On the Felixes of Lumaria

Ulthar could do nothing but watch from the ground as Ira’s claws cleaved through the enemy’s flesh, five jagged slashes converging into one. The male’s belly split open, his entrails exploding out in a hot, steaming mess.

For a heartbeat, the dying male looked down at the coils in his hands, eyes wide with disbelief, cursing his body’s betrayal. Ulthar itched for him to charge—to do something, anything, to die with honor—but the male just stared, eyes darting up and down. And in that instant, Ulthar saw it: hesitation. It was but a blink, yet it felt like a lifetime.

Only for Ira to cut it short with a roar, lunging at him with the wrath of the Stormbringer, sinking his fangs into his foe’s throat and tearing it away with one savage bite before ripping into his face for good measure. Blood and bits spraying the jungle, and then—silence.

Finally, Ira stood, red from head to toe, staggering to regain his balance, his mouth full with the enemy’s throat. He chewed, then swallowed before turning to him.

It took all of Ulthar's will to keep from flinching. He’d fought before, back in his tribe—even sparred with the huntresses, felt the sting of their claws, watched them clash until one yielded. This was different. Here, they didn’t fight so much as tear into each other with the savagery of predators slaughtering prey.

Ira huffed once or twice, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze never leaving his. Ulthar looked down, his tail drooping. He had been the man's first opponent; they had been reasonably matched—both barely more than kittens. And yet, nothing had gone the way he intended. The male landed a lucky blow, making Ulthar's world spin, and he would have been dead if Ira hadn’t finished his fight early and intervened. This was his first battle, and all he had to show for it was shame.

It all started a fortnight ago when they crossed into the shorelands searching for game and females. Then Rhaur, their tracker, halted, sniffing the air. “It’s a band, not too far.”

"Finally," Arok, their first, growled, and the hunt was on. No one needed an explanation; they knew these others were like them, and they couldn’t risk having any of their kind lurking about while they slept. The fewer males roamed the earth, the better it was for those who lived. It was their way. Not to mention, a band being there meant there was a bounty to be had. Ulthar had guided them there, back to his homeland, and then, it had a few kills away from being theirs.

And now, as the sound of growling and slashing died down, it was.

Ulthar stood before Ira could offer a hand, unwilling to add insult to injury. Ira moved on to check the others. “Is everyone still alive?” he called out. “Besides Rhaur?” The tracker had been felled at the start, having faced the enemy’s leader—a massive male who took two of them to bring down.

“Live.”

“Live.”

“Live.”

“Live-Live.”

“Live.”

One voice was missing, but a wet, hacking cough soon echoed from behind a nearby tree. They adopted a battle stance, surrounding the source of the sound as they inched forward. Their leader had vanished into the darkness after landing the first blow, battling two enemies in the shadows, and there was no telling who won or to whom that cough belonged.

But when they encroached, all they saw was a heap of dead and dying, the two fallen males draped over Arok’s whistling breaths. Ira kicked the bodies aside to uncover him, revealing a sorry sight that was barely recognizable. Ulthar could swear Arok was more torn flesh than skin—his face deformed, his jaw split wide, and blood streaming from the empty sockets where his eyes had been gouged out.

And yet, he lived, if only for a while longer. Struggling for breath, he rasped, barely more than a whisper, “Are they dead?”

Ira nudged one of the corpses with his foot, ensuring Arok could hear the lifeless thud. “Yes.”

Ulthar knelt beside his leader. He was no healer, but he’d learned a thing or two from his mother. “Live long enough to join them, and they’ll be begging you to stay,” she’d always said, and now he understood why. But as his eyes traced the deep gash across Arok’s chest, he knew—this was not a wound the jungle would ever forgive. A single glance to the others told them as much.

But that was no news to the man himself. Instead, he croaked, “Get me their tongues.”

Ulthar was quick to act, reaching for the body beside him. He thrust his hand into the dead man’s mouth—half expecting him to spring back to life – before yanking the tongue out with a wet snap. Ita did the same with the other one.

They both stepped forward, tongues in hand, ready to offer them to the wounded male. But after a few grunts, it was clear that he was too weak and his arms too broken to take much of anything. They could try to lodge the soft strips of flesh into his mouth, but he’d likely bite their hands off for the insult. Mouth-feeding was for babes.

