The Queen and the Lion - Chapter 4
But this was a matter of national dignity. The ministers, unshaken by the queen’s beauty, flung themselves to the floor, desperately pleading for her to reconsider.
“Please reconsider, Your Majesty! That man is no citizen of our kingdom but a lowly barbarian!”
“This is unthinkable! That wild man might commit unspeakable offenses against you!”
Their desperation was palpable.
Florea was full of eligible young men, any of whom would have been more than suitable for the queen. In a land of countless options, they couldn’t fathom why Lysian had chosen a mere barbarian.
“You hound me daily to produce an heir, yet when I decide to act, you oppose me,” Lysian said, pressing her hand to her cheek with a soft sigh. Even that simple gesture was executed with flawless elegance.
Her feigned ignorance made it clear that she had no intention of heeding their pleas.
But the matter was far too critical to abandon.
Prime Minister Primula, who had been the most vocal about the matter of Lysian’s successor and the late king, raised his voice to a near-shouting pitch. If loudness alone could win a debate, he would have defeated any opponent with ease.
“Your Majesty, consider your choice carefully! This is unacceptable. Please, I beg you to rescind this order!”
“What I have decided is final. Who dares to defy me?”
“Your Majesty!”
“I am no courtesan, Queen! Is this how Florea treats its prisoners?”
Aslan, who had been in a stunned daze until that moment, finally grasped the situation and roared in indignation. The fire in his eyes flared with fury—an amalgam of rage at being turned into a spectacle for mockery and his hatred for the queen of an enemy nation.
But “attend to her bedchamber”? That was the last thing Aslan had expected to hear. He thought Lysian was mocking him at first. However, as he observed the ministers’ fervent objections and the queen’s unyielding stance, he realized with growing disbelief that Lysian was serious about naming him her bedmate. It was an insult of the highest degree. His sun-darkened skin seemed to darken further in shame and anger.
Aslan’s rejection sparked a mix of relief and outrage among the Florean ministers—relief that Aslan was unworthy of being the queen’s consort and fury at his audacity to reject her. Unable to glare directly at their queen, they instead shot daggers at the vulgar barbarian they deemed had bewitched her.
Despite the uproar, Lysian’s expression was one of pure regret. She looked genuinely sorrowful, though not for the reasons anyone else might have hoped.
“Regrettably, Lion, you have no right to refuse. This is Florea—my kingdom. You are my prisoner, and thus, my possession.”
The queen’s melodious voice, as sweet as birdsong, delivered a verdict sharper and colder than a guillotine’s blade, sealing Aslan’s fate. His face twisted with a mixture of disbelief and fury.
It should have been a joyous day—a day to celebrate the capture of the enemy nation’s most fearsome warrior. And yet, an air of melancholy hung heavy over the council chamber, infecting everyone present.
Everyone except Queen Lysian, who smiled serenely, as radiant as a blooming flower, thrilled by the knowledge that she alone would claim what she desired.
No matter how much he thought about it, Aslan couldn’t understand why he was in this situation.
Warm water of just the right temperature was poured over him, washing away the grime accumulated from rolling around on the battlefield. Gradually, his body began to regain its original color.
However, even with the dirt scrubbed off, his skin stood out starkly among the pale complexions of the Floreans. The attendants, wearing expressions of clear distaste, diligently scrubbed at his rough skin as though trying to peel away layers of filth.
One attendant measured the length and girth of Aslan’s manhood, dangling between his muscular thighs. Aslan felt like a butchered piece of meat displayed in a shop—one graded as the lowest quality.
Among the Heiban people, Aslan’s size was by no means considered small. In any other situation, he might have proudly boasted of his physique as a testament to his masculinity. But now, he wished he could hide in shame.
The attendants, too, seemed unimpressed with him. Their murmurs of disapproval reached Aslan’s ears: “Why would Her Majesty choose such a lowly man…?” They didn’t even bother to conceal their disdain, openly criticizing the queen’s decision while lamenting her judgment.
Yet the person who found the queen’s command hardest to believe was Aslan himself.
In Heiban, it often took one man to father children with several women to maintain their dwindling population. The land was barren, and the women just as scarce. The harsh environment and limited maternal resources made it nearly impossible for new life to thrive. That’s why Heiban had turned to raiding—it was an inevitable outcome.
His subordinates had dreamed of returning to Heiban with captives from Florea after the war, their imaginations full of plundered wealth and people. But here he was, a captive himself, having been “pillaged.” The realization burned his cheeks with humiliation.
Aslan’s thoughts turned to the queen of Florea.
Her beauty was as renowned as the rumors suggested. Her flowing, pale pink hair looked so soft that it might cling to your fingers if touched, and her white skin was as creamy as goat’s milk.
She was the finest among the Floreans and more beautiful than any woman Aslan had ever seen. If she so much as reached out her hand, the Floreans would throw themselves at her feet just to touch her fingertips.
A woman who could draw any man she desired into her bedchamber—why had she chosen him?
After he had been washed, fragrant oil was rubbed into his skin, and then Florean attire was draped over him. Unlike the tanned leather garments worn by the Heiban people, the flimsy fabric clung unpleasantly to his skin. It slipped and slithered like a jellyfish, barely staying on his shoulders before sliding to the floor.
Aslan grimaced at the uncomfortable sensation, but the attendants didn’t seem to care about his displeasure.
