The Thorns of the Wild

Story:

The forest never forgets. Its roots carry whispers, and its wind howls with ancient truths. Beneath its leafy canopy, stories of betrayal and survival are etched into every stone, claw-marked tree, and crimson puddle.

Once, in the heart of this wilderness, lived two foxes—Ruska and Mira. They were sisters, alike in cunning but different in heart. Ruska, the elder, was bold and ambitious. Mira, younger, was gentle and wise. Together, they danced between the trees, stole food from hunters, and outwitted beasts far larger than themselves.

But in the wild, cleverness is not always enough.

A lion ruled the southern cliffs of the forest. Known only as Azhdar, his name was spoken in growls and silence. His mane was matted with dried blood, his eyes golden and cold. He devoured not only flesh but respect. All creatures in the forest bowed to him—or vanished.

One dusk, as the sky turned copper, Ruska brought an idea to Mira.

> “We could end Azhdar’s reign,” she whispered.

“Steal his food, make him weak, and when he chases us, we trap him in the Gorge of Bones.”

Mira’s eyes widened. “Why provoke the lion? We are foxes. Shadows, not swords.”

But Ruska’s hunger wasn’t for meat. It was for power.

They began their plan. Silent steps in the night stole Azhdar’s kills. His rage echoed through the valley. He clawed trees in madness, his pride bleeding with every vanished meal.

On the sixth night, Ruska went alone. Mira had begged her to wait, but Ruska, swollen with ambition, entered Azhdar’s cave. She wanted to scatter his bones across the stones.

But Azhdar was waiting.

Mira, sensing something wrong, followed her sister’s scent. Through thorns, over mud, into darkness. She arrived just in time to see the lion rise from the shadows, jaws parting, claws gleaming.

A scream—half fox, half fury—filled the air.

> "خون بہتا ہے تو صرف زخم نہیں چھوڑتا، نشان بھی بناتا ہے!"

(“When blood spills, it doesn’t just leave wounds—it marks the soul.”)

Mira launched herself at the lion. Her teeth found flesh. Azhdar roared, slammed her to the earth, but not before she dragged Ruska from his grasp.

They fled. Broken. Bleeding. Breathing.

But Azhdar followed. Through trees that cracked beneath his weight, through rivers that turned red where he passed.

By dawn, the foxes reached the Gorge of Bones. The trap was meant to be set later—but fate had chosen its hour.

Mira turned. Ruska stood beside her.

> “He comes,” Ruska said, voice trembling.

“We end it here,” Mira replied.

The lion emerged, black against the morning sun. His roar split the sky.

The foxes split—left and right, darting through boulders. Azhdar chased Ruska, as planned. Mira doubled back, unseen.

The gorge opened ahead—deep, sharp, fatal. Ruska leapt, clearing it by a tail’s length. Azhdar followed, mid-air, when Mira struck.

From the side, teeth into leg. Just enough.

He stumbled.

He fell.

The sound echoed like a drum of war. Then silence.

Leaves fluttered. Blood seeped.

The foxes stood at the edge. Below, the lion’s body twisted among stone thorns.

> “We are not kings,” Mira said.

“But we are survivors.”

---

That day, the forest sang a new song. Of two foxes who dared bite the lion. Of blood that washed tyranny away.

But it was no celebration.

Because even in victory, Mira’s eyes held sorrow. For in the lion, she saw the reflection of what Ruska almost became.

> And so the wild remembers:

“In the jungle of betrayal, not all enemies roar. Some wear your face.”