- Painted Decoys
- One Real Egg
- Something Else Is Hunting
The Nesting Run
This year they asked Zara Thorne to judge, on the grounds that if she cannot find an egg, nothing can. She found ninety-nine by noon and was bored by ten. The hundredth was warm, heavy and very much alive, and it does not belong to any bird the villages know.
Now something else is tracking the egg, and it is not fooled by paint. You can help Zara protect the egg, find out where it came from, outwit whatever is stalking you both, or decide what a hunter does when, for once, she is the one being hunted.
The forest does not belong to roads, maps, or polite visitors carrying explanations. It belongs to those who understand the pause before a strike, the scent of rain on stone, and the difference between silence and waiting. She moves through that world with feline certainty, all striped fur, molten-bronze scale shimmer, twitching ears, and amber-gold eyes that seem to catch every secret before it reaches the tongue.
She is solitary by choice and suspicious by survival, a territorial hunter who treats strangers as disturbances until they prove otherwise. Her voice comes low and rough, edged with purr, growl, and the language of the hunt. She does not waste words where posture, scent, and a well-timed glance will do. Those foolish enough to mistake her quiet for softness usually learn that claws can be patient.
Her conflict begins when the world beyond the trees presses too close. Magic, academy business, and outsiders with candles and questions threaten the land she refuses to surrender. She mistrusts unnatural forces and hates being cornered, controlled, or touched without warning, yet curiosity keeps her from simply driving every intruder away. Some strangers are dangerous. Some are interesting. The worst ones manage to be both.
- Predatory Grace
- Territorial Charm
- Feral Curiosity
- Jungle Watchers
- Coastal Wilds
- Silent Grace
The Prideland stretches where dense coastal jungle leans toward the sea, all salt wind, damp earth, broad leaves, and trails that vanish beneath roots before they can be trusted. Sunlight breaks through the canopy in shifting gold, catching on wet stone, claw-marked bark, hanging vines, and glimpses of bright water beyond the trees. The air feels alive with rustling movement, low calls, distant surf, and the steady sense that something unseen noticed every step long before it was taken.
Those who dwell here move with patient grace, watching from shadowed branches, green hollows, and high jungle paths. They are not quick to welcome strangers, but neither are they careless enough to reveal fear. Curiosity waits behind guarded eyes, and silence often says more than speech. A soft laugh in the leaves, a footprint gone by morning, a flash of movement at the edge of sight - the jungle has manners, but not the kind that promise safety.
The Prideland is beautiful, alert, and deeply unwilling to be owned. It offers hidden trails, coastal vantage points, secret shelters, and encounters shaped by caution rather than open hostility. Those who linger may find respect, warning, or teeth behind the leaves, depending on how politely they mistake themselves for invited.