They held their breath as the creature dragged itself through the tangled root bridge under which they hid, submerged in the murky waters of the stream. Ulthar could hear the sickening sounds—flesh sloughing, skin tearing—and, above all, its cry: that shrill, haunting wail that had earned the Wawayus their name.

It stopped just above him, a wet strip of flesh sliding off its body and splashing into the water. Ulthar felt the ripple brush against him, barely managing to still his trembling hand, the jagged rock pressed to his throat. His mother had warned him of this—of what he must do if it ever came down to it. But it was too late now. At this point, so close, not even death could save him from the wailing ones; to escape them, your body had to be cold, emptied, your soul long gone, adorning the night sky.

Next to him was Jako, who had pulled him into the water just in time when the creature approached. He couldn’t see the others but hoped they’d done the same.

They had dug their own grave, he realized it now. They had triumphed over their rivals a few nights before, but the stench of decay had drawn this crawling nightmare to them. Ordinarily, a Wawayu could be outpaced in a few restless days, but half of the band was wounded, slowing them down. Despite this, Ira elected not to abandon anyone, much to Ulthar’s relief but also quiet dread.

He couldn’t deny that when Ira made the decision, a small part of himself wished he’d been just as ruthless as he always was and opted to cut their losses: leave the wounded behind. A shameful thought, one which Ulthar cursed himself for, ashamed of how easily it had crept into his mind. He’d blame the weariness, the constant fear, the two and a half nights without sleep, but nothing could ease his shame.

A huntress would never consider that. No huntress abandons their own, he recited to himself, and though he was no huntress, that mantra always resonated with him. That was the kind of world he wished he belonged to, where he could sleep soundly, knowing that if the storm came and thunder rained upon them, he would not stand alone.

True, back in the tribe power struggles were common, but if a huntress turned on you, it would be in the light of day: face to face. No dancing around in unspoken terms, no quiet tension, just honor—if such a thing existed.

A band had no such principles. They treated each other’s injuries and shared supplies, even if far from equally, but there was an unmistakable reason behind it: that they would die otherwise.

Bands were rarely kind—least of all to lone males. A male without a place was killed on sight. Ulthar still remembered watching Ira deal with one not long after he’d joined, setting the band on him like a pack of starved wolves. The youngling was fresh from exile, though it mattered little to them. Even now, Ulthar thought of that night, wondering how easily their roles could have been reversed—how it might have been his entrails torn out for sport if he hadn’t found them at the right time.

Perhaps that was precisely why Ira stopped. With two dead bandmates and a couple injured, he couldn’t afford to dwindle their numbers any further.

And now, they would see if that gamble was worth the price.

The wailing came again, closer than ever. Ulthar did everything he could to stay still, sinking deeper into the water, his breath dwindling with each pound of his heart.

Then, just before him—twisted by the murky waters—he saw the dark silhouette of the wailing one: something between shapeless and having too many shapes, constantly wriggling. Its grunts grew louder, mingling with roars, clicks, and the fragmented voices of the taken, each one a distorted echo of its fractured mind as it sneaked a peek at where they hid.

“Please… no… I have to… run… mama, please! DON’T TOUCH ME!”

Its voice changed mid-sentence, shifting into a mocking parody of a lullaby, the words twisted and sweet, ‘Sleep tight…’ before cracking back into a scream.

“Sleep, sleep… no, no, not my—flesh… warm… good… NO! GET OUT! Leave me—leave me alone!”

A sick, choking laugh, then a whisper, as if it was trying to remember something comforting or gentle. Then cries of lizard lions, grunts of water hogs, and amidst them:

“Soft… kittens… kill the kittens, hurry! No, please, don’t make me… mama!”

The voices tangled, rising to a fever pitch, each trying to claw its way out of the creature’s rotting throat.

“KILL ME! No!… No mama, don’t kill me! Kill me… kill the kittens! OUT! Out, out, out… Let me die!”

And then, silence. Only the wet, wheezing breaths, like mud sucking at dying roots. Finally, it turned and left, dropping bits and pieces of itself as it vanished into the moonless night.

Even so, Ulthar did not resurface. Time passed, and each heartbeat stretched long and thin in the silence until he could no longer hold his breath. He emerged, breaking the surface with a gasp and collapsing onto the nearest patch of land. Jako held out a moment longer, then followed, as did the others, one by one.

“First time?” Jako offered him a hand, which he took. He seemed fine, but his trembling hand betrayed him.