Ulthar hesitated, unsure what to do next. But Ira didn’t waver. He took the sharp, broken bone of Arok’s arm, pinching the tongue in place, and guided it toward him. Arok drew it into his mouth and ate; the tongue was soft, though coarse—rough to the touch yet pliant, leaving a gentle rasp as it slid down his throat. It was a delicacy from most beasts, but from a defeated foe, it tasted like victory.

It brought Ulthar back. In his tribe, the huntresses burned their enemies—their sisters from other tribes, as his mother called them. But in the band, they consumed the fallen, believing they gained their strength. Tongues, especially, were considered a delicacy, prized when taken from lizard-panthers or giant apes, creatures otherwise inedible save for their tongues.

Ulthar shook his head, forcing himself back to the present. He cursed under his breath, the tongue heavy in his hand, unsure of his next move. In that moment of hesitation, his chance to act slipped away, and the band saw. They always did.

Ulthar felt the empty, bloody sockets of Arok’s eyes settle on him, and in that moment, he understood what came next. The first tongue was to savor the prize he'd fought to the death for, a fleeting pleasure; the other one would guide him to his ancestors in the great hunt above. He had heard of this: it did a warrior no good to die agonizing of his wounds, Arok wanted him to kill him with the flesh of his enemy.

Ulthar felt his hair bristle. He’d been exiled the moment his kittenhood ended, and in the years since, he’d faced more than his fair share of foes to survive. But this—this was different. This was a bandmate. In a tribe, to kill a sister huntress when she lay defenseless was the greatest of crimes. And yet, this was what he was expected to do.

He felt his tail curl behind him, but Ira’s hand snatched it at the base, yanking it straight. “Don’t. Hesitation is defeat.”

Ulthar swallowed hard, recalling the dying breaths of the male he’d watched fall. He stepped closer to Arok, who seized his arm with surprising strength. “A good warrior dies choking on the flesh of his enemies. Nothing more, nothing less. Now do it! You overgrown—”

Ulthar didn’t wait. He thrust the tongue deep into Arok’s mouth, and the leader’s shattered jaw clamped down with defiant force. Pain flared as Arok’s fangs pierced Ulthar’s fingers, nearly crushing his hand. But Ulthar didn’t pull back. He locked eyes with the bloody hollows of Arok's gaze as the leader began to choke.

When Ulthar finally wrenched his hand free, Arok’s broken jaw tore apart with it. And the warrior who had once swatted him aside like a fly—the one who mistook his lucky blow for prowess—lay dead.

“So it goes,” Ira intoned.

“So it goes,” the others echoed.

“So it goes,” Ulthar whispered.

And just like that the band dispersed, eager to strip the tongues from their kills while they were still warm and collect their fangs for their necklaces . Only Ira remained, watching Ulthar with that same piercing gaze.

Ulthar kept his eyes down, the sting of his earlier failure still fresh in his mind. He braced himself for chastisement, but instead, Ira said “His flesh is yours.”

Ulthar froze, not understanding. For a moment, he thought he'd misheard. But as he glanced up, he saw Ira’s tail hanging loose, and he realized this was no delusion—no jest. Ira meant it.

“It was not a fair fight,” Ira insisted, his tone softer now, but unyielding.

Ulthar’s gaze fell to Arok’s lifeless body. He had never fed on one of his own. The thought twisted his insides, but Ira’s voice snapped him back. “It would be unwise to refuse it. Do you not deem him worthy? Because we do.”

For a moment, Ira’s eyes locked with his, the command unspoken but unmistakable. Then, Ira turned away, leaving Ulthar alone with his kill.

Ulthar knelt by Arok, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. His claws slid out, glinting in the dim light. He halted, just for a heartbeat, but Ira’s words echoed in his mind—hesitation is defeat. And gritting his teeth, he tore off Arok’s fangs and began to carve.

When he finished, he joined the others at the stream, the cold water washing away the blood and sweat. He considered avoiding Ira but thought better of it.

"How do you feel after your first real battle?" Ira asked as he licked his wounds.

"I feel... great."

Ira’s tail twitched, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Good. This is our land now, and you know its tribes better than any of us. This is only the beginning."

He knew, and this time he would not fail.