Chapter 35 – The White Tiger's Cry
(Maise's POV)
The forest had gone too still.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Leaves whispered under our boots as Chyron and I slipped through the trees, following a scent that didn't belong — copper and smoke, the unmistakable tang of blood.
Chyron moved ahead of me, his tail low, his ears flicked back. "Something's wrong," he murmured. "Too much blood for a hunt."
I nodded, my pulse tightening. "Stay close."
We broke through the underbrush into a clearing, and the scene snapped into focus — a single white tiger beastman surrounded by a storm of ferals.
He was massive even in partial shift, stripes rippling like lightning across his skin. His claws flashed as he struck, dropping two ferals in a blur, but more closed in, teeth bared and eyes wild.
Behind him, two cubs — tiny, terrified — pressed against a fallen log, their striped fur smeared with dirt.
"Chyron—"
"I see them."
There wasn't time for a plan. Instinct roared louder than thought.
I shifted mid-stride, claws tearing through the earth as I leapt. The first feral didn't even see me before I slammed into him, sending him sprawling. Chyron's snarl followed mine, bright and sharp — fox against serpent.
The clearing erupted into chaos.
Ferals lunged in snapping lines, their cold blood making them reckless, fearless. The tiger fought like a cornered storm, his roar splitting the air, but he was bleeding — badly.
"Get to the cubs!" I shouted.
Chyron darted past me, fluid and precise. His tails lashed as he swept in front of the log, slashing down a lunging feral before it reached the children.
I tore through another, the metallic tang of its blood coating my hands. Nox's training whispered at the back of my mind — breathe, move, strike. I obeyed.
When the last feral fell, the silence that followed was almost deafening.
The tiger staggered, one knee hitting the ground. His breath came in rough gasps, chest heaving.
"Easy," I said, stepping closer. "You're safe."
He looked up, eyes the color of winter frost — bright, piercing, wild. "Safe?" he rasped. "You don't know what hunts these woods."
"We do now," Chyron said dryly, wiping his blade.
The tiger's gaze flicked to him, then back to me. He seemed to study my face for a long, weighted moment before his eyes softened just slightly. "You're not from here."
"Does that matter?"
His jaw tightened, but he gave a slow shake of his head. "Not when you've just saved my cubs."
The two small tigers crept out from behind the log — one clung to the other, their stripes still faint, eyes too big for their faces. One of them hissed softly at Chyron; the other peeked at me and blinked, curious.
My heart twisted.
"They're beautiful," I said quietly.
"They're all I have," Drax murmured. "Their mother... left before the first moon."
Something raw and lonely flickered in his voice — a tone I recognized far too well.
Chyron glanced at me, then back at Drax. "You can't stay here. More ferals will come."
"I know." He pushed to his feet, swaying slightly.
"Then come with us," I said before I could think.
Drax froze. "You'd take me — and them — into your pride?"
I met his gaze steadily. "They need safety. And you look like you've been fighting too long alone."
The tiger exhaled, low and uncertain, but something in him seemed to unclench. "You speak like a leader."
"Maybe," I said softly. "Or maybe just a mother who knows what it's like to lose."
For a moment, none of us spoke. The cubs pressed close to Drax's legs, peeking out at me again — wary, curious, alive.
Then Chyron broke the silence. "We should move before the scavengers smell blood."
Drax nodded. "Lead the way."
As we turned back toward camp, I looked once over my shoulder. The clearing was painted in shades of ash and red, the ghosts of battle already fading into shadow.
But in the middle of it all — a new bond had been forged.
Not of passion. Not yet.
But of survival.
And in this world, that was the first language any of us ever learned.