Ulthar, on the other hand, was shaking all over, the image of the creature still fresh in his mind. Unknowable. “Have you ever seen one, face to face?”

“If you are lucky, you never will,” was all he had to say before turning to meet the others, all recovering.

Ira, however, remained unshaken, seating a wounded Sur against a root before turning to the others without missing a beat. “Rest.”

Ulthar collapsed onto the damp earth, his muscles slackening as the tension finally left his body. His limbs ached, and he felt dizzy from holding his breath for so long—but at least it was over.

“But be on your guard. We move out soon.” Ira reminded them, but he knew it was meant for him.

Ulthar suppressed a groan and dared steal a glance at Ira, noting the sharpness in his voice. Leadership had cracked open something hard and cold within him; now, he spoke only in commands, quick and unyielding. Ira was never soft-spoken before, but still, the difference was light and day.

If Ira harbored any doubts about taking the reins, he buried them well. He had always coveted being first, likely biding his time until Kor weakened. Yet his wait had been cut short—along with Kor himself that fateful night—and Ira slipped into the role so seamlessly, it was as if he had led them for years.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Ulthar exhaled slowly, glancing up at the trees overhead. He had no idea how long they had until dawn, but he would make the most of it. Climbing a nearby tree, he dug his claws into a branch and settled against the rough bark, closing his eyes and willing himself to sleep. But the terror of the Wawayu’s wails clung to him, its voices echoing in his mind. The thought of how close he’d come to joining them sent a shiver down his tail.

It was the sound of an entire tribe in desperation, of mothers slaying their children while the little ones cried for mercy, not realizing this was precisely what they were trying to give them.

That terrified him as much as the Wawayu—the thought of that. The will to do that. If only he possessed a sliver of that courage, he would never freeze again. Then, he could finally be like Ira. Then, he’d be strong.

Time passed, and the jungle slowly but surely resumed its rhythm now that the Wawayu was gone. The silence it had cast finally lifted as more and more creatures emerged from the shadows. The creaking helped, drowning out his thoughts. And so, Ulthar felt his heart slow until sleep took him.

He blinked, and it was morning. He woke with a start, quickly unhooked his claws from the branch, and scanned the area in a panic, relieved to see he hadn’t been left behind.

They were gathered near the wounded by the stream. From up here, they seemed small—too few against the horrors of the jungle, adding to his fears. He climbed down and joined them on the shore.

Ira called as soon as he saw him “Ulthar! Here!”

He darted to the tree line, where Ira and Jako stood over the injured. Sur and Garak were the worst off—one missing an ear, the other an eye, both grunting heavily. Io, however, seemed to have recovered well enough, already on his feet, arms crossed.

“We have finally rid ourselves of that abominable thing. Heal them.” Ira made the question a statement.

Ulthar swallowed. He had done what he could—applied the few herbs and oils he knew, kept their wounds clean—but despite his mother’s willingness to share her healing knowledge, he and his sister never listened. Something he sorely regretted now.

“Pay attention!” His mother would all but beg. “One day you will all need it!”

But he didn’t – couldn’t, nor did most of the kittens. Because healing was a tribe-mother’s affair, and neither of them wanted that stain upon them more than they already had.

And now two of his band lay before him, their wounds ripe for rot, and he knew no way to stop it. “This is… this is beyond my skills. They need a tribe-mother,” Ulthar admitted, doing his best not to stumble over his words, hoping to avoid Ira’s wrath. Firsts, whether of band or cadre, were capricious beings, all too willing to claw the messenger.

Ira, however, only sighed. “Are you certain?”

Ulthar blinked at the question. There was no roar, striking, or biting as Kor would have done—only a request for certainty. He even searched Ira’s eyes, trying to detect any hidden threat, but found none. This was trust—in his judgment, in him.

For a moment, everything shifted, and he caught himself wishing he could say that yes, there was something he could do—lie, even if only to be found out later. Anything to hold onto the trust he had only now realized Ira placed in him. But he didn’t dare lie. “I—yes.”

“Fine!” Garak grumbled, grunting as he hoisted himself up. “We all know this is the ultimate end of all things. I’ve left enough spawn to keep the wheel turning. Who will be my anhangamonya? Beware, I intend to at least bring an eye with me.”

Ulthar froze. By that, he meant someone to help him die.

It was unthinkable for a warrior to be claimed by storm, disease or any of the less honorable ailments that plagued the earth—a warrior died in battle. This would be no mercy kill like before, however. Garak would fight with tooth and claw and, despite being weakened, a warrior with nothing left to lose was a terrifying opponent.

