Chapter One: The Silver Fur
The Forestine Plains stretched endlessly, a vast sea of towering trees, knotted vines, and canopies so thick the sun broke through only in fractured shafts of gold. Deep within this green wilderness, a troop of primates moved swiftly, their brownish-black fur blurring as they leapt from root to branch, branch to stone.
They were humanoid in figure—long arms, upright torsos, powerful legs—and yet wild in spirit, driven by the pulse of survival. Tonight, they moved not for the hunt but for rest.
"Keep moving! There's a grove up ahead—we'll make camp there," called Lucius, the troop's alpha male. His voice was firm, carrying the authority of one who had led them through blood and hardship.
He glanced back at his family. They were weary, struggling against the thick undergrowth, but they kept moving. His gaze lingered longer than usual on one figure among them—his firstborn son.
A cub named Curze.
Unlike the rest, Curze's fur was not the dull brown or dark black of the troop. His coat shimmered with silver, strands catching even the faintest light, making him stand apart like a shard of moonlight among shadows. To most, it was an oddity. But to Lucius's mother—the oldest in the troop—it was a sign, a mark of something yet untold.
Lucius's expression, however, was unreadable. He did not smile at the sight. If anything, his voice grew harsher when it reached his son.
"Move faster, boy! Don't fall behind!" he barked, annoyance flashing in his tone as he pressed forward alongside the troop.
Curze flinched, slowing for a heartbeat, until a softer voice came from beside him.
"Don't mind your father's words," said Granny Lurn, the ancient matriarch, her back bent with age but her eyes still sharp as flint. "Look closer into his gaze, and you'll see the truth. That harshness is only love, even if he hides it."
Curze lowered his head, his silver fur catching in the dim glow of the jungle. His voice came out small but heavy with hurt.
"Yes, Grandma… but he grows harsher every day. My younger brothers and sister, he praises them, holds them close. But me… I have no mother, and he keeps me at a distance. Is it because of that?"
Lurn's steps slowed as she studied her grandson, her old heart both weary and proud.
"No, child. Not because of that. Listen well—your father is harder on you because you are his firstborn. You carry the weight of his hope. Ever since Lucius broke free of the Yakat tribe and won us our freedom, his only dream has been to see our family rise higher. He wants you to become stronger than him, stronger than all of us."
Curze's chest tightened, a mixture of longing and doubt swirling in him.
"…So I must be the one to rise," he murmured.
"That's right." Granny Lurn's wrinkled lips curled into a faint smile. "So walk ahead proudly, boy. Let those pampered siblings see that you carry the mantle of the firstborn."
Something in her words sparked in him. Curze straightened, shoulders squared. His silver fur rippled faintly in the wind as he surged forward, leaping past his siblings, his youthful laughter carrying for the first time that day.
Behind him, Granny Lurn watched with ancient certainty burning in her eyes.
Her son Lucius had brought freedom through strength.
But this silver-furred grandson—he would bring stability and growth.
Perhaps even destiny.
The troop moved steadily into a wide clearing, the stronger males leading at the front.
An older male, his fur streaked with gray, shuffled closer to Lucius.
"I think we can make this grove our home, Lucius," he muttered. "It's far from those barbarians. Their scouts have never reached this deep. I'm certain it's safe."
Lucius halted, his massive frame looming. He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing at the elder who spoke. Though the male was older, his frame was frail, his spirit weaker. Lucius's glare cut sharper than claws.
"It is safe when I say it is safe, Grundy," he growled, his tone making the elder flinch back.
Then his eyes darkened.
"And we've all seen it—the fire in those bastards' eyes. They will not stop until we're back under their feet."
A low grunt came from behind.
"Our leader speaks true," said Drogo, another elder, broader and firm where Grundy was frail. His voice carried respect. "I would rather wander till my bones rot in the dirt than return to slavery. At least with Lucius as a Core Beast, we have strength. Enough to carve a small place for ourselves. Enough to dream of a tribe of our own."
The words gave the weary troop a moment of hope, though it flickered like weak firelight in the wild dark.
---
Back in the middle of the column, Curze trotted forward, leading his younger cousins with a kind of stubborn pride.
"Come on," he urged. "I know you're tired. But the uncles said there's a grove up ahead. We're close."
One of the little ones blinked up.
"Really, big brother Curze?"
He forced a smile. "That's what they said…" He wasn't sure he believed it either.
A sharp scoff came from the side. Four younger primates—his half-siblings, the true-born children of Lucius's mates—snickered.
"And you'd be the one to know, wouldn't you?"
Curze ignored it, as Grandma always told him to. But their voices sharpened like stones.
"You're probably not even sure you'll eat tonight," sneered Alfy, the roughed-faced one who always led the jibes. "Our mothers said we'll have fresh thorn-grapes for supper. What will you eat? Bugs?"
Laughter burst from their little pack. Only Curze's two cousins stayed silent, their eyes shining with pity.
That was the way of the troop. A motherless infant was nothing, no matter if he was firstborn of the Alpha. The hierarchy of mates and mothers held its weight like iron chains.
Curze clenched his teeth, rage bubbling under his skin. He could best each of them if he wished. But he could already feel the eyes of their mothers, cold and watching. To lash out would be disrespect, and respect was law. So all he could do was glare.
"Enough, younglings!" Drogo's voice cut through the air. The old male had turned, spotting the quarrel before it soured further. "Your yapping is slowing the big ones down."
"Ooh, let them play," came a dismissive voice. Morsey, Lucius's eldest mate and Alfy's mother, swept in with her brood around her. The other female nodded agreement.
Drogo's mouth curled into a sly smile.
"Then perhaps I'll tell Lucius that you think the younglings should play while the troop waits. I'm sure he'll love that."
Morsey's lips twisted into a hiss. "There's no need for that, Drogo. The cubs won't slow us down again." Her sharp gaze made the other females stiffen, forcing them to haul the younglings onto shoulders or backs. Only Curze was left standing alone.
Drogo frowned at the sight of the boy's lowered eyes. The sneers of the favored younglings, the way Curze's cousins shrank in silence—it stung something deep in him.
"Hey, boy," Drogo said, his tone softening. "Why not let your uncle Drogo carry you? Jungle jumps, like old times."
Curze's face lit up, the sadness breaking for a moment.
"Really?"
Drogo's smile widened. "Yes. Come on." He hoisted Curze onto his broad shoulders and launched upward, leaping from treetop to treetop with practiced strength.
Curze laughed aloud, the wind in his fur, the ground blurring below. The joy was brief but real.
From below, the younger bullies' eyes burned with jealousy.
"Mother! Can you do jungle jumps too?" cried a small voice—Morsey's daughter—her innocent plea met with a glare so sharp it silenced her.
Grannylurn's laughter drifted down from a higher branch where she watched, her old eyes twinkling with certainty.
Yes, she thought, her grip tightening on her staff. Let the others scorn him. They do not yet see. That silver-furred cub carries more than blood—he carries promise.