The throne room was bright with the golden light that beamed through the cathedral-esque windows that streaked up the castle walls in solid bars of honey. Flecks of dust filled the space and highlighted the height of the room that climbed above the whited floors. The glimmer of the helmets flashed as Simba walked poised with a straight back through the center of the two columns of armored soldiers, guiding him towards his destiny. They directed him forward towards the stairs that ascended to the throne, clad in a long and thin carpet of crimson, white, and gold; the colors of his family crest. It was finally time for his coronation.

The realm was known as Sanitatum, governed from the Inner City claimed as the spoils of the War of Birds and Lions won ten years prior. His father had conquered the realm, and it was his purpose to build on his success and lead the realm into prosperity.

He wore his formal ceremonial dress today, wrapped in the finest felts the land could buy, soft to the touch. He felt the cape that trailed behind him tug on his shoulders as he thrust forward. He could feel the crowd shuffle, watching as heads bobbed over and between the shoulders of the guards to see their Prince march up the red steps towards the throne in which his father lounged. Repressing the natural urge his face had to show his excitement with a stern look forward, he looked past all the guards and the crowds that had gathered behind them to begin of his reign as King of the realm.

His eyes were met with stark juxtaposition of his father's warrior ornamentation fused with the regal simplicity of the flooding marble sea. Spotted in with the seamless and soft plane of glossy surfaces was died pelt rugs, wooden hall doors that replaced once golden plates, and iron welded torches that roared against the choir of timid features. It was a unison that demanded sophistication and power, the callus backbone of a roaring red lion housed in a flawless pale meadow of wild flowers. Admittedly, the charm of the past kingdom's seamless simplicity added a certain debonair he respected, but out staged the raw power of his family name with a relentless assault of delicacy.

The castle he lived in when he was young was lit only by torches and minimal windows, illuminating furniture made of only sturdy iron or wood in the harsh flicker of fire, decorated in beaded tapestries and edged on the side of cluttered. The former palace represented a more whole image of his culture, as it was bound by the memory of his mother, a warrior leader who died in the claiming of the Inner City they now rule over. It's almost as if her presence was not felt here.

After his father won the War of Birds and Lions and his mother passed, Kasim's mourning made him apathetic. Redecorating the spoils of victory was the last thing on his mind. The castle of their enemies remained almost untouched from the time of their ruling. He recounted one of the first things he would do is redecorate the castle in a better portrayal of his unparalleled faculty and bring more of his mother into the kingdom.

At the top of the stairs, he directed his focus to his father, staged as the most powerful man in Sanitatem at the apex of the room. His armor glowed in the reaming streams of light, and his red and white formal attire seemed to glimmer with every thread. White radiated a warmth from his chest that held the crest of his kingdom; the lion head centered on crossed swords in a denunciation of anything but the Adofo name.

The name held the reigns of the entire land, and had expanded into all the known territory ruled by another, the active extermination of inferior rulers was a mission of his father and his father before him. The family was a ruthless line of warriors, putting down their enemies and claiming the spoils of weaker monarchs. Feared, respected, and elevated to an icon of raw power and authority. It was the Adofo way to pass down the tradition and valor of the warrior authority on to their sons after the former King named a woman to wed at his coronation. Of course a bride he didn't know or have a chance to consent to seemed daunting, but a crown of endless power was worth warming up to the idea.

Next to his father Davu Adofo loomed like a shadow at his father's side, the former King looking down on Simba from his perch like a vulture. Davu was Simba's grandfather, and former King before Kasim. His long face had a scar stretching from his temple down to his chin in a famous storming of a rival kingdom, and was weary from age. Beyond the traditional wrinkles of an aging face stared a man with cold eyes. He always found his grandfather vindictive and cunning, but Davu was kept in check by Kasim's foot up his ass if he spoke out of position. That was before Faria's death, though.

Simba knew Davu missed his ruling position, but despite once being a man in his physical prime, he now needs a cane to hobble about. Since Faria's passing, Kasim seemed more reliant on Davu to make decisions. Perhaps a heartbroken man needed someone to lean on. In any case, Simba thought that a man in decline and out of his prime cannot be trusted to rule the realm. Davu next to his father and the throne made Simba uneasy.

It felt so right to be before the throne. His heart raced in the awe of the marble throne itself; rising seamlessly from the white and stippled surface of the soft glass that formed the shape of the structure, softened and upholstered in red. He felt the power of the red resonate from the history of his family banner; the powerful iconic red shared by all Adofo men, women, and children, thrusting greatness onto each one of them. Taking a breath in, he anticipated the weight of his family line to satisfy the destiny he had always imagined for himself. It was time.

The King's crown caught the honey light in a series of flashes as Kasim heaved himself from his lounging position before the court. He stood tall, chest barred in a powerful stance that presented himself upwards, chin tilted slightly heaven bound to allow the light to illuminate his face. His face was broad, strong, and though domesticated into this white and tame room, roared and gave a breath of the wild derived from his warrior ancestry that would never be denied by the likes of soft marble.

A mane of dark hair flowed in bold ropes down his back and over his shoulders, tamed only barely by the gleam of the crown that weighed down his locks. Chestnut skin beamed rich in the sunlight, holding the room in a bold and undeniable silhouette against the lighted and pale air of the room. Dark and heavy eyebrows hung low over his eyes, framing his glossy orbs with dark wrinkles formed under the pressure of the royal line. Clad in a more ornamental version of Simba's own formal dress to befit a warrior, the King looked stern and unfazed by the shedding of a long and righteous rule. He was steady and prepared, looking down on him with the unmoved stillness expected of a King.

Though he stood as a statue before him, there was a slight deformity in his eyes. They were empty, yet he could see regret seep through as he watched him look into his son's face. The light in Kasim's eyes had gone out last year, and lately Simba found it rare for him to even look in his direction with anything but an empty blankness masquerading as royal poise. He thought it was the weight of the crown back then that drained him, but his father's responsibility was his pride. Simba thought perhaps instead the dawning on the ten year anniversary of his mother's death had hardened him into a solemn depression.

Unfeigned by his father's dignified stance, Simba stood at attention with feet together, heel to heel and arms tucked behind his back. He bowed his head in respect. His father took a slow and calculated breath into his lungs before he delivered the royal address.