
A soft grunt sounded nearby. Leon flicked his ears and gave a low rumble through his throat.
From the brush, Bud emerged, shivering slightly. He'd been crouched there for hours, his thin body hidden in the grass, waiting for Leon's signal. As soon as the call came, he trotted over eagerly to the buffalo carcass lying in the dirt—its thick neck broken, ribs cracked open from Leon's earlier attack.
Bud buried his muzzle in the flesh, tail wagging low, too hungry to be careful.
Leon stood quietly nearby, his eyes scanning the grass. Satisfied there were no immediate threats, he dragged over two large thorn bushes, wedging them under the carcass to form a makeshift sled. It was the same trick he'd used before with smaller prey—but this buffalo was large, heavy with meat and bone.
Enough to feed them for days.
Even though lions could survive long stretches without food, if there was meat, it was best to eat. Especially for his younger sister Leonia, whose growing body needed strength daily.
Leon had grown since the last hunt.
Not luck but through blood. Battle. Survival.
His limbs felt stronger. His jaws could now crush through thick hide. When he'd pounced earlier, the force of his impact had cracked bone.
His shoulder stood nearly as tall as his father's now.
After confirming the area was safe, Leon growled low at Bud.
The younger lion looked up, muzzle dripping red, and let out a soft whimper of contentment. Then he obediently moved to help, lowering his body to grip the dragging end of the carcass. Together, they began the slow pull back toward their den.
But death calls death.
They hadn't gone far before the scent of blood called others.
Three lions slinked from the tall grass—two lionesses and a dark-maned male. Their eyes gleamed, their bodies tense.
Not from Leon's pride.
Scavengers.
Leon stopped, his tail swaying low behind him, his body half-crouched. He let out a deep, vibrating growl that made Bud stiffen beside him.
The male from the rival group stepped forward. Older. Scarred. But not foolish.
He sniffed the air, eyes flicking from the buffalo carcass to Leon's bloody maw.
He hesitated.
Leon didn't blink.
With a snort, the male backed away, calling the lionesses with a flick of his tail. They melted back into the grass.
Bud exhaled, ears flicking nervously.
The message was clear: Leon wasn't worth dying over.
They resumed dragging the carcass, one step at a time, until the familiar scent of home hit their noses.
The den was nestled beneath a cluster of boulders beside a dried creekbed, protected by stone and shadow. As they approached, Leon spotted a large figure pacing atop a flat rock—his father, Leonard.
Leon dropped the buffalo and bounded up the rock, letting out a low, proud roar.
Leonard paused, turning his head.
The green glint in his eyes sharpened.
Leon?
A flicker of relief passed over the older lion's face. He had noticed their absence earlier and had been prowling, tail twitching, restless.
Food was scarce this season. And danger came in all forms.
Now, as he padded forward and saw the dried blood on his son's fur, his hackles rose.
Had Leon been wounded?
With a sharp growl, Leonard leapt from the rock and trotted forward.
Leon stood firm, posture calm.
His father sniffed his fur, then began licking at it roughly, checking for wounds, blood, weakness.
But something wasn't right.
Leonard paused, nose twitching.
This blood… it wasn't Leon's.
Leon let out a low chuff and turned his head toward Bud, who was still dragging the buffalo alone.
Leonard's gaze followed—and stopped cold.
The carcass was huge.
A full-grown buffalo bull.
The elder lion blinked, then slowly approached, lowering his head to sniff.
The scent was unmistakable.
Leon had brought down this beast.
A few weeks ago, he'd barely taken down rabbits. Now, he dragged home a creature even Leonard would think twice about challenging.
And Leon… was bigger now. Broader at the shoulders. His gait is more confident.
Without speaking, without challenge, the message was clear.
He had changed.
Leonard didn't growl. Didn't scold.
He simply turned and walked back into the shadows.
That night, the pride feasted.
Even the youngest, Leonia, licked warm meat from the bones.
But Leon didn't eat first.
He sat nearby, eyes on the stars, blood still drying on his fur.
The change had begun.
Not through magic.
Not through some alien system.
But through claw, and fang, and blood.
Through the ancient fire in his veins.
He was Leonidas—the son of god—and the path ahead would be carved by his own strength.