Chapter 1

"Strength"

I am strong. I have to be. For as the pack hunts together. I fight alone.

A new clutch was being born. Prima, the chosen mate of Alpha, was responsible for ushering in the next generation. She labored within the soft confines of the den. Cool in summer and insulated in winter, it was firmly dug and rich with a history of unbroken generations. Prima remained invisible against the shadows of the den, but the sounds and smells of new life inevitably attracted death. Prima was most vulnerable when bringing Hena into the world. She could only focus on the task delegated to her and opportunity often presented itself ferociously in the wild.

Today, it took the form of a Mountain Cat, the type that purred when it spoke and blended smoothly into the terrain. This one was thin. The jewel on her head, pale and dark. Dirt, mud, and unshed mats weighed down her coat. Such unkempt fur was uncharacteristic of a species bred to believe they descended from a High Spirit. Desperation was the only reason a Persian would come so far south from the mountains. The herds were too big and far spread for a single solitary hunter to catch on a regular basis.

Persian preferred lonesome game for their solitary lives. This one had no doubt come in search of restitution for her long travels. The presence of the pack was usually enough to scare off a cat's curiosity, but there were no other Mighty Hena in sight from where she stood. The den was unprotected. The pups, helpless and Prima incapacitated. Persia probably thought herself lucky to have discovered such a large den with plump puppies ripe for the taking.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

I stepped out of the darkness of the den without pretense or pomp. The shadows stroked my back, clinging to my fur from the tip of my muzzle to the top of my head and down to the end of my tail. Mighty Hena treasured the touch of darkness and thus carried it on our backs as a protective cloak wherever we went. Unlike most Mighty Hena, my cloak was hooded, blackening my face from nose to ear. Many moons and many suns had bleached the top of my muzzle silver to mark my coat like the rest of the Hena. It was a warning to the wary eye, but predators trapped in the present thought nothing of lessons of the past.

Only prey.

I looked down at the cat from the low incline that led up to the den and growled. It rumbled low and heavy like the songs of the Rock Giants, shaking the world with the power of voice. As Prima performed her duty, it was my responsibility to make sure the hatching went undisturbed. Persia pulled back a little, surprised by the appearance of a mature Mighty Hena, but she did not retreat. Only recalculate her advance. She knew nothing about the dangers of the Rock Giants and how their feet turned boulders into dust. The cat crouched, whipping her tail back and forth while rolling her shoulders with anticipation. She extended her claws into the dirt, kneading it in her paws as if to say they were too flexible and strong to be shaken by a mere grumble.

I pitied the species.

They lived such isolated lives in the mountains, finding nothing but themselves for comfort. Maybe that was the power of their spirit. If they had one at all. I wouldn't be surprised if they had long since been abandoned by the Spirit. A species so selfish and haughty could never believe in a power beyond their own. Every day, they looked down at the other creatures from high up on their rocky thrones with contempt and disgust. Persians may outweigh a Mighty Hena, have more flexible joints, and wield more power in their claws, but such abilities meant little when compared to that of the pack. A force that took the gifts of many to make the self strong. All Persia saw was a lone Hena, standing between her and a meal large enough to give her the strength to return to the mountains victorious. She had no idea that numbers had nothing to do with the strength of the pack. Where two or more gathered, so did the Spirit, and with an entire generation at my back, I could have howled and rattled the mountains Persia missed so much to dust.

But that would have disturbed the pups, so I settled for the ground beneath our paws instead.

My foothold was good. The soft rich earth of the den never flattened no matter how many paws ran across it. I sprang first, forcing Persia into the split second decision of fight or flight. Surprised by the quickness of the attack, Persia reared up and bent back in a yowl, swatting at my back and catching nothing but shadow and hair. She spun over and onto her back to avoid my snapping jaws. She then flipped and darted back down the hill to catch her bearings.

It was failure, and with bones as high as hers, I knew she experienced it often. That cowardice may have saved her coat several scars in the past, but that same coat was now worthless and stained with nothing to hold on to. Her legs were thin and muscle lean. She had no energy to spare. Persia's strength was almost spent and that was what made her so dangerous. Her attack on the den meant she thought she could win this fight. She had to if she wanted to survive.

