Fresco's Den

Hey there! I’m 23 and working full time, so my schedule can be unpredictable. I’m usually active during Lioden’s late-night to early-morning hours since I’m about 8–9 hours ahead of game time. Feel free to send a message or a friend request, I'll reply as soon as possible!

In the fifth generation!
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Father: Nahash
Mother: Femke
Grandfather: Hammelech
Grandmother: Najwa
Great Grandfather: Iniiko
Great Grandmother: Hiriwa
Great Grandfather 2x: Arslan
Great Grandmother 2x: Ibiza

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THE DYNASTY:

**The Rise of Arslan: A King’s Legacy & Heartbroken Queen**
Our story begins with the young and ambitious Arslan, a lion of vision and charisma, wandering the savanna alone in search of a dynasty to call his own. His deep, blackish-brown eyes glistened like polished onyx, sharp and knowing, set beneath thick, pale blonde fur that gradually faded into a rich henna color. His mane, a wave of gold and russet, swirled in the wind, carrying the weight of a king yet to be crowned. His marbled nose, pink with scattered black dots, caught the scent of the wild—unwavering and determined, he pressed on. Through harsh terrains and cold nights, his resolve began to falter as no lioness deemed him worthy of their love or labor. Driven by his dream, he often skipped meals and sleep, teetering on the edge of despair.
One fateful day, the scent of downed zebra and antelope lured him into unclaimed territory, desperate for an easy meal. Unbeknownst to him, it was a trap—a rogue lioness pounced from a tree, pinning him to the ground. They fought fiercely, each showcasing strength and strategy, until exhaustion forced them to yield. Arslan was captivated by her unmatched grace and power. In this formidable lioness, he saw the foundation of a pride that could withstand the trials of the wild. Their bond grew, and love blossomed. Together, King Arslan and Queen Ibiza built a modest kingdom—humble in size but entirely their own, fortified by their seemingly unshakable love.
Queen Ibiza bore many daughters in her steadfast quest for an heir, each birth a moment of hope that flickered brightly in their hearts, especially that of their firstborn cub, Princess Chokoleti. Not only was she a successful birth after a rough and rigorous pregnancy, but she brought with her a remarkable anomaly—a full, thick mane of rich, dusky amber. This extraordinary trait, while rare, is sometimes seen in lionesses and marked Chokoleti as something truly special. As she grew, the mane only deepened in color, its beauty a symbol of strength and grace that filled their hearts with joy. Their hearts swelled with love as they marveled at the strength and beauty their daughter exhibited, a promise of the future they had longed for.
Yet, their greatest joy came with the birth of a son, Prince Iniiko, affectionately named "The Long-Awaited Heir." King Arslan, ever the devoted father, beamed with pride at the sight of his son. His love for Ibiza deepened as he saw her with their newborn, a bond stronger than any words could express. Their family, though small, felt complete, and together they celebrated the arrival of their long-awaited heir with exuberance, knowing that the future of their pride was secure.
In this period of happiness, King Arslan was celebrated far and wide, known as the "Fatherly King" for his unwavering devotion to his family. He poured his love into his Queen and their children, and under his leadership, their pride flourished. But beneath his doting exterior, there was a quiet, growing restlessness—a pull he could not ignore. Though he cherished Ibiza with all his heart, his desires wandered, driven by a hunger he struggled to control.
It began not long after Iniiko’s birth, during the quiet months when Ibiza nursed and rested. Arslan’s heart, so full of love for his family, was not immune to temptation. His encounters with other lionesses began subtly, at first, but they soon grew in frequency. Arslan would often vanish into the wilds, returning to Ibiza’s side with an air of quiet guilt that was almost sickening. He told himself it was instinct, a burden of kingship—but the shame in Ibiza’s eyes told him otherwise.
The King’s love for her was clear, but the pain of betrayal lay hidden between them, unspoken but ever-present. Ibiza, though heartbroken, maintained her regal composure, keeping her sorrow buried beneath the surface for the sake of their family and pride. She confronted him, privately, in the quiet solitude of their den. Her words were few, but they carried a weight that seemed to press down on Arslan’s heart like an unbearable stone. Despite her pain, Ibiza stayed for the pride, unwilling to let it crumble under the weight of betrayal.
The tension in their relationship grew, a shadow in their otherwise joyous life. Arslan’s guilt lingered, haunting him in moments of silence, and though his love for Ibiza never wavered, his actions began to drive a wedge between them. Each affair, though kept secret from the pride, deepened the distance between them, and the King, torn between his love and his desires, found it harder to hide the sorrow in his eyes.
Despite the undercurrent of strain in their union, the pride thrived, and their more notable children—Chokoleti and Iniiko—grew strong and healthy. Life was still good, filled with the warmth of family and the joy of watching their legacy unfold before them.
When King Arslan and Queen Ibiza passed—at the age of 16 and 15, respectively—their legacy was left in the capable paws of their son, King Iniiko. The kingdom remained prosperous, and their pride flourished under Iniiko’s reign. Yet beneath the kingdom’s outward success, the subtle wounds of the past lingered, a reminder of the complexity of Arslan and Ibiza’s love—a love that was both beautiful and flawed, strong and fragile in equal measure. Iniiko, though a capable heir, carried the quiet burden of a fractured love he never fully understood.

**King Iniiko: A Lion Determined to Mend the Past**
Determined to avoid the personal failings of his father, King Iniiko swore an oath to lead with unwavering integrity and discipline. The legacy of King Arslan, though one of great love and strength, was also marred by flaws that Iniiko refused to repeat. With a quiet resolve, he vowed never to succumb to the same temptations that had fractured his parents’ bond. For many seasons, Iniiko remained unbound by love, keeping his heart guarded as he focused on expanding the pride and fortifying its future.
He worked tirelessly to build upon the kingdom Arslan and Ibiza left behind, welcoming lionesses into his fold—each chosen carefully for their strength, temperament, or genetic rarity. Their safety, comfort, and prosperity were his top priority. By the time the pride swelled to over twenty members, Iniiko had earned a reputation across the territory as a just and resolute ruler—unyielding in his pursuit of the pride’s well-being, and unshakable in his personal restraint.
Iniiko was a lion whose very presence commanded respect. His fur shimmered with a golden hue, rich and radiant like the morning sun—almost as though he were the living embodiment of his father's legacy. He bore the broad frame and commanding stance of Arslan, but his thick, pale blonde mane marked his maternal lineage, an echo of Queen Ibiza’s dignified beauty. His eyes, dark as obsidian, held the quiet fire of a king who would not bend. His skin, tinged with a fallow hue, hinted at the resilience of both bloodlines combined. Though he resembled his father, there was a gravity to Iniiko—a quiet intensity—that signaled a leader walking a new, unshakable path.
Yet, amid his self-imposed solitude, Iniiko’s heart eventually found its equal in a lioness unlike any other. Hiriwa was a presence that could not be ignored. Her strength was tempered by deep compassion, and her wisdom offered a steady balance to Iniiko’s often stoic command. From the moment their paths crossed, it was clear she understood the weight of leadership. She recognized the demands that ruled his life—defending the borders, managing the pride’s structure, deterring challengers, and ensuring generational strength.
Rather than shrink under that pressure, Hiriwa met it head-on. She embraced her role as Queen with quiet dignity, championing the voices of the lionesses, managing internal pride dynamics, and providing stability during Iniiko’s long border patrols. She was both the heart and conscience of the pride.
Their union was a partnership born not just of love but of mutual respect and shared responsibility. Early in their reign, they forged a pact: while Iniiko’s devotion to Hiriwa would be unwavering, he would sire cubs with other lionesses. This practice—common among kings—ensured genetic diversity and provided valuable offspring that could be traded for silver beetles, bringing wealth and alliances into the pride. Hiriwa understood this custom well and accepted it not as betrayal, but as a necessity for the pride’s survival. What set them apart from the rulers before them was the openness and mutual agreement behind this decision. That transparency only deepened their bond.
When Hiriwa gave birth to their firstborn, Hammelech, their joy was complete. The young cub's potential was evident from the moment he first stood—strong-limbed, curious, and commanding even as a newborn. Iniiko saw in him the future of their kingdom and poured all his wisdom into his upbringing, just as Arslan had done for him. Hammelech grew quickly into a capable heir, reflecting the best of both his parents.
At the age of 16, King Iniiko passed away peacefully, leaving the pride in the strong paws of his son. Queen Hiriwa remained at Hammelech’s side, guiding and advising him through his early reign with the same grace and patience she once offered his father. Four years later, at the age of 15, she too passed—her legacy one of unity, strength, and clarity of purpose.
Together, Iniiko and Hiriwa carved a chapter of peace and prosperity, proving that leadership rooted in trust and vision could heal the wounds of the past. Their love was not loud, but it endured—quiet, steady, and deeply transformative.


