The drums played as the kittens danced, their lanky shadows flickering rhythmically around the campfire. They had managed a safe return, and the hunt had been plenty. All was well. These were the moments that made her glad to be alive.

Their tribe numbered sixty-three, not including babes. According to tradition, a kitten was only counted among them once they earned their first scars and earned their name. This was for the best, as the number of younglings rose and fell so quickly that naming them only to watch them perish would bring nothing but heartache.

"Nice hunt today, Myrrha," Nya said, sneaking up behind her with two horns of bone wine in hand. Myrrha didn't flinch. Peace never dulled her instincts.

"It was a good hunt," Myrrha shrugged, her tone flat, though her tail perked at the sight of the brimming horn.

"It was a great hunt!” Nya insisted, “The matriarch said it was a bigger haul than your mother ever brought. Whatever doubts she had are gone."

Myrrha felt her tail almost curl at that, but she caught it just in time. It had been over a year, yet the memory of her mother still haunted her. She doubted that Nya or any of her friends would understand; to the tribe, what happened was as natural as the changing seasons: a daughter supplanting her mother, the young overtaking the old. But Myrrha didn’t feel the same, and she didn’t know why. But admitting that would be to show weakness, which brought her no comfort, and as much as she loved Nya, the second always had her eyes fixed on the first. So she bottled those feelings and perked her ears. "If tribe-mother says so," she nodded, taking another sip of her drink. It was sickeningly sweet and strong, but it did make whatever she was feeling go away.

The two continued to drink in comfortable silence, watching as some of the huntresses spun tall tales for the kittens around the campfire. Satha was among them, recounting her daring exploits in the hunt with great, if not entirely accurate, detail. The kittens gobbled it all up, jostling for a better view. Myrrha, however, could see that Satha was doing her best to hide her hunger; she would rather go without than be seen feeding on scraps, which Myrrha conceded was a wise choice. One's image seldom recovers from such a sight.

The sight of the kittens, however, stirred something within Myrrha, making her reluctant to be left alone with her thoughts. She turned to Nya, hoping to start a conversation, but she fell right into the trap of speaking what was on her mind. "How are your kittens?"

"Good, good. They are doing well. All named now, and I’m telling you: I think Thrawn is going to make it. Any band would be lucky to have him!" Nya beamed, her tail perking up. Myrrha could tell she believed it, but then again, so did every mother.

"Then why is he coming over here with his tail tucked between his legs?" Myrrha asked, raising an eyebrow as she spotted the very same boy approaching.

The change was instant: Nya's demeanor hardened, burying her initial pride. "What is it now?" she huffed, trying to sound aloof. But from behind, Myrrha could see her tail tense ever so slightly.

"Tyra stole from me! I found a shiny stick by the shore, and she took it!" the boy cried.

Nya squared her shoulders. "And what do you want me to do about it? If you want it that badly, go take it back from her! Otherwise, you were never meant to have it."

"But she’s using it! It’s not fair!" he stomped his foot.

"It’s a stick, Thrawn. Why do you even care about it? Go find another," Myrrha intervened, only to be hushed by Nya’s smoldering gaze. Myrrha may be the first in the hunt, but this was not her place, and Nya was borderline frightened when her children were involved.

“But-” Thrawn tried to argue, but Nya silenced him with a kick, sending him sprawling to the ground. “Power is will incarnate. Never forget that. Do you want the stick? Go get it! And don’t come back until you have it.”

The boy nodded, swallowing his tears before running back to where he came from. Myrrha waited until he was out of earshot, which took a while, before speaking.

"You are too hard on him."

"Not hard enough. He won’t stay a kitten forever, Myrrha. He will have to leave soon, and when he does, I intend for him to survive. You wouldn’t understand—you don’t have kittens."

No, she didn’t. The truth was that Myrrha still had too many unresolved feelings about motherhood to consider becoming a mother herself. That being said, motherhood wasn’t always a choice. She had endured the last mating season by sheer luck and force of will, but when heat came, it came. She wasn’t sure how many more seasons she could postpone bearing before the call grew too great. Seeing Nya with Thrawn made Myrrha think even more about her mother. It wasn’t just that Nya looked like her; she also had that same drive in her eyes, along with something more—something Myrrha couldn’t quite explain but dared to say was greater than strength.

She knew her peers would scoff at that notion; to them, strength was power, and power was everything, plain and simple. For the longest time, Myrrha had thought so too, until that night beneath that pale moon. Because it was not strength that triumphed that night when she challenged her mother. No one else saw it, but there was something odd about her that night. She knew her mother, she had been a huntress of their tribe for a decade, a victor of a hundred battles. Myrrha had seen her fight, she was like a raging storm: the fierceness, the ferocity, the drive. And yet, none of that was present that night.

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It gnawed at her: why did she do it? It’s not like her people were strangers to sacrifice—quite the opposite. She remembered how, back when she was still unnamed, a band attacked their tribe, and two huntresses threw themselves at the enemy, only to be torn apart, just to buy her a few moments more. Any tribeswoman would die for the greater good without hesitation. But what good for the tribe did her mother hope to achieve by letting a lesser huntress ascend to first?

Her mother’s sacrifice was difficult for her to accept. At first, she dismissed it as insanity, but now, seeing Nya, she realized it was something more—something powerful that she didn’t quite understand and was frankly terrified to explore, let alone experience. If motherhood brought that on, she wanted no part of it. But none of that was something she could share with anyone, so she simply nodded "You’re right, I don’t know," before taking another gulp of her drink. Indeed, she might never understand.

