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Chapter Text

Iris in the Beast World

She awoke in a place she did not know. Though awoke was hardly the right word—she merely came to herself. Figures surrounded her, creatures unlike any she had ever seen: men draped in furs, like primitive hunters taken from some museum display. They spoke to her in a language that seemed made of growls and hisses, strange animal sounds—and yet, somehow, she understood every word.

They told her she had no choice but to become the wife of a toothless tiger. None of it made any sense. Her thoughts whirled in chaos, filled with questions she could not form, struggling to grasp the impossible. At last, she’d had enough. She lifted a hand, straightened her posture, and drew in a slow breath—four seconds in, hold for four, then out for four. Once more. Her pulse steadied.

“What in the world are you talking about?” she snapped, exasperated. “And who are you, anyway?”

Before going further, one should perhaps recall who she was.
Iris had been a soldier—serving in the Med Corps.

She truly had no idea how she had ended up here. Only moments ago, she’d been in the front-line infirmary, taking her regeneration break after a twenty-six-hour shift—what her unit jokingly called a coma drop. Now she seemed to have fallen headfirst into some deranged dream.

“Little Hen, we know you are still young,” said the man standing before her, clearly the tribe’s chieftain. “But Sad Tiger will be your beast-mate. We swore him a companion to honor his sacrifice—one who will bear him a litter if he still has the strength to sire. Our tribe raised you and sheltered you. Give him a litter, then you may cast him aside.”

He spoke as though the matter were simple, inevitable. She knew he was the chief only because the others had called him so. “Once, we called him Mighty Tiger, as you remember. His cubs will be strong and bring pride to their mother. Sad Tiger knows the fate of crippled warriors; he will not protest when you bear his young and dissolve the partner bond afterward.”

Iris glanced between the men, trying to make sense of the madness. Cast away the crippled? Breed for strong children? Something inside her cracked open.

“What kind of twisted crap are you people talking about?” she muttered, pinching her arm hard. Pain shot through her skin—real. She looked up again, heart hammering.

“Do not defy us now, Little Hen,” the chieftain pressed on, voice both stern and pleading. “Our other females—you know there are only six—each already have more than ten mates who await their turn for offspring. Most have birthed this year already. They also keep guardian beasts who long for the chance to rise in rank. You are the only one who has taken no mate and just entered your first heat without choosing a beast-husband. We have tolerated it until now, but Sad Tiger holds our promise. He protected two of our precious females and a dozen cubs, suffering grievous wounds. Had he died, you would not have been forced to take a weak mate who can scarcely fight or walk. But he lives. And despite everything, he bears a red crystal—his blood runs strong.”
Iris stared at him in disbelief. “And… I’m supposed to marry that crippled tiger? Excuse me?” Her gaze dropped to herself—and only then did she realize that she looked… different. She would not agree to anything until she understood what was happening here.

Several days later.

It was no dream.

The people here truly could turn into beasts—at least, the men could. She was no longer on Earth. Everything around her was foreign, alien, impossibly real. And though they insisted on pairing her with this Sad Tiger, they treated her well.

The tribe called themselves the Greenwood Clan. Strangely, they counted seven females among roughly a hundred and fifty grown males and some thirty cubs. Most of the men were mongoose or raven shifters, though there was also a bear family—and the tiger, the last of his line.

They called her Little Hen because, when they had found her, she had apparently worn white feathers. Since females here could not assume beast form, no one knew to what kind she truly belonged. It seemed not to matter. The tribe had raised her, fed her—and, it seemed, now deemed her of age to wed.

Iris studied the crude shovel she had fashioned, and the hollowed tree trunk beside her. She possessed several scales that had been found with her—large, opalescent pieces that shimmered like shells. Perhaps they had belonged to her parents. No one could tell. But others cut themselves trying to take them, while Iris alone could wield them without harm. She had soon discovered that these strange scales could slice through wood and even stone as if they were soft clay. Working with her hands calmed her. It helped her think.

And so she worked—fashioning bowls and cups from wood, buckets, basins, and pots from stone. She carved a hearth into the cave wall, with a chimney she bored upward through solid rock. She had no idea if it would function, but when she tested it, the smoke rose and vanished into the shaft above. It had worked. Now she could build fires inside.

In these days, she learned much—from women and men who came to speak with her. Most urged her to visit Sad Tiger, to mate with him at least once. Men who could no longer fulfill their duties—hunt, protect, provide for mate and offspring—formed the lowest stratum of the tribe. There were few of them; most preferred death to such a life. In truth, that was what the clan expected. This world was harsh and merciless. The maimed were carried only as long as love and the tribe’s strength allowed.
Sad Tiger would likely have been cast out, had he not, during the struggle for mates, begged the chieftain for a promise. He had wanted to leave something behind—a family, an heir. And so he had offered himself up, on the condition that a woman be given to him.

Some of the men had courted her—Little Hen—for quite some time already, bringing her gifts: soft pelts, well-tanned hides, tender cuts of meat.

The women were the heart of the tribe. They were the heads of their families, and the men either submitted to them as partners or bound themselves in one-sided devotion as so-called guardian beasts. It was all rather hard to digest. The whole arrangement reminded her of those brainless web novels she used to read when she wanted to give her intellect a rest.

At last, she made up her mind. Guided by the chieftain, Strong Bite, an aged mongoose-shifter, she was brought to the cave where the Sad Tiger dwelled.

He had once been a mighty and admired man, having cultivated his strength all the way to the red crystal. Why he had never taken a mistress before, Iris had no idea. If he had truly been as brave and powerful as they claimed, surely one of the women would have chosen him. Yet he had remained alone.

Well then. She would find out.

She had no intention of merely coupling with him and leaving him to die afterward. That was not her way. It felt wrong—utterly, profoundly wrong.

She respected veterans, those who had the courage to sacrifice themselves for others. Never would she have imagined that such respect would one day lead her to marriage—but then again, she had never imagined being stranded on another world. In the Stone Age. In a body that wasn’t her own. She rubbed the bridge of her nose. Listing it out did not make it any better.

And so she stood in the dark of his cave. On a crude bed of leaves and hides lay the man who had once been a proud warrior. He was tall—one or two heads above her—with a body that, even broken, still spoke of strength.

The clothing here was either tanned fur—or nothing at all. In his case, the latter. One of the women had told her he had traded all his furs for food, unwilling at first to accept charity. A man proud to the point of ruin. She respected that too.

He pushed himself up with a groan. His golden eyes, rimmed in red, were dulled; his lips cracked and dry.
“You are here… Little Hen,” he murmured, almost in disbelief.

She nodded and sat beside him, studying him closely. Truth be told, she liked what she saw—if one could ignore the grime and the stench. Yet the astonishment in his gaze told her much about him, and about this tribe.

“You thought they would wait until you were dead?” Iris crossed her arms. By now she had learned how to blend in with the tribe—and she didn’t think securing her place among them was the worst idea. It helped with survival.

He lowered his eyes. She leaned closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m here,” she said softly.

The smell was sharp and stale; clearly he had relieved himself not far from where he slept. On his brow, the red crystal shimmered faintly—a remnant of his former power.
His face was striking, ruggedly handsome, with two scars that lent him a wild and dangerous air.

“Lie down first,” she said quietly. “I’ll clean the cave—and you. Then we can talk about everything else.” Gently she pressed him back onto the bed of furs. He did not resist—or perhaps he simply could not. Who could say.

He stared at her as if she had gone mad. “You mean… clean the cave?”

He said it in the tone of a man hearing that someone intended to walk naked through a field of thorns. She understood well enough that such work was normally left to the menservants of the tribe’s women. But here, they were alone. What exactly did he expect her to do?

“Yes,” she replied, looking around for something—anything—with which she could remove the filth, maybe some sand to soak up the urine and sweep it out. But there was nothing. The cave was bare and pitiful. “I’m to mate for the first time, and I’d rather not do it in a filthy den,” she added absently, not realizing how her words might sound to him—or how desperate his state truly was. To her, as a medic, he didn’t look fatally injured.

He flushed deeply. “I’m sorry… you must feel horribly humiliated, to have to mate with a cripple.” Shame flickered in his golden eyes, but behind it burned a fierce determination to fulfill his promise—to leave behind his children, perhaps even tiger-born, that his bloodline would not end here.

A little startled, she placed her hand over his clenched fist.
“That’s not it. You did something brave—something selfless—and now you’re in a hard place, abandoned by those who should have stood by you. To despise you for that would be absurd. I’d sooner despise the ones you called friends for letting this happen. I don’t think you should live like this.”

Many men had offered Iris gifts to win her favor. She had more than enough furs and belongings to make her own cave comfortable.

And as she thought of it now… why should she stay here in this reeking hole? She could simply bring him to her dwelling instead. There she could bathe him, give him a proper place to rest, even a bucket for his needs—anything to spare him further indignity.

“Tiger,” she said softly, “come to my cave. Now that we are to be partners, we don’t need two shelters. You can still walk a little, can’t you? I’ll help you. Once you’re there, you’ll feel better at once.”

He looked at her in open surprise, propping himself up on one elbow. In the dim light, his golden eyes gleamed like molten amber. His hair was the color of sand. Mighty Tiger—or Sad Tiger, as they now called him—seemed utterly overwhelmed.
“Little Hen… I am a useless man. The fact that you are even willing to bear my cubs is more than I deserve. Do you truly wish to take me into your family?”

Pain flickered across his features, and she suspected his back was injured as well. That would make treatment harder with what she had at hand—but not impossible. He sank back onto his bed of furs. His left leg was swollen, the hip likely dislocated. A few toes seemed broken. His skin was covered in wounds. Yet Iris could still see the man he had once been—and perhaps might become again.

Gently she brushed the matted hair from his brow.
“Yes, Tiger. Exactly that. You will be my beast-husband, and I shall be your mistress. As long as you cannot hunt, I’ll take care of it. You’ll help me prepare the meat and the hides.” She knew full well how senseless, how almost sacrilegious such an offer sounded within this tribe. To him, it must have seemed mockery—when to his people, it was simply natural law that the weak should die.

He was silent for a time, thinking. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“If that is your wish, Little Hen, it would be my honor. The cold moons will come soon. I doubt I’ll survive them—I have no furs left, and I cannot hunt. You should take more beast-mates, more guardian beasts, so they can feed you and the family. Normally it would be my duty to provide food, clothing, and protection… but I cannot. Now that you are of age, you have every right to take as many men as you desire.”

It was logical enough—and yet she only smiled.
“I only take men I know and respect.”

He looked at her as if searching for the hidden insult, but her eyes were calm and warm. If she was to be a queen in this strange world, she would choose well the kind of man who stood beside her.

She rose to her feet. “Come. I’ll gather what we need—and then we’ll wash you.”

He surely wouldn’t object to being clean again, after so long. Her own hair was red, streaked with gold; his, the color of sand.

The few belongings he had left were meager: the furs on his bed, a handful of predator teeth and bones, and a bundle of iridescent feathers—an offering, perhaps, meant for her.
“They… they are for you,” he said, struggling to sit upright while she rolled up his bedding.
“They’re beautiful,” she replied with a soft smile. “I’ll make us jewelry from them.”

When she slipped his arm around her shoulders and helped him rise, he clenched his teeth so hard she could hear them grind. At the cave’s mouth, he hesitated. These dens were meant as sanctuaries for the tribe’s women—once, his had been a mark of honor, granted to the finest hunter among them. Now he left it behind, as his strength left him. And outside, the eyes of the tribe would be waiting.

“We’re going home now, Tiger,” Iris said gently, sensing that his hesitation ran deeper than pain.
The sun hung low, its glow a dull ember seeping through the veils of mist that clung to the forest. Iris and the Tiger moved slowly along the winding path, their steps muffled on rain-softened earth threaded with roots and pocked with the imprints of heavy paws and bare feet. The air was thick with the scents of damp soil, smoke, and animal fat. Iris watched each step carefully, choosing firm ground—one fall now would be the last thing they needed.

They advanced at a measured pace—his gait uneven, her grip steady. The man leaned heavily on a roughly carved staff, given to him, perhaps, to lend the illusion of dignity. Every step was a battle—between pain, pride, and shame.

Around them pulsed the life of the tribe. Between the low, domed huts woven from wood and animal hides crouched men tanning pelts or grinding bone and stone into tools. Barefoot children splashed through the mud, playing with bits of bone as if they were treasures, or being instructed by their elders. The women sat by their fires or in the mouths of their caves, speaking in low tones, eating raw meat as was the custom here, their eyes following the pair in silence.

As the Tiger passed, many fell quiet. Some averted their gaze; others watched him with that uncertain expression of those who could not decide whether to pity or despise. His wounds were plain to see—the scarred flank, the swollen leg, the crystal in his brow glimmering faintly, like the dying echo of a once-brilliant strength.

He felt their eyes on him. Every flicker of his face betrayed it. His jaw clenched; his shoulders sagged, yet again and again he straightened a little, as if trying to hold, at least, the bearing of a warrior.

“You’re doing very well, Tiger. We’re almost there—just a little farther,” she said gently. He glanced at her, eyes curious, as though studying a strange creature.

“You are a strange female, Little Hen,” he murmured.

She smiled at him, and the change in her face seemed to hold him spellbound. “I’m your mate. Of course I won’t treat you like the others.” Her voice was calm but carried quiet authority, and something in her tone sent a shiver down his spine. He met her gaze only briefly before looking away—but she doubted it was out of discomfort. If anything, it seemed quite the opposite.

Iris stayed close by his side. She did not look at the others; her chin was lifted, her eyes forward. Her stride was measured, deliberate—not defiant, but of the kind that draws attention away, redirects it. Whoever looked at her did not see prey—they saw command.

An older mongoose-man spat into the dirt as they passed. Iris felt the Tiger tense beside her, as if he wished to sink into the ground. She placed a hand lightly on his back, casual yet full of meaning.

“Let them be,” she said softly. “They’ve no idea what courage costs.”

A deep growl rumbled in his chest, low and resonant—it was, she thought, quite impressive. The man quickly disappeared from view.

The Tiger said nothing more, but she noticed how his fingers tightened around the staff.
He did not reply, yet she saw his fingers tighten around the staff.

At last, their cave came into view—half-hidden in the slope of the hill, framed by ferns and stone, from which the firelight glowed like the slow, warm breath of the earth itself. A hide hung over the entrance, shielding the inside from curious eyes and keeping in what little warmth it could. She paused, waiting for him to catch his breath and close the distance, then lifted the leather flap to guide him across the threshold.

Inside, the air smelled of tanned hide, smoke, and herbs. The space was small but tidy. Piles of blankets, a few tools, bowls filled with dried fruit. She had arranged it carefully so it felt like a home—not a camp.

He lingered at the entrance, head bowed, as though unworthy to enter. She took his hand; her slender fingers disappeared entirely within his rough palm.
“This is your home now too,” she said softly.

He looked at her then, and in his eyes lived all the pain of a man who had lost too much to believe in mercy. But she did not look away.
“I stand at your side. This isn’t pity, Tiger—it’s a choice.”

Outside, the murmurs of the tribe faded beneath the breath of evening wind, and within the cave, the fire crackled gently, steady and alive.

He limped inward—the place was larger than his own den—and looked around in wonder. This female possessed so many things. Carved logs shaped into strange forms lined the walls, each holding various objects. Herbs hung from the ceiling, stretched on sinew cords. Parts of the cave were divided with furs, much like the entrance. From a hollow in the stone drifted a fragrance—spiced, foreign, intoxicating—that made his mouth water. Everything here was clean, orderly, full of life. Nothing like the filth-ridden pit he had called his home.

“Come,” she said. “I filled the tub this morning. Afterward we’ll eat, and then you’ll rest.”

She led him to the rear of the cave, where a large wooden basin stood. It had been meant as a store for drinking water, but his cleansing mattered more now. She hesitated for a moment—the wood would never be truly clean again—but it didn’t matter. Later she would build another, of stone this time, easier to wash, perhaps even with a proper drain.

He examined the vessel with fascination. “What is it for? This… tub?”

“You sit inside,” she explained, “and I’ll wash you with water moss. Once you’re clean, you’ll dry off, and I’ll carry the water out.” Outside, she could still use it to water her little patch of garden. “Here—sit on the rim, and I’ll help you swing your legs in.”

He obeyed carefully, almost reverently, as though afraid she might lose patience if he faltered. Iris knew that most of the tribe’s females were temperamental and imperious, accustomed to instant obedience. But she was different. She had learned patience—hard and bitter—in field hospitals, under pressure, amid blood and filth.

She washed him gently, methodically, without haste. The respect in her movements was the same she had once shown to wounded comrades. At last she even washed his hair, using a mixture of wood ash and the soap-fruit she had gathered by the stream. As she poured the water through his hair and combed it free with a wooden comb, she noticed how thick and soft it was.

Then, with some effort, she helped him out of the tub, dried him carefully with a soft hide, tending especially to his wounds. Later she would apply a salve—now he needed warmth.

“I almost feel like a man again,” he said at last, watching the firelight flicker across her face, “instead of a cripple.”

“You are a man,” she answered dryly.

He gave a weary smile, but there was respect in his eyes.
“And you command the fire,” he said in quiet awe. “Not just a little—it obeys you.”

He was right—fire was sacred here. In his tribe there had been but a single flame, carried from a faraway place, guarded and revered as though it were a living god.

“It’s really not that difficult,” she said softly. “I’ll show you how. Then you can tend it when I’m not here—so it doesn’t grow unruly.”

He nodded slowly. The chair he sat on—a thing of wood, padded with fur—seemed to fascinate him just as much. His people always sat upon the ground.
“These wooden things… were they your idea?” he asked, gesturing toward her furnishings.
“Yes,” she replied. “Sitting on the ground is cold—and one ends up with insects or sand in places they don’t belong.”

He chuckled, a low, rough laugh, but genuine. Then he watched her as she lifted the stone pot from the fire and ladled out a thick stew. She handed him a bowl and showed him how to hold it, how to eat the meat and vegetables with the spoon, how to drink the broth.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

He looked at her, eyes shining. “I’ve never tasted anything so good,” he admitted quietly. His hunger was great, and he ate nearly half the pot.

When he had finished, she helped him away from the fire, her arm firm around his waist, guiding his step. His weight pressed heavily against her, yet she did not waver. Each of his breaths came strained, his body trembling with exhaustion. She led him to the rear of the cave, to the niche where she had prepared the bed that morning.

The place was soft underfoot, lined with moss and dry grass, layered thick until it yielded like a cushion. Over it she had spread tanned furs, and atop those rested a quilt she had sewn herself from supple leather, stuffed with the down of wild marsh birds. Even a pillow she had crafted—stitched with sinew, evenly and tight. In this world, such comfort was a rare luxury.

“Here,” she said softly. “Lie down.”

He obeyed, tentative, uncertain, lowering himself onto the bed. It dipped slightly under his weight.
“On your back, Tiger. And trust me.”

He hesitated, meeting her eyes—found no hardness there, only calm certainty. Then he did as she said. His hands clenched in the furs as she leaned over him, placing one hand on his hip, the other on his swollen leg.

“I have to set the joint back into place,” she explained quietly. “It will hurt for a moment, but afterward the pain will ease. If you tense up, it’ll only get worse—so breathe deeply, all right?”

He nodded faintly.
“Good. Now—breathe in… and out.”

She waited until he exhaled, then pressed and twisted in one swift, practiced motion. A dull, distinct crack sounded, followed by a stifled cry. Then came a shudder, a release—like a weight slipping from his body.

“Well done,” she murmured. “Now the toes—they aren’t broken, just out of place. It’ll feel as if something long held tight is finally letting go.”

She took his foot in both hands, testing each toe in turn, moving it gently until she felt where the resistance lay. Then—a swift tug. Another crack, softer this time, followed by a deep breath from the man, filled more with relief than pain.

“See?” she murmured. “Your body wants to heal. You only need to let it. When you tense up, you imprison it.”

He looked at her—exhausted, yet intent—as though he wished to remember every word she spoke.
“Now turn onto your stomach. Slowly.”

He obeyed, sluggishly, every movement an effort. She waited until he had settled, then placed both hands on his back.
“I’m checking for hardened muscles,” she explained quietly. “When they’re hurt, they tighten—and that traps the pain inside. I’ll help them release. Tell me if it’s too much.”

She began to work along his spine, firm, circling motions that pressed deep into the corded tension beneath his skin. His muscles felt like twisted steel under her hands. She pressed harder, coaxing warmth to rise, following every line of his body that spoke of strain and endurance.

His breathing came rough at first, then steadier, deeper. The tremor in his shoulders eased.
“That’s good,” she whispered. “Breathe with the movement. Let the old pain go.”

Her fingers moved lower, tracing the scars that had healed poorly, searching along the nerves where the flesh still burned and swelled. She worked until the hardness faded and only warmth remained. His breath grew even, calm—and soon he was asleep, deeply, peacefully, like one who had not known rest in a very long time.

She paused, studying him in the flickering firelight, then reached for the small clay bowl in which she had mixed a brew—the sharp leaves of the burn-root, meant to stir the blood and drive warmth back into weary limbs.
“This will sting, Tiger,” she murmured as she rubbed the paste between her fingers. “But the fire it kindles in your skin will bring life back to your flesh.”

He likely could not hear her—but if he did, it was well that he knew her intent.

She spread the salve across his back, massaging it in until his skin gleamed and the sharp, spicy scent filled the air. Then she took the second bowl—filled with a healing balm of moss, crushed herbs, and rendered fat—and began to coat his wounds. The mixture she had learned from the tribe’s shaman.

“This blend keeps decay at bay,” she said quietly, almost as if speaking to an old companion. “The shaman taught it to me—it draws the corruption from the flesh. Tomorrow you’ll ache, but it will be a clean pain. Clean pain heals.”

Her tone was calm, steady, the voice of one long accustomed to tending the broken. The Tiger slept on, his breath even, his brow smooth.

When she was done, she covered him with the soft quilt. It seemed to embrace him, holding him close. The fire crackled, casting wavering shadows across the walls, and Iris sat beside him for a while longer, hands folded in her lap.

She looked at him—a proud warrior, broken but not lost. And she knew she would see to it that he would never again lie in dirt and shame as he did this evening.

Chapter Text

Iris had slept beside him, and when morning came, she opened her eyes to meet his—golden, intent, and calm. There was the quiet vigilance of a predator in them, the kind that never truly sleeps. Lying next to him felt strange, yet oddly soothing. The breath of another being, the warmth of a nearby body, the steady rhythm of a foreign heartbeat—each offered a comfort far greater than the chill of solitude. In truth, she felt more at ease, more secure, simply having a man under the same roof, even if he was still recovering.

“Are you a priest… or a shaman?” he asked softly. His voice was rough, but his gaze carried an earnest curiosity. He wanted to understand her. His mind, though weary, was sharp and alive.

“I know a little of shamanism and witchcraft,” she replied with a faint smile.

“A woman who learns the witch’s art,” he murmured, thoughtful. “You are far more unusual—and powerful—than I imagined. A woman like you could choose any man she wished.” There it was again—that look that questioned his own worth.

Beneath the blanket, she brushed her hand gently along his arm, then across his chest. “Yesterday,” she said softly, “I chose you. As my first beast-mate.”

He blushed—so vividly she could see it even in the dim light.

“We… we haven’t mated yet, have we? The bond isn’t sealed…”

Her fingers traced his cheek, her voice a tender murmur.

“Soon. When the pain still gnaws at you, it is hard to mate or sire young. But you’re already much stronger than you were yesterday, aren’t you? Trust me, Tiger.”

He held her gaze.

“And if you still wish it then,” she continued, “we will mate. But tell me, Tiger—there must be a reason why a man like you has never chosen a woman before, isn’t there?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as though fighting an inner struggle—whether to bare the tattered cloak of his past or keep it hidden. At last, he sighed, and his voice grew quiet.

“You know, little hen… you’re a very unusual woman. Most women are more like my mother was.” His expression darkened. “She treated her men like slaves. There was no love in her, no feeling. She kept two or three favorites, and the rest existed only to serve her whims and endure her moods.”

Iris placed her hand over his. “That sounds dreadful. How did it come to pass that you are the last tiger of your clan?”

He gave a mirthless smile.

“My uncles were not wise in their choices. My mother was the only tigress—and my father, along with my uncles, were all her beast-mates. One by one, they died because of her.”

He paused for a moment, as though arranging his words carefully before letting them go.

“What did she do?” Iris asked, already sensing that the answer would be a dark one.

“My father died because she decided she had to have a lotus bird,” he said. “She wanted its feathers for adornment. My father tried to catch one for her—and fell to his death upon the cliffs.” His tone was calm, almost detached, yet Iris could hear the bitterness that had endured through the years.

“When he was gone, my uncle—Clever Hunter—raised me. My mother could not be troubled with her own offspring. She beat us mercilessly whenever we annoyed her—and we always did, whenever she even noticed we existed. She was a woman without tenderness.”

He swallowed hard before continuing. “My uncle, the one I remember better than my father, was kind. But he too died. My mother set her eyes on a man of the eagle-folk—a cultivator of the red crystal, a powerful one. He rejected her. So she sent my two uncles to capture him, to bring him back so she could force him to become her mate. But he was too strong. He killed them both.”

His gaze turned distant, hollow.

“After that, she took only mongoose and raven beast-mates. There were no tigers left among our kind. The bears kept to themselves. In the end, she tried to mate with one of my brothers—but he refused and fled. Fortunate for him. Soon after, she fell ill with the worm plague and died. It took most of her men with her. The few who survived told me later they felt freed—and that they would never again bind themselves to any woman. That’s why I stayed away from all of them…”

Iris nodded slowly. “Then you need not bind yourself to me either, once you are healed.”

He shook his head. “You’re the one who’s healing me. So my life belongs to you. And… it matters to me that my blood survives. Only through offspring will something of me remain when I’m gone.”

“That’s fair,” she said quietly and lay back on the furs.

He looked at the quilt that covered them both—a warm, handstitched blanket of pelts and feathers, soft and intricate. “How did you come up with this idea?” he asked, genuinely impressed.