I quickly returned to the mouth of the den and sneezed out the dust from the cat's coat. My tongue worked out the tufts of hair caught between my teeth and I spat out the vile taste of depravity before it made me sick. I had to stay close to the mouth of the den. Otherwise, Persia might try to dart in and snag a pup in her paws. Her claws were her most dangerous weapon. Unlike Hena, they could grab and hold until her teeth found the throat and closed it tight. Many a Mighty Hena were crushed and shredded beneath them. The hair on our backs was thick, but not on our bellies and throats. That's why I kept my head low to the ground and hips high in the air.

I bristled, nearly doubling my size from top to bottom. The deep dark drop of my back made my bared teeth glow white, directing the cat's attention to the instrument of her demise should she continue the assault. No other Hena had a bite as strong as the Mighty Hena, but even that was not enough to convince her to slink back to the stony outcrops of the North. Her desperation was too great. All she needed was one pup to win. Giving up one pup was all I needed to lose and no Mother gave up a pup. Not without staring death in the face or wearing the face of death herself.

Driven by hunger and maybe even a touch of madness, the cat slunk to the left. Then, the right, feeling an opening into the den. I watched her eyes and the muscles in her neck. They tensed, pushing out her claws. The attack came in a burst. Persia rushed in, darting from side to side to try and throw me off, but I had already seen the difference in her weight. The ease of favoritism on her left side. That's why I stood just a hair's breath more on my right. The extra space sucked her in with false opportunity, providing me the room I needed to throw my jaws down onto the back of her neck when she thought she was quick.

When she thought she had beaten me.

I clamped down from above with so much force that I twisted Persia onto her side. Cats had no manes, but their skin was loose like a pups. I knew better than to hang on and give her claws a chance to catch me, so I threw her down the hill with the hard thrash of a Maw Mouth. More tawny hair stuck to my jaws. This time, I tasted blood. I could have rushed her then. Charged with such snarls in my throat that I might as well have head butted her in the haunches, but there was no need.

Persia slid to a stop near the bottom of the hill. What would have been a quick rebound listed into a slump that stiffly put the cat on her side again. Her claws scrabbled against the pebbly dirt for balance because her back legs didn't work quite right anymore. She managed to drag her body up off of the ground, but even then, there was a strange tilt to her head. A growing rigidity stiffened her limbs then suddenly relaxed again like a fit. Blood began to soak the sides of her neck where my teeth had opened her veins. A Hena's teeth could not puncture as deep as a cat's, but they could crush bone as easily as a twig. The damage was deep. Scrambling for an explanation to her sudden condition, the cat's large white rimmed eyes caught the line of my silhouette in front of the den. It was then that she saw the great black shadow cloaking me from behind.

A true High Spirit of the grasslands.

I let my mane settle around me again. In the wild, the line between violence and peace was always clear. Neither party wanted to waste energy on a useless or lost fight when strength was so precious and hard earned. Persia fled as fast as she could, but it was nothing more than a gangly stumbling walk. One of her back paws folded under when she tried to step on it. The leg above it was quickly going limp. Urine began to soak the inside of her leg.

I watched her go without the blanket of pity to shield her. Her claws had torn it away the moment they felt the earth of the den underneath her paws. Persia spent the last of her energy in the fight and yet she still found the strength to drag herself away. Cowards always did. The fight had cost Persia her life and she knew it. My bite had broken something in her neck she could not repair. All she could do now was try to die in a place familiar to her. It was the only comfort she had left. I might have allowed it had we crossed claws closer to the mountains in the shade of the needle trees instead of the den, but this was the sacred home of the pack, and I, its Mother.

My foothold was good. The grasses flattened underneath my stride, and I sprang, dragging the black veil of the Spirit behind me. Persia came to the den thinking the grasslands were soft and forgiving. Now, she understood the strength of the Mighty Hena.

And she would never see her mountains again.