Not all cubs are meant to endure the mountains.

The mountains are unforgiving, they do not bend for weakness. Snow swallows the slow and winter itself seems to wait patiently for the weak to fall behind. Scar had learned that lesson long ago. Survival had never been about kindness; it had always been about strength.

And among his offspring, it is painfully obvious which one does not belong.

Scar is almost reluctant to touch him. His other cubs are sturdy beneath his paws, all growing muscle and restless movement. Nyel, on the other hand, feels far too fragile. Too small. As if one wrong movement could hurt him. The cold seems to cling to the cub more than it should.

The weak do not survive the mountains. That is simply nature. It is kinder to end suffering quickly than allow it to drag on until winter eventually claims it anyway.

Yet he cannot bring himself to act.

"Nyel," His voice carries low across the frozen clearing, more warning than call as his eyes remain fixed on the cub stumbling. The wind shifts violently and for a brief moment, and Nyel disappears beneath a swirl of white.

Scar is already shifting his weight, ready to move at any moment. He cannot resist the urge to keep the cub within his sight at all times.