Ulthar averted his gaze, not wanting to be chosen. The last thing needed was to join the wounded over Garak’s pride.

“Stand down. You still have blood to spill,” Ira thankfully interrupted. “We need all of us to secure our claim on this territory. This is no time for foolishness!”

But Garak was more defiant than usual—a byproduct of being at death’s door—and stood his ground. “I will not waste away!”

“You won’t!” Ira shut him down, harder this time, and Ulthar felt the leader’s gaze return to him. “You said he needs a tribe-mother.”

Ulthar nodded.

“Then it’s simple: we get one. Ulthar told me there are three tribes in the peninsula. They’re probably too big for a raid, but if we’re fast enough…”

“No!”

It was as if the jungle herself held her breath.

It took a moment for the force of his own words to sink in. For a moment, he hadn’t thought, hadn’t feared—though he probably should have. They had simply burst from his mouth before he could stop them, leaving him with nothing but dread over what he had just done.

Ira’s suggestion hit him harder than he’d expected. Some bands dragged tribe-mothers along with them, mostly kidnapped during successful raids, kicking and screaming, forced to heal those who had killed their own kin. Many took their own lives or withered away. When Ira proposed doing the same, his mother came to mind, and he just… couldn’t stand for it.

Where was this courage when the Wawayu stalked? A pity that it might cost him his life. Or so he thought; his outburst had been so unexpected it left the others more confused than angry, though he knew that this wouldn’t last long.

“I mean—there are easier ways. We’re only at half-strength!” He quickly corrected himself.

They all turned to their leader, uncertain how to respond. Ira’s eyes darted back and forth before he narrowed them, taking a step forward, his voice darkening. “Then what would you have us do?”

Ulthar fought the urge to curl his tail. Fear would betray him; he had to make Ira see his words as a suggestion, not the defiance they clearly were. “We negotiate.”

“Negotiate? Hah!” Garak scoffed. “Seems I’m not the only one injured—this one’s wrong in the head!” Io and Sur laughed along; Ira simply watched.

“There are things we can negotiate with!” Ulthar insisted, his eyes darting between them and the leader, feeling the situation spiral out of control. “They have male kittens… kittens close to exile.”

“And what does that matter to us?” Io rolled his eyes. “Sounds like more competition to me.”

“Mothers want their sons to succeed, and they do that by joining a band. We just lost two of ours; we have openings. We offer to take a few in, in exchange for medicine and the attention of one of their tribe-mothers.” He spoke directly to Ira, dismissing the rest as lost causes.

Ira only stared.

“We’re not even at full strength! Half of us are wounded,” he added quickly. “Attacking would be too risky.”

“Go back to reason, boy. Get too close, and they’ll descend on you with the wrath of the Stormbringer,” Sur scoffed, rolling his eyes.

It was true, especially with the mating season having only just passed. They would have too many young with them to allow a male anywhere near. Even with their entire band—including the fallen—they’d be hard-pressed to fight them off; attempting this with just Jako, Ira, and himself would be suicide. Most tribes had enough huntresses to outnumber them severely, which, after all, was the point of forming a tribe. There’d be no chance to negotiate if they never even let you speak.

Unless… “I will go.” He blurted out.

That caught Ira’s attention. “I just said we have no lives to spare…”

“I won’t die. I’m from the Mara tribe. Maybe—maybe one of them has fond enough memories of me to grant me an audience.” Ulthar breathed heavily, all but begging now. “I can do this. I will not fail.”

All eyes turned to Ira, who remained silent, his tail upright but still, giving nothing away.

It didn’t take long for the others to mistake his silence for permission to bicker.

“I’m still of a mind to nab a tribe-mother. Never fucked one,” Garak grumbled.

“If you force her, she won’t help us for long,” Io retorted, rolling his eyes.

“I didn’t say force! I said fuck—”

“There will be silence.” Ira’s command cut through their voices, his eyes pressing down on Ulthar as if looking for something. Finally, he gave a short, sharp nod. “Very well.”

Ulthar sighed in relief.

“You and I will go to the tribe; the rest will stay behind. Jako, keep these dying sops alive.” Jako nodded in acknowledgment.

But, just as Ulthar was about to turn away, Ira approached him, gripping his shoulder and whispering in his ear. “You belong to this band. We took you in. Never forget that again.”

“I… Yes. I won’t.”