Majah moves through the mist at the edge of the jungle. Her stripes break her outline; her golden eyes fix on a deer at the water. The forest holds its breath. She crouches, then springs — but the deer bolts at the last instant. Majah lands in the shallows and watches it go. She turns back toward the trees. Another day; the hunt will continue.

A rival male has crossed into Majah's range. She stands at the boundary — the fallen log, the scent line she has marked. He approaches. The rumble in their chests carries through the undergrowth. They circle. One false move and the jungle will run red. Then a distant sound: human voices, engines. Both tigers freeze. The intruder backs away. Majah holds the line until he is gone.

Majah's cubs are old enough to leave the den. She leads them through the bamboo, teaching them to step softly, to read the wind. One cub chases a butterfly and gets a warning growl. Another freezes at the sight of a python — Majah positions herself between them. By dusk the cubs have learned: the jungle gives nothing for free. She nudges them toward the den. Tomorrow they will go farther.

The rains have turned the lowlands into a lake. Majah climbs to higher ground, a rocky outcrop where the water cannot reach. She watches the flood carry branches and debris. Her usual hunting grounds are underwater; she will be hungry for days. A bird calls from a drowning tree. She settles in to wait. The monsoon will pass. She has survived worse.

Smoke rolls through the canopy. Majah runs with the other animals — deer, boar, birds — all fleeing the same wall of heat. Embers fall; the undergrowth crackles. She finds a stream and wades in, keeping her head low. The fire passes on both sides. When the air clears, the jungle is black and still. She steps onto the bank and shakes her coat. The forest will grow back. She will be here when it does.