**The Adagio King Hammelech: A Kingdom on Shaky Foundations**
Hammelech ascended the throne burdened by the weight of two legacies—his grandfather’s passion and power, and his father’s discipline and restraint. For much of his reign, he ruled with ambition tempered by wisdom, gradually building a prosperous kingdom supported by silver and gold beetles. Under his watch, the pride flourished. Subordinates admired his composure, his eloquence, and his ability to maintain stability in uncertain times. Yet one question lingered like a shadow: who would follow him?
Hammelech delayed marriage for many seasons, unwilling to settle for less than a queen who was quiet, independent, and loyal—someone who could both match and balance his ideals. But as he grew older, pressure from his trusted advisor and his mother, the Queen Mother Hiriwa, began to mount. The once-vibrant king grew distracted, his focus dimming beneath the strain of unmade decisions. His hesitation bred uncertainty, and the pride, once brimming with confidence, began to falter. Reliance on accumulated wealth replaced resourcefulness, and though the Crossroads offered temporary relief, his frequent visits there for desperate trades slowly drained the pride's reserves.
To make matters worse, the annual drought deepened. Hunts became more frequent but less fruitful, and the golden age Hammelech had cultivated began to crumble at the edges. Eventually, fate forced his hand—not in politics, but in love. Two lionesses captured his heart.
The first was Peca, a gentle and devoted lioness who had earned his admiration during a shared hunt. Their bond blossomed quietly, built on mutual ideals of peace and a vision for a perfect kingdom. In her, Hammelech saw stability, comfort, and the kind of enduring companionship he had long sought.
Then came Najwa, fierce and independent. She entered the pride’s territory without permission and challenged Hammelech during their first encounter. Her defiance didn’t repel him, it intrigued him. Najwa was a force of nature: unyielding, sharp, and free. Where Peca offered calm, Najwa stirred something raw and resilient in Hammelech.
Torn between these two lionesses, security and fire, Hammelech’s indecision left the pride uncertain. But tragedy made the choice for him.
During a daring hunt in rival territory, Peca lost her life in a selfless act to secure food for the pride. Her death shattered Hammelech. Yet amid his grief, Najwa stepped forward. She did not try to replace what was lost, she simply stood beside him, unshaken. Over time, her loyalty and strength became his lifeline, and love followed.
Najwa was named Queen. Their bond, though born of hardship, was forged in mutual respect and deep emotional resilience.
From these unions, two sons were born on the same day:
—Nahash, born at sunrise to Najwa.
—Páll, born at midday to the late Peca.
Prince Páll, the younger, bore a quiet and dignified grace. His wavy mane, mirroring his father’s in color—black fading into smoky greys and snowy white—framed his face gently. His eyes, radiant with fiery orange opal flecked with green, shimmered with emotion and intelligence. His soft tan fur, adorned with delicate grey spotting, reflected the tender strength of the mother he barely knew.
By contrast, Crown Prince Nahash was power incarnate. His thick mane—a cascade of deep black and earthen brown—framed his stern face with royal majesty. His onyx eyes, cold and calculating, echoed the unwavering gaze of generations past. Light brown splotches danced across his dark pelt like falling autumn leaves, making his form all the more imposing. Ambition radiated from him like heat from stone.
While both sons were beloved by the pride, Hammelech named Nahash his heir, honoring the ancient law of succession by birth order. Though Páll had the spirit of a philosopher-king, it was Nahash who carried the fire of dominion.
As the seasons turned, Hammelech’s health faltered. The arrival of the Great Hunger—a famine unlike any before—ravaged the land. His body, already weakened by age and grief, could not endure. On his 16th name day, just two days into the famine, King Hammelech passed away.
Though his rule ended in hardship, Hammelech was remembered for the golden age he brought, the depth of his sorrow, and the way he loved—quietly, yet completely.


**The Ambition of Crown Prince Nahash & The Caution of Prince Páll**
As the strength of King Hammelech waned, the ambitions of Crown Prince Nahash ignited with fervor. He was a striking figure—his dark brown fur marked with light splotches that rippled like embers beneath the surface, his thick mane, a gift from the kings before him, billowed like a storm cloud around his face. But it was his eyes—piercing onyx, cold and calculating, that revealed the true depth of his hunger for power.
Nahash began patrolling the pride’s borders with relentless energy, sharpening not only his claws but his mind, determined to outmatch any challenger long before they could rise. His presence grew larger than his title, and soon, he began asserting his authority even before Hammelech’s reign had come to a close.
Framing it as a matter of necessity, Nahash demanded a harem of lionesses, citing his position as heir and the fragile state of the kingdom. With Hammelech’s health deteriorating and the Great Hunger looming, he claimed it was critical to begin producing heirs immediately. His words were measured, his argument rational, but beneath the surface, the ambition was impossible to ignore. The pride whispered in uneasy tones, questioning whether the crown prince’s intentions were for the kingdom, or only for himself.
In stark contrast stood his younger brother, Prince Páll. A quiet figure within the royal family, Páll possessed none of Nahash’s fire, but all of his father's depth. His fire-orange and green eyes shimmered with quiet insight, and his soft gray-spotted fur, a reflection of his late mother, made him appear gentle, perhaps forgettable to those who didn’t look closely. But Páll was no fool. He was a thinker, a quiet strategist who chose his words with care and listened more than he spoke.
While Nahash staked his claim on the future through dominance, Páll remained at his father’s side, offering subtle counsel during the king’s final days. Though he harbored no desire for the throne, he worked to temper his brother’s more aggressive inclinations, wary of what unchecked power could do to a pride already weakened by grief and famine.
Hammelech, once a symbol of composure and strength, now watched his sons with equal parts pride and apprehension. He had honored tradition by naming Nahash his successor, but as the crown prince’s behavior grew more volatile—his disregard for unity more blatant—the old king’s faith began to crack.
To revoke Nahash’s claim would risk chaos. The pride, already fragile, might splinter entirely. So Hammelech held fast to hope, perhaps the last remnant of his once-great resolve, that Nahash would yet grow into the wisdom and restraint the title demanded.
But even he could sense it: a storm was coming.


**The Mad King & The Disgruntled Prince**
The sun had barely risen the morning after King Hammelech’s funeral when the pride gathered beneath the Great Rock. The air hung heavy—grief thick with the smoke of something darker. The lions shifted uneasily, their eyes often drifting toward the small figure pressed close to Najwa’s side.
Brindle was the youngest cub of Najwa and the late King Hammelech, barely more than a few months old when her father passed. The pride had grown accustomed to her quiet presence, a fragile reminder of the family left behind. She was Nahash’s youngest sister—innocent and unaware of the storm brewing around her.
Najwa’s gaze was calm but watchful as Brindle nestled close, the cub’s soft whimpers muffled by the queen’s protective tail. At the edge of the gathering, Páll lingered, eyes alert, watching Nahash closely. Páll was not Najwa’s son; he was the son of Peca, a lioness long loyal to the pride. Still, he had always regarded Najwa with deep respect.
“Mother,” Nahash called, sharp as a claw. “Step forward.”
Najwa rose slowly, her steps measured as she approached the rock’s base, Brindle staying close. “What is it, my son?” she asked, voice steady but tinged with sorrow.
“You question my rule,” Nahash said, claws scraping the stone, “and I have heard your doubts—whispers of disloyalty. Even from you, Mother. And this one,” he nodded toward Brindle, eyes narrowing, “what use is she to the pride? A cub too young to carry any weight, too young to matter.”
Najwa’s calm wavered as she lowered her head to shield Brindle with her tail, a low growl rumbling in her throat. “Brindle is your sister. She is part of this pride—as much as I am—whether you choose to see it or not.”
Nahash’s eyes flickered with something sour, like a cub caught in a lie. “She’s just another mouth to feed. Another softness dragging us backward.”
Najwa’s eyes closed for a breath, then opened with fire. “You speak as if strength is born from cruelty. I raised you better.”
A flash of memory tugged at her heart—Nahash as a cub, snarling when told no, biting another’s tail and refusing to apologize. Hammelech had chuckled then, ruffling his mane. “He’s just spirited,” the old king had said. But Najwa had seen something else in her son’s eyes—a hunger for power, even then. And Hammelech’s laughter had only fed it.
“You always had too much freedom,” she said now, bitterness tightening her voice. “Your father refused to rein you in. I warned him, time and again.”
Another memory returned: Nahash once challenging a young lioness over a kill she had hunted herself, his roar loud, his claws bared. Najwa had tried to intervene—“Let her eat first, Nahash. She earned it”—but Hammelech had arrived and smoothed it over. “Let the boy learn,” he said, voice full of pride. “He’ll be king one day.”
And now he was. But what kind of king?
“I understand more than you think, Nahash,” Najwa continued. “But ruling through fear will break this pride. It will break you.”
“You sound afraid,” Nahash spat.
“No,” she whispered. “I sound like a mother who knows her son is already lost.”
Brindle whimpered softly, trembling behind Najwa’s legs. Najwa’s tail wrapped tighter around her, a silent promise of protection.
Páll stepped forward, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “Listen to yourself, Nahash,” he said. “This isn’t strength. It’s desperation disguised as rule.”
Nahash snarled. “Stay out of this, Páll. MY mother and I are conversing.”
Páll’s chest tightened. He glanced at Najwa, then back at Nahash. “She’s more my mother than you’ve ever been her son.”
Nahash’s lip curled. “Leave, both of you. If she won’t bow to me, then she’s no lioness of mine.” Najwa stared up at her son, her voice soft and final. “You may rule by blood right and put yourself on a rock to make yourself look bigger than your subjects, Nahash, but you undeniably refuse to rule from the heart. And one day, you will see the cost. This, I know.” Without another word, she turned and walked away, Brindle clinging tightly to her side.
Páll followed slowly, his heart hammering. He stayed just close enough, hoping against hope that Nahash might reconsider, that he might call them back, admit he was wrong. But the silence stretched long. Nahash didn’t move.
Páll stopped and watched Najwa disappear into the tall grass. She never looked back. Brindle never cried out. He wanted to follow them completely, but something kept him tethered. The pride, maybe. The hope that he could still protect what little was left. His heart ached with fury and sorrow. Nahash had always been a brat. Entitled. Reckless. Everyone saw it. Everyone ignored it.
Except Najwa.
She had fought to guide him, but alone, with no support from the king, what chance did she have? Now the brat sat on the Great Rock, a crown on his head and poison in his heart. Nahash stood alone beneath a sun that no longer warmed him. He climbed back to the top of the Great Rock, but the silence that followed was not reverent—it was ruptured. His shadow stretched long and dark over the pride, but beneath it, cracks had begun to form.