The quilt was sewn from supple fur on both sides and filled with downy feathers. She smiled. “I had many pelts from suitors who once courted me. I liked their patterns and colors.” Handcraft had always been her solace. With her scale-knives she could cut leather effortlessly, carve bone needles, even sharpen flint. She had forged a few stone-knives as well—precise and clean, like everything she made.

“How do you feel?” she asked at last.

He smiled—a broad, beautiful, radiant smile. A true tiger’s smile.

“My leg feels much better. And my back too.”

“Then let us continue,” she said, kissing him lightly on the nose. He blinked, startled, but warmth flickered in his gaze.

That morning she had managed to realign several of his vertebrae during the massage. Later, while he rested again, she carried the dirty water outside and walked down to the river, where she had set her fish and small-game traps.

Days passed in that rhythm. He moved with growing ease, ate well, and learned to tend the fire without burning his hands. Yet he still slept often, his body mending in long stretches of quiet.

Four days had gone by since Iris had brought the tiger into her den. Once more she went to check whether any fish had wandered into her traps. By the river, her efforts were rewarded—an abundant catch. The small fish she released, the larger ones she placed into a basket woven from thin branches.

Salt was rare in the tribe; the men had to travel far to gather it. But the land here was generous. Herbs, edible roots, sharp-tasting fruits that burned like pepper—all grew wild along the banks. Winter would soon come, and she had to begin preserving food. Fish were troublesome to store, but she knew a few methods—skills born of training and simple curiosity.

Following the curve of the river to where she had set her last trap, she halted abruptly.

A young man—half serpent—stood there. He held her trap in his hands, studying it curiously, one of the fat fish half swallowed between his lips.

He noticed her at once and turned. His body shimmered with silvery scales that shifted toward white in the light, and his hair gleamed like flowing water. It lent him an almost ethereal beauty. But he was not one of the tribe. A wanderer.

Carefully, she stepped back. Strays were dangerous for women—too untamed, too driven, too free. Many mated with them despite the risk that the bond would later be broken.

He moved faster than she expected. She dropped the basket and made to flee, but he was already before her, as though he had stepped out of the air itself. A green crystal glowed faintly on his brow.

“Female…” His voice was soft, almost yearning—melodic in a strange way.

She lifted both hands, a sharp scale glinting in each, her tone cool as steel. “Do not come closer. You would regret it.”

He studied the scales, eyes widening. “Dangerous… female…” He seemed to grope for words, then took a hesitant step back.

How strange, Iris thought. Something in him reminded her of Tiger—the same blend of strength, sorrow, and innocence.

“What is your name?” she asked, lowering the scales just slightly.

He tilted his head. “Name?” The word seemed unfamiliar to him.

She pointed to herself. “My name is Iris. What is your name? What are you called?”

He pondered for a moment. “Snake,” he said at last.

Tiger, Snake—she couldn’t help but smile. The naming customs here were apparently simple.

“What are you doing here?” she asked again.

He shifted uneasily, gaze dropping. “Stray,” he murmured.

He looked sad, almost lost—and young, perhaps barely grown.

“I thought as much. Cold-blooded beast-men are not welcome in most tribes. I meant—why did you come here?”

He sighed, then looked up. Never before had anyone—least of all a female—spoken to him so calmly. Usually he was chased off at once. They threw stones at him, or men came to beat him bloody. Once, they had nearly killed him.

“Search… and… look…” he muttered. Then suddenly, her fish trap was back in his hands. He examined it with honest fascination, plucked out a fish, and gestured toward the ones in her basket.

“And… hunger,” he added at last—and bit into the still-twitching fish.

Iris didn’t flinch. Men here often ate raw flesh; those who bore crystals were immune to parasites.

“So—the trap caught your interest, and you helped yourself to my fish.”

“Trap…” he echoed slowly, head tilted. “Yours…?”

Iris waved it off. “It’s fine. Go on, eat. I have plenty from the others.”

He stared at her, uncertain. The fish belonged to the female—and he had stolen it. Understanding dawned in his eyes, and shame followed. He lowered his head, contrite. And in that moment, Iris sensed there was far more to this strange creature than met the eye.

He no longer seemed dangerous. His body eased, the wild tension fading, and even his gaze softened—less predator now, more curious child. She kept her scales raised a moment longer, then let her shoulders relax. At last, she lowered her weapons fully, though she remained alert.

“How did you do that?” she asked, eyes fixed on his hands. “Make the trap appear like that?”

He looked at the trap—and in the next instant, without movement, without sound—it was gone. Iris had not blinked, had not seen the faintest trace of a gesture.

“Beast power…” he murmured, the words heavy, as if he barely understood them himself. Then, just as suddenly, the trap reappeared—this time in his other hand.

Was it sorcery? Or some kind of spatial displacement—an ability granted by his crystal’s force?

“Female… Iris… search…” he whispered, and his gaze was filled with such yearning that she studied him more closely.

“You’re searching for a woman who will accept you?” she asked gently.

The young serpent-man was strongly built, his body gleaming like polished metal beneath the light. A green crystal glowed faintly on his forehead—the third of eight stages a beastman could reach. Remarkable for one so young. And this ability to make things appear and vanish—it was far beyond simple instinctive magic.

In the tribe, only two men bore such distinct powers: Tiger, and a mongoose who carried a red crystal.

She regarded him thoughtfully. Tiger’s gift was to paralyze prey or foe with his gaze and his roar. This power, however, was different—subtle, elusive, almost ethereal.

Since she came from another world, she had no prejudice toward reptilian forms. The scales and alien grace of the young man did not trouble her. What she saw in him was what she felt: potential—and loneliness.

“You may serve as my guardian beast,” she said at last, her voice calm. “Before I choose a beast-mate, I must know who he is—and whether I can trust him. Will you accept that?”

He stared at her, pupils narrow slits, as though holding his breath. For a moment, time itself seemed to still. Perhaps he feared that if he spoke, the moment would shatter—that she would vanish if he dared to hope.

Then he nodded, slowly, with a motion both cautious and reverent.

And the instant she accepted it, it happened: a glow bloomed across his chest. Beneath his navel, a mark appeared—a circle from which two wings unfurled. The bond sigil. The contract was sealed.

Iris stared, struck by the beauty of it. She did not yet know what it meant, but she could feel that it was hers—born of her choice and spirit.

The young man placed a hand over the mark and looked up at her. A smile spread across his lips—so pure, so bright, that she froze for a heartbeat. She had never seen such a smile: innocent, luminous, and full of unguarded warmth.

“Iris… it is warm…” he breathed, still touching the glowing skin.

She smiled in return. “Come. We can talk later. For now, let’s gather the fish and go home. My beast-mate is waiting there. And… I would call you Silver. Do you like that name?”

He blinked, as if testing the word, then nodded solemnly, almost ceremonially.

As they gathered the fish and reset the traps, he murmured their names over and over—Iris, Silver, Iris, Silver—softly, like a prayer.

Iris heard him as she tied the final snare and couldn’t help but smile. There was something endearing about him—a shimmering, otherworldly boy with the eyes of a creature that wanted to trust.

“Iris… look…” he held up the basket brimming with fish.

“Very good. Let’s go,” she said.

Suddenly the basket vanished. She blinked.

“Your beast power?” she asked. He nodded.

“Where is it?” Her curiosity was genuine. He thought for a moment, then folded his hands together, as though pressing something into itself. Was it a fold in space—a pocket where things could be kept? When his speech improved, perhaps he would be able to explain it.

They walked back toward the cave.

Tiger sat outside on a wooden chair, face turned to the sun.

“You’re moving better. I’m glad,” Iris said as she approached. He looked far stronger than he had four days ago. The regular washing, proper meals, and her treatments had done him good. There was a rugged, masculine beauty about him that stirred something within her.

“Yes—it feels as though my body had only waited for you to set it right. My leg’s no longer swollen, and I can walk much more easily,” he replied, almost cheerfully.

Her heart gave a small leap. The man looked devastatingly handsome—solid, grounded, real. His voice was deep and resonant, purely male. Exactly her type.

His gaze shifted past her—and turned wild. Oh, that needed to be settled at once.

“Tiger, this is Silver,” she said quickly. “He is my guardian beast. You are my beast-mate.” She made sure to emphasize it.

A low growl rumbled in his chest, and the sound sent a shiver down her spine. Faster than she thought possible in his condition, he was on his feet, his hand clamped around the young serpent’s throat, and in the next breath, Silver was on the ground. The youth hissed like a coiled viper, curling in on himself, arms raised in defense. But Tiger did not strike again.

“Barely more than a cub. And a stray. Why would you take him in? He’s worthless,” he snarled.

“He already bears a green crystal—and at his age, that’s rare. He also wields a beast power,” she answered evenly. Among the men of a household, such clashes were commonplace.

“A beast power… hm. That could prove useful,” Tiger admitted with a growl. “But as he is, he can’t protect you. I’ll make him stronger.”

She smiled softly. In this tribe, it was perfectly natural for a woman to have up to ten beast-mates and any number of guardian beasts. The men had their own rules for such bonds—rules she didn’t yet know in full, but intended to learn and respect. One rule, however, was perfectly clear: strength determined authority and privilege. Her fingers brushed gently over Tiger’s arm. Respecting the rule didn’t mean she wouldn’t guide it. She wouldn’t let him harm the boy.

“How strong you are,” she said smoothly. “Silver can learn much from you. I’m sure he’ll be of use in time—and will follow your lead.”

Tiger’s eyes softened with pride. His little hen was such a clever, tender female. Truly, he could count himself blessed to be chosen as her beast-mate. Perhaps it was fate—the will of the fire-tailed tiger—that he had been wounded and that the little hen had been given to him. Once, he had avoided females altogether, though they pursued him relentlessly. That only changed after he had earned the scars across his face that many women found disfiguring—and after he had built a reputation as a surly, violent fighter who did not hesitate to mistreat females.

To stand tall again and think about a future was more than he had ever hoped for after his injury.

She kissed him softly on the lips—a silent promise of his precedence. Then she turned to Silver, who hadn’t moved a muscle from the floor, and helped him up.

“Tiger is my beast-mate, Silver. Obey him—and get along with him,” she said kindly. He nodded, cowed and uncertain.

“The tribe won’t be pleased about the stray, little hen…” Tiger grumbled, though his tone was more resigned than angry.

“Call me Iris,” she said with a smile. “Little hen no longer suits me. It’s a child’s name.”

Silver had retreated into a nook of the cave, watching them quietly.

“Then Iris it is,” Tiger replied readily. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a flower,” she explained, smiling. “I’ll show you one when I find it.”

“A flower… fitting,” he purred. “You smell as sweet as one.”

“You do know how to give compliments,” she said, laughing, teasing him lightly.

The serpent-man watched them—their easy gestures, their warm tones, the quiet smiles that passed between them. Was this what a family looked like? Could he truly be part of that?

The warmth pulsing in his belly, where the bond mark glowed faintly, felt comforting—almost alive.

But would the tiger truly accept him? He didn’t know. Yet for the first time in his life, he hoped.

They spent the rest of the day cleaning and preparing the fish. From some, Iris made a stew with wild vegetables and herbs, filling the cave with a rich, fragrant scent. It was difficult to communicate with Silver—his vocabulary was painfully limited—but he seemed eager to learn. Like a parched sponge meeting water, he absorbed every word she spoke.

Silver was strong and deft. Though he looked slender, he possessed far greater physical strength than Iris. He moved large pieces of wood with effortless ease, and his beast form—a silvery serpent nearly two meters long with faint, misty markings—was strikingly beautiful.

There was some discontent when she presented him to the chieftain and the priest. Yet once she made it clear that the guardian contract had already been sealed, they had no grounds to reject him. They did, however, ask her to promise that she would take in no more strays.

Iris refused instantly, without an ounce of hesitation.

“You chose my partner for me once,” she said, her voice firm, drawing a line as sharp as a blade. “With that, my debt to you is paid. From now on, whom I choose will be my decision alone.”

The chieftain’s eyes hardened with displeasure.

“Little Hen, the tribe cannot take in strays at will. The cold days are only a few moons away, and even without worthless coldbloods to feed, our hunters struggle in Winter. Game is scarce and fierce, and the rivers will freeze—no fish to be caught. You know this. Every female has the right to choose her mates, yes—but only the strongest, the most capable men deserve to sire young.”

“Silver is no worthless burden, but my guardian beast. He will pull his weight. But even if that weren't the case - Tiger and I will feed and protect our family through the winter,” she replied evenly, her tone brooking no argument. “Even if twenty wild strays joined us, it would not be your concern. My bloodline carries knowledge—awakened with my maturity. I descend from a line of witches and priests. And my name is no longer Little Hen. From this day forth, call me Iris.” Her tone was dignified and mature. 

Silver, coiled loosely around her waist with his head resting on her shoulder, basked in her warmth. In her support and her, shielding him from insult. A very novel feeling to the young Snake. Inwardly, he marveled at the quiet power in her voice—at how commanding, how radiant this woman seemed.

“You… have awakened bloodline knowledge?” the chieftain asked, his suspicion fading into fascination. “Can it help us better endure the cold moons?” He did not doubt her. He had already heard that Little Hen—no, Iris—had begun crafting strange new things and tamed fire within her cave.

“Do you know now what kind you are?” asked the priest, his keen avian eyes reflecting the firelight.

“No,” she sighed. “The memories are practical rather than ancestral. But perhaps my offspring will solve the riddle.” Usually, the young inherited the father’s kind—but on rare occasions, the mother’s blood prevailed.

“Little Hen—pardon, Iris,” said the chieftain, uneasily shifting his weight. “Are there no men among our clan who interest you?” He could not help his discomfort. Two wielders of magic or spirit in one tribe were rare—and though bloodline awakenings were not unheard of, he had never known a female to manifest one. And those who did often held only fragments, instincts rather than knowledge.

“I never said there weren’t, Chief Strong Bite,” she replied with measured calm. “I merely said that I will choose those whom I deem worthy.”

“As is right and proper,” the raven priest interjected smoothly. “It is the instinct of females to seek the strongest and best males—just as it is the instinct of men to hunt and to fight.”

Iris inclined her head. “I do not make such choices lightly. My survival depends on them. As for the cold moons. I will probe my knowledge by myself. If there is helpful advice, I might share it with the tribe. Although I do not owe you anything anymore.” she gave them a stern look and the chief couldn't help but feel a bit disheartened. Maybe he should not have been so forceful with little hen to push her to the tiger.

Later, in the cave, Silver shifted back into his human form. His movements were fluid, nearly silent; only the faint whisper of scales smoothing into skin betrayed the transformation. The fire cast soft, golden-red light along the stone walls, the smoke curling upward in thin streams. Tiger lay upon the furs, face half in shadow, his breathing deep and steady.

“Sick…?” Silver whispered, gazing at him. His voice was hesitant, shy and curious all at once.

“No,” said Iris, glancing toward the sleeper. “He fought a hard battle and fell down a ravine. Tiger is strong—and a skilled fighter. You could learn much from him.” She smiled at the young serpent-man.

He looked at her as though struck—not with pain, but wonder. When had a woman ever smiled like that at a serpent-beast? His blood remembered females who recoiled from his kind—faces marked by disgust or fear. Warm-blooded beings did not seek the company of cold scales. Even when a woman accepted a serpent as her beast-mate, it was rarely for affection, almost never for love. Only the mightiest of his kind ever earned such favor, and they spent their lives chasing the fleeting grace of a kind gaze.

But Iris… Iris had not taken him as a mate, merely as a guardian beast. And yet—the way she spoke to him, the warmth in her tone, the calm in her eyes—none of it carried distance. There was no revulsion, no dread. Only quiet curiosity—and something that felt dangerously close to tenderness.

She was unlike any woman his memory could recall.

“Fear?” he asked at last, hesitantly, as though testing a word that might wound him.

Iris frowned slightly and regarded him with quiet curiosity. “What do you mean?”

He searched for words, his tongue forming sounds still clumsy in the human tongue, his body tense with effort.

“Females… fear strays… fear wild serpents… Iris… fear?” he asked again, uncertainly.

She straightened a little, set the firewood aside, and met his gaze. The firelight shimmered in her eyes, molten gold and ember-red.

“You are my guardian beast,” she said calmly. “Why should I fear you? You’ve shown no threat, no deceit. Silver, you are part of this family now. You need not fear me or Tiger—and we have no reason to fear you.”

He was silent, listening. His gaze softened, disbelief mingling with wonder.

After a while, she spoke again, her tone gentle. “How do you usually sleep? On furs? In straw, or grass?”

He pointed wordlessly to the floor—to the bare stone, warmed only by half the fire’s reach. She followed the gesture and nodded, thoughtful.

“Do you prefer warmth or cold?”

“Warm…” he said quietly, his voice rough from disuse. “In cold… sleep.”

She blinked, surprised. “Sleep?” she echoed. “You mean… hibernation?”

He frowned faintly, searching for a word he did not know. “Long sleep… when cold comes.”

She couldn’t help but smile. The image of this strange, silver-scaled guardian curling into himself for the winter, waiting for the sun’s return, suited him perfectly.

The fire crackled softly. Tiger turned in his sleep, murmuring something incoherent. Smoke hung like a veil in the air, and the shadows danced upon the stone walls.

Iris tilted her head, studying Silver in the warm glow of the embers. His amber eyes gleamed faintly; his breathing was calm and even.

“Then we’ll keep you warm and safe when the cold comes,” she said at last, her voice a soft promise. “No one here will freeze - nor have to fear anything.” Silver didn't know how to respond to that. His heart overflowing with feelings unfamiliar and beautiful. No one ever gave him shelter or sympathy. Or trust at that.

Outside, the wind whispered through the night forest, but within the cave there was warmth, emberlight—and the fragile beginning of trust.

The next day, she began carving a smaller hollow into the wall, using the edge of her scale. It never ceased to amaze her how easily it cut through stone, as though it were soft clay beneath her touch. The opening was as wide as her arm, and she lined the inside with small, downy furs.

“Shall I fill it with dried grass too?” she asked when she was done.

He shifted into his serpent form and slid gracefully inside, coiling up within the hollow.

“No… Soft… and warm…” he hissed contentedly. Here, he would sleep when the cold season came.

“Rest then,” she said softly. “I’ll check the fish and the hides.”

They spent the rest of the day in quiet peace—resting, eating, tending to small tasks.

And that night, she mated with Tiger for the first time. The bond-mark—a paw-shaped sigil—appeared upon her shoulder, glowing faintly in the firelight.

He was animalistic in the act, as she had expected—but not without care. After their first joining, he licked the mark on her shoulder with reverent devotion. They slept entwined, and when they awoke, she began to teach him the concept of foreplay—that the chance of conceiving young was greater when the female was deeply aroused. She wasn’t certain whether that applied to her current body, but her intent was simple: to make the act gentler, more pleasurable. Tiger proved an eager and attentive student.

The next day brought fire-safety lessons for Silver, supervised by Tiger and Iris.

“It’s important that we all follow a few simple rules when we work with fire,” Iris began.

The flame in the small stone hearth flickered steadily, casting warm golden shadows along the walls of the cave. Smoke drifted up through the crude chimney she had carved—a primitive yet remarkably effective design. The scent of Leather and glowing wood filled the air. Both men sat close beside her, attentive as acolytes listening to the voice of the sun.

“Fire is no beast,” Iris said calmly, turning a stick between her fingers. She had to use words which were understandable for her man, which never heard of physiks. “It has no mind. But it hungers. It feeds on air and wood—and when it grows too large and ravenous, it devours furs, flesh, even stone.” She placed the stick upon the coals, and a small flame sprang to life, curling upward.

Silver leaned forward, eyes gleaming, his scaled skin catching the light, glistening radiantly. “Hunger?” he echoed softly, tasting the unfamiliar word.

“Yes.” She took a handful of twigs and scattered them into the embers. “If you feed it too little, it dies. Too much, and it chokes. You must tend it as you would a living creature, do you understand?”

Tiger nodded, the firelight bronzing his face. “That is why only priests and witches may tame fire. They have the knowledge—and the spirits’ protection.”

“Exactly. Watch what happens when you give it more air,” Iris said, blowing gently upon the coals. The fire answered with a deep, contented breath. “Breath is life. The wind feeds the flames but must not overwhelm them. Too much air, and the fire dies—like a tree broken by the storm.”

Silver tried to imitate her. He bent low and blew, timidly at first—too softly for any effect. Iris smiled and slid the pot aside with one of her scales so he could come closer. “Don’t whisper—breathe. Feel your chest move. Give the fire your breath, not your fear.”

He tried again, firmer this time. The flames leapt higher, and his eyes widened in wonder.

“Good,” she said, laying her hand briefly on his shoulder. “Now it knows you are there.”

Tiger watched her with quiet fascination, head tilted slightly. Then he too leaned in and tried, astonished by the result although he already knew.

“You control it as if you were part of it,” he murmured. “Aren’t you afraid? It can destroy entire packs when it runs wild.”

“I respect it,” she replied without looking up. “But I don’t fear it. It could wound or kill us, yes— to underestimate it would be foolish. That’s why we give it boundaries—stone around wood, air around flame. Fire must breathe, but it must never wander. Understand that, and it will obey you.”

She took a small pot from the edge of the hearth where clear water was boiling. “Fire is a tool. It warms, dries, heals—and destroys. Like all life here, it depends on how you treat it.”

She hoped she had explained it in a way they could grasp. Magical thinking was the order of this world—science, entirely unknown.

Tiger nodded slowly while Silver watched the flames, utterly enthralled.

“So… not a beast,” the younger murmured, “but… with power…”

Iris smiled. “Yes. And if you follow my teachings, you can command it.”

A spark leapt, hissed, and vanished. In the cave, only the soft crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of their breathing remained.

Later, she led them outside and showed them how to build a safe fire pit, letting them spend the whole morning practicing—striking sparks from flint, coaxing flame from embers, learning patience in every motion. Then she taught them how the smoke pits worked, and which herbs and resins to feed the fire so that its breath would preserve food instead of devouring it.

Chapter Text

Iris spent the next three weeks educating her two men. The days passed quietly, filled with work, and the cave slowly grew alive. The scent of smoke, tanned leather, and herbs hung thick in the air.

She taught the two beastmen—quick learners both—how to use spices, how to make the fire serve them, and how to preserve meat by combining both arts. Within days, the air was rich with the fragrance of smoked meat and drying sausages. Together they built smoking pits, sliced meat into thin strips, hung it over shallow beds of glowing coals, and watched it darken, firm, and take on the deep aroma of survival.

Silver learned to recognize roots and tubers fit for storage and gathered seeds from plants Iris could identify. She was no botanist, but an experienced gardener—and that was enough. Most of the flora here resembled what she knew from her own world, only larger and hardier. Soon, woven baskets of root fiber and sinew lined the rock wall, filled with dried herbs, roots, tubers, and chunks of resin. Lacking clay pots, they used stone bowls, hollow gourds, and animal bladders, which she sealed with resin or wax to make them airtight.

Iris also began exchanging knowledge with the tribe’s priest and witchdoctor. She taught them simple but vital things—wound hygiene, fire tending, food preservation—while learning in turn how they used plant ash for tanning and tree resin and Herbs für healing. She liked it that way: quiet give and take, wisdom flowing in both directions.

Tiger, meanwhile, showed her how to treat hides so they stayed supple and did not rot. He worked with his claws, stone tools, and animal fat, and Iris marveled at how deftly his large hands handled delicate work. In return, she introduced him and Silver to the art of traps—snares, pit traps, and small trigger mechanisms made from bent branches. They learned fast, and the delight he took in improving her designs made Silver’s eyes shine with curiosity.

Suitors who came seeking the place of beast-mate were turned away—politely, but firmly. Iris told them she had promised Tiger the first litter and would take no other until that vow was fulfilled.

Strangely, that only made her all the more desired.

When, after a week and a half, Tiger stepped from the cave fully healed, many thought him a spirit at first. Though they had not hidden his recovery, superstition had kept the others away—no one wished to court misfortune by lingering near the dying, unless bound by blood.

But now Tiger stood tall once more, the red crystal on his forehead gleaming with fresh valor in the bright sunlight, his movements strong and sure as ever. Iris seized the moment and declared before the men that she would accept only those mates who had earned Tiger’s approval.

With that, his position within the tribe was sealed beyond doubt. Tiger—one of only two warriors bearing a red crystal—had returned as the strongest fighter and her principal mate, and he relished it completely. For days he strutted about the camp, chin lifted, every inch the triumphant hunter. And Iris, amused, thought he looked rather like an overfed tomcat proudly marking his territory.

Before long, the hunt began to call to him again. Their meals—once simple fare of small game, fish, and roots—were soon graced with greater prey. Tiger brought down thar’yn, wild boars, and giant stags, whose rich fat was even more precious than their meat.

At Iris’s request, he sought out the fattest creatures he could find, and when he returned successful, she showed him and the priest how to render fat into lard. Together they cut the soft layers from the bellies of the beasts, heating them over flat stones until golden drops began to form, then skimming the clear liquid away.

“This is life in winter,” she said as she worked. “It feeds, it protects, and it preserves.”

They poured the hot lard into stone pits and leather pouches, letting it cool and solidify. Later, they used it to seal food, waterproof hides, and even coat the cave walls against the creeping damp.

In the evenings, as smoke rose gently from the chimney vent and the stored fat gleamed faintly in the firelight, a peaceful warmth settled over the cave.
Tiger often sat by the flames, arms crossed, content as a man who had reclaimed his place in the world. Silver hummed softly while sorting dried herbs and plants.
And Iris looked at them—her men, her refuge, her beginning in a strange new land.

When the sun hung low on the horizon, Iris stepped before the cave entrance and pressed her hands into the earth. The soil was cool and heavy, damp from the recent rains. Kneeling, she brushed aside a handful of dirt and tested the depth, then nodded, satisfied.

“Here,” she said. “This will be our storehouse.”

Tiger and Silver stood beside her in silence. The wind stirred her hair and brushed over Silver’s scales, making them glimmer dully in the amber light. Both men looked from the ground to her, waiting.

“A hole?” Tiger asked.

“A shaft,” she corrected gently. “Deep enough for the air to stay cool. We’ll store meat, fat, tubers—everything winter would steal from us if we didn’t guard it. The cold will be our ally.”

Tiger nodded slowly. “A cold pit… like the bears’ dens.”

