The last lioness in the valley had no name. The rangers called her Shani, meaning "scar," for the ragged mark across her flank—a relic from the poachers who had taken her pride.
Ten years had passed since the last sighting. Most believed she was dead.
But Makena knew better.
She'd seen the massive paw prints near the dried-up watering hole. Found the bones of antelope arranged in strange, deliberate circles—like offerings.
"They say she's not really a lion anymore," whispered the village elders. "They say the valley made her into something else."
Makena, orphaned by the same drought that had killed the grasslands, set out at dusk with nothing but a knife and a handful of dried meat. She needed to see for herself.
She found Shani atop the red cliffs, silhouetted against the dying sun. Up close, the lioness was gaunt, her golden coat dulled to dust. But her eyes burned—fierce, knowing.
Makena held out her empty hands.
For a long moment, neither moved. Then Shani exhaled a sound that wasn’t quite a roar—more like the earth itself splitting open.
That night, the rains came.
And when the first green shoots pierced the cracked soil, the villagers swore they saw two shadows moving through the tall grass—one small, one enormous—keeping watch over the reborn world.
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