**The Tyrant's Queen & Heir**
Femke, a lioness with a gentle heart and naive nature, had never imagined that her life could be so irrevocably altered. When she first entered Nahash's territory, she had been searching for safety, not sovereignty. He met her with charm—words laced with empathy, eyes that seemed to understand her weariness. He never pressed, not overtly. He didn’t need to. Instead, he made himself indispensable. He spoke of peace, of stability, of how no lioness under his rule would ever go hungry or unprotected again. It felt like a promise too kind to be dangerous.
But beneath that tenderness was calculation. Nahash didn’t tell her she was entering a harem. He spoke instead of community, of shared purpose, of a future shaped by lions who understood loyalty. And when he eventually won her affection, gently, persistently, Femke thought she had chosen him freely. Only later did she understand that her choice had been shaped, not made.
As long as she obeyed, she believed her place in the pride would remain secure. But the illusion shattered the moment her first cub emerged into the world.
He was the firstborn male since Nahash’s coronation.
The celebration was instant. The pride stirred with a rare kind of excitement, lionesses murmuring that the future king had arrived. The moment that should have filled her with pride instead hollowed her. She understood then: her son’s birth had not just made her a mother—it had made her a symbol. According to Nahash’s policy, the lioness who bore the first male would become queen.
Femke's world narrowed to a single dreadful realization: she had been trapped.
The other lionesses, who had once shared quiet moments with her under moonlight, who had once brushed shoulders in sisterhood, now looked at her differently. Their warmth cooled into watchfulness. Their laughter, once shared, now fell silent when she passed. Some harbored jealousy, others distrust, and more than a few pitied her. After all, they too had seen Nahash’s temper, had watched him remake the pride in his image. Femke hadn’t won a crown—she had inherited a cage.
Still, she played the role. She smiled when expected, walked proudly at Nahash’s side, accepted the title of queen with the grace he demanded. But in her chest, her heart screamed.
She poured all of herself into her son, Fresco. In stolen moments, she whispered lessons of gentleness, of humility, of truth. She taught him to see more than power, more than strength. She showed him that love could exist quietly, fiercely, even in the shadow of cruelty.
And all the while, Nahash remained close—too close. He monitored Fresco’s training, wove lessons of control and dominance into every word, shaping him into the ruler he envisioned. Femke could only watch, helpless, as the man who charmed her began to mold her son into something harder than she could bear.
In the quiet, when she was alone, she mourned. Not just for herself, or even for her son—but for the version of her life she once believed possible.
As the seasons passed, Femke’s world narrowed to a single, driving purpose: protect Fresco’s heart. She watched as he grew, each moon adding weight to his shoulders, each lesson from Nahash pulling him further from the warmth she tried to preserve. Nahash was relentless in his involvement. He trained Fresco not with patience, but pressure. “Strength,” he would say, “is not something you inherit. It is something you take.”
Fresco listened, nodded, complied, but when he returned to the den at dusk, his eyes would flick toward his mother with a question he didn’t yet know how to ask. Femke answered in small, quiet ways: a grooming session drawn out just a little longer, a story about his grandfather whispered when no one was near, a simple reminder—“Kindness is not weakness, my son.”
The other lionesses watched them. Some remained distant, still bitter or wary of the queen who had risen by fate. A few softened over time, recognizing that Femke was no tyrant in waiting. But many kept their distance, unsure whether to treat her as one of their own or as an extension of the king they feared.
Femke felt the shift like thorns in her pelt. The nights were lonelier. There were no shared meals, no open laughter. Only polite nods, lingering looks, and silence. Her title had lifted her above the others—but it had also made her untouchable.
Still, she endured it for Fresco.
When he asked questions, she answered with honesty—at least, the kind that wouldn’t get them both punished.
“Yes,” she would say when he asked if Nahash’s rule made her sad. “But some sadness is a signal, not a sentence. It means we still know what joy should feel like.”
When Fresco brought home his first bruises, earned from training sessions with a father who pushed too hard, she nursed him in silence, her tongue gentle over his scrapes, her expression unreadable. “You are not made only for fighting,” she told him once, her voice low and steady. “You are made for so much more than surviving.”
Fresco was young, but not blind. He began to understand the tension that lived between his parents. He noticed how his father never looked at Femke with warmth, only with pride when she obeyed. He noticed how his mother tensed when Nahash entered the den, how she never laughed in his presence.
By the time Fresco was nearing adolescence, the battle between the two worlds inside him had begun. From Nahash, he learned dominance, ruthlessness, legacy. From Femke, he learned restraint, compassion, humility.
And though he did not yet know which voice would guide his reign, he began to dream of a different kind of crown.
One not forged in fear, but earned in trust.


**The Bond of an Uncle & Nephew With a Jealous Father**
By the time Fresco reached five months old, his bond with his uncle Páll had blossomed into something deeper than companionship. It mirrored a father and son dynamic—gentle, steady, and nourishing in a way that Fresco didn’t even realize he craved. In the absence of safety and sincerity from his own father, Páll stepped in to fill a space Nahash had only ever tried to dominate.
Páll didn’t just visit, he stayed. He listened. He played. He brought warmth into a cold and calculating world.
But he wasn’t alone in that effort.
Rosette, Páll’s devoted mate and a lioness known for her quiet strength and fierce loyalty, often joined him during his visits. With her calming presence and gentle nature, she offered Femke an unexpected ally—another lioness who didn’t bow blindly to Nahash’s authority. Their cub, Rok, just a few moons older than Fresco, was bold and clever, often dragging the young heir into friendly games and harmless mischief. The two cubs grew inseparable under their parents’ watchful eyes, their laughter cutting through the tension that hung heavy over the pride like fog.
Femke and Páll, recognizing in each other the shared burden of protecting the future king, often found moments to quietly align. When Nahash’s attention was elsewhere, the four of them—Femke, Páll, Rosette, and their cubs—would slip away to the outskirts of the territory. There, amid the tall grass and shaded glens, Fresco was given something rare: freedom.
Not just lessons in humility and compassion, but glimpses of love and respect that had nothing to do with fear.
Together, Páll and Femke tried to teach Fresco what a good leader—and a good partner—looked like. They would speak with kindness, listen with patience, and show their affection freely. Sometimes Páll would joke with Rosette in front of Fresco and Rok, nudging her playfully, and she’d roll her eyes with a smirk before pulling him into a nuzzle. Femke would smile at the scene, then glance at Fresco to make sure he was watching—not just what was being said, but how it was said. These little things were lessons too.
They were building a version of life Nahash could never offer.
But none of it escaped the king.
Every time Fresco smiled at Páll’s approach, every time he chose them over him, Nahash’s jealousy rotted deeper. He saw their closeness as a threat—not just to his control, but to the legacy he intended to shape. His vision of strength was being eroded by compassion. And that, he could not abide.
The breaking point came one humid evening. Nahash watched from the shadows as Fresco and Rok tumbled in the grass, laughter spilling into the dusky air, while Páll and Rosette chatted quietly nearby and Femke rested close by, eyes filled with something dangerously close to peace. The sight twisted something inside him. It was too soft. Too free. Too unlike him.
The roar came suddenly.
“You poison my heir against me!” Nahash thundered, storming into the clearing, eyes wild with fury. “You dare twist his mind with your weakness and lies!”
The pride gathered in stunned silence, frozen under the weight of his voice.
Páll met his brother’s wrath with quiet defiance. “I’ve done nothing but help him become a lion worthy of trust. A king this pride might actually follow, not fear.”
Nahash’s lip curled. There was no reasoning now—only the need to reassert dominance.
“Then teach your lies in exile,” he hissed. “You and your family are banished. Leave. Now.”
A gasp rippled through the gathered lions, but none dared speak out.
Rosette stepped to Páll’s side without hesitation, her expression a mixture of heartbreak and resolve. Rok, still young, looked between his parents and Fresco with wide, confused eyes, but when Páll gave a quiet nod, he swallowed hard and moved to his mother’s side. He didn’t understand all of it, but he understood enough: they were not welcome anymore.
Fresco stood trembling beneath Femke’s protective form, panic swelling in his chest as he watched the only family that had ever made him feel safe turn to walk away.
Páll bent down to his nephew one last time, brushing his muzzle over the cub’s ear. “Be brave in your heart,” he whispered. “Even when no one sees it. And remember, love is never weakness.”
As the small family walked into the distance, their silhouettes slowly disappearing into the tall grass, Fresco whimpered, tail tucked and ears flat. He wanted to run after them, to beg for them to stay, but Femke held him back with a gentle paw, her own eyes glossy with tears.
Nahash moved beside them, towering over them like a storm. His voice, when it came, was low and cutting.
“You will forget him. You are mine, Fresco. And you will do well to remember that.”
Fresco nodded slowly, more out of fear than obedience. But something inside him had already shifted. The part of him that once believed his father was unshakable now saw the cracks, and behind them, nothing but a bitter, lonely tyrant.
Then Nahash turned his gaze to Femke. Cold. Calculating. Not a word at first—just a lingering look that sank into her fur like thorns.
When he finally spoke, his tone was deceptively calm. “And you,” he said, voice like a drawn claw, “have forgotten your place.” His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint behind them. “We’ll discuss your part in this later.”
He said no more. He didn’t have to. Femke lowered her gaze, the pit in her stomach deepening as the weight of his meaning settled over her like a dark cloud. She didn't tremble, she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction, but her breath caught in her throat. She knew what it meant when Nahash reserved his punishments for when no one was watching.
As the clearing emptied and shadows lengthened, she curled around Fresco protectively, pressing a soft lick to his brow. But even as she comforted him, her own heart was pounding, not just with grief for the family they’d lost, but with dread for the tempest that was coming.


