The Queen and the Lion

No matter how valiant a general may be, repeated battles against overwhelming forces inevitably lead to exhaustion. As Aslan ordered a retreat, unable to hold the frontline any longer, a Florean arrow pierced the head of his horse.

Thrown from his mount due to the sudden death, Aslan found himself stranded. The Heiban forces, already disorganized in their retreat, failed to protect him.

Florea’s army captured him and began their triumphant march back to the capital with their prize. News of Aslan’s capture spread, and citizens poured into the streets to catch a glimpse of the “Black Lion of the Battlefield.” Cheers erupted as they welcomed the victorious soldiers.

Inside a transport cage, Aslan’s fierce eyes burned with defiance despite his injuries. His unkempt black hair, having grown down to his collarbone during the long campaigns, and his scruffy beard only added to his wild appearance. Towering over Floreans by half a head, his imposing figure and fierce aura remained unyielding, even in chains. Those who had been pointing and mocking quickly averted their eyes when his piercing gaze met theirs.

Aslan was dragged to the council chamber where Queen Lysian awaited. Shackles on his wrists and neck limited his movements, allowing him only enough freedom to walk. Heavy restraints on his ankles clinked with every step.

“We’ve captured the lion, Your Majesty!”

Veronica, the Florean general who had led the capture, announced proudly. Her deep violet hair flowed as she stood tall, barely containing the thrill of presenting her achievement to the beautiful queen.

“This man is none other than Aslan, the Black Lion of Heiban!”

With those words, Veronica shoved Aslan to the center of the chamber. Though his frame was solid and powerful, the malnourished state of his body caused him to stumble and roll as he fell.

Though he was an esteemed general in Heiban, Florea treated him as nothing more than a barbarian war trophy. Their treatment was as if they had dragged in a literal lion, paying no heed to his reputation.

Sitting on her throne, Lysian gazed at the defeated yet defiant man before her. She spoke with regal authority.

“I have heard much of your name, Aslan. I wished to see your face. Raise your head and let me look upon you.”

Aslan remained unmoved by the queen’s command. Veronica, gripping the chain around his neck, forcibly pulled his head up. Despite his strength, even he could not resist the mechanical leverage of the collar.

His golden-yellow eyes burned with rebellion as he glared directly at the queen.

Their gazes met. His eyes, a pale yellow so light they appeared almost translucent, collided with hers in silent defiance.

“…”

Lysian lost her words the moment her eyes locked with Aslan’s. For the first time, she was confronted by something raw, unrefined—utterly untamed.

In Florea, men as beautiful as peonies or lilies were plentiful. Be they scholars or warriors, they exuded a fragrance of sophistication, their manners steeped in elegance and poise. They lived leisurely, secure in their abundance, with nothing urgent to disrupt their serene lives.

Aslan was the complete opposite. His gritted teeth made a grinding noise that echoed through the chamber. His rough, weathered skin looked as if it would redden instantly at the slightest touch of Lysian’s soft fingers.

The hands he used to push himself up from the ground were massive, like the lids of cauldrons, and his forearms, corded with muscle, bulged with each movement as thick veins throbbed along them.

The suffocating scent of raw, beastly power emanating from him made Lysian feel dizzy. It was the smell of untamed wilderness, of a predator who had raced across open plains and faced the fury of sandstorms, constantly battling nature’s wrath. Without a doubt, Aslan was unlike any man Lysian had ever encountered.

To her astonishment, she liked him. A lot.

She wasn’t sure if this was what people called “love at first sight,” but it must have been something similar. Even in his dirty, disheveled state, the sight of him made her heart race.

“Aslan, I find you pleasing,” she said with regal composure. “You shall attend to my bedchamber.”

Her thunderous declaration sent shockwaves through the council chamber. Everyone present gasped, reeling from what they had just heard. They replayed the queen’s words in their minds, hoping they had misunderstood, but their hopes were dashed when Lysian added:

“Rejoice. It is an honor to be chosen as my first.”

Her words were accompanied by a smile that bloomed like a bleeding-heart flower kissed by morning dew. It was a smile so radiant that it could not be compared to any flower in the royal gardens, no matter how splendid they were. It left all who saw it utterly spellbound.