“Exactly,” she agreed. “But deeper. Smoother. Safer.”

“What if it rains?” Silver asked quietly. She smiled, pleased by the question.

“Excellent!” she said, eyes bright. “You understand the principle. We’ll build a roof and a seal for the pit, and dig a trench around it to carry off the water. The walls will be lined and made tight.”

Then the work began. Tiger knelt, stretching out his hand—and his fingers changed. Black claws slid from their tips, glinting in the fading light. Muscles flexed beneath his skin as a fine golden fur crept up his forearms. With a low, vibrating sound, he drove his claws deep into the earth.

Silver followed his lead. His hands, too, transformed—his nails lengthened, sleek and translucent green. The scales across the backs of his hands shifted and locked, reinforcing his grip. Together they dug.

It was no slow labor. The soil flew in dark waves, sliding down Silver’s scaled arms, while Tiger tore through the harder layers with brute strength. The sound of their work was deep and rhythmic—not the scrape of tools, but the muffled thunder of power alive in flesh and bone.

“Slowly,” said Iris from the edge, watching closely. “Not too wide. The shaft must hold. The air must move, but no water may seep in.”

Tiger grunted in agreement. With one strike of his hand, he split a stone that blocked his path, shattering it cleanly in two. The shards slid harmlessly across his skin.

Silver worked beside him, lifting the earth with smooth, fluid motions and tossing it aside. The soil rose in a small embankment, their bodies gleaming with sweat and dust. The scent of earth and stone thickened the air.

By evening, the shaft was so deep that Iris had to lean over to see Tiger’s face below. He looked up, his eyes glowing faintly in the twilight.

“Deep enough?” he asked.

“Two arm-lengths more,” she replied. “Then we’ll line it.”

They rested briefly, drank water that Silver had stored in a dried bladder, and resumed their work the next morning. When the sun rose for the third time above the cave, the shaft was complete—round, smooth, deep, and cool.

Tiger had polished the walls with his claws until the stone beneath was exposed and firm. Silver had sealed the edges with earth and moss. Kneeling at the rim, Iris felt the chill air rising from below and smiled.

“Good,” she murmured. “Now we need a shell—smooth stones to protect the walls, and clay to seal the joins.”

Tiger nodded. As he bent to work, the red crystal on his brow glimmered briefly. His claws cut into the rock, prying loose broad, flat slabs, which he lifted effortlessly from the stone. Silver carried them to Iris one by one.

Together, they laid the stones along the shaft’s walls. Iris spread a paste of clay, resin, and ash into the seams until the interior was smooth and tight. When the work was done, silence fell—deep, heavy, and pleasing.

“It breathes,” Silver whispered, holding his hand over the opening. Cool air drifted upward, fresh and still.

“Yes,” Iris said softly. “That’s good. Cold preserves the food.”

At dusk, they rolled a heavy river stone toward the pit—round, smooth, and large enough that even Tiger strained to move it. Too heavy for Silver’s beast power. Together they guided it over the rim until it sealed the opening completely.

Iris stepped back. The fire from the cave behind her flickered across the scene. She placed her palm on the stone’s cool surface and nodded, content.

“This will keep everything safe. When the frost comes, we open it only briefly. No heat, no smoke must enter.”

Silver leaned forward and touched the stone with his fingertips. “Cold,” he whispered reverently.

“Cold preserves,” Tiger echoed, as if committing it to memory. “And fire preserves…”

“And you both have tamed them,” she said, smiling proudly at her men.

For a long moment, they stood in silence—three figures in the warm glow of firelight, gathered before a pit that sank into the earth. Beneath their feet lay the promise of survival—hidden, cool, and secure.

Then Iris lifted her gaze to the darkening sky. “Now,” she said quietly, “let winter come.”

The next morning, work began again—quiet, steady, and methodical. A pale mist lay over the green forest valley, and from the cave drifted the familiar scent of smoke, earth, and rendered fat. The great stone was rolled aside, and cool air flowed from the storage shaft. Iris hung down a woven basket while Silver held the rope and Tiger passed her the heavy bundles.

“The things that last longest go to the bottom. What we’ll use sooner, on top.” Her logic made perfect sense to them both.

She inspected every piece of meat, every sausage before lowering it down—smoked and seasoned with herbs, its fat gleaming like wax. Between each layer she placed dried moss to draw out moisture and wrapped the stores in hides that Tiger had carefully tanned. Beside them went pouches of rendered fat, sealed with resin, and small leather bags filled with roots, seeds, and herbs.

“Not too tight,” she warned gently. “The air must circulate.”

“Cir-u–laat” Silver repeated,not knowing the word, unsure what she wanted to say. 

She crossed eyes with Tiger. He didn’t say a thing but also didn’t look too sure himself.
“It’ts like the Smoke going  through the chimney. The air mustn’t stay still all the time and… nevermind.” she changed her mind. No pressure lecturing about Airflow and so on. Ther wer more pressing things.
Silver nodded and began arranging the bundles with his slender hands. The shaft accepted their stores, the chill of its depths closing around them like a silent promise. When the last basket disappeared, Tiger rolled the heavy stone back into place. The deep rumble as it settled into its groove sounded like a door sealing shut.

That evening, the fire crackled softly in the cave, filling the air with the scent of roasted boar belly. Tiger had cooked the meat over flat stones until the skin turned crisp and the fat gleamed translucent. Iris mashed the soft-cooked roots and tubers with a flat stone, blending them with salt herbs and a spoon of lard until they became a golden purée.

They sat close to the fire. The light danced across their faces—glinting along the scales at Silver’s throat and tracing the scars upon Tiger’s shoulders like faded runes.

“When we have more supplies,” Iris began after a while, “we’ll need protection. Not only from rain or snow—but from hungry visitors.”

Tiger raised a brow. “You mean wandering orcs?”
She nodded.

“And beasts. Wild creatures… perhaps orcs whose stores have run dry. I’ve been thinking—an enclosure. A floor and a wall of stone slabs, high enough that no animal can leap across. A palisade of wood.”

She took a stick and drew in the dust: a broad half-circle around the cave entrance, then a row of upright lines marking the fence. “Here we could have a gate. Space for drying hides, storing firewood. And perhaps,” she added, glancing up at Tiger, “a small work area—sheltered beneath a roof of stone or wooden shingles.”

Silver leaned closer, fascinated. “Like… a nest?”

“Yes,” Iris said with a faint smile. “An expanded nest. A safe, dry place. Like an extension of the cave itself. If we build a roof above it, it will be perfect—dry wood, steady fire, and room to work.”

Tiger studied the drawing for a long moment, then set aside the rest of his meat. “I’ll build it,” he said simply. His voice carried that calm certainty that needed no persuasion. “I’ve learned how to split stone and bend wood. I’ll build your roof.”

She met his eyes, smiling. “For me?”

“For us.”

She nodded. Tiger gazed again at the lines in the dust, his expression thoughtful—the slow turning of a mind that was learning to look beyond mere survival.

“If it works,” he murmured, “we could build such places for everyone—for the whole tribe. A space where food won’t rot and fire burns safely.”

“All of them?” Silver asked softly. He didn’t quite understand what it meant for Tiger to think beyond their small circle. For him, the female was the center—everything else was irrelevant. She had become the axis of his being. Imprinting, that was what serpents called it. Yet he was not in a position to challenge Tiger.

Tiger nodded. “A home, young serpent. A tribe is more than a family, even if Iris’s safety and well-being must always come first. When the tribe prospers, it shields us—and her—better. But if it falters, we share its danger. Tell me, what do you think will happen if we alone have warmth and full bellies?”

His gaze grew hard. “Could you defend Iris and this cave against a hundred and fifty starving orcs, fighting to the death to feed their females?”

Silver met his eyes for a long moment, then shook his head slowly. “Leave… tribe?” he asked softly.

“In an emergency, I would,” Tiger replied. “But if we teach them what Iris has taught us, they won’t have to starve. Then we fight beside the tribe, not against it—against those who would steal from us.”

Night had fallen outside. Through the cave’s opening drifted the distant calls of night birds. The fire crackled; fat hissed as it dripped into the embers. Iris looked between them, a quiet warmth growing within her—the sense that from this small cave, from work, wisdom, and flame, something new might be born.

“You’re right, Tiger,” she said softly. “I was thinking only of our little family. But that could easily backfire…” She hesitated, then smiled faintly. “I mean—it could make enemies of others. I’d hate it too, if someone lived in abundance while we starved. When we have more stores,” she continued, “we’ll have to share them. I’ve already taught a few things to the priest, the witch, and the chieftain. Tiger, when you return from the hunt, teach the other men what you’ve learned. Silver and I will handle the butchering and preparation. We’ll share our knowledge with anyone willing to learn.”

Tiger looked up from the fire. “A wise idea. It’s safer when all have the same means.” He set aside the bone he had been gnawing, his brow furrowing in thought. “If we secure the entrance and store enough wood, we could even help the others—especially the families with young. I could teach the men how to break stone and cut timber. The winter takes too many each year. They’ll learn while they help us.”

Such a clever tiger, Iris thought, amused—two birds with one stone.

He spoke calmly, yet there was a bitter undertone in his voice that caught her attention. She studied him, the firelight casting golden shadows across his face, and sensed that his words carried something deeper. She moved a little closer.

“How does the tribe usually survive the cold days?” she asked casually, as though simply continuing the conversation. “I never had to worry about it before. Like most females, I was always provided for.” She forced a light smile, hoping he wouldn’t notice that she had no memories of the ‘little hen’ whose life she now lived.

Tiger nodded in understanding. “Yes. The females rarely know how hard it is for us when the snow comes. The deeper it lies, the quieter the forest grows. No tracks, no sound. Even the prey dies or flees south.”

He stared into the fire. The golden light played over his face, making his eyes glow like molten amber. “In the last two winters, many have died—five, sometimes ten men each year. The weakest first: the old, the wounded, those without mates. When the snow lasts too long, hunger dulls the mind. Even friends turn on one another for a strip of bark.”

He picked up a piece of wood and tossed it into the fire. Sparks leapt upward. “We never knew much about storing food. Most hunted until there was nothing left to hunt. What little we saved spoiled. Meat rots quickly when you don’t know how to preserve it. There were times when men lived on bark, roots, entrails—anything left after the females and the young had eaten the flesh. That was as it should be. It’s our duty to protect them. Some froze where they stood. Lone men without families. Reckless younglings. I remember winters so cold entire families froze in their sleep.”

He fell silent for a moment, his gaze steady on the flames. “If we teach them to tame the fire…” he began, and the thought hung between them like a quiet vow.
He was silent for a moment, then turned to her. “It could change everything, Iris. With what you know… we could build something that carries all of us through the cold days—without sacrifice.”

At that word, sacrifice, Iris felt an old ache stir within her. She laid her hand on his knee without thinking, as if to ground herself, to hide what she felt. The word echoed in her chest. Slowly, she nodded. “Then let’s try.”

Silver approached, hesitant, as though afraid to intrude—yet longing to belong, to be part of that unity rather than an outsider. As if sensing his quiet yearning, Iris reached out her free hand and took his.

“Together,” she said softly.

Tiger’s eyes moved to their joined hands. He still didn’t fully trust the serpent. Reason told him that a guardian beast was bound by its pact, loyal to its master. But serpents were cunning, cold-blooded. Still—this one, who gleamed like morning dew, belonged to Iris.

He inclined his head, a slow nod of acceptance, calm and resolute. “Together.”

The next day:

By afternoon, movement returned to the valley. The damp fog had lifted, and the pale sun shone through thin clouds. The air carried the heavy, metallic scent of fresh blood. Between the trees, the first hunters appeared—not only Tiger, but nearly thirty men: mongooses, bears, ravens. Each bore spoils of the hunt—boars, forest cattle, giant waterfowl, rock hares—fat, strong, and hard-won. The hunt had been a success.

Before Iris’s cave, Silver had already prepared everything. They had worked diligently that morning: water stood ready, charcoal and wood were stacked for smoking, the smoke pit burned low and steady, with herbs and resins laid out beside it. Two large stone bowls sat near the fire—one with the remnants of yesterday’s lard, the other empty, ready for fresh fat. The day was bright but cool—perfect for their task.

Iris stepped from the shadow of the cave. She wore a broad leather apron and garments that often struck the others as strange. She preferred to stitch her furs in the fashion of the world she remembered—practical, fitted, functional. Around her waist was a kind of corset-belt. Her hair was tied up in a knot; in one hand she held a wooden ladle, in the other, her scale-bladed knife. Her bearing was calm, focused—and proud. Not out of vanity, but from certainty. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Tiger approached with three men at his side. Slung over his shoulder hung a heavy forest ox, still steaming from the warmth of life. He lowered it to the ground, shaking his head with a faint grin.

“Fatter than I thought. Perfect for what you intend to teach us.”

“Then let’s begin,” she said, kneeling beside the beast. Silver came forward, using his claws to loosen the leg bindings with delicate precision, while Iris drew the knife along the hide, cutting a clean line beneath the breastbone.

The men gathered around in a half-circle. Some had come to learn. Others to judge. And a few—only to be seen by Iris.

Sharp-Eye was among them, standing a little apart. One of his eyes was black as coal, the other pure white. A blue crystal gleamed at his brow—decent strength for his age—yet he had never taken a mate. Not for lack of power, but because of those eyes. Most females feared him. Some shunned him. Others despised him outright.

Yet Little Hen had permitted him to join and learn. Anyone who wished to learn was welcome—and Sharp-Eye would not waste such a chance. So he stood a little apart, eager and alert.
Tiger had already explained the purpose of the lesson.

Iris cut cleanly through the tissue, peeled back the layer of fat, and handed it to Silver as she spoke. “Into the bowl. We’ll render the fat later. It’s important that nothing is wasted.”

Silver nodded, taking the soft mass with both hands. His claws were sharp, but not too familiar yet with working such slippery material. Instead, he used a simple ladle to scrape it into the bowl. Seeing this, Sharp-Eye stepped closer. Little Hen—now Iris—had become something of a marvel among the tribe, not merely because she had tamed fire, but because she was willing to teach it. To him, she appeared proud, capable, and beautiful—so different from the other females who only waited to be served and pampered by their men.

“May I help?” he asked cautiously, tilting his head to the side so that his discolored eye would not startle her.

Tiger’s gaze flicked toward him. “Can you focus without hungering for a place in her furs?”

“I want to learn. Not… impress.”
Of course, he did hunger for it, as every unmated male did. He wanted a mate, offspring of his own blood, as any healthy man would. But above all, he wanted to live. Two winters ago, he had nearly starved. Later, in the season of falling leaves, he’d found hard-shelled fruits buried under snow—barely edible, but they had saved his life. Last winter, that secret cache had kept him alive. Survival had become his only ambition - at least for now. 

“Then begin,” Iris said calmly. “Silver will show you how to separate the fat. Use the ladle, not your claws. The less we touch food with our hands, the better. We’ll melt it down over the fire.”

Silver handed him the tool, studying him closely—not with distrust, but with scrutiny.

Iris turned back to the carcass. “I’ll slice the meat into strips. The thinner, the better. These will be salted, then smoked over the fire. Smoke keeps the flesh safe—from rot, and from flies. I know Salt is scarce - You don’t need to much. Salt-Grass also does the Trick if carefully dried.” The Witchdoctor showed her the Grass and Iris was fascinated by the plant unknown to her before. Her old World had no such thing as a sort of Grass that naturally built Salt. Sugar, Yes, but Salt? No. 

She straightened and looked around the gathered men. “You have strong claws and sharp fangs. We females are weaker, so we use tools. Some of them may serve you as well. Our ways differ, but the goal is the same: to keep food healthy. To survive.”

Many men stared at Iris, fascinated. She seemed almost a different species—strong, calm, luminous.
A sturdy mongoose with a blue crystal thought of his own mate, who spent her days lazing in the cave, demanding to be served. She had grown plump for the winter and had once again refused to choose him during her heat, gifting her eggs instead to a raven. Ravens were favored by many females—laying eggs was easier than bearing live young.
If only he had waited for Little Hen, he thought. She seemed gentler, wiser, kinder.

An older bear with deep scars across his chest nodded gravely. A young raven clicked his claws together, as if testing the motion.

Tiger stepped forward. “I saw how many starved in the last two winters,” he said. “We lost more than ten men—old ones, the wounded, those without mates, men who could no longer contribute. If you refuse to learn, you’ll share their fate.”

“I will teach you what I’ve learned from her,” Tiger continued. “If you understand fat, herbs, and smoke, your females will trust you. No one will freeze and starve again because he stored his meat wrong.”

The men exchanged glances—shame and hope mingling in their eyes.

“If you want to know how to guard your caves, preserve your stores, and survive the frost—stay. If you’re too proud, then leave. I won’t waste my time.”

No one moved.

Sharp-Eye worked silently, scraping fat into the bowl. His face was tense, his shoulders rigid, yet his movements were steady, skilled.

“You’re deft,” Iris said approvingly. “Keep it up, and you’ll be a master in a short time.”

A flicker of pride crossed his face as Tiger came to stand beside her. He murmured lowly, “Careful, my mate. You give him hope.”

Iris met his gaze, her tone calm. “Everyone deserves a purpose—if they’re willing to work for it.”
Tiger studied her, wondering if she intended to bring Sharp-Eye into their household. She only smiled. “We’ll see, my love. In any case, there’s no rush.”

And so it began—with fat, fire, and plain words—the teaching that would mean the difference between life and death.

The men spent the entire day with Iris, Tiger, and Silver, cutting up their kills, filling sausages, smoking meat, or sealing it in rendered lard. Iris explained which herbs slowed decay, how air flow in a storage pit extended preservation, and which parts of a cave were best for storing food. They salted, boiled, hung, and rubbed until every piece of meat was accounted for. They asked about storage sites, heat management, mold prevention, and reheating—and Iris answered each question with patient precision.

When every man had prepared his share and stored it in his own smoke pit, Tiger stepped forward once more. His voice was calm, yet heavy with conviction.

“What we’ve done today will save lives. But it isn’t enough to store food. We must also protect what we have.” That concluded the first lecture. Many more would follow.

At night, Iris lay close against Tiger. It had become a quiet, instinctive ritual between them. Over time, he had learned what pleased her—and tended to her with that focused, reverent care that only a man could give who saw his bond as an honor. His touch had grown surer, gentler, more deliberate. With each night, he seemed to understand her more deeply, and their connection became stronger—more intimate, more complete.

Silver slept in his own small hollow, the refuge Iris had carved out for him. Or perhaps he didn’t sleep at all. At times, he lay awake, listening to the faint crackle of the fire and the  heated noises or the slow,steady breathing from the main chamber. Iris paid it little mind. Among families here, such intimacy was not hidden. Shame with sexuality was not a concept that held weight—only weakness, uselessness and in a sense ugliness was a topic for heavy shame.

Jealousy among men was rarely a topic, and dangerous when it surfaced. Open quarrels, sulking, or envy were signs of weakness—and weakness in this world was not a flaw but a threat. Females wanted no weak males. They sought loyal and devoted providers, protectors, warriors. Those who complained were swiftly branded—unstable, unreliable, a burden. Sometimes females even wielded that judgment as a weapon, to rid themselves of clingy or inconvenient partners.

Iris had begun to grasp the crushing weight these men lived under. The instinct to mate, to continue the bloodline, ran deep. Yet the path to it was merciless: only those chosen could hope. And choice went to the strong—or the beautiful, or the extraordinary. But even that was no guarantee. A single female could, in theory, take as many beast-mates and guardian beasts as she wished. Those who came late often found no place at all. Once the bonds were set, new females had to be born, bartered, or taken by force—each path rare, costly, and perilous.

When Iris learned that Tiger—despite his strength—had first been pursued relentlessly an then been shunned, that many females had rejected him because of his scars, she could hardly believe it. Scars earned in bloodied battles, won in defense of the tribe, to keep them fed and safe. How could they have called such marks ugly? In her world, they were symbols of honor—proof of courage and resilience. To her, they were seals of spirit, the battle’s legacy written upon the flesh. She saw in them beauty, depth, experience. And Tiger… Tiger possessed a raw, masculine strength that drew her like fire.

Her recognition healed something in him. He flourished under her regard. Not only his body recovered—his confidence did too. Each day, his movements grew steadier, his bearing prouder. It was as though he had rediscovered himself—or perhaps, for the first time, truly felt what it meant to be accepted and honored. Not in spite of his past, his scars, but because of them.

And Iris understood then: this was the true power of females in this world. They decided more than the bonds of mating and birth. They decided a man’s worth—with a glance, a word, a touch. Their favor could make him rise, could make him stronger, surer—alive. Their rejection could twist him, harden him, or break him entirely.

And if she was honest with herself—had it been so different in her old world?
There, too, she had known men who lived beneath dragons—women who were never content, who scolded and demanded until their partners withered under the weight of their words. And others, who flourished beside warm-hearted women, who found strength, purpose, and success in that quiet, steady warmth. They had called it by other names in her old world, but the mechanics had been the same.

She glanced toward Tiger, who was rebuilding the fire pit with his bare claws. The embers reflected in his golden eyes, calm and watchful. That was a man, she thought, who had once been ready to die in battle—and who now lived for her.

The knowledge Iris and Tiger had shared spread like an unseen flame through the tribe—not burning, but illuminating. The men who had learned how to preserve their kills, season and smoke meat, render fat, or make sausages kept their word. Side by side with Tiger, they began building the enclosure around Iris’s cave—not as a mark of allegiance, but as the foundation of something greater.

They learned quickly. Under Iris’s watchful eye and Tiger’s powerful claws, they discovered how to split stone by reading its grain, how to bend wood without breaking it, how to seal cracks with a mix of resin, sand, and ash until it became weatherproof. What had first seemed like a strange female whim turned into a work of honor: they were building shelter. They were building the future.

Soon, other caves followed suit—some larger, some narrow, some with palisades, others already crowned with stone-weighted roofs. What had first been met with suspicion became a trend. The females, who had once laughed at Iris’s peculiar ways, began to take interest in this new comfort: a roof above the fire, dry wood, a place to hang furs without mold. They liked it. And where females found delight, men followed.

There was smoke and hammering and cooking. The preserved meat was richer and spicier than anything they had known before. Even the cautious females, who once ate only the freshest raw flesh, began to trust Iris’s methods. It was safer—and wiser. And delicious.

For Iris learned one evening by the fire that worms were among the most common causes of death for females and young in the tribe. No one knew the cause - But Iris knew: raw meat was not only lean, but deadly. No one knew how to cure the “belly serpents,” as they called them. No one—except her.

To Iris, it wasn’t magic, merely basic knowledge. She told the tribe’s witchdoctor that powdered pumpkin seeds drove out such parasites. He had laughed at first, skeptically, like an old raven who had seen too many false cures. But when they treated an infected pup together—and the young one regained its strength within days—the mockery vanished from his eyes.

From that day on, the witchdoctor regarded her with cautious reverence. He began calling her White Blood—a name given only to those whose wisdom was believed to spring from ancient, noble lines. Iris did not correct him. “It’s bloodline knowledge, nothing more,” she would say mildly. “I stand on the shoulders of my ancestors.” It was not quite a lie. But it changed nothing. In the eyes of many, she had broken a curse that had claimed countless women and children. That alone was enough to make her a living priestess of the Beast God.

The old men began to listen. The young began to hope. And Iris—once the strange woman with strange tools—was well on her way to becoming legend.

The only blemish was that, after two and a half moons, she still showed no sign of carrying a litter. But Tiger was patient and rational about it.

“It’s normal,” he said in his deep, calm voice, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Females usually conceive only once a year. The chance that it was your time was small to begin with. I hoped for it, since you had just entered your first heat—I knew that. But when you chose me, I also knew it might not work out in my favor before… it was too late. It would not have been unheard of, for a Female to conceive late… but also not very likely…”

She frowned at that. He had known she would likely not be able to give him young so soon… everyone must have known. But they forced her hand nonetheless.

He leaned closer until his brow touched hers. “Don’t worry, Iris. I’m sure when your next heat comes, it will happen. We have the time now. Thanks to you.”

In truth, he was not unhappy about the delay. Had she conceived now, the child would have been born in the dead of the Cold Days—a season that killed more newborns than any other. Frost, sickness, hunger… it was no time to bring forth life.

Tiger knew that his kind seldom had many offspring—one, perhaps two cubs at a time. Ravens, on the other hand, laid up to five eggs, while mongooses bore litters of six or eight. But tiger cubs were stronger, hardier—their birth, however, was perilous, even for the toughest females.

So perhaps it was a blessing that her time had not yet come. There was still so much to do. The enclosure was solid, but not complete. The food stores were full, but not yet winter-proof. If she were with child now, she would soon grow heavy, slower—more vulnerable.

He looked down at her as she curled into his side, her skin warm against his, her breathing soft and even. He could feel her heartbeat, steady as his own.

There was still time. She had given him back the one thing he thought he had lost forever—time.

Time to build.
To teach.
To protect.

And when her season came again, all would be ready.

“You’re a great man, Tiger,” she whispered. “I love you. And I am happy that fate brought us together."

He drew her closer, and the firelight flickered across their resting forms, casting long, golden shadows over the cave walls.

Chapter Text

Sharp-Eye experienced those weeks of learning as a kind of rebirth. Again and again, he found himself drawn to the cave of Little Hen—no, to Iris.

The “Little Hen” he had once known, the small, somewhat foolish and anxious female, no longer existed. She had awakened—in every sense of the word. They said her bloodline knowledge had surfaced, an ancient memory long dormant in her soul. At first, he had dismissed it as rumor; such awakenings were rare even among men. But after seeing what she knew, what she taught, how she changed—there could be no other explanation. This knowledge was foreign, precious, powerful. Her demeanor turned completely. And all of it pulled at him with a force he could not resist. He did not want to resist. But at the same time he shook in fear of his own desire. 

And so, he kept his distance.

No female had ever tolerated his presence for long. They recoiled from his gaze—from the imbalance of his mismatched eyes. No matter how well he hunted, how cleverly he solved problems, or how faithfully he served, they turned away as soon as his usefulness faded. Every time.

