"Subjects of the Kingdom of Sanitatum," Kasim's voice boomed righteously across the hall, "today we honor the line of the Adofo family. You have all gathered here, the eighteenth birthday of my beloved and only son, Simba Adofo, to see him become a man of his people and fulfill his destiny. He will take the my crown and lead you all into prosperity. It is his purpose and his responsibility to lead you to a brighter future."

He paused for the cheers that roared from the ground below, lifting his hand after a while to have this celebration stop in an instant in anticipation for him to continue.

"Ever since our valiant victory in the War of Birds and Lions, we have showed the realm our ability to lead and fulfill our duty to expunge the wretched curse from our land. Crushing the diseased tyrants before us that took the life of my dear wife, I have made it my mission to cure my land of the curse that plagues us all. Though I have done my best, there is still much to do and many to cleanse. This legacy is the burden of the heir to hold on his shoulders, and do it with poise and valor as he looks over his people. I trust my son will have the strength to balance these responsibilities with the royal blood that flows through his veins."

His father's eyes softened for a brief moment, sparking in Simba's mind the way he used to smile when he was with Faria. But it quickly faded and his eyes darted sheepishly to the floor, an act that was very uncharacteristic of a King of the realm. Though no one else could have seen him do so from so far, Simba was concerned when he saw his father's hand shake slightly at his side, as if he was apprehensive or scared of what was going to happen next.

It was in this part of the ceremony where Simba was instructed to kneel. He lowered himself to the floor gracefully as he could manage in his anticipation. He bowed his head, waiting for the ceremonial blade to touch his shoulders.

He waited but was only greeted by silence. He could only hear the hollow breaths of his father before him. Then finally, he heard the sword release from its' holder, and a strong flash in the honey light revealed how it dangled at his father's side. He looked up at his father as he spoke again.

"It is a tradition of our warrior ancestry to pass on the throne to the eldest son once they have grown to the age of eighteen and have wed a woman chosen by the current King. This is the way of the Adofo family, the blood that flows through the members of this royal line are destined for greatness, for valor, for victory. It is his destiny to be in my place with this most sacred and honored blood and a valiant and stoic woman to keep him strong, lead the country in a model example for his subjects. This is the reason you have all gathered here today; to witness the future lion of the kingdom take his crown and his wife to carve the path of excellency with a bold slash of his claws."

His father paused, his eyes were vacant again, but in a way Simba couldn't quite identify. His father rarely showed sadness, but it was showing now clear as day.

"However, the royal succession; the history of our name and blood, and the crowning of your beloved Prince must be postponed in lieu of a test of valiance, for a lion cub with no claws is not ready to lead his pride."

His tone changed. The proud bark of a father was washed away, as if his lungs were beginning to collapse.

Simba's jaw clenched at the statement that was unexpectedly coupled with an incriminating suggestion. A low murmur of the crowd rose up to meet his ears yet he just stared in wait at the royal red of the floor in which he knelt, the sword blade glistening in his peripheral vision. He waited for it to be pressed from shoulder to shoulder as it did for his family before him. It was the tradition for the blade, after touching the shoulders of the Prince, to cut the surface of his un-gloved hand to share blood of the King before him, anointing him in the formal validation to succeed his rule. The tradition follows being assigned a woman of proper lineage and status to wed, which seemed eclipsed by the promise of power.

The sword remained stagnant despite his yearning for it to move. All the traditions of his ancestors before him were gone in the span of several seconds. Simba stared vacantly at the ground again, unable to process what to do instead as he waited for an explanation.

"Instead, your Prince must first prove to his father and his people that he holds the stability, strength, and the valor shared by all rulers in the past before he is to claim his rightful place on this throne and shed the blood of his ancestry."

Simba's breath grew more panicked and shallow, as if the air was getting thicker and harder to gather into his chest. The King continued his decree while Simba stared blankly at his feet.

"I have been informed of a Princess across the realm in need of a hero; a King in waiting. She is being kept behind a barrier, sustained by the darkness of a witch's magic, against her will. Upon hearing his news, I knew the perfect wife for my son would be one to work for, and one he could prove his right to wed because that is who he is. That is the Adofo way that describes the true nature of an Adofo King, more than the passive way of history could ever narrate. I ask the future King to rescue this damsel in distress to prove to me and his people he can be trusted. I'm sure he will do his family proud and his people more so. When you bring her home safe and sound, you will inherit the crown."

The sound of the scepter meeting its sheath was heard throughout the hall. Simba felt as if he had fallen down the stairs, the red on the floor only his blood as his lifeless limbs rested so heavily on the delicate marble expanse. The breath was taken away from him, the hollow feeling of his ribs only a cage for a restless bird flapping against bone bars.

"Rise, my son," the King bellowed in his stern and regal disposition. Simba rose shakily, the uneasy sway of his cape revealing his shock and uncertainty. Simba looked into his eyes and saw the same sadness from before that still lingered. The King hesitated before he rested his gloved hand on his son's shoulder, the only physical insistence of the irregularity of this event. The rest of his body didn't say as much as an impregnable force that resonated supreme command. Simba felt a cold sting from the his touch even through the layers of fabric that separated their skin.

"Don't let me down," he commanded, a breath of disdain to linger in his words. "Bring her back, and you'll get my crown".

Clothed in silence, he met the King in a nodded agreement, unable to find the air to speak. From behind his father, Davu stood still and silent. With all the strength he could muster, the Prince descended the crimson stairs. The room was commanded by an awkward silence as he drudged forward. Dark walls between the bright windows cast bold shadows across the path carved by the flashing metaled men in their two seamless rows. Insatiably blank kingdom subjects grew closer as he descended back to common ground.

He stared straight ahead again, but not for the same stern demeanor accustomed of the royal family, but driven by the shameful insinuation of his lack of preparedness he possesses despite being trained for this position his entire life. He has been prepped with the most rigorous training, the most in depth knowledge of his kingdom, and hand sculpted by his father his entire life to be the greatest King his family line has ever had. It was his purpose- how could he not be prepared for the only thing he was meant to be?

He felt like his eyes were lying, and he couldn't trust looking at anything but the double doors that waited for him at the end of the red guide line. His vision tunneled to see the bars of light and shadow from the windows stretch and run wild across the floor, his mind laughing at the divine joke the permanence of the honey light seemed to grant the whole event- the daylight being the only thing he wanted to remember from this day. He didn't even feel alive.

Hopefully the Princess would be when he got to her.