CHHAVA: The prince of the Jungle

The cub did not mention the hyenas again.

But he watched.

He listened.

The jungle had its own way of whispering secrets, and he had learned to pay attention. The rustling of leaves, the distant calls of birds, the shifting of shadows—everything spoke if one knew how to hear it.

And now, he was listening for them.

The hyenas did not return immediately, but their scent lingered in strange places. Near the riverbank where his mother drank. Around the carcass of a deer they had not hunted. Even near the den, where no intruder should dare to step.

They were watching.

Waiting.

They had not come for the kill. Not yet.

But they were playing a different kind of hunt.

A game.

And the cub was beginning to understand its rules.

---

One evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, he caught sight of movement in the distance.

Not his own kind.

Not prey.

A flash of spotted fur. A glint of yellow eyes.

Gone in an instant.

The cub did not react.

He did not chase.

But inside, something stirred.

A realization.

The hyenas were not just scavengers.

They were *plotters.*

And if he was not careful, they would strike when he least expected it.