Once, in the golden heart of the savannah, there was a lion named Azhar whose name meant radiance. Born beneath the open sky and a full, glimmering sun, his mane was the color of the morning sunrise and his roar made the stars flinch. All the animals looked to him without fear, with reverence. He was noble, fair, and wise. They called him the Sun-King, for when he sat atop the red rock cliffs, light seemed to crown him with radiance.
But time whispered changes and a great drought came over the land. The rivers cracked. Many animals vanished and the herds grew restless as fear licked the air like fire. In the deathly silence that gripped the land, doubt crept into Azhar’s heart. He wondered: What good is wisdom when the rain won’t come?
In his uncertainty, he began to speak more often from the high rock, but his words no longer inspired.
Instead, he gave orders and created laws that controlled and restricted.
“I alone will decide when the watering holes open.”
“The birds must fly only where I allow—too many wings stir chaos.”
“Only those who praise me will be fed.”
The jackals howled their approval, but the elephants turned their backs.
Azhar called this new rule “Order.” He declared that fear was just a shadow of disloyalty, and those who spoke against him were banished to the outer sands, where the wind forgets everything, including names.
He built a throne of bones and thorns, and surrounded himself with only those who did his biding.
Slowly, the animals forgot the joy of speaking in the open. Birds sang only safe songs, and the serenading insects of twilight sang in hushed whispers, or not at all. The gazelles moved in practiced silence and the vast herds clustered together in the shadow of looming fear.
The savanna bowed—but not in awe.
One day, a young lioness named Nyara returned from a distant land. She had grown lean in the outer realm, but her eyes burned like the crimson sunset. She did not roar, but she listened. She walked among the silent creatures, and whispered stories of the before-time when the Sun-King spoke of peace and unity; before the stagnation of drought and desperation clutched the land. The wind caught her voice and carried it to the far edges of the savannah, and so too did the hearts of many.
When she stood before Azhar, she did not bow. “You were once our light,” she said. “But you mistook the sun for a mirror.”
Azhar growled, but the rage in his voice was hollow and filled with uncertainty. His throne, once high and bright, crumbled with termite dust. The sky above him, once loyal, refused to echo his roar with thunder and the animals who once looked to him turned away.
And in that turning, Azhar was dethroned.
He wandered then, forgotten by the land he tried to own. Some say he walked until his paws found the sea. Others say he stood on the last hill at dawn, waiting for the light to crown him again. But the sun does not answer every king.
Especially those who forget that true power is not in command—but in care.
~ Morgan C. Morgan
Writer of light, shadow, and the stories between.
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