Perspective: Alessio Leone
Alessio didn't hesitate. Not for a single second.
Instinct spoke louder — a deep, primal call that roared from the depths of his soul and took complete control.
It didn't matter if there was one, four, or ten.
It didn't matter that the ground trembled beneath the paws of beasts, or that the forest encircled him like a savage amphitheater about to devour everything.
What mattered — what burned in his chest like molten iron — was a single truth:
They would not pass.
He wouldn't let them get close to Sith — nor to the cubs.
The first roar split the air like thunder.
The lions surrounded him with instinctive precision, forming a half-circle.
Each of their steps sank into the soil, muscles tense, fangs bared — golden eyes glinting in the moonlight filtering through the trees.
It was the kind of situation Alessio was used to — the kind that, if he had his shield, he could handle with ease.
But now, he had only his claws and his jaws.
The first to attack was the youngest.
A male with a still-short mane, tense muscles, and restless eyes — the kind of predator that confused courage with speed.
He came in low, sliding like a living shadow, paws sinking into the damp soil, aiming straight for Alessio's flank.
The sound of his sprint was a muffled thunder, the ground trembling beneath each step.
Dust rose in swirling spirals.
And in the next instant, the world exploded into motion.
Alessio twisted his body at the last possible second — pure reflex, the reflex of a warrior who had already met death up close, human or not.
The impact was brutal: flesh against flesh, muscle against muscle.
The blow resounded like two moving walls colliding, and dust erupted around them in a wide ring.
Teeth clashed. Claws dug deep.
Their growls fused into a single guttural roar — deep, raw, almost human in its intensity.
The younger lion's fangs scraped against Alessio's shoulder, tearing through the surface of his thick hide but failing to go deep.
Blood splattered in burning droplets through the cold night air.
Alessio reacted without thought — moved not by strategy, but by pure ancestry.
He shoved the enemy down with the full weight of his body, dragging him to the ground in a whirl of dust.
The younger lion tried to escape, thrashing wildly, claws cutting through air — but the difference in strength was abysmal.
Alessio pinned him with his front paws, crushing his chest against the earth.
The sound of ribs cracking echoed faintly.
The young lion's eyes widened — confused, surprised, almost pleading for mercy.
But mercy didn't exist on that field.
The roar that came from Alessio's chest was deep, muffled by his own entrails — a sound born of something older than rage itself.
Then he lowered his head and sank his fangs into the enemy's throat.
Hot, thick blood burst forth, flooding his mouth with the metallic taste of victory.
He twisted his neck — a dry, sharp snap.
The young lion's body convulsed once and then went limp — the life drained out in a final shudder.
The ground was painted red, the leaves soaked in steaming crimson under the moonlight.
For a moment, everything fell silent.
The only sound left was Alessio's heartbeat — pounding violently in his chest.
Each breath escaped in short, visible bursts against the cold air.
Then he rose.
Blood ran down his muzzle, dripping along his chest, glistening beneath the moon.
His gaze turned to the remaining three lions that still surrounded him.
And in that instant, truth became clear.
That young one had made the greatest mistake a hunter could make:
attacking before understanding what he was facing.
He was too young.
Too reckless.
And that, on this night, was unforgivable.
Alessio didn't forgive haste.
He didn't forgive arrogance.
He wouldn't forgive anything that threatened what he had sworn to protect.
The roar that came next wasn't merely a battle cry — it was a sentence.
And the forest answered in silence.
He didn't have time to savor the kill.
The second lion came from above — a massive leap, a shadow descending like a falling mountain.
The air itself seemed to split from the weight of the impact.
Alessio tried to roll — pure instinct guiding him — but the strike was too fast.
The beast's full weight crashed onto his back, a living avalanche.
The sound of claws slicing through flesh rang out like tearing steel.
Hot blood spilled in sharp lines, splattering across the grass, painting the ground red.
Pain came like liquid fire, spreading from his spine to his neck.
Every fiber of his body screamed.
But he didn't.
He refused to yield.
The predator pinned him against the earth, its rancid breath hot on his neck.
Its fangs sought the base of his mane — the weak point where the hide was thinnest.
Alessio felt the edge of a canine pierce skin, almost scraping bone.
Then he struck back.
He pressed his body down, trapping the enemy's weight over him — and with a violent thrust of his hind legs, strong enough to shake the air, he twisted his hips mid-roll.
The counterattack was devastating.
His rear claws slashed upward from below, tearing through flesh, ripping muscle, splitting bone.
The sound that followed was grotesque: a wet crack, then the sickening rip of a body opening.
The opponent's roar turned into a broken wail — a sound halfway between pain and disbelief.
For an instant, the air was filled only with the scent of blood — hot, metallic, overwhelming.
The lion on top of him convulsed, trying to pull away, but Alessio didn't let go.
He sank his teeth into the exposed neck and pushed forward with his forepaws.
Blood gushed in jets, splattering across his face, his mane, his eyes — painting him crimson.
When the wounded lion finally stumbled backward, the noise it made was no longer a roar.
It was the wet, trembling sound of death drawing near.
The beast staggered two paces back, its belly torn open, entrails spilling out in a slow, grotesque arc onto the grass.
The clearing stank of iron and viscera.
Alessio stood again, chest heaving, breath ragged.
The enemy's blood dripped from his jaw and soaked his mane, mixing with his own.
But his gaze — that steady, burning gaze — never faltered.
The roar that followed wasn't one of triumph.
It was a warning — a decree.
One more step forward, and the same fate awaited them.
Two down.
And the night… was only beginning.