Moonspear he tests his might against what his eyes can't see

His mother followed, nonethewiser to his thoughts—though with him, she thought of how much he had grown. Hydra knew he had plenty left of it to do and go through, given the paw-prints she followed; as he headed onward, Hydra paused to place her own paw over his print. Larger than her own, she could see. And though she was pleased by this, she also worried—not for fear, but for how she could fill the bellies of her growing cubs when food seemed to be so scarce. So far it had not been so difficult, but they had been smaller then; they were each taller now, leggier. Not quite so big as their elders (yet, though it seemed they grew by the day and that the time for that would soon arrive), but they would grow to be. 

Her pause was brief; Hydra continued after him, and her eyes were indeed upon him. Her other senses focused on their surroundings; when he stopped, so too did she. She waited to see if he would catch that same scent once again, or if he had lost it altogether. It had branched off, and he was close to one end of it, but not the end; if he turned to reinspect where he himself had been, he might find the alternative branch to yield a stronger scent than the dead-end he might have come across. For her own part, Hydra indicated nothing, tongue lolling as her nose pressed against the earth. Hydra did not want to undermine her young son, nor intervene when he may not need it. Only he could tell her as much.