**A Scar That Never Fades**
Despite King Nahash’s relentless efforts to force a connection with his heir, the distance between them only grew. Prince Fresco had long since withdrawn emotionally, shielding what remained of his gentleness behind an expressionless mask. Nahash, who had once tried to mold his son through dominance, had grown colder and more brutal in response to Fresco’s resistance. And when words failed him, Nahash resorted to something far more permanent.
“You will smile for me, boy,” he had growled one night in a voice that sent shivers down the spines of the pride. “Or I will carve one myself.”
By morning, Fresco bore two thin, symmetrical gashes at the corners of his mouth—silent proof that the king had done just that. It wasn’t just a punishment. It was a twisted symbol of ownership. If he could not earn his son’s joy, he would force it, as he did everything else.
The pride watched in horrified silence as the young prince emerged from the den that day, his wounds fresh and bleeding slightly, his head held low not out of submission, but to hide the tears streaming down his face. He had always been careful not to cry where Nahash could see—but the pity in the eyes of the lionesses was too much to bear.
Femke, paralyzed by grief and fear, dared not rush to his side. Instead, she lingered nearby, her tail twitching anxiously, her eyes filled with agony. Her heart broke at the sight of her son, and the guilt of not being able to protect him weighed heavily on her shoulders.
And then the pride, one by one, began to move.
They didn’t speak—no one dared to speak. But they stepped closer. A few lionesses brushed their tails against Fresco’s side, others dipped their heads respectfully, mournfully, as if acknowledging a quiet truth they had all tried to ignore for too long.
It was that quiet show of solidarity, of unspoken heartbreak, that shattered Fresco’s fragile composure. He crumpled to the ground, sobbing into the dry grass as the pride surrounded him—not to challenge the king, but to comfort the cub he had brutalized.
Nahash stood at the edge of the clearing, his face unreadable, his posture stiff with barely restrained anger. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. His message had already been burned into his son’s skin.
And even as the prince wept and the pride silently grieved with him, Nahash turned and walked away—leaving behind a son he would never truly own.
That night, the den felt colder than it ever had before. No words had been spoken since Nahash turned his back and disappeared into the shadows—but the silence was deafening. Even the usual chirps of insects and rustling grasses outside seemed muted, as though the land itself mourned with the pride.
Femke waited until the others had drifted into uneasy sleep, their bodies curled close for warmth and quiet solidarity. She crept over to Fresco, who lay apart from them all, his wounds still raw, his chest rising and falling with quiet, stifled sobs.
“Fresco,” she whispered gently, lying beside him and resting her muzzle softly against his cheek. “I’m here.”
He flinched at first. Then he leaned into her, the tension in his little body melting as he buried his face into the crook of her neck. His tears came again, hot and silent, soaking into her fur.
“I’m sorry,” Femke murmured, her voice catching. “I should have done more.”
“You couldn’t,” he whispered hoarsely. “He’d hurt you, too.”
She pulled him closer, pressing a paw over his back. “He already has.”
The two lay like that for a long time—mother and son, wrapped not just in sorrow, but in a quiet understanding that something irreversible had happened. The air between them had changed. Femke no longer tried to shield Fresco from the world. Now, she mourned with him, and in doing so, began to gently help him make sense of it.
In the days that followed, the pride moved differently. No one challenged Nahash outright, but there was a shift—meals were shared around Fresco before the king arrived. Lionesses took longer turns watching over him when Nahash disappeared for hours on his own. Even the cubs were kept near Femke more often, as if the pride were building a quiet barrier around the boy they could not protect but would not abandon.
Femke began slipping away with Fresco again, though not far. They sat beneath the same acacia trees where she and Páll once taught him the meaning of love and balance. Without saying it aloud, she continued their lessons. She spoke of compassion, of choosing gentleness where cruelty could be easy. She reminded him that strength wasn’t loud or violent—it was found in protecting what mattered, even when it hurt.
“You are not like him,” she said one morning, brushing her nose against his. “And you never will be. No matter what he says or does.”
Fresco didn’t respond immediately. But he didn’t look away. And that, she knew, was enough—for now.


**A Scheme For Further Control**
As Fresco grew, so did the display of his defiance. Desperate to mold his son into the king he desired, Nahash devised a new strategy, control Fresco through the means of seduction.
The King embarked on a private expedition, searching carefully for the prime insurgent to carry out his plot. His journey led him to a distant pride where he found Khaga, an adolescent lioness with striking beauty and poise. She was roughly Fresco’s age, and her graceful, soft-spoken demeanor charmed him. He wasted no time in negotiating her purchase for an exorbitant 250 silver beetles, a price that cemented her role in his plans.
Upon their return, Nahash quickly asserted his intentions, pinning the young lioness by the tail, his claws shifting the earth beneath his paw. “Sway the prince,” Nahash ordered with a menacing whisper, “make him see my way as we discussed on our journey. Succeed, and he will take you as his queen, with my blessing. Fail, and you’ll be exiled by my order. Forced to fend for yourself—and let me remind you… these lands do not take kindly to castaways.”
With no real choice, Khaga dipped her head, her breaths coming quick and uneven as her body trembled. “I will not fail you, Your Majesty. This, I assure you."
Nahash chuckled, the sound low and laced with amusement. A wicked smile curled across his face. “Very good. Now, be a dear and introduce yourself. It is unbecoming of a bachelorette such as yourself to ignore the Prince’s presence.” He uncurled his claws from her tail, the tension lingering like a brand against her skin. As he strode past, his tail-tip trailed beneath her chin—a silent warning, a command disguised as affection.
When Fresco and Khaga finally met, a barrier of silence stood between them. Fresco, his quiet confidence unwavering, studied her with a measured gaze. Khaga, relieved to find him a decent-looking lion, felt a flicker of ease, he wasn’t what she had expected, and that made this task far less daunting. Then, with practiced grace, Khaga took a slow step forward and dipped her head. “You must be Prince Fresco. My name is Khaga,” she said, her voice soft but steady, offering a polite smile. “Your father, long may he live, has spoken highly of you. It is an honor to finally meet you face to face.”
Fresco’s expression remained unreadable as he inclined his head slightly. “As it is to meet you, newcomer Khaga,” he replied, his tone cool. “I assume the King sent you as some poor attempt at an apology for his foul temper. Return to him and make it clear, I am not interested. Tell him to send you back to wherever he plucked you from. Good day.”
He turned away with an unimpressed flick of his tail, already dismissing her.
Khaga’s smile faltered. Panic flickered in her chest. “Oh—w-wait! Your Highness, please!” she burst out, rushing to step in front of him. “Please reconsider. I was brought here to… to accompany you.” She straightened, scrambling to recover. “The King—His Majesty—had some… reservations about his recent behavior. He believes that having a lioness of your age by your side could be of benefit.” She searched his face, willing sincerity into her voice. “Please, allow me to fulfill my duty, to you, to the King, and to the pride.”
Fresco hesitated. His sharp eyes searched hers, and for the briefest moment, her desperation, genuine or not, gave him pause. There was something in the way her voice wavered, how her reptilian green eyes shimmered with unshed tears. With a sigh, he relented.
“Would you like to walk with me along the perimeter?” His tone was lighter now, though still guarded. “It would give us a chance to… understand each other better. As His Majesty demands.”
Khaga darted her gaze to the side as if considering, before meeting his eyes again. A subtle warmth softened her features, her lips curving into the faintest smile. “I would like that,” she murmured as if the invitation had caught her off guard—but not unwelcome.
The bond between the prince and the newcomer deepened, becoming more evident with each passing day. Where Khaga had once simply followed Nahash’s orders, she had now become a quiet force of change within the pride. She didn’t merely stand at Fresco’s side—she shaped him, challenging his hesitations and encouraging him to trust his own instincts. Through her careful words and unwavering support, she nurtured his confidence, pushing him to assert his voice among his subjects and shift his approach in Nahash's presence.
What had once been the quiet defiance of a prince was now the steady presence of a leader in the making.
But Khaga’s influence extended beyond just Fresco. She sought out the queen in private, offering quiet reassurances, strategies, and a perspective free from Nahash’s shadow. She spoke with her not as a subject, but as an ally, helping her reclaim the authority that had long been dulled by fear of retaliation and harm from her lover. With every exchange, the queen grew steadier, her presence more commanding.
Among the lionesses, Khaga’s words carried even further. She wove a vision of unity, of strength, reminding them of the pride they had once been before Nahash’s tyranny took hold. Her words were never direct, never overtly rebellious, but they planted seeds of possibility in the minds of those who had long felt powerless. Slowly, the murmurs of discontent turned into whispers of hope, and the weight of Nahash’s rule began to feel just a little lighter.
The tyrannical king, ever watchful, saw his plan unraveling. His grip on the pride was slipping, and he knew the connection between Fresco and the serpent he had foolishly allowed into his midst could be the very thing that sealed his downfall. Their bond was genuine, but that only made it more dangerous—poisonous to his designs. Khaga’s influence over Fresco had sunk too deep, too sincerely, eroding the control Nahash had worked so carefully to maintain.
At first, he considered eliminating her. The old threat still echoed in his mind—Succeed, or be exiled. A simple strike in the dead of night, a convenient “accident” at the watering hole. But each time he approached the idea, a hard truth loomed before him:
Khaga was no longer expendable.
The pride had started listening to her. Not just Fresco, but the queen. The lionesses. Even the most aloof members of his court turned their heads when she spoke. Her presence had grown too visible, too embedded. If Khaga were to vanish now—if she were exiled or killed—suspicion would fall directly on him. The very pride he sought to control would rally behind her memory, and worse: they would rally behind Fresco.
The prince might have resented his father before—but with a clear martyr in his paws, that resentment would harden into open rebellion. Nahash would be feeding his son the one thing he’d never dared give him: a cause.
No, eliminating her outright was no longer an option. Not yet.
“She is more cunning than I gave her credit for—the treacherous fiend,” Nahash muttered, pacing beneath the pale moonlight. Then, a slow smile crept across his face as his mind sharpened on the solution. "No matter… I shall refine my approach. Secure my son's loyalty. His queen’s, as well. It is time I paid an old friend a visit."