So when he was not hunting or repairing his small hut, he perched on a branch not far of the cave, watching. Watching Iris. Watching Tiger. Watching the serpent. The damn stray. A feral. Why was he allowed by her side—while Sharp-Eye was not?
Silver wasn’t even a mate, merely a guardian. And still, that was more than Sharp-Eye had ever been granted.

He would have no complaints. Even if Iris had accepted him only as a guardian beast,  it would have been enough. Her closeness, trusting him, relying on him, that alone would have been more than enough. More than he deserved, outcast that was. For she treated Tiger and Silver not as possessions, nor as breeding stock or tools of duty, but with something far rarer among females—respect, affection, warmth.

Other women let their chosen males work, fight, bleed for them—yet rarely offered even a kind word in return. Iris was different. She worked beside them. She spoke warmly, she laughed mesmerizingly, she touched intimately, active all day, looking out for them. Welcoming them home. Cooking for them. Giving them something Sharp-Eyer only ever dreamed of, but never saw it happen. Her genuine Love. It was as though she saw in her men something more than instruments of survival.

And the longer Sharp-Eye watched, the deeper his ache and hurt grew.

Why not me?
Why was he unworthy?
Why had he been cursed with two unequal eyes?

The black eye—deep, steady, piercing—was not the problem. It was the other one: pale, colorless, ghostly white. An eye his mother had said could “cut into the soul.” But all he ever saw through it were shifting shadows. His name, Sharp-Eye, had not been born of keen sight, but of that haunting gaze. Most females could not bear it. Even his mother had raised him at arm’s length until he was old enough to fend for himself. His father had taught him to hunt… and then vanished.

Since then, he had belonged to no one.

The tribe had not cast him out, no—but he had never truly belonged. Even among the ravens, he was an outsider. They traded with him, spoke with him—but only so long as they could avoid meeting his gaze. The moment his white eye caught theirs, even men turned away.

How often had he thought of leaving the tribe?
For a time—almost every day.

But then came the fear.

The fear that it would be no better elsewhere. That no tribe would ever take him in.
And that once he left the Green Forest Clan, there would be no path back.

Was there truly no place in this world for one such as him?
He was not weak.
Not foolish.
And—aside from that eye—he knew he was handsomer than most. His hair was long and jet-black, gleaming in the sun; his skin dark and flawless, his features fine-cut, noble. In his beast form he was a mighty raven, strong enough to lift other men when he called upon the power of his crystal. A blue crystal, hard-earned and stable. He was not weak.

But none of it mattered.

Not with that eye.

Six females had already rejected him. And new females were not born often. The few who came into the world were claimed by the strongest, or stolen, or traded—never easily won.

And now Tiger—the scarred one, the disfigured one—had been chosen by the very woman Sharp-Eye had all but worshipped, and set his hopes in, in silence. She was his last chance. If another female were born now, she would not reach her time before he grew too old. And if she too rejected him?

It wasn’t fair.
Not even a little.

Sharp-Eye perched, as he did every evening, high in his tree, black wings folded tight against his sides. Twilight descended over the valley, blending with the smoke rising from the new smoking pits. His sharp gaze found her again—Iris. Watching her speak to the serpent, stroke his head, let Tiger kiss her; watching her kneel to greet a young mongoose cub who trotted curiously along the new palisade, yipping playfully.

His white eye caught the last of the light. As always, he tried to keep it half hidden—but he knew she saw him.

Iris saw him.

Of course she did.

She saw him every evening.

At first, her glances had been brief, almost accidental. But lately, her gaze lingered.
And today… today she had smiled.

Not that open, social smile she offered when she spoke to the tribe.
No. This had been different—quiet, unguarded, real.
And in his dreams, that smile was his alone.

He is different, Iris thought as she crouched beside the fire, turning a skewer of fish over the coals.
And I like that.

The raven intrigued her. She felt drawn to him.

Smoke curled around her face as her eyes drifted again to the branch at the clearing’s edge. Of all the ravens, he’s by far the most handsome. Beauty wasn’t all that matterted but for fucks sake, it was nice to have men who were easy on the eyes. And that Raven was an eyecandy.  His hair—black as the heart of night.
His stride—measured, graceful, controlled.
His voice—when he spoke during the lessons—calm, deliberate, clear.
And those eyes… She understood why others hesitated. The white one was strange, almost translucent, as though it belonged to another realm. She wondered if it was blind.
Yet it was beautiful.

She had always found heterochromia enchanting—a marvel, not a flaw.
And his body… leaner than Tiger’s, stronger than Silver’s. Broad shoulders, narrow hips. The archetype of a man. His dark skin shimmered like velvet in the firelight.

She had even spoken of him with Tiger. Of course, he had heard the tales—that the raven’s gaze could pierce flesh and bone, could cut into the soul.
Superstition.
She had laughed.

“Eyes don’t cut souls, Tiger. They only reflect them.”

He had accepted that, though not without a low growl that betrayed lingering doubt.
But she had explained it gently, as she always did.
And in the end, he had understood.

“You promised me the first litter,” Tiger had said at last. “So I have no reason to see him as a rival or try to talk you out of it. You need more men for protection and providing anyway.”
And it was true.

Tiger was proud, and clever, yet he knew his place, and the harsh reality of suvival—and he knew Iris.

“And I intend to keep that promise,” Iris had replied, her tone warm, with the faintest trace of teasing.
“I could offer him a place as a guardian beast first, like Silver.”

Tiger nodded thoughtfully.
“It would be good to have more skilled hunters and fighters in the family,” he agreed.
“If his eye truly poses no danger to you, then there is no reason against him—and much in his favor.”

What she did not know was whether Sharp-Eye had any desire at all to form a bond—even as a guardian, or if he was just curious.
He was intelligent, diligent, much more handsome than he realized.
And interested in her wisdom, at least, that much was certain.

He watches me every evening.
Does he really think I don’t notice?

She decided it was time to bring him down from his perch. The shy raven would never dare on his own.

Sharp-Eye stirred as something moved below.

Iris had stepped out from the enclosure, draping a fur over her shoulders atop her strange, practical clothing. She walked soundlessly across the freshly packed earth toward him. Her gaze was steady—direct, but not hostile.

He straightened at once, nervous, his wings quivering. It looked as though he wished to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

She stopped a few paces from his tree and looked up. His raven form was large and impressive, dark feathers catching the last of the firelight.
And yet, for a fleeting moment, he reminded her of a startled hen.
She suppressed a smile.

“Good evening, Sharp-Eye. You’ve done well these past weeks. I saw your hut—the reinforcements, the shingled roof.
Tiger says you’re quick, clever, and disciplined.”

He flinched slightly, as though unaccustomed to praise. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might flee—but instead, he bowed his head respectfully.
“I… thank you.”

“You’re welcome among us,” she said simply. “Join us for supper. It’s ready.
Tonight we’re having wild game and root stew. You don’t need to keep watch out here.”

He stared at her, disbelieving. Then, in a rough, hesitant voice:
“I… may eat with you?”

Few beastmen could speak in their animal form, but ravens were masters of it.
Had the female he admired truly invited him into her home?

“If you wish.”
Her smile was gentle, and in her eyes shone what he had been starved for all his life—attention, and respect.

“I… would like to eat with you,” he said before he could stop himself.

“Then please, take your human form,” she replied with a nod.

He obeyed immediately. Of course, he had no clothing—but Iris had thought of that.

She threw the fur around his shoulders, fastening it deftly at his hips and chest with horn buttons. The dark hide of a giant stag, trimmed with pale rabbit fur, suited him perfectly.
It looked as though it had been made for him—though in truth, the extra buttonholes meant anyone in the family could wear it.
“That truly suits you,” Iris said, her voice warm with admiration.

Sharp-Eye’s features were striking—refined, almost noble—and his build carried the lithe, balanced grace of a seasoned swimmer.

The raven tilted his head slightly to the side, careful to turn his “cursed” eye away from her.
She smiled softly.

Then, without hesitation, she reached out, took his hand, and guided him through the gate into the enclosure.

“You don’t need to hide your eye here,” she said gently. “I know it’s not evil, and it doesn’t cut into anyone’s soul. That’s only a foolish belief—born because people fear what they can’t explain.”

“You… you’re the first to ever say that to me,” he whispered, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile dream he found himself in.

“You’re welcome here, Sharp-Eye,” she repeated quietly.

He didn’t know how to respond—or even how to feel. But when they stepped inside the warm cave, he saw there was a place waiting for him at the table—
and the two other men nodded in greeting.

For a heartbeat, his chest tightened as if a full-grown bear were sitting atop it. The air caught in his throat, refusing to move. The sensation was strange, overwhelming—
and then, to his own surprise, it broke into a smile.

Could this be what happiness felt like?

The scent of roasted meat hung heavy in the cave, rich with the spice of simmered roots and herbs. The fire burned low, glowing like molten amber. Four bowls stood ready—simple stone dishes filled with a thick stew where tender strips of meat mingled with herbs, roots, and the occasional glisten of rendered fat.

Tiger sat close to the fire, elbow resting on his knee, eating in focused silence, as was his way. Silver sat neatly beside Iris, sniffing curiously at the rising steam of his meal. Iris herself sat, as always, at the head of the table—not from dominance, but out of quiet habit. Sharp-Eye had taken the seat opposite her—close enough to listen, far enough to remain uncertain of his welcome.

For a time, no one spoke. The only sounds were the soft chew of food, the faint clink of stone bowls, and the occasional crackle from the hearth. Sharp-Eye ate slowly, almost tentatively. His gaze flickered toward Iris again and again, but whenever her eyes met his, he dropped his head at once. The stew was rich and flavorful, touched with a hint of warmth that spread pleasantly through his chest.

It was Iris who finally broke the silence.

“I’ve heard you’ve been processing mountains of meat these last few days,” she said, her tone light with amusement. “Sausages, smoked strips, even rendered fat. You must have built an entire storehouse for yourself by now.”
Sharp-Eye blinked, startled, then said carefully, “Yes. I… tried many things. Leaving the meat longer above the smoke—it makes it very tough. I tasted it… it’s stronger that way. Dry. But I like that. It… keeps well. Easy to carry.” He looked up, gathering confidence. “If one travels far. On a hunt. You could wrap it in cloth and take it with you. Eat along the way.”

Tiger nodded in approval. “That’s wise. Hard rations on the road are far better than spoiled strips.”

Silver, still chewing on a piece of root, muttered through his mouthful, “Iris likes it hard too…”
His speech had improved greatly in the past two moons. But that had been… a little too suggestive. Iris laughed—a bright, clear laugh that filled the cave.

“That’s true, I do like it when the meat’s firm,” she teased. “But I’ll never refuse a juicy skewer like this one.” She grinned. “Mostly, I like it when food actually tastes like something. And when it doesn’t rot with the first rain. What you’re doing, Sharp-Eye, is more than simple food storage. You’re enhancing knowledge.”

For a moment, the raven seemed to grow taller. He didn’t quite grasp the full meaning of her words, but his shoulders straightened, and he nodded slowly.
“I thought so too,” he said. “If meat keeps longer, you can hunt something big and live from it for days—and use the rest of the time for other things. Like this—” He tapped the stone bowls and lifted the rough but well-made spoon. “You could make more than you need, then… trade it.”

“Oh, I’ve thought of that too,” Iris said, leaning forward. “One of those forest bulls—a Tar’Hyn—feeds a family for a week easily. If we cook the marrow broth and organs first, even longer. The horns make fine jewelry or tools—needles, for instance. And the hooves can be cooked or shaped as well. That would leave time for the family to tend to vegetable beds or even grow grain.”

“Grain?” the raven asked, intrigued.

She explained, and he listened intently, the firelight glinting in his mismatched eyes.

“That sounds… complicated,” he said finally, “but exciting. And if the seeds of grass can be kept even longer than meat… that would make everything much better.”

Talking with them, he forgot himself, forgot to hide his gaze, and no one recoiled. Instead, he and Tiger began to discuss where there might be a good place for a field, how to guard it against wild birds and thieves. Encouraged by the easy exchange, and driven by a growing need to prove his worth to this strange, welcoming family, Sharp-Eye finally revealed something he had never told anyone.

“I… also found trees,” he said, his voice gaining strength. “Trees with fruits inside very hard shells. In a grove beyond the eastern ridges. Only we ravens fly that far—the climb on foot is long and steep.” His tone steadied further. “But the fruits are rich. Thick shells, yet sweet and oily within. Good for winter.”

Iris set aside her skewer, turning fully toward him after refilling Silver’s bowl. “You found nuts?” Her eyes gleamed. “That’s excellent. Fat and protein.” She gave a small nod toward Tiger, then Silver, then herself. “If you join our family, I’d ask you to bring some back before the cold season.”

Silence fell for a heartbeat. Then Sharp-Eye nodded—slowly, solemnly. “I’ll bring you the best ones. I know where the ripe fruits hang. The others I can mark.”
His voice trembled. Could it be true? Was he truly being invited—into her family? For a moment he nearly choked on the surge in his chest, but he mastered himself.

Tiger studied him briefly, then returned to his stew.
“A hunter who brings food for the cold is worth ten who only boast,” he said.

Iris hid her smile, seeing the light that flared in Sharp-Eye’s face. Perhaps this was the first time in his life someone had given him a task not to cast him aside—but because they wanted him there.

The raven kept eating, slower now, more at peace. And in his eyes—both of them, dark and white alike—there flickered, if only for a heartbeat, something that might have been called hope. The fire crackled softly as the meal drew to an end. Silver stretched beside Iris, half dozing, while Tiger chewed thoughtfully on the last piece of meat skewered on his spit. Sharp-Eye sat upright still, as though attending an audience that had lasted longer than expected—yet with each passing minute, the air between them grew easier, more familiar.

The moment was peaceful. But something within him pressed forward, something that had waited far too long.

“Iris?” he began quietly. His voice trembled with the weight of years unspoken. “If… if I truly may be part of this family—not just for tonight’s meal—then… would you perhaps… give me a new name?”

He didn’t look at her. His head was bowed, as though the request itself were too bold for a man like him. Iris didn’t answer right away. She rested her hands in her lap, studying him with gentle attention. Tiger only raised a brow, saying nothing.

Sharp-Eye realized he had to go on. Now—or never.

“I know I’m a raven,” he said, his voice roughened by restraint. “And my gaze… isn’t pleasant. But if you’ll let me stay with you, I’d like to begin as someone new. I want to belong. Not just work beside you—but be family. To you… and to those you’ve taken into your care.”

A faint tremor edged his words, yet this time he lifted his gaze—meeting her golden eyes directly.

Iris smiled. Tenderly, sincerely. Then she nodded.

“If you wish to be part of this family, Sharp-Eye, I will gladly welcome you,” she said. “But there is an order I honor. Tiger was the first. He is promised my first litter—and I do not break promises.” Her tone was firm, but not unkind. “Until that promise is fulfilled, I cannot choose another beast-mate.”

Sharp-Eye’s heart pounded. He barely heard the rest—the first words were enough. A litter… with Tiger?
Of course. Of course it was so.

But she continued, and every word she spoke opened something within him that had lain long buried.

“Yet I offer you the place of a guardian beast, like Silver. You would be part of this family, part of my circle. When peace rules among the men, our strength grows. And when my first child is born—then I will ask you if you wish to become my beast-mate.”

Silence followed—so thick it could have been broken by touch.

Sharp-Eye struggled for words. His fingers dug into the fur wrapped around his waist. Surely he had misheard. A beast-mate? Him? The outcast. The one feared and avoided.

He swallowed hard, and when he spoke, his voice was rough with disbelief.
“I… would honor that. As guardian beast. And if you truly choose me one day… I would accept it with all my heart. I will protect you—as Tiger does, as Silver does. And… thank you—for giving me a name. For seeing me.”

Iris stepped closer and placed her hand upon his chest, her fingers resting directly over his heart.

“Then from this day forth, you are Arel,” she said softly. “Welcome to my family, Arel the Raven.”

As the words left her lips, a faint golden light flared beneath her palm. A mark bloomed just above his heart—a circle crossed with curved lines, like wings unfurling. The sign of Iris’s family, the same that Tiger and Silver bore. That it appeared directly over his heart spoke of the depth of his longing—for family, for belonging, for her.

Tiger’s own mark, the seal of a beast-mate, lay upon both their shoulders—a symbol of rare intimacy and mutual trust. But this one… this was different. Born not of flesh or desire, but of acceptance and connection.

The pact had formed—freely, without force.

Tiger inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment. Silver blinked in wonder.
And Arel… sat very still, his chest rising and falling as warmth spread through him—slow, steady, real.

A name. A home. A family.

He was no longer just an unlucky raven with a curse in his eyes.
He was Arel. And he was welcome.

Iris’s decision to take Sharp-Eye—Arel—into her family caused a small sensation within the tribe. Not a single female could understand it at first. A few even approached her cautiously, asking whether he had forced her. But Iris made her answer unmistakably clear.

She spoke of Arel—with the name she had given him—with open respect and visible affection. And before long, the whispering stopped. No one wished to anger Iris—the woman who had tamed fire, who had taught the tribe how to use it to preserve food. They owed her much. And they trusted her now. If she said that Arel’s eye brought no harm, then it was probably true.

After a few days, even some of the females began to think—perhaps with a touch of regret—of how earnestly he had once tried to join their families. And now here he was, that handsome raven with the strange eye, walking through the settlement at Iris’s side, carrying supplies he had crafted himself, demonstrating the curious and useful things he invented with his clever hands.

“I didn’t realize he was such a clever raven,” said Maira, the tall, broad-shouldered bear matron, well-fed and formidable, who had faithfully birthed a litter every year for two decades. Among the females she would be closest to a Friend for Iris. Arel had once asked her to let him serve as her guardian beast, but she had refused—not because he was unskilled, but because she had been a friend of his mother. And his mother had always told strange stories about him—stories of accidents and misfortunes that supposedly happened to those who met his gaze for too long.

In hindsight, Maira found that rather odd. Most of those incidents, she realized now, she never would have known about—had Arel’s mother not been the one spreading them. She had begun to suspect that Anara had simply been ashamed of bearing a son with such a “flaw.” Anara herself was a raven woman, and among the ravens, darkness was prized above all. Imperfections in the plumage were bad enough—but a pale eye? For a woman like Anara, it must have felt like a mark of disgrace.

Maira shared this thought later with Iris, who found in the old bear a rare conversational equal. Iris had replied dryly, “That’s how I see her as well. More likely she spread the rumors herself than ever gave her son the strength to stand tall. But Arel is my companion now. Once I’ve given Tiger a child, he will become my beast-mate. He’s capable, intelligent, and devoted. I couldn’t imagine a better second mate.”

“If you hold him in such high regard,” Maira had said with a chuckle, “then he must indeed be a good man. I’m glad he’s found a new home with you.”

That day, Iris also showed her how to attach buttons to furs so they could be wrapped more securely around the body.
“You’re full of the most astonishing ideas,” Maira said, laughing as she admired her new garment—no longer slipping off her ample chest or hanging awkwardly over her round belly. The fur now fastened neatly at the shoulders with horn buttons. “It’s such a simple thing—and yet so clever! I can’t imagine why no one thought of it before.”

Maira was a woman of strength and standing. For over twenty years she had borne children—many children—and taken many beast-mates. Her husbands were strong and handsome, loyal to her without question. She cared for them well, though she was known to complain about them theatrically from time to time. Yet she never humiliated them; on the contrary, she held them together like a seasoned lead hound guiding her pack. This year, for the first time, she had no litter. She was reaching the age when fertility waned.

Maira was many things—old, experienced, proud, and fiercely rooted in her place within the tribe. She had endured more than forty harsh winters and raised countless children. No one could tell her what it meant to be a good female.

And yet, as she looked at Iris—this strange young woman with the calm voice and the steady gaze—she felt something she hadn’t expected.
Curiosity.
And, perhaps, a hint of respect.

Iris spoke with a clarity few in her position dared to use. She took what she needed, but never demanded. She taught without condescension. And she treated her men with a gentleness rare among the tribe—without ever showing weakness. Maira was wise enough to see that this was the true source of her strength.

As they worked side by side, sewing buttons from horn onto fresh rabbit pelts with strands of hair and fine sinew, Maira said kindly,

“You’re different from us.” Her thick fingers pressed deep into the supple fur as she gave Iris a measuring glance. “But you’re a good woman. I think… our daughters will learn from you. And if you like—I could recommend one of my sons as a beast-mate. Strong lads. Reliable. Well fed.”

Iris lifted a brow, her voice calm but her eyes gleaming with quiet sharpness. “I will only accept men I truly respect. They must be intelligent, capable, brave—and loyal. If one of your sons can stand beside Tiger, Arel, and Silver in those things, then I’ll gladly meet him.”

Maira laughed—a warm, rich, throaty sound that only women of true presence could produce. “Then you’ve just disqualified nearly the entire tribe, child.”

Beneath Iris’s robe, Silver lay in his serpent form, coiled loosely around her waist, half asleep. Had snakes been able to purr, he would have done so then. Still, she could feel his quiet contentment. With a tender gesture, she stroked the furred hide just above where his head rested. Silver was soft, gentle, affectionate—so different from Tiger or Arel. Strength mattered to him, but not for dominance. He sought closeness, warmth, and belonging.

Tiger, meanwhile, was away more often these days—on long hunts with other seasoned trackers. Since Arel had joined their family, the rhythm of the hunts had changed. The men aimed higher now—larger prey, better prey, fatter kills. And soon the first snow would fall. The air already held the bite of coming frost.

Later, Arel, the feathered raven, had returned bearing an abundance of nuts. The grove he had found must have been vast.

When Iris stepped out from the enclosure surrounding Maira’s cave, she heard his call. She raised her arm, and with a smooth, gliding motion, Arel descended from the sky and landed upon her shoulder. His head brushed gently against her cheek, and she laughed softly.

“Welcome back, Arel. I see you were successful.” He offered her a pouch, bulging with polished, brown-gold nuts.

“I gathered only the best,” he said quietly. “Most have already fallen—easy to collect. They’ll stay even when the snow comes. But boars, horn-climbers, and Tar’Hyn will come too. It’s a good place for hunting… if one can carry the kill home.” His tone was calm, almost shy.

Iris stroked the feathers at his chest. “You’re incredibly diligent. We’ll use some of these for the next batch of sausages, once Tiger returns. It’ll give the meat a whole new flavor.”

Arel made a low, pleased sound—a soft croak of pride and joy that she had praised his efforts so openly.

“What’s in the second bag?” she asked curiously.

“Hard-shelled fruit,” he said, hesitant. “They made my stomach ache, but… maybe you can use them. The shells shine beautifully.”

She opened the pouch—and her eyes widened. The fruits he had brought before resembled hazelnuts or walnuts, but these… these were acorns. And not ordinary ones—large, full, each the size of her fist.

In her former life, Iris had tended three great oaks in her garden. She knew their worth intimately—fruit, bark, and leaf alike.

“Arel… these are acorns! How wonderful!” She bent forward and kissed the top of his head without thinking. “You’re a treasure!”

He stared at her—startled, delighted, almost dazed. “You… you like them? What can they be used for?”

“I’ll show you,” she promised. “We can grind them into flour, bake flatbread. And the bark—it heals wounds and draws out infection. This is a great gift you’ve brought.”

Arel said nothing. His chest rose slowly, as though a weight had lifted from within.
Recognition. Respect. Warmth.
The things he had sought all his life without knowing their names—he found them here.
In her voice.
In her gaze.

The sky had already begun to take on the colors of afternoon when Iris heard the heavy thud of footsteps along the main path—a steady rhythm she knew instantly, even without seeing. It was Tiger. And he was carrying something large. From his perch atop the enclosure, Arel announced his return with a sharp, echoing cry.

Eagerly, Iris stepped out from the fenced yard, Silver gliding silently beside her. The air was cold, laced with the scent of snow. Silver was growing sluggish—sleepier with every passing day. Soon, he would fall into his hibernation.

Then Tiger came into view—towering, proud, spattered with blood. Draped across his broad shoulders hung the massive body of a bear.

The beast’s head lolled heavily against his chest; its fur was dark brown, almost black, and so thick it seemed to swallow the light of day. Iris stopped where she stood. For a long moment, neither spoke. Then she stepped closer.

“Welcome home, Tiger. Oh… he’s enormous! A bear?” Her voice carried awe and admiration in equal measure.

Tiger nodded, breathing hard but grinning. “He fought well. But not well enough.”

She reached out, her hand brushing over the pelt at the bear’s shoulder. It was thick, warm, of extraordinary quality. She met his gaze. “The hide is magnificent.”

Tiger lowered the carcass with a heavy thud beside the fire. “For our den. For our family,” he said proudly.

Iris’s eyes gleamed. “We can use it for the bed. It’ll keep us warm when the snows come.”

Tiger’s grin softened. “And it will keep you soft.”

Together, they began to dress the kill. Arel fetched hot water and cloths, while Silver deftly swept the fat from the hide with his tail. Iris handed out tools and gave instructions. The scent of blood, smoke, and cold night filled the air.

Tiger worked with sharp precision, carving the meat from the bone, cutting the best, marbled portions for sausage. The rest—pure muscle, fat, sinew, bone—was sorted carefully. Nothing would go to waste: dried meat, broth, soap, tools. Everything had its use.

“How much do you think we can preserve?” Iris asked as she rubbed salt and herbs into the first slabs of meat.

“Enough for two weeks. Maybe longer,” Tiger replied. He looked at her. “And I’ll bring more. Soon.”

She raised her head, meeting his eyes for a quiet moment before smiling. “You truly are reliable, Tiger. With you by my side, I don’t fear the cold days. Nor with you both,” she added, glancing at Arel and Silver. “You work tirelessly—nothing seems too hard or too much.”

Arel smiled faintly as he arranged the meat inside the smoke pit.

Tiger felt his chest swell. Her words kindled something within him—like fire in the frost, not burning, but alive. Grateful. He could almost feel the bond-mark on his arm warming, as if energy pulsed from it, filling him with strength. The crystal on his brow glimmered faintly, though he did not notice. He hadn’t hunted the bear for glory. He had done it for her. For them. And she had thanked him—for both his effort and his devotion.

When the butchering was done, Arel and Tiger carried the heavy hide into the enclosure. There, where the water drained well, Iris stretched it over a flat, slanted wooden frame she and Tiger had built together—for drying leather.

