On the Felixes of Lumaria

"Power is will made flesh."

Felix war mantra, unknown.

The full moon was beautiful this time of year. True, Myrrha would have said that about any moon, even during the deluge of the wetter seasons—dark, damp times when it rained so much so often that some children spent their entire short, sickly lives under the cover of grey clouds, dying without ever knowing the goddess’s face.

The moon was all. It lit the sky so they did not have to fear the night. It revealed prey hiding in the dark. She was always beautiful, every night, no matter how much the Stormbringer tried to hide her.

But tonight was indeed special. Tonight, up there, gliding through the night sky, was a full-blood moon. Its red streaks pierced the canopies, streaking the jungle floor as she and her huntresses passed. The blood moon was the greatest of omens.

A blood moon had adorned her first fight as a kitten, marking the moment she earned her first scar. It celebrated her initiation as a huntress when she and her mother embraced each other as sisters for the first time. However, it did not watch over her the night she ascended to First, but maybe that was for the best. Killing was always too easy under a blood moon; it made it a work of fate, not will, and the blood she spilled that night was hers alone to bear.

Nevertheless, with a blood moon illuminating the sky they could not fail; she felt it in her bones. She and her sisters had been on the trail of a pack of water hogs for two nights, and now, beneath the goddess’s bloody gaze, she knew the time had come to strike.

Myrrha popped her head over the thick underbrush, her slit eyes scanning for Nya and her clique. She soon spotted her— the two bright dots of her eyes shining amidst the underbrush. “Prey ahead. Assume position.” She blinked to her, to which Nya nodded, gliding to the left in deathly silence

She then turned to Satha’s clique, not too far off, but before she could blink directions, they had already taken the right flank.

Myrrha’s tail twitched at that. Satha had presumed when she should have waited, as usual. Luckily for the young huntress, she had presumed correctly, but that was no excuse. She would deal with this breach later, but, for now, they had hunting to do.

Myrrha flicked her tail, signaling Kiri and Dinka to follow her, and they did, taking their places in the center with her. Satha and Nya would be the claws, striking from the sides, while they would be the bite.

Just ahead, the water hogs were none the wiser. The dozen or so burly beasts drank peacefully from a stream, oblivious to the predators lurking nearby. The entire brood was present, which was ideal: the old would slow them down, and the young always tasted best.

As they approached, the cliques dropped to all fours, careful not to step on a twig or rustle a leaf. Water hogs were terrified of their own shadow; one wrong move and the brood would bolt into the jungle faster than their thick furry bodies suggested, and their haul would be lost.

Myrrha waved her tail, signaling everyone to get ready, and for a heartbeat, time stood still. They lay caught between hunger and fulfillment, life and death. Myrrha’s ears perked, her tail swishing rhythmically as she salivated, waiting for the goddess’s sign. She didn’t know how it would come, only that it always did. Something would click, she would feel it, and then they would strike.

And so it came. As if prophesied, there was a moment when perchance most of the hogs dipped their necks to drink in unison. That was it. She blinked: "Go."

In that instant, the trap was set. With a roar, Nya, Satha, and their cliques sprang into action from both sides, sending the water hogs into sheer terror. The panicked beasts searched for an escape, only to find their options dwindling as the huntresses converged, blocking all but one route: Myrrha’s. Just as planned.

As the water hogs darted toward what they believed was their salvation, Myrrha and her group emerged from the brush, the water, and the trees—silent shadows in the moonlight. They knew these beasts by heart. With practiced precision, the huntresses struck, slitting throats with a swift, merciless grace. One by one, the hogs collapsed, bleeding out as their killers moved seamlessly to the next prey to resume the cycle: strike, fall, next, repeat.

It was like lightning—too quick for thought, too fast for hesitation. It was nyawao, the hunter’s high, a state of pure, unbridled action where thought ceased and instinct reigned. At that moment, there was only the hunter and her prey, and soon enough only one would remain.