**The Arrival of Mae**
Nahash set out once more, determined to find a more suitable match for his son and his intentions. As he stepped into the territory of an allied ruler's pride, his sharp eyes swept the area, scanning for the lioness their King; Zuberi had spoken of. Zuberi led him to a young lioness standing at the edge of the gathering, a poised figure who seemed to command attention with nothing more than her presence. “Mae,” Zuberi introduced her with a nod. Mae’s gaze met Nahash’s with a quiet, almost knowing intensity. She took a step closer, her movements slow and deliberate. “I’ve heard much about you, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice smooth and confident. “But more importantly, I’ve heard about your son.” She paused, her eyes briefly scanning him up and down before returning to his face. “I believe I can help you with him.” Nahash watched her closely, sensing something more beneath her words, but kept his composure. “And what makes you think you’re suited for such a task?” he asked, his tone neutral, but his eyes sharp. Mae didn’t immediately answer. Instead, she took another step closer, closing the distance between them. As she spoke, she gently brushed her shoulder against his, a soft yet deliberate gesture. “Because I understand power,” she purred, letting her scent linger in the air as her gaze fixed on his. “I know how to wield it, how to shape it, and how to ensure your son sees the value of your guidance.” She leaned in slightly, just enough for Nahash to feel the warmth of her breath against his fur. “And if you trust me, I’ll make him follow you.” Nahash tensed, but Mae’s proximity didn’t phase her. She casually trailed the tip of her tail across his side, a subtle but intimate gesture, and smirked as she caught his gaze. “In return, I want influence. Not just as a queen, but as a force behind the throne, shaping your son’s every decision.” His eyes flickered, a mix of intrigue and caution crossing his features. “And why would you do this?” Nahash asked, his voice low, calculating. Mae gave a small, knowing smile, her body still close enough that Nahash could feel the weight of her attention. “Because power is not just given—it’s taken,” she said, her voice laced with quiet certainty. “And I want to ensure that it stays in the right hands.” She leaned even closer, brushing against him again, before pulling back slightly to meet his eyes. “I’m the one who can make him see things your way.” Nahash paused, then turned to Zuberi, who stood silently beside them, his expression unreadable. "I’ll take her with me," Nahash decided, his voice firm, though a flicker of something darker flashed in his eyes. "Let’s see if she can do as she claims."
Mae’s arrival into the pride was subtle, calculated. Nahash released her, observing carefully as she began to weave her web. She didn’t rush; she was patient, giving Fresco the space to notice her, while quietly positioning herself as a figure of importance within the pride. She made sure to be near him during hunts, always offering quiet encouragement, her voice smooth and respectful. “You lead well, Prince Fresco. Your decisions are strong,” she’d say with a calculated smile, never too eager, just enough to pique his interest. Fresco, intrigued by her calm demeanor, found himself drawn to her steady presence. Mae’s charm wasn’t just directed at him—it spread through the pride. She spoke to the lionesses with subtle authority, offering advice, listening to their worries. With each whispered word, she planted seeds of doubt, subtly implying that Fresco’s leadership, while promising, could use some refinement. She never undermined him directly but made sure the pride knew she was there, offering solutions, guidance, even when it wasn’t asked for. Khaga watched, frustration building. She could see Mae’s influence growing, but she refused to act openly, knowing Nahash would be watching. Mae’s every move, every word, seemed designed to wedge herself between Khaga and Fresco. The two lionesses were opposites—Khaga’s quiet support, her kindness, was beginning to look like weakness compared to Mae’s calculated manipulation. Khaga saw through Mae’s façade and hated the way she subtly flirted with Fresco, drawing him in while pretending to be a guiding force. Mae, however, wasn’t just about words—she knew how to make herself indispensable. During moments of tension, she was always there, offering Fresco a shoulder, a word of encouragement, ensuring he saw her as someone who could help him lead. The more she stayed by his side, the more the pride began to look to her. The balance was shifting, and Khaga could feel it. The tension between the two lionesses grew as Mae’s whispers began to echo in the pride’s ears. Khaga’s patience was running thin. She had grown to care for Fresco, but Mae’s cold ambition threatened everything. As Fresco grew closer to Mae, Khaga had no choice but to watch from the sidelines, helpless to stop the wedge that was being driven between them. Mae was playing her game well—but Khaga wasn’t out yet.
From the moment Mae arrived, Khaga knew what she was.
She was Nahash’s little whisper, a well-placed pawn—a lioness meant to sway Fresco away from her. The moment their eyes met, there was no need for words—they understood each other perfectly. And so, the battle began. Mae was clever. She never outright challenged Khaga. Instead, she played the long game. She knew how to appear sweet, to win over Fresco's attention with calculated kindness, always just enough to make him second-guess his own thoughts. She spoke with a tone that could melt even the coldest heart, lingering near Fresco with a soft touch on his shoulder, speaking his name with such a warmth that it felt as though she truly understood him in ways others couldn’t. But it wasn’t just her outward kindness—Mae knew how to plant seeds of doubt without making them obvious.
When Khaga spoke her mind with honesty, Mae would sigh and shake her head, “Oh, Khaga, you’re so blunt. Fresco deserves a gentler approach, don’t you think?” It was never a direct attack—just a soft implication that Khaga might not be the right fit for Fresco. She was subtle with her manipulations. In quiet moments, she would weave words that suggested Khaga’s presence was more a curse than a blessing. Mae would express feigned concern, always careful to make it seem like she was only looking out for Fresco’s best interest. “You know, Fresco, you don’t have to carry the weight of the pride alone. There’s no shame in letting go of your burdens.” And those words, whether meant or not, always made their mark. They were calculated in a way that only someone who knew the art of manipulation could manage. Khaga, for her part, didn’t back down. She saw through Mae’s charms, and she would return every subtle jab with a calm certainty. She wasn’t the one to step back or yield in these games. When Mae played sweet, Khaga stood firm, unflinching. When Mae made her passive remarks, Khaga would calmly remind Fresco of who he truly was. “You are not your father, Fresco. And no one—not even me—can decide your path but you.”Khaga always kept her words grounded in truth, knowing that while Mae played games of affection and deceit, she could offer nothing but honesty. Khaga didn’t need to charm Fresco. She didn’t need to play the sweet role that Mae had mastered. And so, they danced this way for months. A battle fought in smiles, in casual remarks, in the way Fresco began to notice who truly stood by him, even when the weight of his father’s expectations pressed down on his shoulders. But the war wasn’t overt—no, it was all in the little things. And for the longest time, it was nothing more than an undercurrent of tension, always simmering beneath the surface.
Then came the day Mae overstepped.