“You scraped it perfectly, Arel. Let’s hope it stays dry for a few days,” she said, admiring the pelt. Silver was busy cleaning the entrails with ash and water. Of them all, he was the most skilled—his precision unmatched. The intestines never tore in his hands. The enclosure was ideal for such work—open yet sheltered, the ground paved with stone, a small trench guiding waste water out toward the herb garden.

“How long will it take to dry?” asked Arel, his eyes wide with reverence.

“Two, maybe three days. Then I’ll lay it inside,” Iris replied, running her fingers across the dense fur. “It’ll make our bed warmer. No one will have to freeze.”

Silver lifted his head slightly. “When it’s cold… I sleep much. Hard to wake. Only if big danger comes…”

Tiger grinned. “You have your nest. Then there’ll be just the three of us in the bed. But with the furs and that—what did you call it? Quilt?—that’ll be enough.”

Arel could not hide his excitement at the thought of sharing the same bed. The cold season could not come quickly enough for him. For the first time, he would not face the freeze alone.

Iris laughed—warm, content. “It’s large enough for all of us. If we keep close.”

“Since the smoke pit’s already hot, Arel, help me check the stores,” she said gently. “Tiger, you must be tired. Wash, then go to bed—we’ll join you soon. I just want to look over a few things.”

Tiger nodded.

The night air had turned crisp. When Iris pushed aside the heavy stone that sealed the storage shaft with Silvers help, a wave of cool, smoky air rose to meet her—the scent of preserved bounty. Arel stood behind her.

“I’d like to see how the oldest pieces have kept,” she said, easing herself down onto her stomach to peer into the opening.

The shaft was roughly a man’s height deep, just wide enough for a person to stand within. Below, hanging from stone rods set into grooves along the walls, rested their stores—sausages wrapped in leather, bundles of smoked meat, and sealed pouches of rendered fat pressed against the sides. Everything was orderly, deliberate, and ready for the long winter to come.

Tiger had designed the storage pit with great care—the upper hooks for goods taken often, the lower ones for long-term stores.

“Hand me the hook rod, please,” Iris said, and Arel fetched the long wooden pole they used to reach and inspect the bundles hanging deeper within the shaft.

They caught one of the older pieces—one of the first they had stored more than two moons ago—and drew it up. The leather wrapping was faintly oily, the edges glistening darkly.

“It’s beginning to sweat,” Iris murmured. “It won’t last much longer if we leave it like this.”

Arel knelt beside her. “Should we use it now?”

“No. I want to smoke it again. A second drying—perhaps even a third, if needed. It will grow harder, yes, but it will keep through the winter.”

“Like the meat I made,” he said softly, a hint of pride in his tone. “I left mine long over the smoke. I… like it that way. Tough, but lasting. You can chew it on the road.”

“Excellent for hunting trips or long traps,” Iris replied with an approving nod. “The harder it gets, the longer it lasts. And you’re right—it’s perfect for travel.”

Arel straightened, thoughtful. He had brought all his stores to add to those of the family. With the bear’s meat included, the shaft would soon be so full that little else could fit. “I could make more of it. And the ones that have started to soften—we could smoke them again. Every week, a little more.”

“A cycle,” she said with a small smile. “Yes. That’s how we secure the fourth month. We’ll check every few days and act accordingly.”

“And when the snow comes,” he added, still half in wonder, “we won’t need to dig or hunt.”

She nodded again, placing the bundle into the woven basket prepared for the smoke pit. Then she looked once more into the depth of the shaft—at the bundles, the packages, the sealed leather sacks resting in neat rows.

“If we keep this up,” she said softly, “then this winter, not a single soul of our tribe will go hungry.”

Chapter Text

Before the cold days could claim the valley, Iris gathered the priest, the witchdoctor, the chieftain, and two men from every family—along with several unmarried hunters—to show them what could be done with acorns. She began with theory, letting them study the nuts in peace, especially the ravens. They, after all, would be the ones the tribe depended on for collecting the fruit. The mongooses could climb well in their beast forms, but the ravens could make the trip to the oak groves and back within a day, while the ground-bound climbers would take several—risking falls and broken bones. So Iris stressed the importance of working together: some would gather, others process, and through this shared effort each would earn their portion of the winter stores.

The glow of the fire painted her cheeks gold as she set a heavy wooden board before her and poured a handful of acorns onto it. They were large, dark brown, their shells smooth and lustrous like polished amber.

“Most people believe acorns to be inedible,” she began calmly, beckoning one of the men forward with a heavy stone mortar. “But if you treat them properly, they become flour. And from flour, you make bread—or something even better. These acorns are perfect for long-lasting stores. They’re rich, nourishing, and strong enough to sustain both men and women when other food runs short. But they require care.”

The men drew closer. Tiger watched in silence, proud of his clever and wise mate. Silver remained in the cave by the fire—this year, he regretted his need for hibernation, and delayed it as long as he could. Arel knelt beside Iris, ready to assist.

Iris took a roasted acorn, struck it with a smooth stone, and the shell cracked with a soft pop. “First, roast them lightly. Don’t let them blacken—only deepen in color. Then shell them. This part matters most: remove the cores, then wash them. Hot water works best—it draws out the bitter substance and makes them safe and good to eat. Skip that step, and you’ll curse yourself with stomach pains.”

Arel extended one claw and cracked a nut cleanly in a single graceful motion. Iris smiled.

“If you have a water bladder or a clear stream, soak the kernels for a few days. Change the water whenever it turns cloudy. Hot water works faster. Or you can weave a net from fibers or sinew and leave them in a running stream—the water will carry away the bitterness for you. But only if you’re sure the nuts won’t freeze.”

She demonstrated the method using a stone bowl and a water bladder, showing each step. The men watched intently, memorizing every motion. Iris’s knowledge had become sacred to the tribe—practical, miraculous, and utterly beyond their own lore. The chieftain watched her and thought that this must truly be a blessing from the Beast God: to find a small, strange female in the woods was one thing, but to find one who brought such wisdom—that was divine favor indeed.

“I’ve prepared some in advance…” Iris said, like in some cooking-show and felt a bit strange about it but also amused. “Cooking in the Beastworld” - the reality TV. “...so you can see the next steps without waiting days for the water to work.” She drained a bladder and poured the soaked kernels into a hollowed stone bowl Tiger had shaped for her, placing it near the fire.

“Dry them until they look like this.”

She passed around a handful of dried giant acorn pieces. The men turned them over in their palms, smelled them, even tasted them. They learned best by touch and sight, by letting their hands, tastebuds and noses remember what their minds could not.

“When they’re dry enough,” Iris continued, “crush them as fine as you can.”

The sound of the mortar filled the air. Iris brushed a lock of hair from her forehead as Arel ground the first handful into a coarse, pale powder that smelled faintly sweet, like roasted nuts.

“With this, you can bake—flatbread, if you have salt and a bit of ash. Or something stronger.”

She mixed the fresh flour with salt and ash, pressed the dough flat, and set it on a hot stone that had been heating in the fire. Soon, the scent of baking filled the clearing—nutty, warm, alive. The men leaned forward, nostrils flaring, curiosity and hunger sparking in equal measure. Iris baked enough for all, though she half-feared they might start quarreling over the new treasure. Better that, she thought, than starvation. And with the whole tribe involved in gathering and preparing, perhaps greed would give way to cooperation.

When she finally passed out the golden, fragrant cakes, a murmur spread through the crowd—disbelieving, delighted. For the first time, the men of the Green Forest tasted bread.

“It tastes sweet,” remarked a bear who had come on behalf of his family.

“Yes,” Iris said with a smile. “You can mix the dough with honey, if you’ve managed to find some. It keeps a little longer that way—and turns truly sweet, even sweeter than it already is. If you make the flatbreads thinner, they become crisp and can last for weeks. They make a fine side dish, full of strength and energy, especially when eaten with your usual meals. And during winter travel, they’re perfect to carry along. As long as you keep them dry, they’ll keep well. But,” she added, “there are other ways to eat acorns.”

The men looked up. Iris reached into a pouch and pulled out roasted acorn kernels—crisp and fragrant. She had toasted them over the coals until they smelled like caramelized nuts. Passing them around first, she let the men taste the warm, smoky sweetness.

“These,” she explained, “are simply roasted again—dried, washed, and then toasted a second time in a pot like this one over the fire. To make a proper winter supply, you use them like this…”

She handed the process to Arel, who stirred a pot where animal fat melted slowly into golden liquid.

“When you crush the roasted nuts roughly and mix them with fat,” Iris said, “you get a food that gives strength on long journeys. Stored in cleaned intestines or bladders, this paste can last half a year—through the entire cold season and well into summer. But it must stay dry, and you must guard against mold. You can fill it into guts or bladders—I’ll show you. If you begin gathering early, you can mix in berries too. That makes it stronger, and their sweetness adds a pleasant flavor. Or honey, if you have any. Or herbs, if you prefer something savory. Experiment a little—find what suits your taste. Of course, it depends on what the forest grants you. If there are no berries, leave them out. If there’s no honey, leave that too. Acorns and fat alone will do.”

Tiger held a rinsed length of intestine steady while Arel carefully filled it using a hollow horn—roasted nuts, melted fat, a touch of acorn flour, and a pinch of ash to keep it dry.

“Pack it tightly,” Iris instructed, “no air inside. Tie it well. Then hang it over the embers—two, maybe three days.”

The bear sniffed curiously. “Smells good… like sweet meat.”

Iris nodded. “And it will keep for weeks. Rolled in ash or wrapped in leather, even for months.”

She had brought finished samples as well.

“This is what it looks like when it’s done,” she said, holding up several firm, dark lengths. The men leaned in to touch, to smell, to learn.

When she sliced the first one open—dense, nutty, salty, warm—she passed the pieces around. The men chewed, nodded. It was no feast, but it was food that would endure—through hunts, through frost, through hunger.

“I call it Power Root,” Iris said. “And you owe this discovery to Arel alone. Without him, I’d never have known these acorns existed—never have been able to teach you this. So listen: when you find things you don’t recognize—strange plants, fruits, roots—bring them to me. Perhaps they too can feed the tribe. A single bite of this,” she added, “and you can walk another hour.”

Tiger nodded thoughtfully. “The hunters would have needed that last winter.”

Arel brushed a crushed bit of acorn from his claw. “Or those without mates. Without families to feed them.”

“Then let’s learn to care for one another,” Iris said softly—and handed each man a piece of the simple, sacred mixture of forest and fire.

Three days later, the snow began to fall. The world grew silent. The last leaves still clung to the branches as white towers rose around the village. Iris sent Arel and the other ravens to clear the roofs again and again, lest the weight collapse their structures. They obeyed with cheerful precision—some even turned it into sport, sliding down the snow-covered roofs only to burst skyward at the last instant before being buried. It became a game of skill and laughter, and Iris, watching, could not help but cheer them on.

For the first two or three weeks, they still hunted. Then they stopped and began living from their stores.

“If we hunt less now,” Iris reasoned, “the herds may last longer. And if we must hunt later, there’ll still be prey to find.”

Tiger tilted his head. “Maybe. But by the end of the cold days, the beasts grow thin. If we hunt less, more of them might starve—and we’ll lose them anyway.”

Arel nodded. “That’s possible. Still, I think our stores will carry us through. Likely beyond the cold days, even.” He met Iris’s eyes. “You’ve stocked more than we need, haven’t you? You’re expecting some families to lose part of their stores.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “It’s not easy the first time. You have to learn the smell of spoiled meat, how mold looks after smoking. That takes experience. Some will fail.”

Arel nodded slowly. “Then I agree—we should keep hunting while there’s still good game. Eat the fresh kills, save the rest for spring.”

Iris nodded and relented. She preferred having Tiger close now that the cold had set in, but the men’s arguments were sound. Silver, meanwhile, had long since curled into his winter nest and did not stir.

“Very well,” she said. “We’ll keep hunting—for as long as we can.”

Beyond that, Iris was not especially active. The cave often saw visitors—the chieftain, the witchdoctor—both without mates, with only a few helpers but no true families. That was tradition. For an unmated male, becoming priest or witchdoctor was the only path to status within the tribe.

The chieftain was the leader, keeper of order and survival. It fell to him to decide in times of scarcity or disaster, to guide the people with words that carried weight. He was advised by the priest and the witchdoctor. The priest oversaw the rituals honoring the Beast God and served as counselor to the tribe, even for private troubles. Together with the witchdoctor, he tended to the wounded, insofar as knowledge and herbs allowed. Both men were ravens in this generation—learned, deliberate, bound by old knowledge handed down from their predecessors. The priest had chosen a young mongoose as his successor—a clever, eager student—while the witchdoctor intended to pass his craft to another raven.

The chieftain, by contrast, was a warrior, but leadership mattered more than strength. What truly made a chieftain was the ability to make choices that preserved life—and to have others follow.

So the days were not dull. Yet after three quiet weeks, when the world had fallen into the hush of deep winter, Iris began to craft a game. First, she made mill. Arel grasped the rules almost instantly—and within days, he was better than she was. They carved the board into wood and used black and white stones as pieces. Word spread quickly. Before long, the witchdoctor himself came asking whether she had more such ideas for passing the long hours.

So Iris invented others. Nothing too complex, but board games worked—games like chess, which required no dice. She had yet to master making proper dice. It sounded simple, but every attempt came out uneven, lopsided. It wasn’t disastrous, merely unsatisfying. So she postponed games that relied on dice. Kniffel would have been perfect, she thought. If only she could make real cubes. It would even teach them counting.

That winter, she also learned something else—how perilous solitude could be.

Barely four weeks after the first snowfall came the first death: a young mongoose who had left his family to live alone. He froze in his sleep. He hadn’t dared keep his fire burning through the night—understandable, since his hut was made of wood, not stone, and poorly sealed. The cold crept in despite his furs, worming its way into his bones until his breath stilled.

Iris met with the chieftain and the witchdoctor, and together they summoned the bachelors. The chieftain spoke gravely, urging them to band together for the winter—to share their stores, to keep watch over one another. One could always stay awake by the fire while the others slept, ensuring warmth without danger of the flames consuming their huts.

Iris couldn’t help wondering why no one had thought of it before.

That, however, Tiger could explain to her. Among the beastmen, it was considered a mark of strength for a bachelor to survive the winter alone. Many females would only choose a mate who had proven himself by enduring a solitary cold season. It meant he was clever enough, skilled enough, and capable of contributing to a family’s survival.

 Iris found the notion idiotic. As if there were no other ways to prove one’s worth.

Only rarely did a female take a bachelor directly from another household. It happened mostly among the bears—and once, long ago, among the tigers. For bears and tigers were born fighters, stronger and deadlier than mongooses or ravens. Their very nature, their raw strength, marked them as worthy beast-mates within the tribe.

Five weeks into the winter, Iris received another visit. A fine veil of snow lay upon the branches above the enclosure, and the smoke from the cooking pits hung almost motionless in the air. She had brought out a large stone board, polished smooth by her own hand, and carved it with neat, even lines—a checkered pattern of perfect symmetry. Beside it rested a small pouch of playing stones: river pebbles painted in soot-black and chalk-white.

The priest approached, his fingers tucked into his robe, the hood drawn low over his face.

 “What do you show me today, woman of fire?” His voice was hoarse from endless counsel—winter had brought no shortage of troubled young mongooses seeking his advice. “Another game for snow-dazed hunters?”

“Four,” Iris replied with a small smile. “But one at a time. This one is simple—sharp as a blade. It forces you to see what has not yet happened.”

 She pointed to the board.

 “Checkers. Each player moves in turn—only diagonally, only forward. If you leap over an opponent, you take his piece. When a man runs out of stones, he loses.”

Arel, sitting quietly beside her, took up a white piece and slid it along the lines. “And when it reaches the far end?”

“Then it becomes strong,” she said. “It may move backward and forward—like a seasoned warrior who has learned to think beyond the charge.”

The priest nodded slowly, then sat down, and they began their first match.

Later, when the wind rose and a few younger hunters passed by, Iris reached for another pouch. Inside were small wooden tiles marked with simple symbols—an eye, a claw, a leaf. Two matching tiles formed a pair.

“For your children—or for old men with tired eyes,” she said teasingly. “We call it Mirror Pair. Lay all tiles face down. You turn over two. If they match, you keep them. If not—remember them. Then the next one tries his luck.”

The priest raised a brow. “Memory as a weapon?”

“As a tool,” Iris corrected. “Those who remember, die less often.”

Arel chuckled softly. “I’ll always lose. My head is full of blueprints and nut trees.”

“On the contrary, Arel,” she said warmly. “I think you’ll be very good at it.”

Then she drew out the third game—Iris drew from a pouch several small leather balls, sewn tight and heavy with sand. Beside her stood a row of short wooden pegs, each carved from sturdy branchwood and set upright in the packed earth.

“This one,” she said, her tone brightening, “is called Kings and Keepers. It’s a game from my homeland—or something close to it.” She placed a single, taller peg in the center of the line. “That one is the king. The others are his guards. Each player stands back here—” she drew a mark with her heel “—and throws three balls. The goal is to strike down all the guards, but leave the king standing. Whoever does it cleanly wins the round.”

Arel’s eyes lit with curiosity. “And if the king falls?”

“Then you’ve lost the kingdom,” Iris replied, amused. “And all the points you had.” Tiger’s grin widened. “So it’s a hunter’s game. Aim, control, restraint.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Power without thought brings ruin. But precision—precision brings victory.”

The priest folded his arms, clearly entertained. “It will stir their blood,” he murmured. “Men love contests where strength and judgment meet.”

Iris nodded. “Let them throw, laugh, and learn. Even a game can teach discipline—and keep their hands ready for real battles.”

At last, she reached out and drew forward a round stone board etched with concentric rings.

 “And this,” she said, “is Stepstone. A game for two—or for many. Each player has four stones. The goal is to move them all to the innermost ring. The first to bring all his stones to the center wins.”

“How?” asked Arel. “Do you just move forward?”

“No,” Iris replied, smiling. “Your movement depends on your neighbor’s. Move too quickly, and he’ll block your path. Too slowly, and he’ll take your place. It’s like dancing—only those who sense the balance of others make it to the center.”

The priest studied the rings for a long moment, then lifted his gaze to Iris.

 “You give this tribe more than you realize,” he said quietly. “Not only food and warmth. You give them something to look forward to—something that makes them think, that lets them grow.”

Iris was silent for a heartbeat before answering.

 “If these games make them think, they might one day save lives. And if they only make them laugh for a while—then they’ll save souls. In this dark, frozen time, laughter matters most.”

Arel smiled. “I like the first one best—the one with the stones.”

 “And you’re a true master at it, my dear,” Iris said warmly, touched by his innocent pride.

The priest said nothing more—but when he left, he quietly slipped a small set of Mirror Pair tiles into his cloak. For later. For the long winter nights, when the silence grew heavy and the heart turned lonely.

Managing their supplies, reinventing old games for this strange new world, and spending time with the tribe—all of it filled Iris with a deep, quiet contentment. Yet it wasn’t the only thing that occupied her that winter.

Since Tiger was often away on long hunts, she found herself spending much time alone with Arel—and she used it well. The raven was sharp, inquisitive, endlessly curious.

One evening, as the fire flickered low, they spoke of how knowledge should not vanish when a person died. Iris told him how, in her memory, people had once recorded their wisdom in song—like the priest did with his teachings or the witchdoctor with his healing chants. That was when she first introduced Arel to the idea of writing.

She began with his own name, tracing large, careful letters into the sand.

 “These are the signs for Arel—A, R, E, L. Read together, they say your name. Separately, they’re A—R—E—L. With the right signs, you can write anything. These, for example, are the signs for Tiger. And these, for Silver. And these—for Iris. Here—this one means stone. This one bear. This one tree. See? The same signs can shape many words, depending on how you place them.”

Arel gazed at the markings, wide-eyed with wonder.

 “Incredible,” he murmured. “A concept that could be used in so many ways. But… what does it have to do with passing on knowledge through song?”

“Well,” Iris said, “imagine I write down every word needed to explain how to smoke meat—on a wooden plank, for instance. Anyone who can read those signs would know how to do it, even if I’m not there. The knowledge wouldn’t vanish with me. It could travel—just like a song.”

Arel pondered this deeply.

 “That sounds remarkably useful,” he admitted. “But then everyone would have to learn the signs first. That alone would take time.”

“In my memory,” Iris said softly, “everyone could. They even wrote letters—to share thoughts with one another. I’ve been thinking of teaching you. If I wrote something down, you could carry it to Tiger while he’s hunting—and bring his reply back to me. Or I could write to you, when words are too heavy to speak. And if you were far away…”

Her voice grew quieter. The fire crackled softly between them.

 “…if you missed me—you could read my words. And I’d be there with you.”

Her gaze drifted into the distance as if she could already see some faraway tomorrow.

Arel thought for a moment.

 “That’s a beautiful thought,” he said softly. “But… why would I ever travel far? I’ve never been as happy as I am by your side.”

Iris looked at him with quiet affection.

 “And I’m happy with you, too,” she replied gently. “Even happier still—when you become my beast-mate.”

Arel flushed. It still astonished him, how openly Iris expressed her affection, how generous she was with it. Few females were. Even Maira, one of the tribe’s most admired women—beloved, kind, and gracious—rarely showed tenderness so freely.

For Iris, though, it came as naturally as breathing.

 And he loved her for it—deeply, fiercely.

 He had never loved anything in his life as he loved this woman.

 And he would go on loving her, even if he remained her guardian beast forever.

Becoming her mate was a dream beyond words—but even if she had given him the choice between leaving or staying as her guardian, he would have chosen to stay, content simply to belong to her world.

 Yet Iris had never made him choose. She had promised him a place at her side.

So she taught Arel to read and write. The clever raven absorbed every lesson with breathtaking speed, as though he had always known these strange symbols and merely rediscovered them.

At night, the cave was warm and still. When Tiger was away on the hunt, Iris and Arel shared the great bed; when he returned, they shared it together—all three. Iris took comfort between them, the steady strength of Tiger on one side, Arel’s warmth on the other. In her old world, such closeness would have been unthinkable, yet here it felt natural—right. She realized, to her surprise, that she liked it. Very much.

There was affection, trust, and laughter between them—no jealousy, no competition. What might have been awkward elsewhere grew into quiet harmony. They cared for each other openly, each finding his place in her small, imperfect, perfect world.

Tiger remained her anchor—strong, confident, and patient. Arel was gentler, thoughtful, endlessly curious. Where Tiger burned, Arel shimmered like moonlight on water. Their differences balanced her; their affection deepened with every passing night. Never would she have imagined, that the men would become so affectionate with each other even to the point of sharing pleasure while mating. Arel integrated smoothly in their nightly activities. Of course he didn't sleep with Iris directly. But, for heaven's blessings, they did not neglect him. Quite the opposite.

Sometimes, when the fire burned low and they lay tangled beneath the heavy quilt, Iris thought that this was what peace must feel like—shared warmth, steady breathing, and the knowledge that no one in that bed was alone or left out. Arel shared their rest and their pleasure.

“I never knew a family could be like this,” Arel sighed happily, his head resting on Iris’s belly after their lovemaking. Tigers head resting between her breasts.

 “I didn’t either,” Tiger purred.

Iris smiled.

 “We are the only ones who decide how happy and how harmonious we want to be. You could choose to rival one another, to hate. But I am very glad you do not. I am proud of you—proud that you are my men,” Iris breathed. In recent days Tiger had not gone hunting; she was tired and a little sore from so much sex, but deeply, deeply satisfied.

 Curled together beneath the warm quilt, they fell asleep.

As time passed, some families, indeed, found their stores spoiled—first among them the household of Arels birth-family.

 They went to Maira, to the chieftain, and to the priest for help. The hunters fanned out to find fresh game and smoke new meat. Of course people helped; many handed over portions of their own reserves.

Iris hesitated, not because she did not want to help, but because of the look on Arel’s face.

 When one of his mother’s beast-mates came to their gate asking for food, Arel’s expression went utterly blank. It was as if every feeling inside him evaporated into the void in an instant.

Iris turned the man away at first, on the pretext that she needed to check her own stores before deciding what could be spared. She told him to return the next day—and only then spoke with Arel.

“Are you all right, my love?” she asked softly. “You look wounded. Was that man cruel to you?”

Arel did not answer for a long moment. Then, quietly:

 “Not crueller than others. But… I grew up with him. The family never missed a chance to leave me out.”

 He looked at the ground. “It may be childish, but it still hurts.”

Iris slipped her arms around his neck and kissed his chin and the cheek she could reach—he was much taller than she was.

 “That is not childish at all,” she said gently. “Those people tormented you your whole life. Of course you don’t feel kindly toward them. But it isn’t only anger—you also want their acceptance, even so. Am I wrong?”

It was the same pattern she had seen in her old world: any abused child, of any kind, carried the same quiet wish—to be loved and recognized by the very ones who caused the pain.

“Do you want us to bring them food?” she asked after a moment, holding him close.

“Only if there is no other way,” he answered softly. “Otherwise I’d rather keep my distance.”

She nodded. “Then we’ll do it like this: before they starve, we’ll give them something—but not now.”

All in all, the tribe weathered the winter well. Their stores, though tested, never truly ran short. Some families had misjudged their needs and found themselves lacking; others had hoarded more than they could use. Yet Iris knew, with quiet satisfaction, that in time such imbalances would correct themselves.

At the dawn of spring, she stood beside the edge of the storage shaft, gazing down into its depths. Nearly a fifth of it was still filled—with the longest-keeping foods.

“This is truly wonderful,” she said to Tiger, who stood at her side, surveying the reserves with her. Arel had flown out earlier to explore the thawing woods.

“We still have plenty left,” she continued. “And the land is waking again.”

She lifted her eyes toward the trees, whose branches still bowed under the last of the snow. Between them, the first buds had begun to push forth—cautious, yet unstoppable.

“Yes,” Tiger rumbled softly. “Soon it will be mating season. For the wild beasts… and for the women of the tribe as well.”

He turned to her, amber eyes warm with quiet hope.

 “And perhaps,” he said gently, brushing his fingers along her cheek, “this time, the litter will come.”

