Nova Peak Niende Dag

ayovi's son feels something. in his bones. in his belly. something warm.

he doesn’t know what it means, but it makes his ears twitch. it makes his tiny paws flex. he squeaks, mouth wriggling in a milk-drunk protest. something shifts in him. he smells her—mama. and him—the big one who always smells like blood and smoke. their warmth is near.

his head lolls. small body nudging against fur. his mouth opens in a whimper, then closes again.

he doesn’t know he is Nowkē.

he doesn’t know this is his naming.

but his heart beats strong, loud, steady—
and when he hears the sound of dancing paws on earth,
he kicks his feet, just once.