They lie in wait, crouched low in the savanna grass that seems to have risen deliberately around them. The blades offer perfect concealment, parting without protest as their forms press through, responding only to the light breeze that moves across the surface in gentle waves. Below, the grass is dense and rooted, nourished by rich soil, its height and placement no accident. It feeds the herd openly, calling to hunger and habit alike, while sheltering what waits unseen within it.
The lionesses are patient. They arrive not by chance, but by knowing—early morning, when the herd stirs from sleep; late evening, when weariness dulls attention; or in the quiet moments when rest has already begun to settle. These are the hours of vulnerability, when strength is slower to gather and resistance costs more than it seems worth. Each member of the pride moves within a role shaped by rank and intent, and the one nearest the edge is named Opportunity.
She watches for fracture rather than force. A body straying from the herd to graze alone. One slowed by injury, weakened by age, or burdened by the residue of an earlier struggle. Sometimes the separation is not visible at all—only a pause, a lingering step, an unguarded moment born of distraction. When she sees it, she does not rush. She signals, quietly, and the others respond without sound.
Close beside her lies Desire. She does not watch for weakness in the flesh, but for absence in the heart. Her gaze searches for what the prey believes is missing—what it has named a need, a void requiring fulfillment. Her approach is smooth, almost tender. The moment feels, briefly, like satisfaction. Only after does the bite come—precise and unyielding—tearing at what has been exposed in the act of reaching.
A little farther back waits Complacency. She is slower, heavier, content to observe what has been left undone. Unkept promises. Unresolved wounds. Grievances rehearsed until they harden. She keeps careful record of these things and returns them at the moment they are least resisted, when attention has already drifted elsewhere.
Hunger lies beyond them all. She wears the shape of necessity. What the prey believes it cannot survive without, she offers—nourishment mistaken for life itself. Driven by appetite, by despair, or by a pull long resisted and finally released, the herd moves closer, even when danger is sensed. Even when the risk is known. The promise feels worth the cost.
What, then, can the herd do?
There is only one wisdom that holds. One resolve that does not tire. A shepherd who does not sleep, who knows the grass that truly sustains and the paths where danger waits. He leads them where nourishment is given without trap, where footing is sure. He names the lions and keeps them at bay—not because they do not stalk, but because he has already walked the ground they claim as theirs.
He knows where trouble gathers, because he has passed that way himself.
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