Meanwhile, in the rugged northern reaches of Mount Elbert, a pair of Smilodon was on the hunt.
Finding a mated pair of Sabertooths wasn't rare in the Rockies, but this couple was a bit... distinct. The male was a sculpture of muscle, sporting the standard tawny coat and dark stripes— classic prehistoric predator. His mate, however, was a bit different. She possessed a coat of white fur that looked like a localized snowstorm moving through the green timber.
Despite her neon sign camouflage, they were the undisputed local heavyweights. Very few animals were suicidal enough to challenge their authority.
Today, they were tracking a herd of North American Elk that had just migrated into their sector. If the herd decided to stick around, the couple would be set for a summer of easy living and fresh venison.
The pair closed in with practiced silence. Then, the ambush was sprung!
The elk herd exploded into chaos. Led by a massive bull, the elk became a rolling wave of thunder, hooves hammering the earth as they bolted in the opposite direction. Anything caught in the path of that many panicking tons of venison would be turned into a red smear on the grass.
The Smilodon pair didn't rush the center of the herd. They played the long game, pacing the flank and waiting for a mistake. They spotted it: a yearling with a visible limp, struggling to keep pace with the thundering group.
The male lunged forward first, cutting off the yearling's path. Terrified, the elk swerved right—straight into the waiting jaws of the female.
The rest of the herd didn't look back. They abandoned their kin to the mountain king and queen and vanished over the ridge. The yearling didn't stand a chance. The white female took it down with a single, brutal pounce, and soon the couple was dining in peace.
After they had eaten their fill, the female didn't leave the scraps for the vultures. She picked up a massive hunk of elk meat, intending to bring it to her daughter.
A few months ago, their only child had reached the age of independence. Unlike a son, who would have been chased from home territory to prevent family drama, the parents had carved out a slice of their own territory for her. It was the feline equivalent of giving your kid the guest house and a trust fund. They stayed in touch, and the daughter often visited for a free meal.
The pair reached the daughter's territory and gave a series of low, rhythmic calls. Usually, she'd be there in seconds, eager for the takeout.
This time, there was only silence.
They searched the area, finding her cave empty. They did, however, find some very strange things left behind: a few chewed reed stems and some scraps of dried, leathery fish heads.
"What has she been eating?" the father's silence seemed to ask. "And where the hell is she?"
Back at the pit, the Pale Princess had spent a few days in what James called "The Penalty Box." Her attitude had shifted significantly. The screaming and roaring had been replaced by a quiet, hungry submission.
James knew that for an animal, pride is a luxury for the full-bellied. When you're starving, you stop caring about who gave you the meat and just start caring that it exists.
"Alright, Snowball. I think you've learned that I'm the landlord here. Time to let you out of your penalty box."
James didn't want to kill her; he wanted to expand his corporate team. If he could get a white Sabertooth on the payroll alongside his beaver intern, he'd have the most eccentric and effective squad in the Ice Age.
The problem was getting her out. He couldn't exactly reach down and offer a hand.
"ROAR!!" James roared toward the pond.
"SQUEAK!!"
The Giant Beaver appeared almost instantly, waddling up with the speed of an intern hoping for a promotion. James gave a series of complex signals, pointing at the pit, then the pond, then scratching a line between them in the dirt.
The beaver's little eyes squinted. It looked at the hole, then at the river. Then it clicked. "The Boss wants a plumbing job."
The rodent set to work. It was an excavation machine. In less than half a day, it had carved a deep trench from the pond to the pit. As the last barrier of mud was cleared, a torrent of river water rushed into the hole.
"ROAR?!"
The white female was terrified as the water began to swirl around her ankles. But as the level rose, her massive body began to lift. She wasn't a great swimmer, but buoyancy did the lifting. Within minutes, the water reached the rim of the pit.
She lunged forward, her paws catching the grassy edge, and scrambled onto dry land. The water had washed away the mud and shame, leaving her fur as brilliant and white as a mountain peak once more. She shook herself dry, fur fluffing up like a dandelion.
"SQUEAK!!"
The beaver hopped out of the trench, looking proud of its engineering feat.
SNARL!!
The white female didn't say thanks. She launched herself at the beaver, her eyes full of revenge for the rocks it had thrown at her while she was down. The beaver was halfway to being a snack before James stepped in, swatting the female's nose and pinning her with a warning growl.
"Hey! Don't eat the staff. He's on our team."
The beaver scrambled behind James, shaking like a leaf. It had learned a valuable lesson: don't bully someone who is about to be released from prison.
James gave a low, friendly rumble to the female, trying to establish a new vibe. She watched him, her icy blue eyes full of wariness and fear. She didn't run, but she didn't nuzzle him either.
'She's thinking about it,' James thought. 'Another few steaks and she'll be following me like a shadow.'
But then, the wind shifted. A scent hit James's nose—a powerful, ancient musk that made the hair on his neck stand up. It was the smell of his own kind, but older, stronger, and very, very angry.
"ROAR!!"
James spun around, baring his 10cm claws. Emerging from the timber were two massive Smilodons—the Northern Pair. And judging by the look on the father's face, James was about to find out exactly what happens when you kidnap a Princess.