♔ ɴᴇᴍᴇsɪs ♔

After travelling all those miles, his paws couldn’t help but ache. He had led his pride elsewhere, to the highest mountain range on the continent. The rough stone scraped against his curved claws and his softer padding, as he trudged higher, and higher, until at last he gazed down upon the grasslands where his pride could now call home. He exhaled, before snarling and charging down the mountainside.

And that was when the other lions appeared, their bloodcurdling roars piercing through the crisp air, as their claws tore through the pelts of Zeravi’s pride. There was only so much he could do to protect the young, the old, his pride. But it was too late; corpses had littered the once plain grounds. The other lions had disappeared, quick as they had arrived.

He looked down at his paws, only to realise the most dreadful thing of all.

The blood of his pride was on his paws.
No other lions had came to kill them.
It had been him who tore them apart.

He was the one who closed the fate of his own.