Of course Iris had wondered about it during the long winter nights—whether perhaps the fault lay with her… or him, whether Tiger might be infertile. Yet here it seemed natural that females conceived only once each year, their cycles bound to the turning of the seasons. And so she did not worry to much.

If anything, she was grateful she had not had to bear the weight of pregnancy through the harshest months.

“Tell me, Tiger,” she asked thoughtfully, “how long does a pregnancy last—for tigers, I mean?”

He considered. “Usually… around three moons, I think.”

“Then the cubs would be born when the warmth returns—at midsummer,” she mused. “That’s a good time. The best, really, to raise young.”

She stretched, content, the thick fur gloves she had stitched herself sliding slightly past her wrists. The mittens had proven invaluable through the cold; like most of her inventions, they had spread through the tribe like fire on dry grass. It hardly mattered what Iris made—someone always copied it within days.

“Then we can begin to prepare for spring,” she said with a smile. “We’ll use up the last of the stores, clean the shaft once it’s empty, and line it with ash before we start filling it again.”

Tiger inclined his head, resolute. “We’ll do it exactly as you say.”

He smiled at his small wife with a warmth that sometimes astonished even him. Never, in all his life, had he imagined he could feel such peace after binding himself to a female.

“But perhaps,” he said softly, “you should take on another guardian beast or two. In spring, many of the tribe’s men set out to trade with neighboring clans. This year we have much to offer. It may even be that we return with a few females.”

His tone grew thoughtful.

 “Many women will find it appealing, the thought of a winter without fear of hunger. And our tribe is well-fed now—in a way that cannot simply be regained after the cold months.”

He cast a measuring glance at his own arms.

 “Last winter, I was lean as a stick—like most of the men. But this year…”

His gaze drifted from the storage shaft back to her.

 “This year was different. And we owe that to you.”

Chapter Text

Spring came hesitantly that year. Snow still clung to the shaded slopes, yet the air already carried the damp scent of melting ice and awakening buds. Inside Iris’s cave, the fire crackled softly, and the furs lay neatly stacked. It didn’t matter as much to the Tribe as it would have, for they had plenty of food reserves, thanks to the new knowledge shared by Iris.

“Soon it will be time for spring cleaning,” Iris said jokingly with a small smile. Silver still slept in his nest, but it couldn’t be much longer now. She missed her affectionate serpent terribly.

“Spring Cleansing? What do you mean? Is it some kind of ritual of your people?" Arel asked curiously. Iris sighed. “Not so much a ritual. Only cleansing the Cave, deposing of old grass and Hides that are no longer usable and so on. Nothing really special.”

“Oh, yes of course.” he gave consent instantly. Providing his female with a proper clean cave and only the best of the Best Materials for use and daily life was a given for every male. 

Tiger sat cross-legged, arms folded over his chest, while Arel, in raven form, perched upon the crossbeam. Iris crouched over a sheet of tanned leather, sketching small symbols across its surface—the script she had taught Arel. Tiger still struggled with the concept, but he was learning.

“It’s time,” Tiger began. “You need another guardian beast.”

Iris turned to him, wondering. “Why? Because spring is coming?” He nodded.

Tiger’s voice was calm, yet carried the kind of weight that came only with conviction.
“Because you’ve become more than just another female in our tribe,” he said. “You lead. You plan. You bring knowledge we’ve never known before. You’re the one who teaches, who keeps us alive through the cold. You need to be protected and cared for properly. Many of the men are circling around you every day, watching you—with respect, yes, but also with longing. And who could blame them? The other females have ten or more beast-husbands, and as many guardian beasts besides. The tribe should see that you’re growing, too—not just in wisdom, but in number. And since I’ll likely travel again this spring with the traders, it would be wise. We have much to offer this year. We might even bring back a few females… and perhaps a handful of strong men.”

Iris stared at him for a moment, baffled, unable to form an immediate response. On one hand, her promise to him had been the main reason she still had only one beast-mate. On the other, she truly hadn’t expected him of all people to be the one urging her to bring more men into their family. “Well,” she said at last, her tone careful but sincere, “I think the three of you already do a rather fine job of taking care of me. I’m not missing anything. I’m happy—truly happy—with you.”

Both Tiger and Arel looked visibly touched by her words, their chests lifting a little, as if pride itself straightened their spines.

“If you truly don’t want another, no one will force you,” Tiger said softly. “I only worry for your safety. Silver and Arel are good men—they contribute much to this family—but if danger comes while I’m gone, hunting or trading… it could become difficult.”

His tone was gentle, but Iris understood the unspoken truth beneath it: he didn’t quite trust the strength of their beast-crystals—blue and green—to protect her as his own crimson one could.

Arel shifted gracefully into his human form and sat down beside her. His black and white eyes caught the firelight, calm and reflective.
“And because,” he said quietly, “many of the men are already wondering who will be chosen next—to guard you.”

Iris raised her head. “Oh? They talk about that?”

“They always talk,” Tiger grunted.

Iris looked between them, realizing they were in full agreement. She wasn’t opposed in principle—so long as everyone understood that it would mean guardianship, not guarantee courting.

“I don’t know,” she said after a moment’s thought. “I haven’t given it much consideration. Who do you have in mind?”

Tiger began counting on his fingers. “Lucky Raven, perhaps. Big Paws—strong, dependable. Fluffy Tail—he’s a little scatterbrained, but agile and quick in fights an sports now an orange Crystal. Brave Mongoose could be a good choice. Strong, loyal—”

“—and reckless,” Arel interrupted, his tone dry. “He jumps into fights before thinking.”

“He’s never started one with me,” Tiger said, sounding almost surprised.

“You’re a tiger,” Arel replied flatly, giving him a side glance. “No one in this tribe starts fights with you. The last fool who tried ended up so torn apart his own mother didn’t recognize him. He left the tribe, if I recall.”

“You mean Greyback?” Tiger growled.

Arel nodded. Tiger sighed heavily. “I had my reasons. He wasn’t right in the head. The cubs weren’t safe around him.” Arel blinked. “So that’s what it was.” he muttered.

“Then Brave Mongoose is out,” Iris concluded.

Arel tilted his head, thinking. “Perhaps Swift Wing—a raven. Sharp-tongued, but clever.”

“…and incapable of listening,” Iris countered immediately. “No. He’s been disrespectful to you more than once.”

Arel’s lips curved faintly. “I wouldn’t mind, if you liked him.” She looked at him. He did really mean it. 

“How could I like someone who disrespects any of my men?” she said, leaning toward him, brushing her lips against his in a quick, affectionate kiss. “Really, sometimes you have the most disturbing ideas.”

She said it half in jest, but there was warmth in her tone that softened the words.
Arel smiled, caught between amusement and tenderness, and Tiger’s deep, approving rumble filled the room.

“What about Fine Ear?” Arel offered instead. “He’s always spoken to you with respect.” The mongoose was a steady worker and skilled hunter.

“He’s not a bad man,” Iris mused. “But he’s… distant. I feel as if I could live beside him a lifetime and never truly know his heart.”

Tiger grinned. “You don’t want a servant—you want a man with spine.”

“And with heart,” she added.

“What about Broad Paw?” Arel suggested. “A young bear. Well-built, calm, kind.”

Tiger frowned. “And lazy. He hasn’t formed a beast crystal yet, though he’s long been grown. He hunts only when forced. A beast-mate—or even a guardian—must be willing to do more than simply exist.” Iris was not so sure about that, but didn't argue. It was the common sense here. For Iris, love was not the same as usefulness. One could grow off the other, that well, but in both directions.

“Then perhaps Quick Branch?”

“Too young,” Iris said at once. “I hesitate to take anyone younger than Silver.” Quick Branch was a confident young raven, newly come of age the previous spring—barely fifteen. Females matured later; most reached childbearing age around seventeen. Iris’s body was that of a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old. Tiger was in his late thirties, Arel in his late twenties, and Silver about her own age or a touch younger.

“He’s bright,” Arel pressed gently. Most women preferred strong, handsome warriors—but Iris valued other things.

“And he’s fickle,” Tiger yawned. “Restless. Unsteady. He might sing your praise—but he couldn’t dig you a storage pit.”

Iris laughed softly and set the leather aside. She thought for a moment.

“With each of you, there was something I admired from the very start,” she said. “I’m not saying no one else is worthy of respect—but I don’t want more talk. I want proof.”

The two men exchanged a puzzled glance.

“What do you mean?” Arel asked.

“I mean we make it official—a contest. Whoever wishes to become my guardian beast may compete. I’ll set the trials. Whoever proves himself worthy earns the place.”

Tiger blinked. “A contest for your heart?”

“Not exactly,” she said, tilting her head. She stared into the fire, her expression distant as a plan began to take shape.

“A contest for my trust,” she clarified.

Arel leaned back, a faint smile on his lips. “That will be a great matter for the men. They’re all eager to prove themselves. And the women—”

“—will be watching closely,” Iris finished. “Good. I want them to see that it isn’t beauty or blood that matters. Only foresight, care, and action. Those are the ones who belong to my family.”

Tiger and Arel exchanged a look. Neither of them had ever been called beautiful among their kind—her words warmed them more than they would admit.

Tiger nodded slowly. “Then you’ll need trials—for strength, for skill, for wit… and for the heart.”
“And for loyalty,” Arel added quietly.

Iris smiled. “Then let’s speak with the chieftain and the priest tomorrow. I want this contest to be more than a game—it should be a symbol of how our tribe can grow. If young men are given a stage on which to prove themselves, it will drive them to improve. They’ll feel that their fate is shaped by their own merit and conduct, not by chance or favor. And the females, too, will see more clearly who is truly suited for them and who is not. Every woman has her own preferences. Take Maira, for example—she likes her men big and handsome, and above all, good hunters. She loves food more than anything,” Iris said with an amused glint in her eyes. “But just because someone doesn’t meet my standards doesn’t mean another woman wouldn’t choose him—once she sees what he’s capable of. If we hold this every year, they’ll learn from their mistakes. They’ll understand why they weren’t chosen one year, and come back stronger the next. They’ll prepare, train, and refine the traits that women value most.”

“A festival of spring,” Arel murmured. “And a promise—a trial in the open.” the thought was so foreign and exciting, that he could hardly sit still. 

Tiger thought about it in silence. Most of the men would never be chosen. That was always the way of things. Out of a hundred and fifty males, barely half had mates—and even that was considered fortunate. In some tribes, a single woman could have a hundred suitors vying for her favor. But theirs was no longer an ordinary tribe. Thanks to Iris and the knowledge she had brought, they had become prosperous, powerful—and perhaps, when the traders returned, new females would join them. Then, at last, their men might stand a higher chance.

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, his voice a low rumble. “You are the greatest gift our tribe has ever been given, Iris. Let’s see who among us is worthy to follow your lead.”

The fire crackled softly. Arel sat down behind Iris, his arms wrapped around her, chin resting lightly on her shoulder as he watched her work. With one of her makeshift charcoal sticks, she scribbled across a smoothed stone—writing, erasing with a boar coat brush, thinking. Arel could read her symbols now, tracing each stroke with quiet fascination. Tiger stood nearby, arms folded, his head slightly tilted as he observed them both.

“So,” Iris began at last, glancing between her two mates, “if we truly mean to welcome a new guardian beast into this family, we’ll need clear trials. I don’t want anyone complaining afterward.”

“Men who complain don’t belong in this family anyway,” Tiger muttered dryly.

Arel gave a soft, amused snort—a raven’s version of laughter.

“Still,” Iris went on, her look toward Tiger a mix of fondness and reprimand, “it must be fair—and transparent. I was thinking of three trials. No direct fighting; that could weaken the tribe if someone got hurt. But no empty posturing either. Three tasks—each one meaningful.”

Arel tilted his head, enjoying her warmth against his bare skin. “What kind of trials?”

“First,” Iris said, “a conversation—with the four of us. I want to know how they think, what matters to them, what they truly seek. Anyone who only aims to flatter or simply wants the title of beast-mate, not thinking of our Falimiy, can leave right then. I want to know why they wish to join this family, and what they think of me—and of you three, Silver included. And how they treat you. No disrespect or open rivalry allowed. They must be smart enough to seek your acceptance. I won’t accept anyone who looks down on Arel or Silver, or who believes himself above them.”

Tiger nodded slowly. “Good. Too many talk when they should act—and fight when they should speak. A man should know his place, and accept you as the head of the family. I know peace and harmony among us is sacred to you. Many will say whatever they must to please you, but a few—when they speak—you’ll hear their truth. I can recognize that.” sie smiled brightly at him. “I'm not so bad at discerning liars myself. But that also helps a lot, my wise Tiger.” She chirped flirtingly. He growled very content.

Arel’s chest tightened at the words. It touched him that Iris cared so deeply about securing his place within her family. Silver’s had never been easy either—he had been a wanderer, and worse, a serpent. Among the tribes, snakes were thought cold-blooded, treacherous, obsessed with stealing mates and caring for nothing but breeding. Yet Arel knew better. Silver might not care for the tribe as a whole, but his devotion to Iris was pure—and his bond with them, real.

Iris kept writing, then lifted her gaze. “Second trial: the hunt. Each contender must bring three offerings—something for clothing, like fur or leather; something for food, enough to feed us for a week; and something special.”

“Special?” Arel asked, brow furrowing slightly.

“Something that shows they know us,” she explained. “That they’ve thought about it. It could be a toy for our children one day, a piece of amber, or a herb they believe I’d like.”

Tiger smirked. “If someone brings a bundle of colorful feathers, I’m out.” He was thinking of the simple gift he had once given her—a few bright feathers.

Iris touched the necklace at her throat. It held one of Tiger’s feathers, black-edged and orange as fire, a few dark, polished stones Arel had found, and a gleaming scale from Silver.

“You’re my beast-mate, Tiger,” she said softly. “You’ve already won. This is for the others. You’ve proven yourself in every way that matters.”

Tiger grinned, satisfied. Iris hid a smile—she knew he needed her reassurance now and then, and she was happy to give it. There was much in him to admire.

Arel tapped the third word on her stone tablet. “And the final trial?”

Iris paused. “They must create something—something that helps us or brings us joy. It doesn’t have to be large, but it must have purpose.”

Tiger scratched his chin. “Isn’t that almost the same as the second task—bringing you a thoughtful surprise?” he asked, half-skeptical.

"Yes and no," Iris said thoughtfully. "I want them to think for themselves—and to put everything they know about us, everything they’ve learned or discovered on their own, into action. But I don’t expect them to craft a table or a chair while out hunting. They could, for instance, bring a bundle of herbs or edible mushrooms we don’t yet know, or bark from a tree that could be used for dyeing… things that can be found in the wild, things that aren’t ordinary. Things useful to us as a family. With the final trial, I want to test other abilities as well," she continued softly.

"It’s about intellect, imagination, dexterity—the ability to turn ideas into reality, and the will to share what they create and invent with us. For that, they must understand who we are and what we need. They must have the skills and the sensitivity to use that knowledge well."

For a moment, silence. Only the crackle of the fire, and the distant cry of a night bird.

Then Arel spoke. “And those who fail?”

“They’re out,” Tiger said bluntly. “No whining. Anyone who complains afterward only proves he was never worthy.”

Iris stretched her legs, and the blanket slipped from her shoulder. Arel adjusted it for her without thinking. She smiled at him. “He can try again at the next opportunity. Then he can prove what he’s learned in the meantime.” The men nodded.

“Then it’s settled,” she said. “Three trials. And whoever performs best in all of them… will become my guardian beast.”

Tiger leaned to the side, resting his head in her lap. “Then let’s hope there are men worthy of the challenge.”

Arel, who had remained silent and thoughtful the entire time, finally lifted his gaze.

“Many will come forward, Iris. You are… well. You’re not like the other females.”

“And that’s a good thing,” she said, her eyes flashing with quiet fire. “Otherwise, we’d never have had this flame to begin with.”

Three days later, one of Iris’s dearest wishes came true.

The soft crack and pop of shifting bones was a sound long familiar to her. Moments later, he stood before her—human once more, tall and bare-chested, silver strands of hair falling into his face, his eyes calm and still half-dreaming.

“Good morning, Silver,” Iris said gently. She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his neck without hesitation, having to stretch now to reach him. He was taller than before, his shoulders broader. Instantly his arms came around her, holding her tight.

“Iris…” he murmured, burying his face in the hollow of her neck as though to drink in her scent. His skin was cool, even in human form.

“You’ve slept for so long,” she whispered, draping a warm pelt over his shoulders. “I’ve missed you.”

“So warm…” he rumbled, holding her even closer. “I missed you too… even in my dreams.”

When he finally released her, she reached for one of the soft fur garments she had made and helped him into it. The tanned leather was supple and well-crafted, smooth against his skin.

He blinked against the light, rubbing his face with one hand. The crystal marking on his brow was dim but clear, a faint sheen  glistening on his skin—normal after so many weeks of deep slumber. His voice was rough when he spoke.

“It smells like… broth.”

Iris laughed softly. “Of course. I’ve been waiting for you. You must be hungry—and thirsty. Drink first.”

She took his hand and guided him to the low table. A small pot simmered over the fire. She ladled a bowl of the hearty, fragrant broth and handed it to him.

Silver drank slowly—hungrily, but with the careful restraint of a body still waking from long rest. After a few swallows, he drew a deep breath, straightened, and stretched his limbs. His gaze wandered lazily through the cave.

“It’s spring… isn’t it?”

“Almost. The first buds are showing,” Iris replied, inspecting his skin. “You’re a bit dry. I’ll heat some water for you.”

She filled a stone basin from a nearby jug and began to warm it over the fire. “Would you like a bath, or just a wash?”

Silver looked at her with sleepy affection. “Will you bathe with me?” he asked, a hint of longing in his voice.

She smiled. “In that case, I’ll light the big tub outside.”

His answering smile seemed to brighten the room. While he finished the broth, she prepared the bath—a contraption inspired by the hot springs she remembered from another world.

“In an hour, it should be ready,” she said. “I’ve washed and mended your clothes—or replaced what couldn’t be saved.”

Silver’s voice was still hoarse, but warm. “You think of everything.”

“Always,” she answered softly. “You’re part of my family.”

He fell silent at that, thinking of all the winters he had endured alone. No one had ever been there to greet him when he woke. No one had smiled for him—let alone embraced him. This… he would never take for granted.

When the bath was ready, they undressed and stepped into the steaming water together. The tub was just large enough for two, if they sat close—and Silver, as always, wanted to be very close. Iris didn’t mind. In truth, she liked it.

She took a soft, well-oiled cloth and began to wash him slowly, her movements unhurried, deliberate. He melted under her touch. Then he returned the favor, and before long, the gentle washing turned to something more intimate. She realized, with quiet amusement, that her serpent had grown into a man—one with a surprising sense of purpose. Smiling, she kissed him.

Silver had never spoken aloud about becoming her beast-mate, but Iris had never truly doubted his desire. He had always longed to stay by her side—to belong to her fully. And hadn’t she once promised him that she would choose him, once she knew his heart?

Yes. In truth, she had.

She leaned back against him, the warm water lapping around them. Seated on his lap, her breasts pressed softly against his cool, toned chest, she felt his arms close around her in a protective embrace. For a while they simply enjoyed the heat, the stillness, the quiet rhythm of touch.

Then Iris lifted her head—and froze.

Her eyes locked on his brow.

“Silver…” she breathed, moving closer, peering at the faint shimmer of light above his eyes.

He blinked, looking back at her in confusion. “What is it?” His hands rested lightly on her hips.

She leaned in, brushing her fingertips along his hairline—just above the place where his beast crystal gleamed.

“Your crystal,” she whispered. “It’s no longer green.”

He looked at her calmly. Of course he had noticed it himself, though he hadn’t thought it worth mentioning. He still felt weak—but her joy pleased him deeply. Iris stared at him, wide-eyed, and her tone was not one of disbelief but reverence.

“It’s yellow,” she whispered. “You’ve grown stronger… even while you slept.”

Silver said nothing. He wasn’t sure how to respond.

For a few heartbeats, neither spoke. He simply felt her warmth against him—the water lapping softly around them, her attention entirely his. It seeped into him, kindling a quiet fire beneath his skin. Outside, faint sounds drifted in from beyond the enclosure—the voices of the tribe, the trickle of melting snow, the rhythm of his own slow breath. Then, gently, he tilted his head to the side—a gesture of respect among his kind, and of quiet affection.

“I didn’t know such a thing was possible,” Iris said at last, her voice filled with wonder. “You just rested… and still you grew. That’s incredible. You’re wonderful, Silver.”

The admiration in her gaze, the warmth of her body pressed to his—it was almost too much. His restraint trembled, but the boundaries between them were clear. Everything was allowed except betraying Tiger and taking from him the right of first bond. He forced himself to relax. Fortunately, serpents possessed perfect control over their bodies, especially in half-shifted form. Iris would never notice his arousal. He could hide it.
Not that the desire wasn’t there—he wanted her with a hunger older than language—but other things mattered more. If he could only stay near her, feel her warmth, her breath, her trust, then children meant nothing.

Silver looked at her. In his pale blue eyes flickered something tender, a haze of warmth like morning mist. And deep within him stirred the knowledge of his bloodline—ancient, instinctive, wordless:

Serpents grow when they are loved.

When their mate’s affection is true, it feeds them strength beyond measure. Not through the body, but through the heart. When a female trusted a serpent—saw him as part of her clan, her family, her nest—her warmth nourished him, even in sleep. It was alchemy without fire: a quiet spark that changed the flesh from within.

“I think it was because of you,” he murmured finally, so softly it barely carried above the water.

Iris blinked. “Because of me? What do you mean?”

He shook his head slightly. “You cared for me. You saw me. I was safe. Sometimes… that’s enough.”

She watched him for a long moment, then smiled—and the light of the day caught her eyes, turning them to liquid gold.

“I think you’ve simply earned it,” she said, her voice soft as fur. “You’ve worked hard. You’ve learned, and you’ve grown. I’m proud of you, Silver. Truly proud.”

He opened his mouth, meaning to speak—but no words came. Only a faint tremor ran through his shoulders. His eyes shone like molten silver as they met hers, and for a moment he stared as though beholding something sacred.

“It’s the first time,” he whispered at last, “that anyone’s ever been… happy for me.”

Iris wrapped her arms around him, resting her forehead against his neck. “Then get used to it,” she murmured. “I’m your family, Silver. I’ll always be happy with you—and for you.”

And he simply sat there, heart pounding, skin warm against hers, the yellow crystal on his brow glimmering softly—like a sunlit bloom finally rising from the frost.

The air was crisp the next day, the last stubborn patches of snow retreating beneath the first warmth of spring. Before the tribe’s gathering place—a wide, half-circle of packed earth framed by wooden posts —nearly the entire clan had assembled. The usual noises of daily life had faded to stillness when the chieftain entered the square, his shoulders draped in a massive bearskin. To his left stood the old priest Greyfeather, arms folded, eyes grave; to his right, Iris—clad in dark lynx and snow-hare fur, her red hair bound tightly at the nape. On her shoulder was clearly visible the mark of Tiger’s bond: the paw print of the mighty beast himself.

Tiger, Arel, and Silver stood beside her, each dressed with striking care. Tiger wore a kilt of steel-gray wolf hide and a sleeveless vest trimmed with the animal’s thick tail fur, his muscular frame displayed with almost regal power. A broad belt encircled his waist, fastened by a carved horn buckle in the shape of a tiger’s head.

Silver’s attire was of soft, pale leather that suited his slender grace and luminous complexion. Over his heart gleamed a clasp shaped like a serpent, its edges lined with beige and gray rabbit fur.

Arel, by contrast, wore a sleeveless cuirass of dark leather that fitted snugly at throat and waist, leaving his toned, athletic chest bare. Below, a skirt of the same material and a belt of reddish stag hide fastened with a raven-shaped buckle. His broad shoulders were adorned with real raven feathers, arranged with deliberate artistry. The sight drew murmurs from the crowd—admiring, uncertain, awed.

Each of the three bore the same mark clearly visible: the golden circle with unfurling wings. Tiger on his shoulder, Arel over his heart, Silver just below the navel. It was the symbol of their family—their pact—and by now it was spoken of within the Greenforest tribe with something close to reverence.

The chieftain raised his hand.

“People of the Greenwood!” he called, his deep voice carrying easily across the square. “We are strong because of what we are—but we grow because of what we choose together.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the gathering.

“Today,” he continued, “we speak not of stores, nor of alliances, nor of threats. Today, the woman Iris speaks to you—not only as Keeper of the Fire, not only as scholar or maker, but as a woman who wishes to expand her circle—with honesty and with clarity.”

He stepped back, and Iris advanced. Her voice, though soft, carried far—steady and clear, like the beat of a wing in the quiet of dawn.

“You know my family,” she began. “Tiger was the first—my brave beast-mate, who nearly gave his life for the tribe. Then came Silver, once a wanderer, still young, but in him I saw what I had long sought: loyalty, and the longing to belong. The will to give everything for something greater than himself. Gentle, yet strong.

After him came Arel—steadfast, quick to learn, wise beyond measure. He understands my thoughts as though they were his own. All three earned their place beside me through courage, wisdom, and devotion.

Now the time has come to give another guardian beast the chance to join this family—if he proves himself worthy.”

For a brief moment she wondered if the words had sounded too proud—but the eager shouts of the young males rising from the crowd washed away her doubt.

Then silence fell over the gathering.

“I will not choose a man for his looks,” Iris said, her voice calm but carrying. “Nor for how loud he can shout. And I will not take one simply because he believes he deserves it. Whoever wishes to become my guardian beast must prove himself in three trials.”

She lifted three fingers.

“First — a conversation. With me, Tiger, and Arel. We want to hear your hearts, your true thoughts — not your puffed-up boasting.”

A low murmur of approval rose among the elders. A few of the younger men shifted uneasily, claws scraping against the frozen ground.

“Second — a hunt with three goals. Bring something that can become clothing. Something that could feed a family for a week. And something that shows you’ve thought about us — about who we are, and what belongs to this family.”

A few snorted softly, but none dared speak against her aloud.

“Third — you will create something. Build, craft, or invent. Not with words — with claws and hands. It must serve a purpose. Those without an idea are out.”

That caused real murmuring this time. In this tribe, invention had never been common before Iris arrived. People were grateful enough to preserve what their ancestors had taught; few had ever dared to make something new. Life had been about survival, not imagination.