Then, there was screaming, and in the blink of an eye, the kittens were huddled on the ground while the huntresses sprang to their feet, as feral as they could be. Myrrha was no exception, spilling her precious drink as her pupils narrowed and her eyes darted around, searching for foes but finding none.

“It’s Thrawn,” Nya muttered, recognizing the cry, and before Myrrha could blink, her friend darted toward the sound with a speed that baffled her, leaving everyone else in the dust. Soon enough, they arrived at the source. It was indeed Thrawn, not that Myrrha had ever doubted it.

The boy lay bleeding on the ground with a single bloody slash across his belly, one too clean and too deep for any claw to have caused. Standing over him was Tyra, clumsily—but with deadly intent—waving a strange, shiny stick the likes of which Myrrha had never seen. Tyra raised the stick overhead, preparing for the killing blow.

Before Myrrha could react, Nya tackled Tyra to the ground, forcing the weapon from her grasp. Tyra struggled, hissing and biting, but Nya’s grip was unyielding. “You will get plenty of blood once you’re of age, and not a second sooner!” Nya roared with fury, putting her down before rushing to Thrawn’s side. “Thrawn, look at me! This moon is not for you! Wake up!” she pleaded, but there was no response.

She kept trying though, shaking him violently as she screamed, until, just as Myrrha was about to console her for her loss, Thrawn miraculously awoke with a cough, as if it was indeed not his time. “Thank the goddess!” Nya exclaimed, hugging him and licking his face frantically in relief.

The other huntresses had now gathered around, forming a protective circle. They kept their distance, understanding that the immediate threat had passed, but their eyes were still sharp and wary, watching for any signs of further danger. Only then, the tribe-mother arrived, crouching beside Nya, who struck her in turn. “You were supposed to watch our spawn, not let them kill each other!”

“I’m so sorry, please—let me tend to him—” the tribe-mother apologized, her voice trembling as she took some herbs from her pouch and began applying them to Thrawn’s belly, enduring Nya’s blows as she worked.

Myrrha sighed at the sight; the life of a tribe-mother was not easy. Despite the title, it was a role given to those deemed too weak to hunt or protect. Their lives were long but unfulfilling, spent raising other people’s kittens until they were old enough for their mothers to take the reins. Honestly, Myrrha wouldn’t wish the position on her worst enemy, but she did recognize its importance: if every huntress had to care for her own babes, there would seldom be any hunting done.

Myrrha’s attention, however, soon shifted to the source of all this pain: the shiny stick. Her eyes locked onto it as it lay sprawled in the muck. She noticed Tyra also eyeing it, but a sharp glance made the girl renounce any claim she thought she had.

Now unopposed, Myrrha crouched down to pick it up, but the moment her fingers grazed it, she knew this was no stick.

It was cold to the touch, sharper and straighter than any tool she’d ever seen, and so clear that Myrrha could see her reflection in it—a property she’d only ever seen in still water. Picking it up, she dared to slide her finger across its tip, flinching as it created a small gash. She had barely touched it and it cut; this was no mere child’s toy or club—it was a weapon.

“Tyra,” Myrrha called out, freezing the girl in place. “Where did Thrawn get this?” She kept her eyes fixed on the blade, its surface reflecting her face back at her like a mirror.

Tyra hesitated, clearly terrified, but managed to squeak out, “He said he found it by the shore.”

“‘Where exactly?’ Myrrha demanded, her voice a low growl. ‘Was it near the rocks? The tide pools? Think, Tyra!’”

“I—I don’t know exactly! Thrawn knows, ask him!” Tyra stammered, shrinking back.

“If I’m deprived of answers because of you, I will get my blood price. Now go, before Nya sets her sights on you.” With that, the girl vanished before Myrrha could blink. The threat was a bluff, of course. Kittens were sacrosanct; otherwise, the girl wouldn’t still be here, as Nya would have been far less merciful. Their young already faced enough threats from the male bands and the elements as it were—no need to add enraged huntresses to their worries.

But right now, she needed answers, so she moved to Thrawn, who was propped up against a tree trunk. His mother was beside him, holding his hand in prayer, but it was to the tribe-mother that he reached for, much to Nya’s quiet wrath Myrrha knew this was far from the ideal time for an interrogation, but she wasn’t sure if the boy would survive the night and needed answers. Quickly, she knelt beside him, taking his free hand. “Thrawn, look at me. It’s Myrrha,” she said, waiting for him to recognize her before pressing on. “This stick—the shiny stick—where did you get it?” She held it up, reflecting his face on its polished surface.

“Myrrha leave him be!” Nya roared, but Myrrha ignored her, willing to bet the mother would not leave her son’s side to fight her.

“Thrawn? Answer me.” Myrrha insisted.

Thrawn’s eyes flickered towards the blade, recognition, and fear spraying across in his eyes. “We—we found it buried in the sand. It was next to a huge canoe stuck on the beach. The canoe was scary, so we didn’t go in, but I took it back before—” Thrawn gasped in pain as the tribe-mother began suturing his cut. No more words would be leaving his mouth.

Myrrha searched his eyes for any sign of deception, but she doubted he could lie under such duress. Yet, the image he described was hard for her to accept. A large canoe? How large? On the beach? As far as she knew, the shiny stick could have been part of a stone tree or something equally fantastical. This was too strange. Too different. Too dangerous.

She leaned in closer, her gaze seeing through him. “Tell me everything.”