The alcove had finally quieted.
The four cubs were arranged in a loose pile on the warmest patch of fur, full and drowsy, their small chests rising and falling in the slow rhythm of newborns who had decided the quietness was acceptable. Roar was the only one still making sounds—a continuous, low rumble that functioned less as a complaint and more as a statement of ongoing existence. The others had surrendered to sleep with varying degrees of dignity. The first girl had her chin on Roar's back, one paw covering his head in a way that looked either possessive or maternal and was probably both.
