The Lost Pride
*“A pride isn’t made of land or blood. It’s made of those who choose to stand beside you.”* The sun bled gold and crimson across the savannah, painting the endless plains in fire and light. Acacia trees reached long, spindly fingers toward the dying sun as the tall grass bent in the wind like a living sea. In that fleeting hour between day and night, three figures stood upon a rise, their silhouettes sharp against the horizon. Tarin, pale as sand with black-ink stripes, watched the distance like a king who’d walked away from his throne. Razor, dark as midnight and scarred by war, stood like a wall against the world — fierce and unyielding. And Solren, with his warm russet coat and golden eyes, tilted his head to the wind, a quiet grin on his muzzle as if the wild itself whispered secrets only he could hear. They had no kingdom. No pride to claim them. Only the bond they forged in the wake of everything they’d lost. The Lost Pride still walks beneath the fading sun.
About The Lost Pride
*“A pride isn’t made of land or blood. It’s made of those who choose to stand beside you.”* The sun bled gold and crimson across the savannah, painting the endless plains in fire and light. Acacia trees reached long, spindly fingers toward the dying sun as the tall grass bent in the wind like a living sea. In that fleeting hour between day and ...Read more