The forest was too quiet.
Nyara's mother pressed her deep into the hollow of an old tree, the wood rough against her back. Sticky, bitter-smelling leaves clung to her fur where her mother had rubbed them in, smearing them into her skin until the stink burned her nose.
"Stay here. Don't move. Don't make a sound." Her mother's voice was low but hard, the words trembling only at the edges.
Nyara's ears twitched at the sounds beyond — heavy paws thudding on the earth, sharp growls rising and falling, the short, painful yelp of something dying. Her tail curled tight around her legs. She wanted to reach for her mother's hand, but she kept them clenched in her lap.
Her mother's shape blurred, then shifted — bones sliding, muscles tightening — until sleek black fur covered her body. Golden eyes flashed in the dim light before she sprang away, paws churning the dirt. She ran in wide, weaving arcs, tearing at the earth and snapping branches to scatter her scent.
The growls hesitated.
Then, with her tail tucked low, her mother bolted toward the far trees. The sound of pursuit followed.
Nyara stayed in the dark, her small claws gripping the inside of the tree. She breathed shallowly through the foul scent of the plants, heart pounding until she could taste it.
Far off, the noise faded — but it didn't vanish.