**Unearthing The Truth**
It happened after a long hunt, when the pride had returned to the den, battered and bloodied but victorious. Fresco, exhausted, collapsed onto his side, looking out at the pride feasting while the remnants of the hunt were being cleaned up. Mae, ever-present, lingered nearby, and Khaga couldn’t help but notice her movements. Mae sidled up to Fresco, her voice pitched just low enough to be intimate. “Oh, Fresco,” she sighed softly, her eyes flicking over the kill. “Have you ever wondered if your father had a point?” Khaga’s ears flicked at the question, but she stayed silent, watching them. Fresco blinked, confused. “What do you mean?” Mae let out a soft laugh, as if she were a confidante, someone Fresco could trust with his deepest thoughts. “I just mean…” she trailed off, letting the silence hang, before continuing, “I know you’re trying to be different. But isn’t that exhausting?” She gave a small shake of her head. “Your father ruled without doubt. He took what he wanted, he didn’t hesitate. Maybe there’s something to that.” Khaga’s lip curled in a barely-there sneer, her gaze hardening. Mae was toying with him, trying to make him doubt everything he had been taught. Khaga could feel the rage simmering inside her, but she contained it for now, watching as Fresco’s brow furrowed. “Are you saying I should be more like him?” Fresco asked slowly, suspicion creeping into his voice. Mae's eyes widened slightly, and she quickly backpedaled, her tone light and reassuring. “No, no, of course not. I’m just saying…” She sighed and sat down next to him. “You don’t have to carry all of this on your own. Maybe you’re just not meant to be like your father, but you could be something better.” Khaga couldn’t hold it in any longer. The weight of it burned too hot, too fierce to swallow. With a slow, deliberate breath, she rose smoothly to her paws, her gaze locking onto Mae like a predator stalking its prey. Her voice was low, cold, and cutting. "That’s rich."
Mae blinked up at her, feigning surprise as if she’d been caught off guard. But Khaga could see the cracks beneath the surface, the flicker of something defensive in Mae’s eyes. "I beg your pardon?" Mae asked, her tone syrupy-sweet. Khaga’s tail lashed behind her in slow, deliberate swipes. She closed the distance until they were nose to nose, teeth bared in a dangerous smile. "You speak as though you care, Mae," she hissed, voice trembling with simmering anger. "But let’s not pretend. You’re not here to help him—you’re here to win him." For a heartbeat, Mae held her ground, posture stiffening. She didn’t step back, didn’t flinch. "I don’t know what you mean," she said, her voice calm but brittle. Khaga saw the lie — saw it plain as day. Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, I think you do." She turned her head slightly toward Fresco, but her gaze never fully left Mae. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, almost gentle — but sharp enough to cut. "She’s lying to you. She’s always been lying to you. She’s not here for you, Fresco. She’s here for what you are — for what she can get out of you. Just like your father. You're nothing but prize to be won in her eyes." Mae’s eyes flashed with fury, but she was quick to recover, smoothing the anger from her face with a sickeningly sweet smile. "You’re a bitter one, Khaga," Mae purred. "That’s all I’ll say about that."
The tension between them crackled in the air, thick and electric. Khaga’s lips curled back, but this time there was no anger in her expression — only teeth. "And you’re a rotten liar." Her voice was soft now, dangerously calm. "You think you’re better than Nahash. Smarter. More cunning. But you’re not. You’re no different from him." She took a slow step forward. "How convenient, wasn’t it? Fresco and Nahash had been at each other’s throats for months. All of the bickering, fighting, even being on the brink of a turf war. Then, suddenly, Nahash disappears... and he just so happens to return with a lioness. Not just any lioness — one who fits the exact description of a 'perfect queen' that he rung through Fresco's brain since he was a cub. And as if by fate, she immediately grows close to his son." Khaga’s voice dropped to a near whisper. "You were not just some luck of the draw. You’re his pawn." Mae felt the walls closing in. No matter what she said now, it would fall on deaf ears. Khaga had backed her into a corner, and the anger in her chest twisted and flared. If she was going down, Khaga was going with her. With a scoff, Mae rolled her eyes. "Oh, how noble of you, Khaga," she spat. "But if you were so concerned, why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you go to Fresco with all these... theories?" Her lips curled into a sneer. "No. Instead, you confronted ME. Why is that? It was almost as if you wanted it to be a secret, something you could resolve on your own without Fresco knowing." She let her remarks hang in the air for a moment, savoring it. Her eyes gleamed with a wicked sort of satisfaction. "Nothing? That's okay, I’ll tell you why. Because you’re a coward. If you’d told him, you’d have been discovered. You wanted me to fall alone. Did I get that right?"
Fresco’s ears flicked back, his eyes darting between them. The worry in his voice was impossible to hide. "Khaga... what is she talking about?" Khaga’s fur bristled, her muscles coiling beneath her pelt. “That’s not—”
“Oh, but it is,” Mae cut in smoothly, stepping closer. “You had plenty of time to warn him, but you didn’t. Why? Because deep down, you didn’t want him to look into you, maybe even suspect you.” Khaga let out a low growl. “That’s not true!”
“Then why wait?” Mae’s voice was silk and venom. “Why wait until you are forced to speak? If you were truly looking out for him, you wouldn’t have hesitated. You would have ran to him like a dog and barked about me until you ran out of air.” Fresco’s tail flicked anxiously, his expression torn. “Khaga, just answer the question,” he said, though there was no accusation in his tone. just the same uncertainty Mae was feeding off of. Khaga turned sharply to him, her eyes pleading. “Fresco, I wanted to tell you, but—”
“But what?” Mae interjected with a mock pout. “Oh, let me guess. You were scared. Afraid that if you voiced your suspicions, he’d look at you differently. Maybe even turn against you.” She tsked, her tone dripping with false sympathy. “You didn’t tell him because you were protecting yourself.” Khaga’s breath hitched, rage flaring behind her eyes. “That is not true! I wanted to protect HIM!” Mae tilted her head, studying her like a predator toying with wounded prey. "Wanted is the key word there babe. And yet, you said nothing.” Khaga snarled, stepping forward. “I had every intention of telling him—”
“But you DIDN'T. That's the part that isn't clicking in your thick skull!” Mae’s smirk widened, her voice laced with triumph. “So tell me, Khaga—who’s really the liar here?” Fresco’s gaze flickered between them, doubt creeping into his features. His ears twitched, his tail flicking in agitation. “Khaga…” he said again, softer this time. “If these accusations are true...why didn’t you tell me?” Khaga’s heart pounded in her chest. Mae had twisted the truth into a noose around her throat, and no matter how hard she tried to tear it off, it tightened. She sucked in a breath, forcing herself to stay calm. “Because I knew she’d do this!” She whipped her head back toward Mae, her voice shaking with frustration. “Twisting my words, planting doubt—she’s manipulating you once again, Fresco!” Mae’s brows lifted. “Am I?” she mused. “Or are you just upset that your little plan backfired?” Khaga’s claws dug into the ground, her patience snapping. “You are a liar, Mae. A schemer. A fiend...I wonder who you got it from.” Mae chuckled, flicking her tail. “Well, if I’m just like him, then what does that make you?” She leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper only Khaga could hear. “A jealous fool who was never going to win.” Khaga’s breath hitched, but before she could lunge, Fresco’s voice cut through the tension.
“Enough!” Fresco’s heart thundered in his chest, each word piercing him like a spear. He stared at Khaga, raw disbelief and aching pain in his eyes. His body trembled with the force of his emotions. “How could you?!” His voice cracked, hoarse and desperate, as if he couldn’t even recognize the sound of it. His gaze darted between Mae and Khaga, his fury escalating, but it was Khaga he couldn’t tear his eyes from. “You—Khaga, you...” The words stuck in his throat, choked by the wave of betrayal crashing over him. “No... no, no, no, NO! I trusted you! I let you in—I confided in you! You showed me what loyalty, and—and unity, and... love felt like. But all this time...” His chest heaved with every word, each one more painful than the last. “All this time, you’ve been playing me. My father put you up to this. None of it was real, was it?! Every moment we shared?! Was it all just a way to get to me?! To secure YOUR future?!” Tears welled in his eyes, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, his anger festering. He paused, the pain gnawing at him. "I—I even let you get close to my mother. Does she even know?" Khaga’s voice trembled, “Fresco... p-please...” But before she could say anything more, Fresco’s anger echoed, “DOES. SHE. EVEN. KNOW?! ANSWER ME!” A tear rolled down Khaga’s cheek as she backed away, squeezing her eyes shut. “NO! Okay?! No! I—I couldn’t bear to break her heart—”
“Oh, but you could break mine?!” Fresco interjected, his voice cracking.
Khaga’s expression faltered, guilt flashing in her eyes, but it was too late. The damage was done. Fresco turned to Mae, his anger rising like a tide. “And you! You fickle, disloyal viper, you knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you? All of this was a game to you from the start—another step in your sick little scheme. You wanted to tear us apart, didn’t you?” Mae met his glare with a cold, calculated smirk, unshaken by his outburst. Fresco felt a sinking feeling in his chest. He had once thought Mae’s manipulations were subtle, but now, with everything exposed, he could see how deep the poison had sunk. He had been a fool. “Khaga…” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I wanted to believe in you. I thought you could be my anchor. I thought you were mi...” He couldn’t finish. The words caught in his throat. Then, without another word, he turned, walking away, unable to face either of them anymore. He had learned more than he ever wanted to know, and the weight of it all was suffocating. His mind spun, trying to process the betrayal, the manipulation, and the unforgivable truth. Both Khaga and Mae stood silently as he disappeared into the night, neither of them chasing after him. No one had won.

**Judgement Day**
Fresco stalked through the tall grass, his eyes locked onto Nahash in the distance. His heart raced, a storm of fury and confusion building inside him. Every step forward was heavy, his body trembling with the weight of everything he had just discovered. His heart pounded in his chest as he stalked toward his father. The weight of everything he had just learned—Mae, Khaga, the manipulation—gnawed at him. Every step felt heavier, like he was walking through thick mud. When his eyes locked onto Nahash, something inside him snapped. “YOU!” Fresco roared, his voice booming and filled with fury. His claws dug into the earth, his body coiling with anger. He took a step closer, his voice lowering. “You’ve ruined everything! All of this tourmoil...because of you!” Nahash turned, calm as ever, “What are you talking about, my son?” His voice was cold, dismissive. “Such accusations can get a lion like yourself killed, you know. The world doesn’t cater to weakness. You should be grateful for everything I’ve done for you.” Fresco’s jaw tightened. “Grateful? Grateful?! You’ve done nothing but tear this family apart! You tossed out my siblings when they weren’t strong enough for you, made your lover, your queen—my mother—live in fear every day of her life, cast out my my uncle, my grandmother because of your jealousy and hatred! All of this...is YOUR fault!”
Nahash took a step forward, unphased. “I did what needed to be done. I gave you strength. You were never meant to be weak.” Fresco’s eyes flared. “Strength? You call that strength? Making me watch everything I love fall apart? Making my own family disappear? Making my mother fear every day that she could lose me, that I could be just another casualty of your cruelty? You call that strength?” His voice cracked, shaking with the intensity of everything he had suffered. He took another step forward, his tone dreadfully calm “Was she anything to you? Or was she just a means to an end?" Nahash’s gaze grew colder, his voice sharp. "Yes, until you were born. You were the only reason I kept her. The only reason she had any value at all.” Fresco felt his chest tighten, his heart aching with every word his father spoke. “You never loved her. You never loved any of us. You used me, you used her, you used everyone in this pride to keep your grip on power!” His voice was growing more frantic now, the anger and hurt mixing into something far more dangerous. “Do you even care about what you’ve done? What and whom you’ve taken from me?!” Fresco’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body shaking with rage. “I’ve watched so many needlessly fall because of you. My siblings who weren’t strong enough—gone! My grandmother, YOUR mother—gone! My only fatherly figure—gone! Because they didn’t fit your perfect image. You monster." The prince's eyes were wild now, his teeth bared in a vicious snarl. “I grew up with only the hidden affection of my mother! I had no one because you destroyed everything. I had no one but you!” He stopped, his voice trembling. “And you intended that, didn’t you? Because you knew the moment I had support, the moment I had someone to lean on, you’d lose your grip on me. You couldn’t have that. You couldn’t have me think for myself. I was nothing but a puppet to you.”
Nahash shook his head. “You are so closed minded! You don’t understand. You never did. Everything I did was for the pride. For you.” Fresco’s voice was low now, a dangerous whisper. “No. You didn’t do this for me. You didn’t do this for the pride. You did this for you. You wanted power. You wanted control. And I was just another way for you to hold onto it, even after death. You—you don’t even care. You’re just trying to control me. Just like you’ve controlled everyone else. But not anymore. I’m done.” In a blur of motion, Fresco lunged at his father, the two of them crashing together in a savage, primal struggle. Their claws scraped against flesh, their bodies colliding with the earth beneath them. Every strike was filled with years of pain, every movement drenched in the anger that had been building for so long. Fresco’s mind was clouded with rage, but something broke within him. With one final strike, he felt the rush of strength leave his father’s body, the life fading from his eyes. The battle ended, the tension evaporating into a heavy silence.
Fresco stood over his father, his heart pounding as the life drained from Nahash’s body. Time felt frozen, every second feeling like an hour. With a few breaths, the realization set in. “No…” Fresco whispered, his voice barely audible. “Father? Oh, what have I done?” His trembling paws nudged Nahash’s limp form, desperate for any sign of life. "I'm-I'm so sorry, father please, speak to me. I didn't mean to, I swear it! Please, open your eyes!" Nahash’s eyes flickered open, barely holding on. His breaths shallow, his body still, but there was a hint of recognition in his gaze. “Well I'll be...You won, didn’t you?” His voice was weak, strained. "I... didn’t expect you to fight so hard. I didn't think you had it in you, son." Fresco recoiled, confusion and anger twisting in his gut. “Why? Why did you make me do this?!” Nahash let out a ragged breath, his eyes flickering with what seemed like pride, despite everything. “I did what I had to...I made you strong.. But I envy you. You had something I never did, perserverance.” He coughed weakly, his eyes barely staying open “You’ll be better for it..." his breaths were more shallow now, his time was short. "Listen to me. You must u-understand that I cared... in my own way. I wanted you to survive... to be more than I ever was.” With a harsh cough, Nahash peered into his son's eyes "My only regret, was not giving you the life I desired from my father. I-I'm so...so sor~" Fresco’s heart broke as the finality of his father’s words sank in. “Farewell, Father...” he whispered, his voice full of grief. With a final, shallow exhale, Nahash’s body relaxed, and his breath stilled forever. Fresco stood frozen, his body trembling with the weight of what had just transpired. He had done what he had to, but the loss, the confusion, and the pain weighed heavier than anything he’d ever known. With loud sobs, he curled beside his father, grieving until the moon was at its highest. Lifting himself from the dirt, Fresco took a deep breath and padded away no longer a prince and pawn, but a King.

