N-Vorl marches through the halls of his native habitat, a fierce scowl frozen to his yautja face. Several females, gathered at the entrance to a large chamber, shrink back as he approaches. One pair of eyes watches N-Vorl more keenly as he stalks past. Baileinakh stares at N-Vorl's back with something between pride and sadness. If only he wasn't so angry all the time. But with the odds stacked so greatly against him, who can blame him?

  Entering an elaborately decorated room, N-Vorl crosses to the expansive window overlooking the square. Nine enormous statues flank the window--four on one side; five on the other. Symbols of N-Vorl's brave ancestors throughout the ages. The statue of N'bril, N-Vorl's soon-to-be disgraced father, draws his attention and his ire.

  Even when posing for a statue, N-bril had opted for a less than respectable pose--his mandibles flaring and claws raised in silent aggression. To N-Vorl, the statue has more the look of a violent rogue than a respectable elder. He should have known his father would never be elder, and planned accordingly. Despite his father's age, and experience in battle, the title was always destined to go to Glandis--his uncle. No way, the council forgives N'bril for this act. To kill the son of another elder is to dishonor his sacred line. No yautja forgives that.

  The sound of soft footsteps reaches N-Vorl's sensitive ears and he glances over one shoulder. Mother.

  N-Vorl struggles to put on his most convincing smile. He turns to his mother and offers her his hands, palms up.

  "Mother," N-Vorl says in a deep whisper.

  Slebyra takes her son's hands in her own. She gazes up at him with solemn eyes.

  "It is done. As Mahtyu lays dying...They have stripped N'bril of his birthright. He can no longer be elder...Of any clan. Despite the evidence in his favor...And despite the testimony of many others. The title will pass to Glandis and his line.

  N-Vorl absently squeezes his mother's hands and then dials back his wrath. He grimaces and tilts his head by way of apology.

  "As they always wished it," he adds.

  Releasing his mother's hands, N-Vorl turns back to the large window. He watches the throng of yautja hunters, cultivators, merchants, and scientists milling about below. An elderly hunter, with broken tusks and one leg, lies in a gutter--his hand out for even a crumb of food. Such a lowly place for a brave warrior to fall. Will that be his father's fate? Or his?

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  N-Vorl observes as a young, attractive female offers the old hunter a bowl. The hunter takes the bowl and hungrily drinks the libations within. The female takes her bowl and nods respectfully--before hurrying away. A family member? A daughter? A past lover? Whatever her reasons, the female's compassion stirs N-Vorl's heart. His mind quickly shifts elsewhere.

  "N-Vorl? Did you hear me?" Slebyra calls.

  "I did not," N-Vorl says, pivoting to view his mother.

  "I said...All is not lost. Wiryil spoke on your father's behalf. Despite the death of her son...She begged the council to show compassion. She does not wish to continue the bad blood between our clan and the Yrkig. N'bril will not be exiled. He will be given a role as Master Cultivator. So that honor may still be found in our line."

  Slebyra lightly touches N-Vorl's face.

  "I do not believe they came to this decision lightly. To suddenly choose Glandis, when Mahtyu had made clear his choice, might have caused discontent within our clan. They are hoping that by showing mercy, they can avoid such a result. Either way, a portion of the clan will remain with your father upon this habitat. The rest will join with Glandis. The move is voluntary. Every yautja will choose for themselves where they will go for the foreseeable future. I hope...You will stay. For a time. I know the time of your blooding approaches...But I do not like the look in your father's eye. He has not said much since the tribunal ended. I would never wish to see you toil in vain...Or give up what is dear to you. However, if you stay...At least until we can be sure all is well. Or, until I am...,"

  Slebyra glances down at the floor, thoughts of her own mortality eating away at her resolve. Tears spring to her orangish eyes and she slowly raises them to meet the vibrant green ones of her only son.

  "Until I am no more...," Slebyra continues.

  N-Vorl draws in his mandibles and reaches for his mother. Embracing her tightly, N-Vorl breathes in her matronly scent. Memories of when he was a childling flash through his mind. How many times had Slebyra held him in this same way? And now, the disease of quick aging ravages his mother's body--making her frail and her bones brittle. The life of a yautja can often be thousands of cycles. Yet, Slebyra is barely a tenth of that--death approaching faster than a vildif can run.

  N-Vorl presses his cheek against the hair at the top of his mother's head. He breathes in deeply and slowly released the breath.

  "I will stay, Mother. For a time. But I must do what a hunter must do. I am a yautja."

  "I understand, N-Vorl," Slebyra says.

  Separating from N-Vorl, Slebyra kisses her son's cheek. Her expression changes from one of sorrow--to one of knowing.

  "I am sure.... Baileinakh will be happy to hear this. She has already given your father her commitment to stay. I think she knows you...As well as I do.

  N-Vorl's eyes grow wide and his tusks twitch. Baileinakh.