The Lion King's nation lived in its rhythm, steady as it had for centuries.
The citadel, black stone carved into the side of the mountain, loomed over the valley like a permanent shadow. Around it stretched a sprawl of settlements—beastkin huts, stone barracks, smoke curling from forge towers. The air smelled of iron and dust, the constant sound of training echoing through the barracks yard where soldiers clashed their spears together in rhythm.
At the walls, scouts paced the cliffs, their eyes sharp and steady, watching the rivers below. Vultures circled overhead, wings black against the sky. Everything moved like clockwork—patrols changing shifts, hunters dragging in kills, children laughing in the lower settlement.
It was calm.
Until the sky changed.
It started as a hum. Faint, low, like thunder too far to matter. The beasts on the cliffs frowned, raising their heads. Clouds above the valley rippled strangely, as if pushed apart by something unseen.