**Burdens of the New King: Fresco Caught Between Duty and Love**
The freshly anointed King’s heart was torn between the fractured relationships with Khaga and Mae. Mae’s very presence in the pride ignited a fury he couldn’t contain. He had trusted her, and she had betrayed him, tearing apart his relationship with Khaga and making him question everything. He had thought about ending her life, his claws aching with the desire for revenge. But no, he knows better...right?
"Mae," Fresco's voice was cold as ice. "You have been summoned to answer for the crime of treason against your King. You used me, abused my trust. And for what? Your own personal gain? Stability? Power?" Mae tried to speak, but Fresco wasn’t finished. "I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK." he roared, "Your greed, dishonor, and corruption have no place here...or anywhere for that matter." His anger surged, his body trembling with fury. "I should have killed you when I had the chance and now that I think about it, I still can."
Fear flickered in Mae’s eyes, but she stood her ground. "Your Majesty—"
"SILENCE!" he snarled, cutting her off. His claws flexed as his resentment swelled, but then something inside him snapped. He stepped back, forcing himself to steady his breath. "However, luck has blessed you, snake. I am not my father" he muttered to himself. "I will never be."
"My judgement has been made, Mae. You’ve done enough damage. I won’t kill you, but I hereby exile you from these lands. Leave. Now." Mae opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out. With a heavy heart, she turned and walked away, leaving the pride behind.
With one burden gone, Khaga, however, remained a far more complicated dilemma. The two had made a fragile peace after their many betrayals, and in the midst of their forgiveness, shared a night, concieving Fresco's first cub as King, Princess Brim. The cub was a symbol of the connection that still existed between himself and Khaga. Yet, despite this, Fresco’s heart ached with the memory of the lies she had told him, the omission of the truth that had altered the course of his life. It was hard for him to look past the fact that she had been complicit in his father’s plan, keeping the truth from him when she knew him well enough to tell him. That betrayal was still too fresh, too painful, even though they both genuinely loved each other.
Fresco could not deny the love they shared, nor could he ignore the bond they had formed as parents. But as time passed, he found it difficult to forgive her fully. For now, he would allow Khaga to stay in the pride—for Brim’s sake. He would not break her heart by casting her out, not while their daughter was still too young to understand the fractured history between her parents. But once Brim was old enough to hold her own, once she was ready to find her place and leave the pride, Fresco knew he would have to make a decision. He couldn’t continue to live with the constant reminder of what Khaga had kept from him, not when the pain of betrayal still echoed in his chest. The future of his pride and his heart were uncertain, but for now, he would focus on the bond he shared with his daughter, the beam of sunlight in his life.


**A Queen Secured & An Heir Acquired**
In the early days of his reign, King Fresco never planned to take a queen. His thoughts were occupied with the pride's survival and the weight of leadership, and he feared that any lioness who sought to be by his side might only be after his title and the status it would bring. He had witnessed enough of the pride’s politics to know that some would vie for his favor, not out of love, but to gain influence. His heart was not something he wanted to surrender so easily. But time passed, and the pride began to murmur. Without a queen, there was no sense of unity, no clear leadership beside him. The pressure built, but Fresco resisted, unwilling to be manipulated into a union for the sake of appearances. He wasn’t ready to trust anyone enough to share his rule.
And then there was Phebe. At first, she was just another lioness who kept her distance from him—sharp-tongued, sarcastic, and endlessly challenging. Her jabs at him were constant, almost like a game. She’d stand just far enough away to make sure he couldn’t get too close, always with a mocking glint in her eye. "You look like you’ve got the weight of the entire savanna on your shoulders, Your Highn-ass," she would tease. "What’s wrong? Tired of being what many lions could only ever DREAM of becoming?" Her words stung, but there was something in the way she said them, something about how she never flattered him or begged for his attention. He didn’t know if he should be annoyed or impressed. But over time, Fresco realized that her presence was different. While others seemed to hover around him, eager to please or to gain something from him, Phebe didn’t want anything at all—except perhaps to keep him on his toes.
It wasn’t long before Fresco found himself drawn to her, not for any romantic reason, but because she never played by the usual rules. She challenged him, yet in a way that made him think. Her taunts became a kind of twisted comfort. For the first time, Fresco realized he didn’t mind them. They made him feel alive, and slowly, he began to rely on her more than he ever expected. "Do you ever take anything seriously?" he asked her one day, watching as she rolled her eyes. "Only when it’s worth my time and energy," she retorted, flicking her tail with a playful yet sharp edge. As time passed, their relationship evolved. There were moments of tension, moments when he still couldn’t understand her, but there were also moments of quiet companionship. He began to see how she held the pride together, offering him insight and perspective when no one else dared to speak.
It was only when the chaos of Mae and Khaga had him torn, emotionally and politically, that he realized how much he had come to depend on Phebe. She was the one who kept him grounded, who didn’t hesitate to speak the truth even when it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. One evening, after everything had settled into an uneasy peace, Phebe approached him. There was a softness in her eyes, one he hadn’t seen before. "I don't know how you do it. Carrying tese burdens and bearing these annoyances alone," she said quietly, sitting beside him. "You do understand you don’t REALLY have to do it all by yourself, Fresco. Right?" Her words broke through the layers of tension that had built up inside him. He had been struggling with everything—the weight of leadership, the pride’s future, the burden of being the son of Nahash—but here, now, with Phebe beside him, the world felt less heavy. "I’m not sure how long I can keep pretending I don’t need help," he admitted. His voice was barely above a whisper. "It feels like everything is slipping away and no matter what I do, everyone thinks I will mess it up or take after...him." Phebe leaned closer, her voice firm but kind. "I don't think you will. I can only imagine what is going on in that thick skull of yours and I'm sure it is the most anxiety inducing job on this earth but..." she paused, pondering on how to deliver her thoughts. "But don’t shut out the ones who want to help." Fresco let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging. It was a relief, something he hadn’t known he needed until now. "Phebe I-I don’t know what I would’ve done without you." She laughed, averting her gaze "Well, lucky for you, I’m not going anywhere," she replied with a sly grin.
It wasn’t long after that, when Phebe bore him a son, Patrizius. It wasn’t the heir that mattered most to Fresco—it was the fact that it was her. She had proven herself in a way no other lioness had. She had never asked for power. She had never tried to manipulate him. And now, she had given him the one thing he couldn’t have planned for: a family. "I’m glad it’s you," Fresco said one evening, his voice filled with quiet gratitude as he watched her with their cub. "You were right, you know. About everything." Phebe glanced at him, her eyes softening, but she didn’t say anything at first. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she teased, "Who else would it have been?" she leaned in "Khaga?" she whispered mischeviously. Fresco cackled, correcting himself and clearing his throat "That's disrespectful. Stop it." he said, holding in a belly laugh. He layed beside her, allowing Patrizius to paw at his mane. "But all jokes aside, I’m just glad it’s us." And in that moment, as they both watched their son, Fresco felt the weight of his title ease just a little. He didn’t need to search for a queen any longer. He had found his partner in Phebe—the lioness who had stood beside him without asking for anything in return. Together, they were stronger than they could have ever been apart.

