Blood covered the ground. His paws. His teeth. Her neck.

The young lion stood, snarl still plastered onto his face. He stepped over the lifeless form of his mother. She wasn't worth a second glance to him.

His father stared on in shock, his eyes wide. His very own son, the cub he proudly raised, took another step towards him.

"If it weren't for your strength, father, it would be you next." The boy spat. Venom filled his voice. The two met gazes, one glaring daggers and the other on the verge of tears.

"Why?" The King asked.

"If she were worthy to live, she'd have been able to defend herself."

The young lion spoke as though it were an obvious fact. He turned, sharp features catching in the moonlight. The rest of the pride was asleep over the ridge. Should they awake and find the scene, he knew he wouldn't stand a chance against them. His father knew this, too.

"Bangarang," The King began, "You must go."

"Oh, must I?" Bangarang asked. He knew, of course, that he must. He simply wished to see how his father would react.

"Leave and never return!" the King demanded, his tone hardening. He took a step towards his son. Fur bristling, he stood tall, puffing himself up to appear as large as possible. Despite the intimidation attempt, Bangarang knew his father could never bring himself to harm him.

The young lion turned without responding. He bounded in the opposite direction of the rest of the pride. Heeding his father's words, he ran until he reached the edge of the territory without looking back. Only slowing when he was beyond the pride lands, Bangarang finally paused to rest.

His former pride lived on average lands, leading an average life. The savannah grasslands gently waved in the late-night wind. Crickets were calling out, and an occasional bird call faintly reached the young lion's pointed ears.

Bangarang sat below an acacia tree. Taking a moment to clean the blood off of his paws, he allowed himself a moment of thought. Solitude was something he had always preferred. He was born a mutant, a lone cub different from the rest. He'd inherited his father's short tail and muscular frame, though his features were sharper. Gaunter. He was more lithe and pale than that kind old man already reaching the end of his life when Bangarang was born. He'd never had an interest in other cubs and, as he aged, never had an interest in social duties or courtesy. He felt comfortable in the position he found himself in now.

He felt the only point of business left unaddressed was where he would go. In truth, Bangarang hadn't given it much thought. He knew his actions would lead to exile, and he would need to go far away, but he was content to allow fate to decide his destination.

Looking up, Bangarang considered possible options within reasonable distance for himself. He was unfamiliar with the world beyond his former territory and knew little of the geography around him. Logically, he ought to continue in the opposite direction of his father's pride as far as his paws could take him. Bangarang fell asleep as dawn began to break, solidifying this decision in his mind.

Bangarang awoke the following afternoon. The sun hung high in a cloudless sky, and various animals went about their business a respectful distance away from him. He paid them little mind as he arose, turning in the direction he decided to go.

Bangarang traveled for the better part of eight days, stopping only to hunt. Twice, he was successful, but on the first occasion, he failed. Though he would never speak of it to another soul, Bangarang spent half of that day sulking. On the ninth day, he reached an impasse.

The lion found himself at the base of a mountain, blocking his path. He'd seen it from several miles away the day previously, though he hadn't given it much thought. Confidence drove him forward then, and it would drive him forward now.

He took his first step onto the slope, watching the dirt shift into gravel under his paws. Slowly, as he ascended, the grass grew sparse. Berry bushes grew around the mountain's foothills, small animals darting between the leaves.

Good, he thought. There is prey here.

By midday, he'd ascended high enough for the temperature to drop cold, and the flora had wholly transformed from that of the savannah to a more temperate climate. The trees were now tall evergreens, with low underbrush filling the gaps between large stones. The overall color of the landscape was also cooler, all grays and dark greens, compared to his old home's golden grasses. There was no scent of lions in this area. In fact, Bangarang hadn't picked up on the smell of a lion for several days.

Upon reaching the upper portion of the mountain, the air went from cold to frigid. A thin dusting of snow coated the ground. Bangarang watched as his paws left imprints on the powdery surface. His eyes settled on a stone coated in frost.

It reminded him of himself, as he'd seen in the reflections of the watering hole when he was a cub. Rugged and gray, with white speckling all across his back. Standing strong, sturdy, and alone on the mountainside. At the top, above all else. The sight gave him satisfaction.

This is my land, Bangarang decided. He perched himself atop the rock and faced the direction he had come. The lion let out a mighty roar that echoed down the mountainside. He paused to listen.

...

Silence. There was no reply, even after five minutes of watching and waiting. There were no lions here.

He spent the last remaining hours of the day going about what he deemed essential business. He marked his territory around a square mile border, noting to himself to spend the next day expanding it further. He indexed the scents of the area, noting the unusual prey that seemed to live here. While he didn't spot any live specimens, he distinctly pinpointed a drinking and bedding spot of some ungulate variety. Finally, he returned to the clearing from which he had claimed his new land and settled against that very stone for the night.

He had much to do over the following week; now was the time to rest.

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