Tiger stepped forward, his deep voice steady as stone.
“Anyone who fails one of the three trials is dismissed. No complaints. No grudges. I will not have a man in this family who cannot stand before us with an open heart and clear deeds.”

Then the priest advanced, raising his staff so that the carved beast’s head caught the light.
“These trials are sacred,” he proclaimed. “Whoever endures them and succeeds shall be welcomed into Iris’s circle — with the blessing of the Beast God!”

A gust of wind swept through the clearing, whistling softly through the wooden posts, carrying with it the scent of snow and pine.

Later, within the quiet of the cave, the fire burned low in the pit, its glow dim and red. Soft furs covered the stone floor where Iris, Tiger, Arel, and Silver sat together. The selection was finished. For three days they had received the men one by one — speaking with them, weighing their words, accepting their offerings, listening to their silence. Now only the four of them remained, gathered to decide.

Tiger sat against the wall, arms folded, chin resting on his chest — still and massive as a mountain waiting to move. Arel sat beside Iris, his wings folded loosely about him, one claw idly tracing shapes in the ash. Silver lay coiled half around Iris’s waist in his serpent form, his silvery hair mingling with her copper strands. He seemed half-asleep, yet his mind was keenly alert, ever attuned to her safety.

“There were more candidates than I expected,” Iris said at last, her tone thoughtful. She tore off a piece of dried meat and chewed it slowly. “Some good. Others… loud.”

Her gaze drifted to Arel — who snorted softly in agreement.

“Loud is putting it mildly,” the raven said drily. “So much self-praise I nearly choked on it.”

Tiger gave a low grunt of agreement. “Especially the young bears. All muscle, no mind.”

“But one of them did impress you,” Silver murmured. His silvery head lifted slightly, tongue flicking over his lips. “The one with the fruit tree.”

Iris’s expression softened into a smile. “Yes. The older bear.”

“Silent Bear,” said Tiger, a faint, almost fond smile tugging at his mouth. “That’s what his nephews call him. And it fits.”

“I was surprised to see him among the contenders,” Arel said thoughtfully. “I never knew he had… interest in any female. Or in binding himself at all.”

“He’s lived all his life with his kin—Maira’s family,” Tiger explained.

“He’s Maira’s brother?” Iris blinked; somehow that detail had escaped her.

Tiger nodded. “A reliable hunter. Quiet, steady, dependable. But never ambitious. Twice he was offered the chance to become a guardian beast—he refused both times. I always thought he meant to live alone.”

“He said during our talk,” Iris continued softly, leaning forward a little, “that he’d never met anyone who moved him the way I do.” Her tone held no pride, only that quiet astonishment that still lingered from hearing it. “That he believes I should be protected—not just for myself, but for the tribe. For the future.”

Arel regarded her intently. “He understands you.”

“He was honest,” Silver added. “Not pushy. Not flattering. Just… clear.”

“And what he said about you, Arel,” Iris turned toward him, “that touched me deeply. That he recognized you as part of my family. That he thought it brave—and right.”

Arel’s claw tapped against a stone, almost shyly. “That… was unexpected. A bear praising me. But yes—it was honest.”

Tiger nodded. “His offerings were well chosen. The Tar’Hyn—enough meat for all of us, strong, easy to preserve. The snow fox—small, but the pelt is exquisite.”

Iris gestured toward the white, shimmering fur that hung along the wall. “I’ll make a dress from it. For the next fertility festival.”

“And the tree,” Silver breathed, almost reverently. “Who brings a tree as a gift?”

“A young fruit tree,” Iris confirmed with a small smile. “He said he wants our family to grow—that this tree should grow with our children, and with our time.”

“And that garden bed,” Tiger added with a chuckle. “No one’s ever built something like that here before. A raised box of soil, fenced to keep the herbs from spreading. He said it just seemed… sensible.”

“Without ever having heard of gardening,” Iris said. “He simply thought, and acted. Like someone who sees ahead. Someone responsible.”

Arel nodded slowly. “He’s strong. And gentle. A rare mix.”

“So…?” Silver asked, though he already knew the answer.

“I want him,” Iris said firmly. “I want Silent Bear to become my guardian beast.”

Tiger inclined his head. “He has my respect. I’ll approve it.”

“So will I,” said Arel quietly.

“Then it’s settled.” Iris rose, smoothing her fur robe. “Tonight, before the fire, I’ll call him. And if he agrees, our family will grow.”

Silver lifted his head slightly. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then,” Iris said with calm certainty, “we’ll find another path. But I doubt he’ll refuse. He wouldn’t have stood before us otherwise,” she added with a soft laugh.

They all knew it. Silent Bear was not a man of many words—but once he made a choice, it was as immovable as stone. And this time, his choice had been made. For her. For Iris. For the family she had built.

Evening descended quietly upon the camp. Snow crunched under the feet of those returning home, and pale moonlight spilled over the glistening roofs of the caves. Smoke curled from their vents, carrying the scents of roasted meat, hot fat, and herbs into the cool night air. The great fire in the center of the enclosure was already burning—there, where news was shared, stories told, and bonds sealed.

Iris stepped into the circle of light, flanked by Tiger, Arel, and Silver. Her movements were steady, deliberate. The flames cast golden shadows across her face, and in her eyes burned that steady, resolute light the tribe had come to recognize—and respect.

Silent Bear was already there. As always, he had not sought a seat but stood at the edge of the firelight, half in shadow, upright, his hands clasped calmly behind his back. He was a mountain of a man—taller even than Tiger, broad-shouldered, his stillness heavy as stone. Threads of pale gray ran through the deep brown of his hair, glinting like frost among the curls. His presence was quiet—yet impossible to overlook.

When Iris saw him, she stepped forward. The hum of conversation around the fire faded. The elder women leaned in, the children peeking from beneath their furs. Everyone sensed that something was about to happen.

Iris stopped before him.

“Silent Bear,” she said, her voice clear and even. “In these last days, you came to me with words that did not flatter, but rang true. With deeds that did not boast, but spoke of skill, thought, and care. You lay open your heart, intentions and gifts.”

He inclined his head slightly, saying nothing.

“You met Arel with respect, accepted Silver as part of my family, and regarded Tiger with the honor due to a brother. Your gifts were wisely chosen. Your words—honest. You offered yourself as my guardian beast, not to elevate yourself, but to protect me, because you believe my wisdom must endure for the sake of the tribe—and for what lies ahead.”

Silent Bear lifted his gaze. His voice, when it came, was deep and rough-edged, yet astonishingly gentle.

“Yes, female. I have made my choice. Not because I am lonely. Not because I wish to possess. But because I believe you are something this tribe will need for many seasons to come. And I would help preserve that—with my strength, my sight, and my word.”

Iris took another step closer. The firelight shimmered in her eyes. She raised her hand and laid her palm flat against his chest—over the slow, deep rhythm of his heart, steady as the pulse of ancient trees.

“Then take my word,” she said softly. “I choose you as my guardian beast. If you will it, become part of my family. Watch over them. Fight beside us. Share our fire, our rest, and our road.”

A long breath moved through his chest. Then he went down on one knee—not as a supplicant, but as a man fulfilling an old, sacred vow.

“I take your word,” he said. “And I will keep watch—until my body fails, or your heart releases me.”

Tiger stepped forward, resting a hand briefly on his shoulder. Arel inclined his head, solemn and approving. Silver, still close to Iris, let out a soft hiss—reverent, almost ceremonial. Around them, the murmuring of the tribe began to swell: surprise from some, admiration from others. The news would spread quickly, like fire racing through dry grass.

Iris smiled. “Then welcome, Silent Bear. You are one of us now.”

He rose, meeting her gaze—and in that instant, they all saw it. A faint golden glow kindled across his forearm: Iris’s bond-mark.

Chapter Text

Silent Bear blended seamlessly into the family. As he had promised, he held no ambition to become Iris’s beast-mate. He did not wish to possess her—only to protect her, to guard her as one would guard the holiest treasure of his people. Iris believed every word of it. In truth, she even agreed. Within less than a year, she had changed the tribe so profoundly that even she sometimes struggled to recognize what it had become.

It wasn’t only the spirit of the tribe that had transformed, but its very rhythm. The men had grown calmer, more attentive, more balanced. The women seemed more at ease; they carried their children in their own arms instead of merely keeping them close by. The caves were cleaner, more orderly, and even the clothing and furnishings had changed—better tanned, softer, often adorned with simple embroidery or carefully chosen feathers. Practical tools and household items were crafted in the hours once spent solely on daily hunts. Small things, perhaps—but together, they reshaped the life of the entire tribe.

One of the first matters Silent Bear raised after moving in concerned Tiger. He wanted to know how the tiger had recovered from his grievous wounds. Silver and Arel had gone out hunting together, leaving the two men by the fire. When Tiger told him how Iris had healed him, something stirred in Silent Bear—his instinct to guard her flaring into something fierce and boundless.

That question, in turn, gave Iris reason to ask one of her own, when Silent Bear headed out.

“Tell me, Tiger,” she said thoughtfully one evening as they sat together by the fire. “I know you were injured while protecting two females and their cubs—but… who were you fighting, exactly?”

He looked at her, visibly taken aback. “You… didn’t know?” he asked, genuinely surprised, his tiger-ears flicking slightly as his shoulders lifted.

Iris shook her head. “No. Honestly, it was never really discussed. Back then, everyone only talked about how I should take you as my beast-mate.” She reached out, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “And I’m very glad I did—you’re a wonderful mate. But no one ever mentioned who you were fighting against.”

Tiger went still, watching her for a long moment as if to make sure she truly wanted to know. The firelight reflected in his eyes, turning them to molten gold. Slowly, he exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck, as though trying to wipe away the weight of old memories still clinging there.

“I suppose no one wanted to tell you,” he said at last. “It was… not a good day. And perhaps they thought it better if you never knew.”

His voice was steady, yet something deep within it trembled—a shadow that refused to fade. Iris said nothing, giving him space. She recognized that tone well; it was the voice of a man who had learned to lock pain away neatly, in order to keep moving forward.

“I think they found it more important to convince me to take my first beast-mate,” she murmured.

Tiger nodded slowly, then gave a low, rough laugh. “Yes… I can easily imagine that, my poor Iris. They must have hounded you mercilessly. It was rather unusual for the chieftain to grant me such a promise, I must admit. Not that I’m complaining. Still—I’m glad it turned out the way it did.”

She smiled and kissed him softly on the lips. “So am I, my Tiger,” she said tenderly.

He drew in a deep breath before continuing. “Well, it happened like this… I remember that day clearly. The sky was gray, and the air smelled of rain. I was out with a small hunting group when we heard the screams. I ran ahead—and saw what we were facing.”

He fell silent, staring into the fire as if the flames still held the ghosts of that encounter. Iris tightened her fingers around his arm. “You don’t have to tell me, if it hurts,” she whispered.

Tiger shook his head slowly. “No. I want you to know. I don’t want you to think I simply got lucky to survive. It was more than that.”

He lifted his gaze, and for a moment there was something in his eyes Iris had never seen before—not fear, but the memory of it.
“Was it serpents?” she asked softly. She knew only a few stories about strays—and ever since taking Silver into her family, she had been warned about snakes to the point of exhaustion.

“If it only had been a single serpent… no,” he said finally. “They were spider beastmen. Wild, enormous things—black and red, five or six of them. They came from who knows where, searching for females to start a colony I think. I had never seen anything so cold. No rage, no hunger. Only… that pure, mindless will.”

A shiver ran down Iris’s spine. “Spider beastmen? Such things exist?”

The very thought made her blood run cold. She had never heard of insect-like beastmen before—and the image disturbed her deeply.

“Are there also… like… grasshopper beastmen?” she asked after a brief hesitation. “Or beetles?”

Tiger looked at her, bewildered. “Of course not. Why would you think that? Insects can form crystals—we hunt them sometimes, when they stray into our lands—but that has nothing to do with beastmen.”

Iris fell silent, feeling faintly embarrassed, and thought wryly, Of course not. How stupid of me. Naturally spiders aren’t insects… right?

Inwardly, she rolled her eyes. Such things weren’t obvious to her—it was simply another piece of Beastworld common sense she lacked.

She drew in a slow breath, her hand tightening slightly around his arm. “And you stopped them—those spiders.”

Tiger gave a barely perceptible nod. “As best I could. The others kept them busy while I sent the females and their young on the way and I got the Promise of the Chiftain, that, if I survived, he would give me a female to mate. I.. was nearly sure I would die. The Bears were far on Patrol. When I came back the three Hunters - Two ravens and one mongoose, were dead. And then… I was alone with them.” A bitter smile flickered across his lips. “I remember legs. Many legs. And pain. That’s all worth remembering. Then finally the bears and mongoose warriors came—alarmed by the ravens the Chief sent off.”

He looked at her again, and Iris could tell he wasn’t boasting, nor complaining. He spoke the way one speaks of something that was and could not be undone—but left its mark nonetheless.

She reached up and laid her hand against his cheek. “Thank you for telling me. That was really brave.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, then murmured, “Thank you for asking. No one ever asks about what came before. Only you.” She smiled at him admiring his brave and strong soul. But the curiosity stung, so she dug deeper.

“What… what kind of spiders were they? Who were they? Where did they come from?” she asked at last, her voice quieter now. The thought unsettled her—how little she still knew about this world.

Tiger tilted his head slightly. “I’m not entirely sure. I can’t really tell them apart. There were five, maybe six in the group. Their markings were distinct, but very similar—they must have been of the same kind. Spiders breed as fast as scorpions. Each clutch can hold several dozens of eggs. If they ever settle somewhere… it usually ends in disaster.”

He paused, his voice rough. “But it didn’t come to that,” he added, as if to reassure her. Of course it made sense—strays terrified most females. Iris had been fortunate that Silver was such a gentle, civilized kind of stray. Exceptionally fortunate. 

The very thought of laying hundreds of spider eggs and being surrounded by nothing but spider beastmen made her stomach twist. It really grossed her out. Spiders were most definitely not her kind of creature. Not in the least. Yet her rational modern-day mind insisted on balance, forcing her to acknowledge that—just as with everything else—there were probably some spiders better than others.

Tiger watched her for a moment as the fire cracked softly between them. The light played across his face, sharpening the lines of his scars. Then he nodded slowly, as though weighing how much truth to give her.

“Spiders have become rare,” he said at last. “We kill them on sight—same as scorpions. It’s too dangerous to let them live.” His tone was calm, almost factual. “But they aren’t the only ones who stray. There are many kinds of men without a tribe—some who lost theirs, others who never had one. Some were born wild, or cast out. Others simply left… because where they were, there was no hope left.”

Iris straightened a little, resting her elbows on her knees. “You mean… there are that many strays? Even furred or feathered kinds?”

Tiger drew a line through the embers with a stick, as though tracing a map upon the ground. “Yes. Not all strays are the same. There are the cold-blooded ones—serpents and reptiles. Most live alone, tolerating no others in their territory, moving on when they fail to find a mate. Only a few, like salamanders or monitor-lizards, sometimes take shelter in a tribe or are tolerated in the beast-cities. But snakes…” He snorted softly. “Snakes are different. Many are venomous, possessive, bloodthirsty. They don’t see females as companions, but as possessions—to be kept, guarded, controlled. A female who falls into a serpent’s hands rarely lives to see her children grow. A lone beastman in the wild can’t protect and feed a female by himself—especially not if she bears young.”

A chill ran down Iris’s spine. “And the scorpions?” she asked quietly. “You mentioned them.”

“Scorpions are worse,” Tiger said quietly. “They have no heart, no feeling—only the drive to breed. They live in vast clans, taking what they want and killing what they don’t need. They’re no longer true men—just instincts wrapped in flesh. Their blood and minds are made of bile and venom.”

Oh wow, Iris thought, someone really hates them. Yet such deep hatred was rarely baseless.

“It’s said they keep the females they steal—and even their own kind’s women—trapped in small caves. Each year, their strongest warriors mate with them to breed ever more powerful scorpions, so they can steal more females still. To them, females are nothing but tools to create more fighters. And apparently, the women have no hold at all over the males that mate with them.”

He brushed his fingers absently across her mark on his shoulder. Iris’s gaze followed the motion. She had never felt she had any power over Tiger, not in that sense. Yet she didn’t truly understand the nature of this bond mark either. Her knowledge of it was shallow at best. She really should ask Maira about it someday. Somehow, she just hadn’t gotten around to it.

“Does that mean,” she asked softly, “that their bond can be broken without harming the males?”

“Either that,” he replied, “or they simply accept the loss of strength it brings. Or maybe it’s only a rumor.” He lifted his shoulders helplessly and looked at her, uncertain. Iris filed that thought away for later—perhaps she would ask the chieftain or the priest.

He stared into the embers, the red glow turning his pupils a molten shade. “Then there are the spiders—hunters who lure females into their webs. They’re patient, cruel, calculating. They build colonies and force a single female to become their queen. It’s said some of them weave threads from their queen’s own hair to adorn themselves—and that their fertility is so great the female doesn’t even need to enter heat to lay her eggs. She just produces one clutch after another. Supposedly, far in the south, there’s an entire territory ruled by them. But here, they’re rare.”

Iris’s stomach twisted. She stared into the fire, as if the flames could burn the image away. “And the others?” she asked at last.

“They’re sometimes called wanderers instead of strays—if they’re civilized,” Tiger said, his tone softening, almost reflective. “Men who lost their tribes. Or were cast out for breaking laws. Or who were desperate enough to leave everything behind. They wander through forests and plains, alone or in small bands, until they find a new home or lose themselves. And when they find a female willing to accept them, they cling to her as if she were the last sun in the sky.”

He looked at her, his amber eyes steady and grave. “Many of those strays aren’t evil, Iris. Only… empty. But dangerous nonetheless… They crave something they never had—closeness, warmth, meaning. But they often don’t know any other way to reach for it except through force. And when they fail, they’d rather die than go on living alone. That’s why they’re really dangerous. You should never approach one without enough protection.”

Iris nodded slowly. His words sank deep, heavy and warm at once. She thought of Silver—of the innocence and yearning in his eyes. Unlike the serpents Tiger spoke of, Silver had never struggled with sharing her.

“So Silver was… a lucky find for a stray,” she whispered.

Tiger regarded her quietly, then nodded. “Yes. One of the rare ones who still remember they are more than beasts—who still know how to love without destroying.”

Iris fell silent, her gaze resting on the flames. She thought of all those beings out there—marked by despair, by loneliness, by the hunger for something they couldn’t name. To her surprise, Tiger continued. He had long since realized that while the inherited knowledge of her bloodline had granted Iris many gifts, it had also left gaps—ordinary tribal knowledge she lacked. Like this, for instance—about the strays.

“And then,” he said after a pause, his tone cautious, almost reluctant, “there are the halfbloods.”

“Halfbloods?” Iris asked softly.

He sighed. So she didn’t remember that either. Gently, he brushed a hand over her hair just as Silent Bear entered the cave again, setting down a few of his belongings before heading out to fetch the rest.

“In very rare cases,” Tiger began, “wild beastmen forget that they even have a human form. They start seeking the company of animals—and sometimes, they… breed with them while in their beast form. And now and then, offspring are born that are… different. These halfbloods usually can’t shift. They’re born trapped in a half-form—neither fully beast nor fully man. Some look grotesque.. or they are shaped like animals, but with the mind of a beastman. Others look nearly like us, yet inside they’re truly animals.”

Iris thought about that. The joys of genetics, she mused wryly. Both fascinating and horrifying in equal measure—especially to her as a physician.

“But it doesn’t happen often, does it?” she asked.

Again, Tiger lifted his broad shoulders. “I’ve only ever seen one. He had the head of a wolf, walked upright like a man, and his hands and feet ended in claws. He wasn’t a threat—he ran the moment he saw me. I didn’t chase him, but I wouldn’t have allowed him to stay either.”

Iris studied him for a long moment, then asked quietly, “How many of them live out there—wild ones, strays, wanderers, and halfbloods?”

Tiger shook his head. “Too many. No one truly knows how many. The Farseekers—those wandering Tribe of Deer, who sometimes pass through—bring reports now and then. Five years ago, they brought word of a great spider colony in the west, wiped out by the warriors of the City of Ten Thousand Beasts. Ten years before that, an army of scorpions swept across the plains from the sandy lands, and only because the tribes united were they driven back. And lone strays… they’re everywhere. But don’t worry. The bears and I guard the Green Forest carefully. The ravens and mongooses too. If they ever spot one, they warn us at once. Few can stand against us, and most flee the moment they catch our scent.”

Iris nodded. Tiger’s beast form was massive—his shoulders rose higher than her head. It didn’t surprise her that he was stronger than most smaller predators.

The fire burned lower, casting flickering shadows across their faces. Iris leaned against him, feeling the weight of his words settle inside her—old, heavy, and true. “Then I hope,” she said softly, “that those still searching someday find what they need.”

She edged a little closer. The fire had nearly burned down; the embers glowed faintly in the dark. For a time, they said nothing, listening only to the whisper of the wind stirring the trees outside the cave. At last, she lifted her gaze to him. “Tiger,” she began quietly, “what was the hardest fight you ever had against a stray—aside from the spiders?”

He looked at her for a long moment, as if to make sure she truly wanted to know. Then he leaned back, resting his hands loosely in his lap, eyes fixed on the coals. “It was a serpent,” he said finally. “A female would barely have noticed her before it was too late. She was silent, patient… had already crept deep into our territory—almost like Silver once did, only far colder.”

His voice grew rougher, lower as he continued. “We knew something was wrong. A few animals vanished. Then we found tracks—wrong ones. I searched for days before I found him.” He drew a breath, a shadow passing over his face. “He had already chosen one of the females—was just waiting for nightfall. And when I cornered him… he struck at once.”

Iris said nothing, her eyes fixed on his lips. He spoke softly, but with that heavy calm that always came when he spoke of the past.

“He was fast. I had no time to think. Stronger than he looked. I remember his eyes—yellow-green, cold as light through icicles. And his teeth. He came from the side, caught me at the neck. Not deep enough to kill—but deep enough that I felt the venom. It burned through my veins like fire.”

He paused, rubbing unconsciously at the scar that ended near his collarbone. “I never knew what kind he was. A green snake, that much was clear. But I can’t tell them apart—any more than spiders. To me, they’re all the same. Cold. Venomous. Deadly.”

Iris’s heart tightened. “You killed him?”

Tiger nodded slowly. “Yes. He was strong. Killed two mongoose warriors in secret—both with yellow crystals—before I brought him down. He wasn’t in his right mind anymore. Just instinct, nothing human left. I don’t think he even wanted to escape. He just wanted to take someone with him when he died.”

His voice was low, almost carrying a trace of compassion. Then he looked at Iris, his eyes dark and clear. “The venom nearly crushed me for a week. The witchdoctor and the priest tended to me.”

Iris placed her hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “You’ve survived so many brutal battles,” she whispered in awe. The admiration in her voice seemed to soothe him; most females found such tales frightening or repulsive.

“Yes,” he said, laying his hand over hers. “Because someone had to protect the tribe. And that’s exactly how I protect you now.”

The embers glowed faintly, and for an instant, Iris thought she saw in them the ghostly shimmer of that green serpent that had nearly killed him. She said nothing. Within her stirred a mix of reverence and unease—and the quiet realization that Tiger had looked death in the eye too many times to ever fear it again.

Later that evening, the air was thick with the scent of smoke, salt, and sex—heavy, familiar, comforting. Tiger was already asleep, one hand resting on Iris’s hip, solid and steady as stone. Arel lay on her other side, half awake, lost in thought, his breathing slow and even. Silver, entirely in human form, was curled beneath the blanket at her feet, his lithe body pressed against her legs.

All three had been well satisfied—and Iris, of course, as well. Tiger knew her body now with the precision of an artist playing a cherished instrument; he was well on his way to becoming a virtuoso.

Iris lay awake in the hush, feeling the warmth of her men like the pulse of a world she still did not fully understand. Her body was heavy with contentment, yet her mind wandered—as it often did when peace settled around her.

She thought of Silver. Of the way he looked at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice—the quiet, glowing intensity in his eyes that flickered somewhere between desire and something deeper, purer, almost childlike in its sincerity and yet ancient in its depth.

He was so different from the others Tiger had spoken of. Intelligent, devoted, gentle, capable. Willing to give everything of himself to belong. There wasn’t a spark of selfishness in him—only a steady, unwavering devotion that bordered on reverence. Or, in more modern words, on dependence.
Iris shifted slightly, feeling Tiger’s breath against her neck, Arel’s arm draped loosely across her ribs.
“Arel?” she whispered softly, unsure if he was awake.

A low hum answered her, sleepy, almost lost in the quiet. “Hm?”

“How many strays do you think are still out there?” she asked. “I mean… like Silver.”

He opened one black eye, glancing at her. The dim glow of the embers caught on his lashes. “Like Silver?” he murmured. “Very few. Most lose their minds before they ever reach a tribe willing to let them stay. Loneliness does things to a man. After a while… he stops knowing who he is.”

Iris said nothing, though her mind turned.
The Beastworld was a place built entirely on possession and reproduction—females at the center, males circling them in loyalty, pride, jealousy, and devotion. And those who found no place within that circle became strays.

“This whole system…” She hesitated. “It’s so strange. So rigid. I sometimes wonder if it really has to be that way.”

Arel propped himself up on one elbow and studied her quietly. “I think strays are what’s left of us when the tribe stops holding,” he said at last. “We say they’re dangerous—and they are—but in truth, they’re the price we pay for the order we protect.”

Iris nodded slowly. Arel was astonishingly intelligent, reflective in ways that often startled her. She understood now that he, too, had once stood at the edge of that abyss. If she hadn’t taken him into her family, he would have lost all hope here. She understood. The system gave stability, yes—but it was cruel. It left no space for difference, no mercy for those who felt too deeply or came too late.

“Silver’s always seeking closeness,” she murmured. “But not out of greed. It doesn’t feel like that… It’s more like… if he isn’t near someone, he’ll fade away.”

“Maybe because no one ever wanted to see him,” Arel said softly. “Only to use him—or drive him off.”
Just like me, he thought, before Iris had taken him in.

