CHHAVA: The prince of the Jungle

The jungle was waiting.

The cub could feel it in the stillness of the trees, in the hush of the wind, in the trembling breath of the injured fawn before him.

Everything in his body told him to lunge—to finish what instinct demanded. His hunger coiled inside him, his claws tensed, his mouth watered at the scent of fresh blood.

And yet, he did not move.

The fawn's wide, terrified eyes reflected more than just fear. They reflected him. The cub saw his own image staring back—not just the hunter, but something else. Something he could not name.

His ears flicked back. He growled, frustrated at his own hesitation.

This was weakness.

Wasn't it?

The jungle did not forgive hesitation. His mother had taught him that. His siblings, the hyenas, even the elephant had proven it.

Yet, his paws remained planted in the dirt.

A breeze swept through the trees, rustling the leaves like murmured voices. The cub's tail lashed once, then stilled.

And then, he turned away.

He did not run. He did not slink.

He simply walked.

Step by step, he left the fawn behind, leaving its fate to the jungle.

It was not mercy.

It was not fear.

It was a choice.

And though his stomach ached and his instincts screamed, something in him—something deep, something old—felt strangely at peace.

The jungle had tested him.

And this time, he had answered in his own way.