**The Loss of A Son's First Love**
The sun had long since dipped below the trees, casting dappled shadows across the quiet heart of the pride’s land. Fresco slipped into the den where his mother rested, the silence broken only by the soft hush of his paws on the earth. There was no reason in particular, no crisis to solve. Just a heaviness in his chest that he couldn’t name, and a need he couldn’t shake. Sometimes, he simply needed her.
Femke stirred at the sound of his approach, but didn’t lift her head. She didn’t have to. "Couldn’t sleep again?" she asked, her voice low, a little raspier than he remembered. Fresco let out a breath as he settled beside her, lowering his body so he could curl up at her side like he had when he was a cub. “I guess not,” he muttered, resting his head against her flank. “Everything’s fine. Everyone’s fine. I just... I didn’t want to be alone.” Femke didn’t press him. She only began to groom behind his ears with slow, rhythmic strokes, the same way she had when he was still learning how to walk straight. “You don’t need a reason,” she said gently. “You never did. I don’t care how big your mane gets or if you are bigger than me—you have always been my son before anyone’s king.” Fresco let his eyes close halfway. “It’s different now. Even when I’m surrounded, I still feel alone sometimes.”
“Because you're surrounded by lions who need you,” she replied. “But who sees you, Fresco?” He was quiet for a moment, then spoke, his voice softer. “You always did.” Femke smiled, her nose brushing against his. “And I always will. No matter how many seasons pass.” Fresco nestled closer, breathing in her warmth, her scent—still familiar, still comforting. “I wish I could come to you like this more often.”
“You come when it matters most,” she whispered, resting her chin atop his mane. “Even when you don’t know it.” There was something about her voice, the calm in it, the certainty. He didn't think too hard about it—just let the quiet wash over him, safe in her presence. They stayed that way, sharing the kind of silence only two hearts could understand. And as sleep began to pull him under, Fresco murmured, “Thanks, Mom... for always making room for me.” Femke didn’t answer right away. Her eyes had closed. But then, barely audible, her voice reached him like a breeze through the grass. “There will always be room for you here.” Fresco smiled faintly as sleep took him, tucked safe against the one lioness who had loved him unconditionally from the very start.
The night deepened. Outside the den, the world was still—save for the hum of insects and the distant rustle of grass beneath wandering paws. Within, it was warmer. Quieter. Fresco slept soundly, his breathing slow and steady, his head still nestled against his mother’s side.
Femke remained still, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that had once lulled him to sleep as a cub. She watched him for a long while, her eyes soft, old, filled with something that wasn't sadness—but knowing and with pride. Her paw, aged and rough, shifted just slightly to rest atop his. Her voice, barely more than breath, slipped into the dark. “You were never your father’s son, not really… you were mine. And that has always been enough.” She closed her eyes once more, her body relaxing as if every burden she’d carried—the ones he never saw, the ones she never named—simply let go.
The quiet held.
When morning crept over the horizon and the first birds began to sing, Fresco stirred. He shifted against her, instinctively nuzzling her fur. But something was different. She didn’t move. Her chest no longer rose. He blinked, confused at first, still halfway between dream and waking. “Mom?”
There was no answer.
Slowly, he lifted his head and looked at her. "Momma?..." He looked closer, gave her face a gentle but deep inhale. The realization crept over him, slow and steady, like the encroaching sun. His throat tightened. “Oh, Momma...” he murmured, his voice soft, broken. Her features were peaceful, almost smiling. Like she had only just drifted off moments ago. Like she had simply waited for him to come home, one last time. Fresco’s breath hitched. He laid his head gently back down, nestling into her fur one last time, tears beginning to prick at his eyes. He didn’t cry out. He just lay there with her, curled up as the cub he once was. The king who survived a tyrant, the mighty heir of a fractured legacy—reduced, in that moment, to a son mourning the only place he had ever truly been safe. And the morning sun embraced them both, as if the ancestors above were shrouding them in a blanket of light.

**A Brother From Another Mother**
It was an ordinary patrol. The horizon glowed with heat as the sun pressed down, and though the land was quiet, Fresco couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling in his chest. It was instinct, or perhaps something deeper—intuition sharpened by loss, by experience, by the quiet knowing that something was out of place. Near the roots of a gnarled baobab tree, he found it. A cub. Frail, trembling, half-hidden in the dust. Fresco paused, watching the small thing attempt to stand.
The cub growled weakly at him. “Don’t come closer. I’ll..I'll bite.” Fresco tilted his head. “Such a brave statement for one who can barely stand.” The cub didn’t answer. He just stared. Proud, but scared. Dirty, but alive. It was quiet a moment longer before Fresco stepped forward and spoke again, softer this time. “Where’s your mother, boy?”
“…Gone,” the cub murmured.
“Your name?”
The cub hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Fresco stared down at him—this half-starved, nameless soul who dared to bare teeth at a king. “Then it is my duty to give you one,” he said gently. “I shall dub you Pili. It means ‘second.’ Not second-best. Second chance.” The cub blinked up at him, tears caught in his lashes. Fresco lowered his head until they were eye-to-eye. “Come now, young Pili. I have many to introduce to you.” And with that, Pili followed—hesitant at first, but close on his heels, walking toward his new life.
Pili arrived in the pride like a whisper, not a roar. He ate carefully, never taking more than he needed. He watched the older lions and lionesses with quiet reverence, mimicking their grace and power from a distance. When the cubs played, he didn’t push to the front. He stood back, waited, learned. Though young, Pili carried himself with uncanny discipline. He bowed his head when spoken to, listened more than he talked, and offered help wherever it might be accepted. From the way he carried himself, one would think he had been raised in the court of kings. But it wasn’t nobility that shaped him—it was survival, forged into grace. Patrizius watched Pili with a guarded eye. Though the boy posed no threat to his claim, the presence of another male in the pride always carried implications. Still, he said nothing. Pili respected boundaries. He respected everything. The pride gradually began to see him not as an outsider, but as someone who belonged. Even Phebe noticed—though she kept her thoughts to herself at first. She was too sharp to be fooled by manners alone. She waited. Observed. Until one afternoon, when she found Pili sitting alone beneath a spindly acacia tree. His posture was perfect, his shoulders squared, tail curled neatly around his side. But his eyes betrayed him—soft, distant, and burdened by something far heavier than a cub should carry. She padded over, slow and graceful, and sat beside him without a word at first. Her golden coat shimmered in the light, and she flicked her tail against his like a passing breeze. “You always sit like the world’s ending,” she muttered, casting a sideways glance at him. “It’s exhausting just looking at you.”
Pili didn’t meet her eyes. “Sorry, Queen Phebe.”
“Ew. Don’t call me that.” Her voice was light but pointed. “You make me feel like I’m one breath away from old age.”
“But… you’re the queen.”
She sighed. “Yeah, and I’m also a lioness. You know, a living, breathing, young, spry, not-yet-wrinkly being.” Pili blinked, then let out a faint breath that might’ve been a laugh. It surprised even him. “You don’t have to act so stiff around me,” Phebe added. “You already impressed the entire pride with how charming and polite you are. We get it. You’re noble. You’re sweet and...weirdly formal for a cub.”
He finally turned his head, meeting her eyes just for a moment. “I just… I don’t want to be a burden. Or make anyone uncomfortable.”
“You think kindness makes people uncomfortable?” she asked.
“It can.”
Phebe didn’t reply right away. She studied him, long and hard, and eventually leaned forward to nudge his shoulder lightly with her nose. “Well,” she said. “Keep being kind anyway. Let them figure out how to deal with it.” Pili’s lips twitched again—another hint of a smile. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. Phebe had cracked the wall. Not broken it entirely, but left a gentle mark in the stone. And that was enough. As the moments lingered, a sudden warmth filled the space between them. It was unspoken, but very real—Phebe's presence was a constant comfort, and Pili found himself leaning into it, a quiet sense of belonging washing over him. Without thinking, he spoke again, his voice softer than before.
“…Thanks, Mom.”
It was a slip—a tiny moment of vulnerability. He blinked, realizing what he'd said only after the words left his mouth.
Phebe froze, and for a heartbeat, there was a silence. Then, she turned to him with a wry smile. “Mom, huh?” Her tone was teasing, but there was a gentleness in her eyes. “You really are a smooth talker, you know that?.” Pili’s ears drooped slightly, embarrassment creeping up on him, but Phebe’s warmth enveloped him like a silent hug. “Don’t worry about it, Pili,” she said, nudging him again, this time with a touch more affection. “I think I can get used to that.”
And just like that, something shifted between them. He didn’t need to say anything more. The connection was real, and Phebe had accepted him—just as he was.
From that day on, Pili wasn’t just the cub who wandered in.
He was Pili—the Second Chance.
The chivalrous.
The boy brave enough to threaten a king…and gentle enough to win the queen’s heart.

**A Goodbye For Past Lovers**
The sun was just beginning to rise, casting long golden rays across the savanna. A soft breeze stirred the tall grasses, carrying with it the distant calls of birds greeting the morning. At the edge of the pride’s territory, where the familiar met the unknown, Khaga stood still. Dew clung to her fur, and though the warmth of the sun had begun to melt the chill of dawn, a deeper cold settled in her chest.
Behind her, the three cubs lingered near the brush. Khuzaimah had said his goodbye with a dignified nod, Kinryu had nuzzled her one last time, and Dracaena, ever brave, had whispered that she would be strong. Now they were gone—led away by a patient lioness assigned to care for them until Khaga found her place.
She waited.
And then Fresco approached, his steps measured, eyes unreadable. The wind barely ruffled his mane, but the tension in his shoulders said enough.
“I thought maybe... you’d change your mind,” Khaga murmured, her voice barely louder than the grass brushing against her legs. She tried to smile, but it trembled.
Fresco’s jaw tensed. “We agreed, Khaga.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But I hoped.”
He looked at her fully now, his eyes older than they once were. “It’s not that I don’t care. But we can’t keep doing this… pretending there’s still something here.”
Her ears twitched, and her gaze dropped for a moment. “It wasn’t pretending for me.”
“I know,” he said, voice gentler now. “That’s why this hurts.”
The savanna seemed to hold its breath. Then, Khaga gave a slow nod, her face composed, but her eyes shining. She turned, walking into the lightening horizon, paws silent against the earth. Fresco stood there for a beat longer, the sting of memory clinging like dust. Behind him, Phebe padded forward without a word. She glanced after Khaga, then to her mate, and without speaking, gently laced her tail with his.
“She’ll be okay,” she said. Fresco didn’t look back. “So will we.”

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**Where We Are Now**