She turned her head, meeting his gaze. Something inside her urged her to ask—to share the weight between them. “And you?” she whispered. “What would’ve become of you if I hadn’t brought you into my family?”

Arel smiled faintly, almost sadly. “Me?” He shrugged lightly. “I suppose I’d have become a stray too. Not one who fights with claws, but one who thinks himself to death.”

A short sound escaped her—half laughter, half sigh. She pulled him closer, guiding his face between her breasts. That woke him fully. “I’m glad you didn’t go,” she murmured. “I’m glad you came to me. You waited so long… I’m sorry for that.”

Arel stroked her side, savoring the soft warmth of her skin against his cheek. He thought for a moment, then murmured, “You don’t need to be sorry. It was worth the wait. You, Tiger, Silver… you’re more than I ever dared to dream of. And the family will grow—when the cubs come, when more mates and guardian beasts join us…”

Iris blinked softly, realization dawning. Of course—Arel longed for a great family, for a home filled with life and warmth. After all, ravens were flock creatures.
Tiger stirred behind her, gave a sleepy rumble, and drew his arm tighter around her—as if to pull her back into the present. She felt Silver’s smooth hand sliding along her thigh, gentle and deliberate. Smiling faintly, Iris realized that her embrace—and the warmth of her touch—had aroused Arel again. Her insatiable men, she thought with quiet amusement and deep satisfaction.

She kissed Arel softly on the mouth, then slipped beneath the blanket and helped him find release. Silver joined in with his usual gentle eagerness and was rewarded in turn, while Tiger slept on—deep and unshakable, like a predator utterly at peace in its den.

In the dim half-light, Iris smiled. Between her men’s steady breaths, between heartbeat and silence, she felt the world settle—ordered, somehow, around her.

Silver was a small miracle. The strays were not monsters by nature, but made into them by abandonment. They were what was left behind when no one cared to look anymore. And then there were creatures like Spiders and Skorpions…

She wondered how many more lives would one day intertwine with hers.

Meanwhile, Silent Bear had made himself a separate resting place within the cave. In his bear form, he lay curled on several thick pelts he had brought with him. Bears rarely felt the cold—certainly not like ravens or mongooses. He was content, having found a place and a purpose that gave his strength meaning. This quiet bear had never sought a female’s favor; he had devoted his years to protecting his sister Maira and her cubs. That had been fulfilling enough—but now, feeling Iris’s binding mark glowing faintly on his great paw, he knew he had finally become whole.

Chapter Text

Then the time came—
the chieftain arrived to speak with Tiger about the upcoming trade expedition.

It would be a long journey, deep into the lands beyond—many days of travel, perhaps whole moon cycles away—toward the City of Ten Thousand Beasts and the smaller clans along the route. Maybe not all the way to the City but far enough. It was an important mission: the Greenwood Tribe traditionally traded pelts, jewelry, amber from the nearby mountains, flint, and dried healing herbs for goods they could not produce themselves—pure salt, exotic dried fruits, clay vessels like the ones Iris had occasionally seen in the village without knowing their origin, beaded ornaments, and the thick hides of giant beasts hunted on the great plains.

Insects’ crystals could also serve as currency, but such creatures rarely ventured near the Greenwood territory, so that was uncommon.
This year, however, they had far more to offer than usual.

The dried nut bars—Power Roots, as Iris had called them—kept well into summer and would fetch a high price. The same was true for Hardmeat, the fully dried, smoked cuts of meat that promised to become a coveted good, as well as for dried vegetables, which were expected to appeal especially to the herbivorous tribes. The clans along the trade roads were many, though not always peaceful, and only the most seasoned warriors were trusted to lead such a caravan. Naturally, they turned to Tiger like the years before. 

Chieftain Strong Bite was a man of commanding presence—broad-shouldered, with a scar running diagonally across his left temple. His movements were deliberate, his words weighed as though testing their strength. Around his shoulders he wore a fine wolf pelt, and his loincloth was made from the soft leather of a hornclimber—a kind of giant squirrel with small curved horns upon its head, adorned with the Bushy Tail an on the edges of the leather were decorated with bone inlays, his dark eyes gleamed sharp and alert.

“The southern tribes demand meaningful trade,” Strong Bite said, standing before the fire. “We need you to lead the caravan—someone they know. Someone whose word carries weight.”
His gaze fixed firmly on Tiger.
“And you know you’re that man.”

Iris’s head lifted.
Tiger—gone for months?
She had a few thoughts about that, though she would discuss them with him privately.

Outside, within the fenced courtyard, Tiger sat upon a fur mat, his back against the wall. The firelight before him, where a large forest pheasant—nearly the size of a turkey—was roasting, slid across his skin, tracing the scars that told his stories, and the muscles that no winter could diminish this year.

He didn’t answer at once.
Instead, he picked up a small piece of wood and turned it slowly between his fingers, as if he first needed to feel the weight of whatever words might follow.

“How long?” Tiger asked at last.

“We have much to trade. Much to expect,” said Strong Bite. “Some will want to learn what we know. Teaching them would take time— we’d do it if the price is right. Three moons, perhaps four.” He turned his gaze to Iris.
“The knowledge of how to preserve meat, roots, nuts, and vegetables could win us many allies. But that knowledge comes from you, Iris. Do you grant us permission to trade with it?”

Iris regarded him thoughtfully. “That knowledge would allow many tribes to survive their winters better. Fewer losses. It would strengthen them as it strengthened us. But why take the risk, Strong Bite?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Because no man deserves to die miserably of hunger,” he said solemnly. “Nor any woman or child. If it displeases you, we will refrain. But if we share it, countless lives might be saved.”

Iris nodded slowly. She was genuinely impressed. There was something deeply honorable in the chieftain’s resolve—altruistic, almost idealistic—and yet she sensed the same practical logic that had guided her own decisions when she had first shared her knowledge with the tribe. If they traded their food, others would inevitably ask how it was made. Secrets like that never stayed buried long. And to hoard such wisdom while others starved would be a waste of potential—and lives. People would very well kill or do worse for the chance to bring their Family comfortably through the cold moons or lean times. But keeping everything a secret and to themselves - that would be another form of loss. Why not profit from it and earn the gratitude and goodwill of other tribes? I may sire greed for everything they had. But it may as well sire real friendship and trust.

“In that case,” she said at last, “I agree. But it must not be sold too cheaply.”

The chieftain inclined his head in gratitude. “As you wish.”

“And,” Iris added calmly, “my family receives one quarter of the profits.”

Strong Bite blinked, visibly surprised.

“Well,” Iris explained patiently, “if, for example, we receive four buckets of salt in trade, my family takes one of them.”

The chieftain frowned slightly, thinking. “And if we receive five buckets? Or six?”

Not a foolish question, Iris thought, amused. “Then we mix everything together and divide it into four equal shares. Three parts go to the tribe. One part goes to us.”

Strong Bite looked at her in open admiration. He had always known Iris was clever, but her way of thinking still astonished him. That he, a seasoned leader, could feel such respect for a female—this small, and oftentimes odd female—was something he had never expected. Not only could she count into the hundreds without faltering, she could solve problems that would have baffled most priests and witchdoctors he knew.

“Agreed, Iris,” he said finally. “Your family shall receive one quarter of all profits gained through the trade of your knowledge.” That wasn’t overbearing. It was fair.

The fire crackled softly between them, and in the quiet that followed, Iris felt a swell of satisfaction—tempered by a sudden, tightening ache in her chest. She sat down beside Tiger, folding her hands in her lap, her eyes fixed on the men before her.

The realization struck with the force of cold water: Tiger was going to leave.
Her Tiger.

He would venture into the wider world—on a grand voyage, a trading expedition… and she, still not yet in heat, would remain behind.

She could feel it—she wasn’t ready yet. Not in the coming days.

Maira had described it to her: the restlessness, the heat that rose from within, the way the body seemed to burn with its own pulse. Iris had never felt it herself, but her medically trained mind had drawn precise conclusions from those descriptions. Hormonal shifts. Physiological reactions.

And if Tiger were to leave before her heat began?
That was unthinkable.
It would have too many consequences for their family.

She forced herself to breathe evenly. Strong Bite continued speaking—discussing trade goods, routes, the rivers they would have to cross, and the guards they would take along. Tiger listened attentively, but Iris could tell his mind wasn’t following the full picture. He didn’t see the implications. He was a warrior—and warriors followed the call of duty before all else.

When Strong Bite finally left, Tiger remained seated for a while, silent. The firelight flickered in his amber eyes as he tended the meat over the flames. Iris moved closer, laid her hand on his arm, then leaned into him. He shifted, his weight settling over her in that familiar, grounding way.

“Tiger,” she said quietly but with unwavering resolve. “I want you to stay.”

He turned to her, brow furrowed. The fire cast restless shadows across his face, and for a heartbeat, the entire cave seemed to still.
“I don’t quite understand,” he admitted. “We just agreed that I have to go.”

Iris cupped his face in both hands. “Strong Bite said you must go,” she corrected softly. “But that doesn’t mean you can.”

He still seemed puzzled, so she smiled at him—and that small, knowing smile made a flush rise beneath his sun kissed skin. He leaned into her touch instinctively, like a great, affectionate cat.

“Think about it, Tiger. I’ll likely come into heat late this spring,” she explained, her voice calm but firm—no pleading in her tone, only certainty. “If you’re gone when it happens, there will be no cubs. And that would affect everything.”

Tiger stared at her—long and searching, his expression shifting from confusion to dawning realization. Then he blinked, exhaled, and nodded slowly, as if something obvious had just struck him. “By the thunder,” he muttered. “You’re right. Somehow… I never thought of the two things at the same time. The journey, and the family.”

He scratched awkwardly at his neck—an habit she had grown to love. “I can’t go. You’re absolutely right. We have a pact. My cubs are meant to be the first. But if I’m not here when your heat comes, there won’t be any cubs.” He sighed, half amused, half embarrassed. “Sometimes I really do have a wooden block for a head.”

Then his expression softened into thought. “But if I don’t lead the caravan… who should I pass the command to?”

Iris arched a brow, amusement flickering across her lips. Typical Tiger. Clever, strong, an experienced warrior—yet sometimes blind to the simplest truths. His sense of duty ran so deep it made him forget that life and love were just as vital as honor and survival.

And perhaps that was understandable.
It was, after all, his first spring as the beast-husband of a female.
He had never had reason to think about heat—or the making of a family—until now.

She pressed her forehead against his, her voice soft but steady.
“Then perhaps it’s time another warrior proves himself,” she murmured. “At least this year, my Tiger. Surely there are capable men who have traveled with you in the past—someone can take command in your stead.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she laid her hand upon his chest, directly over his heart. The beat beneath her palm was calm and steady—familiar as the crackle of the fire beside them.
“This spring,” she whispered, her tone low and dangerous in its sweetness, “you belong entirely to me, my Tiger. No arguments…”

She purred the last words and pressed him down into the furs, her lips finding the strong line of his throat. He drew a sharp breath—and she was amused to feel a very welcome reaction to her closeness.

Iris made her claim unmistakably clear in the minutes that followed—thorough, deliberate, and quite persuasive—so that he would understand exactly what she meant, and what she expected of him for the remainder of her coming heat. For good measure, she repeated the lesson a second time.

No beastman in his right mind would have resisted such a command.

“Understood,” Tiger rumbled at last, breathless and utterly content. “I’m not going anywhere. Your wish is my command, my Matriarch…”

Afterwards, Iris nestled against him, resting her head on his chest. His warmth surrounded her; his deep breathing and the steady thrum of his heart slowed beneath her cheek. She felt the tension leaving him, like the tide drawing gently back from the shore.

“I knew you’d see reason, my love,” she whispered with a teasing lilt. “Sometimes, the tribe may need you—but this spring, I do.”

Tiger’s arm tightened around her, drawing her closer. He said nothing, but she could feel his body melt into full, quiet ease.

“If I stay,” he murmured after a while, “it’s because you need me—not because I’ve grown weak.”

Ah. So that was what troubled him. Her sweet, proud Tiger—ever the protector, ever the warrior.
No one would dare call him weak for siring a litter. There were beastmen who would kill—or die—for that honor. He had done no less.

“Of course,” she said softly. “You heard what Arel said—no one in their right mind would challenge the Tiger. And if anyone tries, you’ll make sure he never forgets it.” She smiled against his skin. “It isn’t weakness to stay and protect your family. Quite the opposite. You’re simply taking one season off. It won’t harm the tribe. And in return…”—her voice turned warm, teasing—“…you might soon have a few little furballs climbing all over you. Cubs to tell your travel stories to next year, when you set out again.”

Tiger chuckled quietly and wrapped his arms around her. “Of course you’re right. I want that more than anything. I want cubs with you. And it wouldn’t be fair to make Arel and Silver wait another year just because I’m off chasing trade.” He shook his head, half amused, half guilty. “I can’t believe I lost sight of that—just for a few hides to barter. You must think me terribly fickle.”

“Not fickle,” she replied gently. “Just dutiful. You haven’t been my beast-husband for long, Tiger—but you’ve been the Tiger of the Greenwood for much longer.”

Arel, who had quietly tended the roasting meat while Iris made her persuasive case, exhaled audibly. “I’m glad you’re staying—just as you should,” he said dryly, though his tone carried unmistakable relief. “Another whole year of waiting would’ve been… a challenge. You know Iris promised to make me her beast-husband once she’s sure she’s carrying your cubs.” His voice softened at the end, edged with longing—patient, but not infinitely so.

“I know, Arel. We’re already a family, but I understand you.”
It was simply the truth.

Arel smiled faintly, and Tiger nodded, every bit the leader he was—though now he led not for the tribe, but for his family. “You’ll have your bond mark on Iris soon enough,” Tiger said calmly, his tone generous and assured. Over the winter, the two men had grown closer—bound by trust, by shared hunts, by a quiet brotherhood that needed no words, and of course, the warm, intimate nights under the Quilt.

The evening carried a breath of spring through the valley, soft and cool like an exhale from the forest itself. Dusk deepened, and the firelight flickered against the stone walls, filling the air with the scent of smoke, leather, and earth. Outside, the night came alive—the chirring of insects, the low croak of a frog near the stream, the soft creak of branches that spoke of unseen life.

Tiger sat on a flat stone near the fire, arms resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on the flames. His body was still, but in the small, deliberate movements of his shoulders one could sense the steady current of thought that never left him.

Beside him lay Silver in his Half-Beast form, coiled neatly upon himself, head resting on the tip of his own tail. His silver-blue eyes were half-lidded but watchful—attentive, silent, alert.

Across from them knelt a young man—Keen Ear. A wiry mongoose with a narrow face, bright eyes, and an expression that balanced between respect and restlessness. also in half-beast form, his fur gleamed in the firelight, his hands rested loosely on his thighs, and now and then the muscles beneath his skin twitched, eager for movement. He was the sort of man who preferred action over talk—but tonight he held himself still, sensing that what was said here mattered.

Tiger studied him for a long moment, then nodded slightly. “You know the routes,” he began, his voice low and steady—the kind of tone that carried quiet authority. “You traveled with me last year. And the Year before.  You negotiated. You watched. You organized the camp without anyone having to tell you to. And when the storm scattered us, you were the one who led us back.”

Keen Ear lowered his head briefly, eyes flicking toward the coals as though reluctant to accept the praise outright. Still, the way his shoulders straightened betrayed a restrained pride.

“I remember,” he said carefully. “But you were there, Tiger. You made the decisions. I only did what you told me.”

Tiger let out a quiet snort. “You say that because you don’t see what others see. I didn’t order you—you acted. I merely watched you take responsibility.”

A brief, weighted silence. Silver lifted his head slightly, his golden eyes glinting in the firelight. “He speaks truth,” he hissed softly. “You led without knowing you led. That is the best kind of leader. The other listen well to you. Even I can see that.” Silver was not very integrated into the Tribe but he was a good observer.

Arel, now leaning against a tree, nodded in quiet agreement. “A leader who listens before he speaks is rare. And valuable.”

Keen Ear’s gaze dropped to the ground again, his ears flicking back. The reflection of the flames shimmered in his eyes—one could almost see the thought settling in, the weight of duty taking root on his shoulders. Hesitant at first, then resolute.

Tiger rose and stepped closer, the glow of the embers washing over his legs. “This year,” he said evenly, with the calm certainty of a command, “you will lead the trade caravan.”

Neither theatrics nor further flattery. Just truth spoken.

“I will stay behind,” Tiger added, his eyes softening briefly. “For my Familiy.”
For a long moment, there was silence. Then Keen Ear nodded, his fingers curling into fists. “I won’t disappoint you, Tiger.”

“I know,” Tiger replied simply.

No one spoke after that- for a short moment. The fire crackled softly, its light dancing over fur and stone. Outside, the wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of spring—wet soil, thawing moss, distant blossoms. And in that moment, unseen in the shadows of the cave, Iris listened—and understood. Something fundamental had changed.

Tiger had let go of the duty.

Keen Ear lowered his gaze humbly, but a trace of pride flickered across his face. “I was only there because you took me with you,” he murmured.

Tiger snorted. “And you were more than just there. This year, I won’t be going. My family needs me here. And the tribe needs new life. You will do a good job, Keen Ear.”

A faint rustle came from Silver, a quiet hiss of agreement deep in his throat.

Tiger nodded. “You will lead. I’ll give you strong men to go with you—but you’ll wear the pelt of the leader. And I expect you to bargain like a warrior: with clear mind, calm voice, and open eyes. This time, our goal is more than simple trade.”

He looked toward the mouth of the cave, where the forest breathed and the firelight shimmered on damp leaves. “We need allies,” he said softly, yet his voice carried the weight of command even in a whisper. “More females. Young men eager to prove themselves. Our tribe grows—but we cannot remain alone. Strength without bonds is just power that fades.”

Across from him sat the young mongoose. His fur glowed gold-brown in the firelight, with a dark stripe running down his spine. In his pale eyes lay keen intelligence—the kind that heard more than words could tell. He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking for a moment, then asked carefully, “What will we be offering? Furs again?”

Tiger reached beside him and pulled out a carefully folded cloak. He spread it on the ground, and the fire caught in its seams. The pelts were soft and evenly tanned, the joins cleanly stitched with fine leather thongs—and there were buttons. Wooden ones, cut from smooth branch slices, even polished with Beeswax to an extend,  and fixed with strips of hide or tendon. A small detail—but one that changed everything.

“Furs with fastenings,” Tiger said calmly. “Belts with loops. Wooden bowls carved with patterns. All that we crafted over the winter. You’ll take provisions too—the good dried meat, the berries, the fish paste. Show them that our tribe doesn’t just survive—we’ve learned to live better. And if they are willing to pay - teach them how to do it.”

Beside the fire, Silver lifted his head slightly, his coils shifting with a soft rasp. The gleam of his eyes flickered like molten light. “We show that we do not starve,” he hissed quietly. “That we can give. That impresses—especially the females from weaker tribes. They seek warmth. Safety. A place where their young can live and grow. Oure Tribe is exactly that kind of place. Show it to them, and take them back to us, if they beg you.”

Tiger nodded in agreement. “Exactly that. Strength is not only battle—it’s what remains when the battle is done. It is what is left after the cold moons.”
He turned to Keen Ear. “If you meet tribes that keep grazing beasts—peaceful ones, perhaps with gardens or small fields—ask for seeds. Ask for young pet- beasts we can keep in our Territory. When the Tribe grows wild game might become scarce. Iris requested it. She said there must be tribes that cultivated what she called cattle.”

Keen Ear frowned, puzzled. “Seeds? Cattle?” he asked, clearly uncertain.

“Yes,” Tiger replied with a faint smile. “Grain. Vegetables. Any seed they can spare. Perhaps even flour, if they have it. Iris wants to… bake. And Cattle - Wild beasts restricted in Movement, that breed within the boundaries of our territory - We can keep them and eat them when needed.” Keen Ear marveled at the novel idea. “Woul your female perhaps be willing to take me in?” he asked in furry of courage. Tiger growled. “Sorry, forget it… I Mean, I will ask her if I may court her. Shes really something else.” He said respectfully. 

“She is. If she likes you, she will say so.” Tiger replied courtly.

Silver lifted his head slightly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Bread,” he said reverently, as though naming something sacred. “She misses it. If you bring some, she might consider. Its made from the seeds of yellow grass, she said.” The mongoose nodded. “I will try my hand. Thank you!”

Tiger smirked. “She did say that she wanted it, but she didn’t ask directly for the trade —but I know her face when she speaks of it. If you manage to bring some back, Keen Ear, she’ll bless you for the rest of your days.”

The young mongoose grinned, the firelight reflected in his bright eyes. “Then I’ll bring her bread.” He was obviously very motivated.

“I’ll do my very best,” he promised. “I’ll ask about females, warriors, seeds, cattle - and bread. I’ll bargain. I’ll show them what we have to offer.”

Tiger rose, stepped closer, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do it with pride,” he said quietly. “Do it with wisdom. And do it in our name. Remember—he who trades carries the honor of his tribe with him.”

Silver lifted his head again and flicked his tongue slowly—a sign of agreement, a silent vow.

Keen Ear drew a deep breath, his chest rising as if the weight of the task had just settled fully upon it. The firelight played across his face when he answered, his voice steady.
“I will not fail you.”

And when the wind swept through the cave and carried the smoke upward into the night, they all knew he would keep that promise. Silver wrapped himself around Tiger in his Sanke form, when they left.

The men set out three days from there. Mist still hung thick between the trunks when the pack gathered. A dozen warriors—strong, calm, smelling of fur, smoke, and damp earth. Bundles hung from their shoulders, bound with leather cords: supplies, tools, wares. The first light of dawn scattered through dew-beaded leaves, and somewhere in the distance, a bird called out the morning.

They were well prepared. For they had worked—planed, tanned, cut, and sewn. Now they carried the fruit of that labor into the world: soft pelts fitted with wooden buttons and sinew straps, carved bowls and spoons, plates of polished hardwood, smooth stones for grinding, and small tools of bone and horn. Alongside them, they packed food that would endure—dried meat, berry paste, smoked fish, dried roots, sausage, and, of course the power root.

It was what they had—but also what they were and knew.

Iris had given them clear instructions: herbs, spices, seeds, grains—and if possible, fabrics made from plant fibers. Cattle, females, warriors. From the far-traveled beastmen, there were tales of southern tribes who avoided hunting animals and instead wove their garments from bark or flax. They planted, gathered, and lived in peace.

For the men of the Greenwood, such a life was almost unimaginable. The forest had taught them that existence itself was woven from the threads of hunting and being hunted. Yet Iris’ curiosity was tireless—and little by little, she had planted that same spirit within the tribe.

On the evening before the departure, the entire camp gathered. The great fire burned bright and steady, its smoke rising in slow, spiraling trails toward the night sky. The scent of roasted meat and warm root bread hung thick in the air. Females, males, and young ones sat close together, some silent, others softly singing the old tribal songs—tales of courage, protection, and safe return.

In te morning Tiger stood near Iris, his presence a solid, quiet weight at her side. Her hands rested loosely on her belly as the evening wind carried the low voices of the men to them. She watched as Keen Ear and the other warriors checked their straps, fastened their packs, and exchanged farewells. Her expression was calm—but deep within, there was that quiet pull of worry she never spoke of, known only to herself.

“They’re ready,” Tiger said softly behind her, his voice rough and warm, familiar as the heartbeat of the forest.

“I know,” she replied without looking away. “But the world beyond the valley is not kind. I only hope they won#t be hurt and come back safe.” Her word were heard by the Men. 

“Beautyful female, if I come back unscathed, may I court you?” several of them wailed. Keen Ear struck them resolutely back to their duty. “Cut the crap, think of that when you come back,” he shouted. But his own gaze on Iris was burning with passion. Sie smiled sweetly to him.

Tiger placed his hand against her back—firm, steady, reassuring. “They like you very much. Every male of the tribe would be honored if you consider him worthy.” he muttered softly. 

“Well, I’ll think about it after our litter is born.” she pushed the task away. He smiled lovingly at her. “Of course.”

The caravan set off. Footsteps crunched on damp earth, leather straps creaked under the strain of packs. The light of the new day led them on their path—then the Forest swallowed them whole.

Iris sat in the circle of her family—between Tiger, Arel, Silver, and the silent Bear. The firelight played warmly over their faces, painting shifting shadows on skin and fur alike. All around, the camp stirred with quiet activity: children darted between the huts, females sorted provisions, and a few of the men double-checked the bindings and buckles of the huts. Above it all lay the soft, rhythmic murmur of the forest—the living pulse of their tribe.

Inside her, all was still.

She gazed into the flames and thought about the life she now led—so simple, and yet infinitely more layered than anything she had ever known before. In her old world, she had never truly considered how many of the things she thought "normal" came to be, how they functioned at the core, how they endured. Clothes had come from machines and turned clean again at the press of a button. A luxury—one that had never really felt like one.

Here, nothing was taken for granted.
Every piece she wore was the result of work and knowledge. Leather had to be dried just right, or it turned stiff. Fur had to be treated with ash and fat to stay supple. She had experimented with soap made from grease, but it dulled the hair, stole its luster. Maybe, she thought, perfection wasn’t necessary at all. Maybe the wearing, the aging, the dirt itself told a story—of the life she lived, and of the protection it offered.

A quiet sigh slipped from her lips. Tiger sensed it, instinctively sliding his arm around her. His warmth pressed against her back—steady, familiar, grounding.

Despite all the hardship—or perhaps because of it—she felt alive. Every day was tangible; every action carried weight. She had men beside her she could trust—clever, strong, centered. None claimed her. None forced her. Between them existed that rare balance of closeness and respect, so rare it sometimes felt unreal. No jealousy. No suspicion. Only the quiet certainty that they all belonged to one another.

Yes, she loved this life.

Sometimes she missed the comforts of the old world—a bed that didn’t smell of smoke, water that turned warm at a touch, the absence of constant effort.
And yet… she had found something here that she had never owned there—meaning.

Only… When she thought of her family—her father, mother, brothers—there was pain, a sharp ache that never fully faded. The thought of never seeing them again was the one wound that still remained and bled every day if only so much as touched lightly.

But she had somehow learned to live with it.
Because here, in this wild, breathing land, she was needed. She was loved.