And so, just as swiftly as it began, it ended, and the jungle resumed its rhythm, indifferent to their success. The huntresses stood still, blood-soaked over the fresh carcasses of their prey, their breaths heavy as they tried to come down from the high; their tails puffed, and teeth still barred from the hunt. The bane of every good trap was that it ended things too quickly, leaving some huntresses still in the throes of nyawao even after the kill. It was never wise to approach a huntress in that state unless you wanted to earn your scars from a friend instead of a foe. Myrrha knew that from experience.

Then, as they came down, they all looked at each other and rejoiced; this was more than just a kill, it was a celebration of life - their life, of the knowledge they staved off death, even if only for another fortnight.

"Great kill, sister," Nya congratulated Myrrha, licking some of the animal’s blood from her cheek. The lick lingered longer than it should, but Myrrha allowed it, aware of the consequences that any sign of hesitation might bring. Ordinarily, she would have pushed Nya off, but thought better of it. There were more ways than one to show strength.

And so, just as Nya was about to let go, Myrrha grabbed her by the ear with her hand, claws retracted, but with unmistakable strength. "More to come, sister," she said. "More. To. Come." Then she licked Nya's face in turn, sliding her tongue over her open eye, causing her to shriek in revulsion and stumble back, which Myrrha allowed.

Around them, the others purred with giggles, and Nya was forced to join in, trying to make it seem as though they were laughing with her, not at her. Yet Myrrha’s gaze lingered, making it clear she knew what had truly happened. They were friends, Nya was her second, a sister of the hunt, they played together as kittens, and would probably drink the night away when this was over—but this world devoured the weak. And Myrrha, daughter of Nienna, would not be weak.

She turned to the rest “Cut them up so we can take them back. The tribe feasts tonight!” Myrrha roared and all cheered, moving up to carve the dead weight off their kills.

But just as one crisis simmered, another flared. "Wait!" Satha cried from atop a tall root. "I see trails—some of them escaped!" She jumped down, showing the signs. It was true, a few had run off.

This imperfection was hard for Myrrha to accept, but they couldn’t carry more flesh than they already had in hand anyway, it was best to leave them for another night. But it was clear Satha wouldn’t get that, she was still caught in nyawao. It was understandable—she had killed the most prey and was likely itching for more—but now was not the time. They were far from the tribe, and male bands roamed this area. They were not safe here.

Myrrha wasn’t without sympathy for the girl. If she were still just a huntress, she would probably be right up there with Satha, chasing nyawao wherever it led. But she was not. She was their leader, the first of their cadre, and most of them had kittens to feed. The tribe came first, bloodlust be damned. "Satha, come down!" Myrrha growled.

“But I can smell them! They are right there!” The youngling all but pleaded.

Myrrha could all but hear Satha’s thoughts: the rising defiance, the bloodlust. She knew the young huntress would soon be beyond reason, seeing red and chasing after the remnants of their prey, likely to her doom. She had to act, and so she did. "I command it, Satha! Stand down!" Myrrha roared, pouncing on her from behind and casting her down onto the cool earth, landing on top.

Satha tried struggling, but Myrrha gave her no pause, plummeting her head back into the muck and baring her fangs at her in a menacing growl.

The rest froze, their eyes fixed on the confrontation as they encircled the two, watching. They would not interfere, not in a clash between their own. To be first was to be power incarnate, it was a matter of fact, not merely a position, and who held that power each night was always in question. Satha was young, but her strength and quickness more than made up for her inexperience. This would not be an easy fight.

But Myrrha did not even notice the others surrounding her. Her slit pupils bore into Satha’s determined gaze. Myrrha had nothing against Satha; the girl showed potential despite her faults. But this wouldn’t be the first friend she killed, or family. It was all up to Satha now: submit or die.

Don’t try it. This blood moon is not yours.

For a moment, it seemed Satha would choose death. But just as quickly as the surge of defiance rose, it faded, and Satha let out a whine before going limp, pitifully surrendering in the mud, deferring to her leader’s judgment.

Myrrha considered taking an ear or leaving a scar, but she felt her point was already made. Besides, the longer she was first, the more she realized that humiliation could be as effective a punishment as any scar. "You eat scraps tonight, Satha!" Myrrha hissed before letting her go. Then she turned away, gutting the nearest water hog before addressing the rest. "What are you all waiting around for? We’re losing nightfall and it’s a long trip—get a move on!"